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I get up for sunrise and a breakfast of biscuits and Sprite overlooking the gorge, which is all unspoilt beauty and general loveliness.
It drizzles monotonously for most of the day today, and is noticeably tougher going - I'm cimbing steadily all morning, the cloudy peaks getting truly within striking distance. It's also bloody cold - as soon as I stop, i'm shivering, even with a platter of hot Xinjiang noodles inside me. The laoban'r and his sons go through the ritual bike examination (the yougest son is particularly entranced by the bell) while his daughter approaches for long enough to measure her height against me before running away giggling. The whole family wave me off up the hill with a fortifying round of jia you!s.
I find a shack selling phone credit, and stop to pick some up and inform my Chengdu family that I'm still alive. The laoban'r yi ge ren ma?s me then hurries round to feel the weight of my panniers, exclaiming 'two big bags! One person! Too much! An hour-and-a-half's excruciating climb and a 5K blackout tunnel combine to oblige me to get off and push for an embarassing stretch of time. I reflect that were my grandfather (a near-octogenarian who cracks out upwards of 400 miles a week on his bicycle in the Yorkshire countryside) here he would probably be in Songpan by now, chilling with a yak herder and sharing tales of the youth's fragility today.
When finally - after several false hopes - I reach the peak, it is worth every inch of burning thigh and knackered lung. I am actually in the sky now, free-wheeling through patches of cloud .
I'm in truly isolated territory at this point, weaving my way through acres of pine forest, grasslands and wide smooth lakes; passing through the odd hamlet every couple of hours. These are really just small groups of houses, with no hot water and no shops or restaurants in sight. The scent of woodsmoke fills the air, and everywhere there are peasants tending small patches of land and tall corn stalks swaying in the wind.
When I chance upon a settlement big enough for a restaurant, I'm starving and dog-tired. As I push open the door to the unheated, open-plan dining room, the waiters and waitresses are huddled together in padded jackets around the middle table, snoozing in front of a popular Chinese soap opera. I'm loath to wake them, but when I do in lieu of a menu they troop me into the kitchen to display the food on offer, and after a discussion about what sort of thing I might like, rustle me up something incredible with beef and spice in it.
The cold, the rain and the altitude has brought on a pretty evil cold, the extent of which I only really appreciate when I stop and sit down: everything I own is wet, and I realise when warming my hands around the copper teapot that is immediately plonked in front of me, teeth chattering, that maybe forgoing the tent tonight might be a good option. Happily, the restaurant has accommodation, and the laoban'r excitedly ushers me up after first demanding a go on my bike and turning giddy figures-of-eight around the courtyard exclaiming 'I'm riding the laowai's bike! I'M RIDING THE LAOWAI'S BIKE!!'. On the down-side, it is reminiscent of the temple stay I engaged in earlier in the year - no heating, electricity or hot water, so no chance of the hot shower I could really do with. Still, it is a bed, with a pillow and blankets, and once I'm under that lot and in a sleeping bag, I'm pretty toasty.
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