Free The Peace Correspondent by Garry Marchant Page A

waterfalls and little lakes where men fish from primitive wooden boats. “It’s like riding through a painting,” developer David says. Later, the road passes through a kind of Death Valley, with traditional graves sculpted into the side of the mountain as though scooped out with a giant melon spoon.
    Despite the hectic pace, there is some time for sightseeing, and one morning, we attend a kung-fu demonstration. It is more acrobatic than martial, but it impresses one of the Chinese bikers. That night, out on the town, he fools around with exaggerated kung fu fighting stances, taunting one biker’s girl friend, a tiny but supple dancer. The rider, with elaborate, showy gestures, dares her, “OK, come at me.” A delicate, balletic foot lashes out,connecting with the open mouth, splitting the lip open. The biker is still spitting blood back at the hotel, where the doctor closes the cut with three stitches.
    Zhejiang, the next province, is more industrial China, where the air smells of coal, factory smoke and hot tar. Steam trains belching black smoke chug by green rice paddies; trucks haul coal to grimy factories; and ancient, long, flat-bottomed boats with curved thatched roofs put-put by at a walking pace along canals that run all the way to Shanghai.
    Somewhere north of Ningbo, the tightly organized convoy is stopped at a road construction site where asphalt degenerates to dirt and two lanes narrow into one. Trucks, tractors and buses backed up for miles in either direction block the convoy’s van, truck and police escort, but the motorcycles squeeze past. It is total chaos of heat, dust and the oily smell of hot engines, as one by one the bikes spurt past the mess and regroup at the roadside. But TJ, a rebel, says “Let’s ride,” and zooms away from the pack.
    TJ, a Chinese movie producer with long hair, a frizzy Ho Chi Minh beard and fringed leather vest, rides a big Electra Glide, a huge cruising Cadillac of motorcycles with padded armrests, running boards, windshield, radio and more lights than a Kowloon disco. He rejoices at being finally free on the road, weaving his powerful machine between tractors, bicycles and startled water buffalo. When he stops at a crossroads to ask directions to Hangzhou, Michael, an English financial consultant, roars up on his Sportster. The club brass has sent him ahead to find TJ.
    â€œI’m supposed to tell you to stay here and wait for the rest,” he says. They look at each other, and without a word, take off together, riding without the escort for miles, breaking every rule of the club and rejoicing in the best time of the trip. Finally, like truant schoolboys, they stop at a shack-sized store, climb off the bikes, and TJ orders drinks in Shanghainese. The proprietor sets a table and chairs out on the dirt yard. When the convoy finally catches up, the lost riders are somewhat sheepishly sipping from large green bottles circled by a curious audience of hundreds.
    The ride is nearing the end, and some of the bikers are getting restive. At yet another banquet, this time in scenic Hangzhou’s Huagang Hotel, local officials and chapter chiefs indulge in the Chinese custom of dueling toasts with a potent, clear local maotai. George, who speaks Mandarin, thanks the hosts, the police, the Chinese people, the hotel staff, and others. Joerg, known as “Miami,” joins in with gusto. Miami is a Swiss watch company executive whose hair stands back as though he is permanently pointing into a wind tunnel. He faces a valiant, but losing battle with the maotai, and is waving his chopsticks around like conductors’ batons.
    A three-piece Chinese classical band begins playing traditional music on a small stage at the front of the room. Miami joins them, conducting with his chopsticks, and soon he has them playing a jaunty Oh Suzanna. Then Miami starts tumbling and doing handstands, his legs flying in the air as he hurls himself across stage,