It may have once been a forbidden place, but the Chinese are making up for the centuries of exclusion as half the nation seems to be visiting the Forbidden City at the same time. As we pass through the Meridian Gate, enormous crowds of tourists propel us through the three giant halls—the Hall of Supreme Harmony, the Hall of Middle Harmony, and the Hall of Preserving Harmony. The layout has a three little pigs logic to it. It’s the usual crush for photographs, every Chinese wants his picture taken next to a dragon.
Eventually, we pass through the Gate of Heavenly Purity into the Inner Court, a complex that includes the palaces and living quarters of the emperor.
The visit to the Forbidden City is a one-way journey that takes two or three hours. I am very impressed by the Forbidden City, it’s a magnificent architectural complex. If I could visit just one sight in all of China this would probably be the one. On the other hand, I might choose the Great Wall of China.
The Wall is actually a series of fortifications stretching about four thousand miles across northern China. Some portions are simple earthen mounds while others are massive stone walls. They’ve been built and rebuilt over the centuries dating at least back to the Emperor Qin Shi Huang (our friend of Terracotta Warrior fame).
The Wall snakes and undulates, following the contours of the colorless mountains. It stretches over the rocky peaks for as far as the eye can see, dips into the valleys, and emerges unbroken. We walk up and down the very steep sections, careful not to slip on the snow and ice still covering the steps. Cleverly designed watchtowers were placed two arrow shots apart. If I were an invading Mongol army, this wall would make me think twice.
The Chinese are justifiably proud of their Great Wall; it’s solid evidence of a grand civilization.
Saturday night is the loneliest night of the week according to Frank Sinatra, but I’m certain that he never spent any time in Beijing. There’s no way to be lonely in the capital of the world’s most populous nation. You spend most of your time dodging the masses of humanity that fill the bustling streets and sidewalks, occupying every nook and cranny of a city that seems to be bursting at the seams.
Beijing is a megacity, a place where fame and fortune draw the rich and poor alike. Fresh air, serenity, and solitude are impossible to find in this place.
I’m back at the hotel after packing three days of sightseeing into a single day and then topping off the evening with the obligatory Beijing duck dinner. (No laowai is allowed to exit Beijing Capital International Airport without proof of having eaten the delicious duck.)
The hotel isn’t bad; it belongs to one of the international chains, a group that has properties almost everywhere in the United States as well as the big cities of the world. If I used their toll free number, I could probably book a room in Paris, Rome, or even Hattiesburg, Mississippi. It splits the difference between fancy and cheap, a predictable place in an unpredictable country.
The stores stay open late in China—no one wants to miss the opportunity to make money—so I head out for some amateur-style shopping. The women in my life laugh at my lack of shopping skills. I buy quickly, I purchase little, and I head home as soon as possible. Still, this is China, the country that invented silk, jade, $3 Rolex watches, and Chairman Mao hats, so I have to do my familial duty. This is the citadel of commerce where everything is on sale, but I turn out to be a minor blip in the Chinese economy. My purchases are few and inexpensive.
Back in the hotel lobby, I run into Michael, who is chatting with an old Beijing buddy of his named Joseph (I’m getting accustomed to these English names. If I meet a Chinese named Zhang or Li or Wang, I don’t know how I’ll react).
Michael urges, “John, last night in China. You must come with me and Joseph for drink. Come, we get big drink for my friend.”
“I’m ready. It has been a long day, my feet are tired,” I reply.
Tired feet no problem in China. Come, we fix that.”
So Michael, Joseph, and I head up to the third floor of the hotel. We’re two young Chinese men laughing, joking, full of energy, and one old American needing nothing more than to take his shoes off and rest his feet.
We are greeted at the entrance by a very attractive young woman in a cocktail dress. Next comes a rapid fire, three-way exchange. Michael, Joseph, and the woman talk non-stop. It’s the unsynchronized stream of chitter and chatter I’ve grown accustomed to in China. Then she looks at me, smiles, and gives me a bow.
The three of us are led into a room that looks like someone’s poorly decorated den. There are a couple of sofas with a coffee table in the middle, at the end of the room is a big screen television. The place is thick with cigarette smoke. None of us smoke but this room smells like it hasn’t been ventilated in weeks.
Soon another attractive young woman comes in to take our orders. Michael and Joseph join her in another one of their bullet-like conversations. It sounds almost musical, the tone jumps up and down the scale. They laugh, they move their hands here and there, they sit down and then stand up. I sit there with a half-smile, wondering what’s being said, searching for a pocket of fresh air.
“John, I want you to meet my friend Gloria. John is a special man, he knows all about China.”
We all laugh and smile and bow.
I order my favorite Chinese beer, a Tsingtao while Michael and Joseph get some kind of cocktail. Gloria returns with the drinks and introduces two other young women, Mary and Angela.
Soon the television screen lights up, the music starts, and the microphones appear. This is karaoke, Chinese style.
I’ve been seeing neon signs all over China advertising KTV. The Japanese invented karaoke, but the Chinese don’t like the Japanese, so in China it’s not called karaoke but rather KTV. It works the same everywhere: music provided, lyrics on the video screen, you add the vocals.
Now I have to confess, I’m not a karaoke guy. In the first place, I’ve had very little experience. The karaoke fad came along too late to figure in my life. By the time it hit the American bar scene, I was spending my evenings changing diapers and reading bedtime stories. Sing-along on Sesame Street was probably the closest I ever came.
All my life I’ve been burdened with a weak, timid voice. I’m really more of a mumbler than a singer. When I try to sing loudly it sounds like I need to clear my throat. Of course, the whole vocal thing, like everything else, has gotten worse with time.
Gloria starts off with a soft Chinese ballad. She has a beautiful, melodious voice and the performance is lovely. Of course, I have no idea what she is saying; the lyrics on the screen are the usual hodgepodge of meaningless Chinese characters.
Mary and Angela follow with numbers of their own, all sung in Chinese. While one sings, the other fetches a new round of drinks. This refill service seems to function on autopilot, no questions are asked, no words are spoken, the bottles of Tsingtao continue to pile up. After a while, the bottles start to look like a phalanx of Terracotta Warriors, a formidable army of beer bottles ready to accompany me to the next world.
“John, you must sing. In China everyone sing, very important. You in China, you sing.”
I beg off, with these Chinese it’s important to save face. If I sing now, the game is over.
Michael takes a turn and belts out a strong forceful tune full of angst and sincerity, something like Tony Bennett would sing if he were Chinese. Joseph follows but he keeps giggling during his song, he must be a real newcomer to the KTV scene.
Next all five of my pals join together on some kind of patriotic number that sounds a lot like “Marching through Georgia.” They all know the words by heart, singing and strutting in unison. They look like they are about to go on a Long March, Mao must be smiling in his mausoleum.
This is followed by a song I can handle. It’s some kind of rap song. The words are in Chinese, but at the end of each verse comes the phrase in English, “Born in Beijing.” I sing along, my mood improving by the minute, and at the appropriate spot in the song I yell out, “Born in B
eijing.” Everyone laughs and applauds, such talent in a laowai.
As the night rolls on, I notice that my voice is sounding better with each song. This China trip has turned out to be more fun than I could have imagined. I may have come up a little short at the 2010 IRONMAN® China, but I have enough memories to last a lifetime.
SIX IRONMAN® triathlons on six continents, all in my sixties. The time flew by fast although you’d never know it from looking at my finishing times. These days I still swim, bike, and run; it just seems to take a little longer than it used to. Sometimes I wonder how long I can keep the game going.
The memories of my trips have faded a little, but the race details are vivid, sharp, and permanent. They occupy that part of my brain formerly used for friends’ names, anniversary dates, and the lyrics of old Beatles songs.
My closet holds a small fortune of IRONMAN shirts, biking jerseys, socks, jackets, caps, etc. I still place one of my IRONMAN water bottles by my pool lane when I swim. At home and at work I drink my coffee from an IRONMAN mug. I’m happy to tell anyone who’s interested all about my IRONMAN travels. My accomplishments grow more impressive as each day passes.
One day I decided I should write a book about the whole experience. Now I’ll have to admit there was no groundswell of public opinion demanding that my story be told. Still the whole idea made perfect sense to me. In my mind this was a triumphant tale, a modern day Odyssey.
Looking back, I’d always admired writers like Ernest Hemingway, James Jones, and Jack Kerouac. These men lived the bright, full life and made their rich adventures come alive in print. They’re the lords of life and I could think of no good reason why I shouldn’t add my name to the list.
So I’ve trudged along, placing myself squarely in the middle of my own story, recounting every ordeal in excruciating detail, tossing out as many anecdotes as a worn-out brain can resurrect, doing my best to make the ordinary seem extraordinary, generating heroism with a stroke of a pen.
It’s been a great experience. Wandering around the world, bravely bringing up the rear in a half-dozen races, eating anything and everything placed in front of me, drinking beer with men and women of questionable repute, putting it all down on paper.
The whole thing hasn’t been easy, but I’ve gone about as far as my energy and talents can take me … and I’m grateful for every minute of it.
MANY PEOPLE have helped in the writing and publishing of this book.
I want to thank Sarah Atkinson for typing the manuscript. She was with me from the very beginning when this book was just a poorly conceived idea, through the dark days when it lay unread and unnoticed, and into the hectic dash to the finish line.
Sara Priebe did a wonderful job creating the maps that help explain my travels.
I also want to thank Coop Cooper, Rob Tenery, Rick Cleveland, J.D. Simpson, and Ben Hughes for their help and advice.
I am especially thankful to Andrew Flach and Hatherleigh Press. He and Ryan Tumambing gave me the chance to see my book in print. Anna Krusinski is a very talented editor. I have greatly benefited from her skill and advice.
My children John, Eric, and Patricia have always given me love and respect and that is all a parent can reasonably ask for.
Above all I want to thank my wife, Polly. She has run the harder race but has always been there with love and support.
Against the Odds Page 19
