Day 23

Somewhere East of Beigang to Mialiao.

Yesterday was certainly eventful. But even having learned to always be suspicious of what the marathon may hold, and not to take quiet days for granted, we were not expecting another possible disaster to arise again so soon. As usual, the day began harmoniously and without trial. The only possible hint at the challenges that lay before Neil this day could be found with hindsight in a little piece about hurricanes in that Al Gore climate change movie we were watching in the hotel last night. Of course, at that time, severe winds were as far from our minds as the melting ice caps. But isn’t that always the case?

Heading north on route 17, we laughed about the wind and told Dave about the typhoonish encounter Neil had had a few days before. Yet that had passed within an hour. These gales were to rule the whole day and night. Now, you may not be sure how a little bit of a weather system can be of of incidence in these kinds of scenarios. I suggest then that you go and find a feather, (a tall one that hasn’t been able to eat enough for the calories it’s been burning), and a hairdryer with an ultimate blow setting. Point the drier at the feather for a period of eight hours and see what happens. This should give you some idea of the task ahead of Neil. You will learn that it’s impossible. After six kilometres I don’t think I’d seen Neil so angry. Luckily, the anger was aimed at the wind and not at me. It was evident that we needed a plan.

Enter stage left, Keelung Dave. Mastermind Extraordinaire and Navigational Genius. Heading north into the wind was no longer an option, and the map showed a country lane leading east, away from the sea, just a kilometre or so ahead. If Neil ran to this junction, he could at least run with a side wind and had a better chance of being able to compete against this annoying global warming thing. Following Dave’s lead and advice, a route developed inland. The change in Neil’s spirits was immediate and fascinatingly different. From anger and sheer frustration to pure joy at being able to run at full sprint and actually move forward. We knew we were losing kilometres on the estimated route by this detour, but, finally, what choice was there?

We stopped a while in a small village. Neil and Dave were sitting on some steps outside a shop when a gentleman with a guitar slung across his back approached them. Without invitation or reason it seems, he walked up to them and stared for a second. “Questions?” he asked. “Questions? Questions?” Helpful or crazy. Helpful or crazy. Inside that same shop, a man chatted to me in English. When he’d run out of things to say, he pointed at Dave outside and said, “He has new shoes.” We left the village quick smart.

With Neil’s perseverance and Dave’s brilliant map-reading skills, we managed to rejoin route 17 at about 11.30 and 42km. Though Neil hadn’t progressed as far north as planned, we were just thankful that he hadn’t been lifted away on the blustering forces of nature and trapped in a land called Oz without Dave to navigate him back home. However, the only place Mialiao had to offer in way of hotels was the dreaded Love Motel that we’d so far avoided. But needs must, and after establishing a good rate with the staff, entered into a little Oz of our own. The petite blue doll’s houses hardly reek of illicit sex and extra-marital activities, but the pay-by-the-hour service proved pretty useful in the morning when we stayed two hours past check out for just 200NT. You can see what I mean from the photographs. (And the other one, by the way, is me measuring the distance).