Trophy Shot

Day 1: Monster (Holland)

It doesn't take me long to realise that the man in the safety jacket isn't part of the welcome committee. The nasty glare he's giving me hardly suits the occasion, and then there's that flag in his left hand, pointing away from the northern end of Tian'anmen Square rather than towards it. What's more, the flag is a faded orange, not the checkered black-and-white one would expect it to be.

There have been times these past two years when pretty much all that kept me going was daydreaming about the end, about the day I would finally make it to Beijing. 'And a splendid day it will be,' I would tell myself. 'I'll rise at dawn and go through the motions one last time: open foodbag, stuff myself with whatever I happen to find inside, slip into the translucent remains of my lycra outfit, pack my panniers, load the bike, set off. On the road there will be the merest hint of a tailwind, just enough to take the edge off pedalling. Soon, the smiling hills give way to the first suburbs. But riding into Beijing won't be daunting. When the road widens and flyovers spread their tentacles, familiar faces will pop up around me. The faces of the cyclists I've met along the way, each on his or her own bike, and we'll cover the final miles together, and before us traffic will part like the Red Sea, and people will line the streets to cheer us on, and we'll slap each other on the back and sip champagne and take funny pictures like they do in the final stage of the Tour de France, and we'll give the crowds what they want and ride a lap of honour around Tian'anmen Square, and there will be camera crews and flowers and telegrams from various heads of state, and we'll be all smiles when we tell Beijing what it takes to get there, and we'll never stop smiling.'

Well, I mean, exhaustion does funny things to your mind.

The man in the safety jacket doesn't budge. He's positioned himself right in front of my bicycle, blocking the way to the spot where I most long to be: the top of the square, where Mao's portrait guards the entrance to the Forbidden City. I look him in the eye. No champagne, no telegrams, not even the tiniest of bouquets. That's fine, I think, it doesn't matter. But no one will deny me my trophy shot with Mao, no matter how many orange flags they're waving in my face. I slide back into the saddle, follow the direction he's indicating, and then describe a nice little U-turn while dodging six lanes of oncoming traffic.

Day 753: Beijing

A few pedal strokes later I'm there. I look around. No time for ecstatic celebrations. Things are getting serious. From both sides of the square white-gloved policemen are closing in on me. A Chinese girl on the other side of the fence—the heart of the square can be reached only via underpasses—comes to my rescue. 'You want your picture taken?' I slip her my camera, she clicks and hands it back to me. Then I'm off. Not the grand reception I've been dreaming of, perhaps, but for one glorious second Beijing belonged to me.