Three Cities Three Counties: Following the 1–25 Cycle Trail (Taiwan)
15th June 2024
Changhua County
The trudge up Baguashan, a mountain perched on the edge of Changhua City, was a foretaste of the challenges ahead. Sweat trickled down my spine and across my face, making my freshly applied sunscreen sting the corners of my eyes. “Is this the best day for this?” I wondered as I faced the steep incline. To avoid being a hindrance to the steady stream of cars heading to one of Changhua’s iconic landmarks, the Great Buddha Statue, I had to push my bike.
Constructed in 1961, the Great Buddha Statue was once the largest in Southeast Asia. From the summit of Baguashan, the Buddha gazes serenely over the city. I joined its watchful eyes, trying in vain to spot my home. The warm yet welcoming late morning breeze brushed against me as I stood there, itching to escape the crowds and the aroma of fried squid and giant eggs from nearby stalls.
With more inclines ahead, leading deeper into Baguashan and eventually to the scooter-clogged cities of Nantou and Taichung, I felt a mixture of anticipation and dread. Smiling at the Buddha, I pushed down on the pedal, the weight of the bike suddenly feeling manageable. Maneuvering through locals snapping photos, probably photobombing a few, I continued past the bustling scene. The northern edge of the mountain offered stunning views of the city’s sprawling residential areas.
As I cycled, I passed army reservists meticulously sweeping litter and fallen leaves, with two old military planes standing solemnly nearby. The thrilling descent down the backside of Baguashan was a welcome respite, leading me back to Road139, the road that would be my companion for most of the day.
The exhilaration of the descent was short-lived, as another uphill climb awaited at the bottom. This was my path southward, away from the city. Route 1–25 follows the 139, tracing the Baguashan Mountain Range, a series of peaks stretching down the eastern side of Changhua County. Though I had often traversed these mountain tops by scooter, their true beauty and challenge were only apparent now, as I relied on my legs to conquer their heart-pounding ascents.
Slowly cycling up, watching cars and scooters zip by, the shade of Longfenggu Forest was a much-needed relief. This forest is also home to various birds of prey, often seen circling the sky on their daily hunts for smaller mammals. Keeping an eye on the sky, I felt a sense of wonder and connection to the natural world, making each grueling incline a bit more bearable.
Before long, I reached the top of the first section out of the city. I had arrived in Huatan, a large township that stretches down to the flatlands below, bearing traces of its brick-making past. I took a moment to admire the view, resting at a closed restaurant. Its seating area provided the perfect vantage point to gaze at the land and the dense brush of trees below.
The relentless calls of cicadas had been deafening on the way up, but from the top, their croaking now seemed to be silenced. Cicadas have always fascinated me; they are elusive to the eye but impossible to ignore. The breeze that had greeted me at the Buddha had vanished during the climb, only to reappear as I reached the summit. The ascent was gruelling, with only the shade of trees and the occasional cloud providing brief moments of relief from the scorching sun.
I continued my journey, allowing the occasional car to pass by as I moved forward through the town. The streets were almost deserted, save for the occasional stray dog, known as the “Taiwan Dog” or “Formosan Mountain Dog.” These indigenous dogs, often a menace to passing cyclists and scooter riders, preferred to lounge in the shade during hot afternoons rather than give chase.
A brown sign indicated a cyclist’s rest stop a few kilometres ahead, and I eagerly anticipated reaching it. The combination of the challenging ride and the scorching day had me drinking more water than I intended, and I was nearly onto my reserve bottle meant for emergencies. Eventually, the rest stop appeared: a small, unassuming shop with no signs or colours to distinguish it. Inside, a variety of refreshing drinks, snacks, and food awaited. I noticed pot noodles and biscuits among the offerings.
As I stepped into the shop, the woman running it was relaxing in the adjacent room, her feet up next to a fan. Fortunately, she wasn’t napping. The moment I entered, she sprang up and walked over to assist me.
I pointed to a Coca-Cola bottle for a much-needed sugar boost, along with some water. As I settled into the seating area next to the shop, I felt the ache in my leg muscles ease as I took the weight off them. Suddenly, a strong gust of wind toppled my bicycle. Reluctantly, I got up to bring it closer, noticing that the seat had bent slightly to the side. After straightening it, I sat back down, observing three dogs taking shade in a shop entrance across the road. The shop owner, sitting in the doorway, seemed unbothered by their presence.
The fizz of the Coca-Cola and the coolness of the water were invigorating, revitalizing my body. I could have easily spent much longer there, but I knew I needed to keep moving. My goal was to reach Taichung before nightfall.
From this point, road 139 looked like a cyclist’s dream. The winding roads reminded me more of the scenic routes in Australia than the roads in Taiwan. With more declines and flat stretches ahead, the ride promised to be exhilarating. The cool air rushed past my arms and face as I raced against time. To my right, the flatlands of Changhua County stretched out, interspersed with the townships of Huatan and Dacun. Shadows rippled across the road like waves on the ocean, while scooters zipped by, their engines roaring. In contrast, it was my legs doing all the burning work.
Small hills soon demanded my attention, forcing me to shift down gears and get into the right rhythm. Each climb was rewarded with a sweet, swift decline, letting me zip around curves in the mountain. On weekends, this mountain road usually bustles with motorcycles, their striking colors flashing by, often followed by police checkpoints equipped with hi-tech speed cameras. I’ve seen bikers lined up at the roadside or quickly turning around at the sight of the police. But today was different. This Saturday, the road was quiet. There were no roaring engines or photographers crouching in ditches for the perfect shot. Instead, I spotted an old couple lounging in deck chairs, sunbathing with a view.
I decided to take a little break when an opening to the right caught my eye. It led down the mountain to the flatlands and offered a concrete area with a much clearer view of the world beyond the trees and mountains. The breeze here was strong and refreshing, a much-needed reprieve from the day’s relentless heat. Standing there, feeling the wind, did wonders for me.
I wasn’t alone for long. Three stray dogs, looking like teenage versions of the “Formosan Mountain Dog,” approached me. They were not small enough to be classified as puppies but still had a juvenile energy about them. They circled me and my bike, playfully butting their heads together. One of them startled me by sniffing the back of my leg, probably drawn by the salt and sweat from my pores.
As I prepared to leave my newfound four-legged friends, I noticed one munching on a mysterious pile of something, while another tried to drink from a puddle left by the previous day’s rain, dipping his paw into the water and watching the ripples. It was truly adorable.
Refreshed and ready, I pushed on, eager to reach Taichung before nightfall.
A little further along the mountain road, I soon found myself in pineapple country. Compared to the flatlands, it felt like a different world up here. Small communities dotted the landscape, quieter roads wound through the hills, and the soil was a rich, orange hue. Instead of endless rice fields, the land was now adorned with the pointed leaves of pineapple plants. It felt like cycling into another country, even though it was the same county I called home.
I welcomed the new view. This is one of the reasons I love riding my bike — to appreciate the changing landscapes and climates. These subtle shifts go unnoticed in an air-conditioned car or on a buzzing scooter. It’s only when you put your body into the environment that you truly experience these nuances.
Cycling past numerous pineapple farmers with stalls on the backs of trucks, I was tempted to stop. I had planned to treat myself to shaved ice, another Taiwanese delicacy, but the fresh pineapples were hard to resist. One stand, in particular, caught my eye. An elderly couple ran it, and the bright yellow walls of their stall stood out against the countryside backdrop. A small line of people waited while the man weighed their pineapples and the woman, presumably his wife, peeled and sliced them into juicy chunks.
I gave in. After passing them, I turned my bike around. The thought of tasting fresh, organic pineapples picked straight from the farm by these very farmers was too enticing. It sounded much better than shaved ice from a roadside shop in Nantou City.
I picked out a pineapple from an array of sizes, and the man weighed it on his scales. It came to 81 NTD (New Taiwan Dollars), but they rounded it down to 80. The man handed me a free slice, its juicy goodness zinging my lips. As the woman peeled and sliced my pineapple, I began to think about finding a good spot to enjoy my lunch, preferably somewhere with a view and some shade to escape the sun. After collecting my bag of pineapple chunks, I walked back to my bike, which was resting under a tree. I secured the bag on my handlebar and said goodbye to the farmers.
Then, in a perfect twist of adventure, I heard the unmistakable tear of my shorts, exposing my blue underwear in the most unfortunate spot. “Are you kidding me?” I exclaimed, feeling the hole with my fingers. For the rest of my journey, I had to awkwardly conceal the gaping hole, which was at eye level for anyone passing by. I tried to cover it with my T-shirt, but it was no use. Eventually, I just embraced the situation and enjoyed the little breeze that came through.
I focused on finding a spot to enjoy my pineapple chunks. I first tried sitting on a garden wall with some shade from a bush, but the view was uninspiring, just the main road. As I opened the bag, I noticed an ant nest emerging from the wall’s cracks and decided to move on.
It seemed the universe felt bad for ripping my shorts, as I soon found a roadside temple. This place had everything I needed: shelter, a bamboo table with benches, sinks, toilets with soap, and the best part of all, a water dispenser with free water. It was the perfect spot to rest and refuel. I hydrated thoroughly, finishing and refilling my water bottle, enjoying the cool, refreshing water. It’s funny how water, typically flavourless, can taste so good when you’re thirsty.
Sitting there, savouring my pineapple chunks and feeling the breeze, I couldn’t help but smile at the day’s twists and turns. The temple’s peaceful atmosphere was a welcome respite, and I was grateful for the little surprises that made the journey memorable.
A man soon appeared on a scooter, greeting me with a friendly “ni hao” before proceeding into the temple. Another man, who lived in a house within the temple’s courtyard, came out to collect his garlic drying in the sun, giving me a nod as he passed by. I doubted this temple saw many foreign visitors, so they were probably curious about my presence. But in that moment, I didn’t care. All I wanted was to sit, drink water, and enjoy the shaded breeze.
Eventually, I decided to leave the temple and checked Google Maps to see how much further I had to go. From my vantage point, I could see Caotun Township below, a bustling town in Nantou County. Beyond it loomed the much larger and more daunting mountains of the county. Caotun, with its interconnecting freeways and highways leading to the cities of Nantou, Changhua, and Taichung, seemed like it was squashed in the middle, serving as a mere passageway for travellers.
A little further down the road, I finally saw it: the green road sign perfectly positioned above my head. It read “Nantou County.” I was about to cross into a new territory, ready for the next chapter of my adventure.
Nantou County
As soon as I crossed the county line, Nantou welcomed me with a refreshing breeze. It was a nice change and a fitting welcome. My journey through the Baguashan Mountain Range was drawing to a close, and Nantou City lay ahead in the valley between two mountain ranges. Reflecting on my adventure through Changhua, I felt a sense of accomplishment. I had endured the grueling heat, tackled steep inclines, marveled at stunning views, and enjoyed the charm of pineapples and stray dogs.
A distinctive call caught my attention. It was a bird of prey, specifically a Horsfield’s Sparrowhawk, a species that flocks to these mountains every year. The hawk circled above the fields, its wings flapping gracefully as it glided through the air, occasionally emitting its characteristic call. Mesmerized, I put the brakes on my bike to watch this magnificent bird. I hoped to witness it swoop down in a hunt, perhaps picking up a small mammal like a rat or a snake. Such a sight is rare; I’ve only seen it happen once in my life.
As I stood there, taking in the serene moment, I felt a deep appreciation for the natural beauty and wildlife that these mountains offered. The unexpected encounters and simple pleasures along the way made the journey all the more memorable.
I approached a HiLife convenience store, the only modern establishment I had seen in these mountains, and I couldn’t resist the lure of its air conditioning and well-stocked fridges. The thought of cool air blasting around its aisles and a freezer full of ice cream was too enticing. I pulled into the parking lot and hurried inside, immediately relishing the cool air that greeted me.
I bought a Cornetto-style chocolate ice cream and two drinks, then spent the next fifteen to twenty minutes relaxing under the AC. Sitting in the seating area, I watched as locals and travelers came and went, enjoying the simple pleasure of cooling off. It was truly relaxing.
Despite some construction work happening next to the shop, which caused loud banging and occasional vibrations, I didn’t mind. One couple, disturbed by the noise, decided to take their noodles back to their van. But I stayed put, appreciating the shade, the cool air, and, of course, the ice cream. The combination of comfort and the little indulgence of the ice cream made this brief respite one of the highlights of my day.
I decided not to continue on the 1–25, which would take me down a larger road into Nantou City. This decision was driven by several reasons. Firstly, I wanted to save some time as the day was passing quickly and the hills were slowing my pace; inclines aren’t my strong suit when it comes to cycling. Secondly, I craved the tranquility and beauty of the backroads. Another road not far from the shop would lead me across the mountains, offering less traffic and more scenic views. While the main road was more straight and gradual, the backroad promised a more winding and steep adventure.
I began my descent into the valley below, still questioning if leaving the mountains early was a wise choice. However, as gravity took over on the steep decline, I thought, “Well, I’m not cycling back up.” The slope was steep enough that my brakes were barely effective, forcing me to use my feet for additional stopping power. At one point, despite pressing both brakes, my bike continued to push forward. I didn’t want to rush down these mountains — not only because I wasn’t used to it, but also because I didn’t want to miss the stunning views.
I saw a cyclist heading in the opposite direction, imagining his legs burning with every push up the mountain. I hope to be that fit one day. A glimpse of Nantou City and a beautiful vista caught my eye. I managed to stop my bike in time, avoiding the need to push it back up. A Filipino on an electric scooter had also stopped in front of me to take a video of the view. “Nice,” he said with a large smile, nodding his head. I nodded and smiled back, not wanting to start a conversation just then.
From where I stood, I could see the city sprawling below, with traffic flowing back and forth on its main roads. I imagined the people below going about their day-to-day lives. In the distance, thunder rumbled from the larger mountains. It posed no threat, as the Nantou mountains often made sounds like that. A sprinkle of rain would have been welcome, but none came my way that day.
The view felt even more rewarding knowing I had reached it using my own strength, cycling through the challenging terrain — it was a sight truly earned.
I carried on further down the road, relieved that the sun wasn’t as strong now, making the long ride ahead feel more manageable. I knew the scenery would soon change, transitioning from serene mountain views to the hustle and bustle of cities and main roads. In Taiwan, the stretches between towns often blur together with buildings springing up everywhere, making it feel like one continuous city. I wanted to savour the remaining moments of the decline, trying my best to catch glimpses of the view before the urban sprawl took over.
Before the mountain was done with me, it gave me one last steep decline. I could feel my wheels speeding up and my fingers tightening around the brakes. Though I couldn’t stop the bike completely, I still had good control over the speed, so I wasn’t scared. I was able to navigate the winding turns without flying off the mountain or crashing into the occasional tree, and it did feel fun. Deep down, I wanted to embrace this and enjoy the ride, but it was hard to do with cars on the road, especially since some drivers don’t stick to their side of the road around bends. So, I had to remain calm and vigilant.
All of a sudden, I really did need to stop. A car had pulled out of a driveway, and though I had enough time for it to move along, it just sat there, blocking the road. Its back window rolled down and a phone appeared, snapping photos of the view. The car was right in my path, and my bike wasn’t stopping.
“I can’t stop! Mao stop!” I repeatedly shouted, hoping the driver would hear me. I put my feet down, likely damaging the soles of my shoes. Why did the car have to just stop like that? Could the driver not see me? I kept shouting and muttering some choice words under my breath, contemplating if I needed to take an emergency fall to the grass to avoid a collision. Finally, the car moved just seconds before I was about to intentionally fall. As it skidded away, my heart was pounding, and I could smell burning rubber in the air. When I got to the bottom of the mountain, I checked my tyres. The back one looked a little worn; running my finger over it, I could feel it was warm and smooth.
I had finally made it to Nantou City, a small mountain city that most travellers often pass by. It’s not on the train line, so it doesn’t receive the same attention as the other cities on the western coast. It felt good to be there, although the soft sounds of birds and rustling leaves had now been replaced by the rumbling of engines.
Near the bottom, two elderly ladies sat with their stall. I wasn’t sure what they were selling, but I gave them a nod and a smile. I wasn’t in the centre of the city; rather, I was on the outskirts near a cluster of main roads that darted off in every direction. I needed to head in the opposite direction from where I was travelling, but the main road was blocked, preventing people from crossing. I cycled a bit further into the city to find a way across.
I needed to tie my shoes, as I bent down, I heard a very familiar sound, further ripping the hole in my shorts. I had forgotten about that.
The area of the city I found myself in wasn’t particularly interesting; it seemed to be the industrial section. There wasn’t much to see. Finally, an opening appeared in the road. I waited for the heavy flow of cars and trucks to pass, then made my way across during a break in traffic. Now I was on the correct side.
The ride out of Nantou City took me through Caotun Township. Rejoining the 1–25, the road didn’t feel very cycle-friendly; it resembled more of a freeway with its sound-blocking walls and fast-moving traffic that barely noticed me. I hugged the right side, trying to steer clear of the large trucks and speeding cars whizzing past.
As the lanes became confusing, one veered towards the freeway entrance, where cycling wasn’t permitted. Spotting a pavement meant for walkers, I swiftly moved onto it, taking a moment to catch my breath. Despite the surroundings, the view was stunning: a river flowed beneath the bridge, framed by distant mountains.
Consulting my phone for navigation, I confirmed I needed to continue straight. This required me to return to the road and quickly change lanes. I positioned myself, watching the traffic flow carefully. When a significant gap appeared, I seized the opportunity to move to the correct lane swiftly and safely, avoiding being spread across the road like marmalade.
Before long, I descended into Caotun itself, back on a normal, cyclist-friendly main road.
Caotun felt like a town nestled between two larger cities, with not much to highlight apart from occasional views of the mountains to my right. The stretch consisted mainly of a long main road and frequent traffic lights. I’m sure residents of Caotun have their own perspectives and stories that paint a richer picture of their town.
Taichung County
The crossing from Nantou to Taichung was surprisingly serene. The sun, lower in the sky, cast a more pleasant light, making the colours resonate off the small river silently flowing under the bridge from the distant mountains. The grass looked fresh and vibrant, and the clouds hung back over the mountains, gently drifting. Despite the constant flow of traffic behind me, the scenery appeared peaceful. I stopped and realised that everyone in the cars behind me was going to miss this. How many people turn their heads away from the windscreen to admire the view, even for a split second? Even the small percentage who do can’t just stop and savour it. Luckily, being on the bicycle, I have the opportunity to truly enjoy the scenes that unfold before me.
I stuck to Highway 3, which the 1–25 followed, leading me right into Central Taichung City, my intended destination. As I entered Wufeng District, it seemed to slowly grow in size. The further I went into Taichung, the buildings started to grow and become denser. After crossing into Taichung, I found a new burst of energy. I don’t know if it was because I was nearing the end of my journey or because I was racing against the traffic. Whatever it was, I didn’t complain. Both styles of buildings have their own beauty, the sprawling rural structures and the dense urban architecture.
Dali district was split by a small stream and large grassy areas, with the mountains still far in the distance, looking darker than the city. I was actually on a secondary mission. With my underwear practically on show, I did my best to hide the hole by tucking my T-shirt under my crotch, but as I pedalled, it kept riding up. I needed to find a clothes shop. I was even happy to go to a small place that was unbranded but very cheap. I wanted to keep what dignity I had, but I had no luck. Not one shop presented itself, which was a little frustrating. I’m not one who likes to go shopping, but when I finally did want to go, I couldn’t find a single store.
Dali was much busier than Wufeng and more densely packed with buildings. The view of the mountains was no longer visible; I was truly in the city now. Traffic flowed in every direction, and the endless traffic lights at every junction were starting to become tiresome. I probably looked like a homeless bum as I pedalled down the main road. My body was starting to feel tired, my clothes clung to me with sweat, and my hair looked like it had been swept by the wind. But I didn’t care. I could taste the end and a sense of accomplishment.
Before long, I was in the Central district. I could see the Le Meridien Hotel tower peeking over the buildings. I knew that was where the finish line was. I aimed my bike for it, eager to leave the main road behind. The endless straightness was boring me, so I zipped in and out of backstreets where the traffic seemed to lighten. I often lost sight of the tower, but that was fine — I roughly knew my way around the Central district. These were familiar roads.
Smells from small restaurants caused my stomach to rumble, but my lips and throat were dry. I avoided the convenience stores, their air conditioning trying to convince me to come inside. I kept my head down and pedaled on.
A small tunnel allowed me to get to the other side of the tracks, where buses roared along one of the main lines, their engines loud enough to hurt my ears. I definitely preferred the countryside. There were a few others cycling on local U-Bikes, and I accidentally joined a group of guys as we all cycled towards the train station. It felt like a strange welcoming party, though they had no idea.
The final bump of the pavement allowed me to cycle up to the large courtyard of the station. The old train station seemed lost amidst the sprawl of modern structures springing up around it, but my focus was on the newer build of the station, where the large multicolored man statue stood tall and high, alongside the giant dragonfly on a blade of grass — two statues that have become synonymous with the train station for me.
The finish line was anything but quiet. Life bustled around the station. Filipinos and Indonesians sat near the grass, while teenagers and young women set up their phones to perform the silly TikTok dances that have become frequent here. The homeless wandered under the station, and buskers performed for the crowd.
It felt strange that I had such an amazing experience that day, and I wanted everyone to know it — but of course, no one cared. Why should they? I watched as the sun began to set between the buildings, the orange glow warm on my face. I thought back to what I had seen that day: mountains, pineapple farmers, birds of prey, an almost-crash, scary main roads, and three cities under my belt. A small smile grew on my face.
My phone began to ring. I looked at the screen; it was my wife.
“Where are you now?” she asked. I hadn’t seen her since I said my goodbyes earlier that morning, and she hadn’t heard from me since then.
“I am at Taichung station,” I replied, still watching the sun while listening to all the noise around me.
“You only cycled to Taichung station?” she asked, sounding slightly baffled.
“No, I mean I cycled to Nantou first and then I went to Taichung,” I laughed under a dry breath.
Hanging up, I felt my body feeling ready for the long-earned rest that evening was going to bring.
It was time to go home!
