The 600 Kilometre Cycle That Even You Can Do
Anything I can do, you can do better
It’s always been a dream of mine to cycle across a country. Why? Madness can’t be ruled out, and rather than attempt this feat somewhere small and sensible like Monaco or Liechtenstein, I travelled to South Korea, where equally mad people made a six-hundred-ish kilometre bike route across the country. It starts in Seoul in the north and ends in Busan in the south and I was going to attempt to ride the length of the whole thing.
It’s worth noting that I’m not a cyclist. I don’t own a bicycle and I’ve never worn lycra despite the allure of its comfort. The appeal of this particular bike route started with the fact that the majority of it is on dedicated cycleways, with only a small fraction being shared with Korean drivers, thus giving me fewer opportunities to maim myself or others. It’s safe, signposted, with multiple companies that organise one-way cycle rentals and will ship your bags to Busan, making it such a user-friendly bike-touring experience that even you can do it.
The trail is known as ‘The 4 Rivers Bike Path’ on account of it following the Yeonsan, Geum, Nakdong, and Han rivers. It slithers through the country like a snake (of which you will see many) and delivers a window not only into the Korean landscape but their way of life, whether it’s their hospitality, relationship with nature or even sex.
Yes, sex, we’ve all had it, some of us more than others, and if the love motels you spend your nights in on the ride are anything to go by, then Koreans are certainly having a lot of it. These motels are the most available form of accommodation on your journey and are categorised by a nightly or hourly rate, complimentary condoms, lubricants, and pear juice. Some have sexy mood lighting while others sport pictures of naked ladies on the walls. The only unfortunate thing about them is that when you have just cycled somewhere between seventy to a hundred kilometres the last thing you or your bruised arse can think about is sex.
The journey starts in Incheon and it’s hard to imagine how sprawling Seoul is until you try to pedal across it using the power of your legs. At first, the excitement fuels you. You’re doing something crazy! It makes you feel powerful, like you can do anything, even ride the six-hundred-ish kilometres across the country. Then after one, two, maybe even three hours of crossing bridges and winding your way along the river, you realise that there is no end to the indomitable apartment complexes and you are still very much in Seoul. The excitement fades in favour of fear and doubt. You start to panic as a voice in your head tells you that you might have made a terrible mistake.
But just as the fear takes hold the city melts away. It’s swallowed up by hobby farms and willow trees and the craggy peaks of distant mountains. The endless flow of the Han River delivers you right into the heart of Korea and it is the only constant in a constantly changing landscape.
The river shares a name with a cultural phenomenon that shapes the Korean identity known as ‘Han,’ which is described by feelings of resentment, hatred, and regret, and while I felt my fair share of Han when I was cycling up a five-hundred-metre elevation, what I found in Korea was a deep, unreserved love.
You see it everywhere.
It’s in the way they care for the land, turning roadsides into agrarian wonders. In the people, who take pride in feeding you when they learn that you’re doing something as foolish as cycling across their country. You’re no longer viewing Korea through the window of a train, bus, or plane, but as an active part of their tapestry of life, witnessing all the little details up close. The smell of flowers, the sheaths that protect the perfect peaches as they grow, and the irradiated spiders that according to Google aren’t venomous or aggressive but that doesn’t make them any less terrifying when one crawls across your saddlebags.
Once the landscape has sucked you in, the people who dwell within it welcome you, too. They can be both brutal and kind, sometimes both simultaneously. There is nothing quite like a Korean grandmother yelling at you as she force-feeds you banchan, those assorted Korean snacks that are complementary with every meal, then smiling because she knows damn well how delicious they are.
The trip took me nine days to complete. Most accomplished cyclists can do it in seven, although the greatest thing about this ride is the lack of accomplishment you need to finish it. Given enough time, energy, and pear juice, almost anyone can do it, and in doing so learn about a country that for too long has sat in the shadows of its more well-travelled neighbours.
And learn about the country I did, to the best of my ability, along with a swathe of other things about myself and the nature of travel as the kilometres were eaten away in a haze of wheat fields and convenience store kimbaps. Much like the river, life only flows in one direction, and that direction bludgeons you with the basic necessities.
Where can I buy water?
What will I eat for breakfast?
Which love motel will I stay in tonight?
These questions quiet your mind. The big picture fades and you focus on the simple task of pushing one pedal in front of the other. And as you find yourself approaching the end of your journey, feeling utterly enchanted with Korea despite your legs aching and your lungs burning, there is an emptiness that comes with knowing that it’s over.
Life starts again and there is more to it than two wheels and four rivers.
