Ride Report: Seoul 300K Brevet Reconnaissance, 02 April 2017

I wanted to ride the first part of the Seoul 300K brevet to familiarize myself with the route, so I was up before the sun, fed and riding down the Jungnang Creek bike path quite quickly. It’s been a cold start to the year, and the morning air was still quite cold. I ride that path to work regularly, so it was a little disconcerting to be riding that path on a Sunday, on a recreational ride, with a regular commuting podcast playing.

I arrived at the Yangjae turnoff on the Tancheon creek and almost went right, out of commuting instinct. I carried on toward Bundang, however, and found the correct U-turn, stopping to take a photo and note the surroundings, as it is specifically mentioned as a navigation hazard in the route information.

I suspect there’s a story behind that mention.

I rode further and promptly got snarled up in a mess of construction, as my GPS track was saying one thing, while my surroundings were saying another. I circled around until I found an acceptable detour, making a note to send some info to Korea Randonneurs to keep others from getting enmeshed in apartment construction hell.

Past the new housing developments is the road toward Namhansanseong. I know the area of old, as I used to go mountain biking there many moons ago and I have ridden up the road to Sanseongri, the little village on the mountain, before, so I was not unaware of the climb that faced me. In the event, it wasn’t too bad, my memory had made it out to be much steeper than it actually is.

 

 
I was joined by a foreign guy about three-quarters of the way up, and we spoke a little about randonneuring in Korea. Having pulled through the tunnel, he stopped to wait for his mate and I pulled down the road a little way to a pagoda to get some electrolytes into me and change my Buff helmet liner.  The foreign guy—another Mark—pulled past with his friend, and I followed them a few minutes later, reacquainting myself with the longer, more gradual grade on that side of the high ground, headed down to Road 43. I found the turn onto Road 45 easily and pulled up the following hill, seeing the first of the road cyclists and Harley Davidson Riders that would be a constant presence throughout the ride. Who knew that so many Koreans rode Harleys?

The bridge over the Gyeong Ahn River followed, with many of the hills still cloaked in mist.

I stopped for a drink at Korea’s nastiest service station. Many of the shelves in the “mart” section were bare, and when I opened the fridge it smelled like it was turned off. After opening warm bottles of water, I realized I was right. A visit to one of the worst toilets in Korea later, I was eager to leave the shabby little place behind. If ever you are tempted to stop at the SK service station on that small road to the south, just after Twei Cheon, don’t. 

Up the road a little way I rode a hill, which was quite deceptive. I didn’t have an elevation profile active on the map on my phone, and it had the look of a much bigger climb. I stopped to take a few photos before a turn to the left.


Rounding the bend, I actually laughed out loud, as the summit was right there ahead.

I descended into a river valley and was expecting farms bustling with spring activity and cloaked with the smell of smoke and manure that is so common in Gyeonggido at this time of year. What I saw instead, was a lot of nice modern coffee shops, bakeries and trendy antiques/bric-a-brac stores with cool statues and old things spilling out into their yards. One place even had a Model T Ford, as well as a Morris 8 Tourer, a pre-war British car.

I was suddenly surrounded by roadie cyclists, having to calm myself down after being passed way too closely by Korea’s rudest, most aggressive paceline. I told myself it wasn't worth the argument, and it wasn’t, because I was soon off the roadie route, getting a taste of a road that is a real treat for cyclists, with small rolling hills and pretty surroundings. You really have to work up some of the small climbs, and I look forward to riding it again; it’s something different from my usual fare in Korea. Jan Heine, the randonneuring editor of Bicycle Quarterly and owner of Compass Cycles, “collects” roads and I smiled at myself, thinking that I had just added one to my personal collection.

“The Climb” was upon me then. By no means the highest of the day—it’s only 80 meters of elevation gain from the turn—it was certainly the worst for me. Something about the steepness of it, or some other intangible thing made it an excruciating little ride. I got up it, though, and had a well-earned drink at the top, downing about a liter of electrolyte-filled liquid and wanting more.

It’s strange how, in cycling, an otherwise insignificant hill can become a small personal hell, while a much bigger climb elsewhere can be ridden with a song in the heart and a smile on the lips.

The roads following my mini Mt. Doom are mainly flat, leading you around to the dam at Ipo and the second control point on the Seoul 300km brevet. 



I had lunch then, and rested my legs. I left the brevet course at that point and rode down the Nam Han Gang, the Southern Han River, toward Asin station, to pick up the brevet course again and to make it home in the early evening.

The crowds were not too bad and that part of the bike path was previously unknown to me, but it was a slight let down to come down out of the climbs in the hills to the more sedate Seoul-Busan cycle path. I passed through Yangpyeong, remembering a large bike ride I had ridden in to that point of the bike path a few years ago, an event celebrating the coming Pyeong Chang Winter Olympics.

I arrived at the bike path near Asin station and got back on course, turning off to the north to recon the road coming down from Road 37, forming part of the brevet route. The mountain further up that road is the final climb on the 300km brevet, rising to 500 meters or so, and I wanted to see the final turn off to Asin from Road 37 and to make the turn onto the bike path back into Seoul, knowing that the next time I do those things I will be utterly exhausted and happy to see familiar surroundings. I stopped at the 7-Eleven control at Asin for a drink and then was off again, riding out to Yangsu Station and across the bridge over the Buk Han Gang, the Northern Han River in heavy bike traffic.

I had planned to take bike paths back to Guri and then pop up the river to ride home via Byeollae, but I ended up headed north up the Buk Han Gang to the Gyeongcheon Line path with a dead phone. I gave it some juice from my battery bank as soon as I realized, but the GPS track has a strange straight line in it. The ride along the Gyeongcheon Line path was uneventful; it has come to be one of the routes I ride when I’m going somewhere else, like into the hills in Yangpyeong. It’s predictable, and as it’s an old railway route, the grades are always gradual.

I pulled up through Byeollae and over the flank of Suraksan, riding down to familiar old Road 43, past the US Military base and the prison, finally climbing the final small hill of the day toward home where I saw the sun setting over Sapaesan.


It was a good ride and I gained a lot of valuable intel on the ride to come. It's going to be a massive challenge for me, but I’m looking forward to it.

Ride Report: Korea Randonneurs Seoul Banpo 200K Brevet, 11 March 2017

Ride Type: 200 Kilometer Brevet  

Rider(s): Myself and 177 others

Location: Seoul Banpo

Date: 11^th March, 2017

I was awake at 3.00 with my alarm, somewhat eager to ride. After more than a year and a half, I had the opportunity to ride in a brevet organized by Korea Randonneurs, and I was more than ready. When randonneuring first came up on my radar in 2015, I was too late for the year’s brevets, and then in early 2016 I made the rookie mistake of underestimating the popularity of the events. By the time I got around to registering there were no spaces left available in any of the Seoul rides (they had probably gone within minutes of becoming available, something I did not know to expect). It was with some eagerness, then, that I got out of bed in the early morning of the 11^th of March.

While I never shower before cycling, I do eat breakfast, in this case a carbohydrate heavy breakfast of Indonesian noodles with some bread and soy milk to get the tanks topped up for the day. I never used to take nutrition seriously enough, but then, my riding wasn’t as serious as it is now, and back then I could get away with it. When you start to ride longer distances, though, you need fuel in the tanks, in the form of carbohydrates, to last the distance.

I dressed in well worn cycling clothes before getting my bike out. A lot of tips for first time brevet riders stress the need to use proven equipment, but I don’t know if they meant quite that proven. My old silvery jacket is about 20 years old at this stage and is somehow still going strong. I wore it more as a good luck charm than anything else, as I have actual cycling jackets more suited to the job. Coupled with 8-year-old lined cycling pants and quick dry soccer top base layers if would suffice for the day’s ride, however.

While my bike used to be a stock Specialized AWOL, it has gradually morphed into what I jokingly think of as a Gyeonggido class Heavy Cruiser (Editor’s note: As a successful Randonneuse, it will hereinafter be affectionately known as the “Rando-Tractor”). I bought my bike with longer rides through Gyeonggido and the other Korean provinces in mind, and it is well suited for its intended purpose. It is not light, however. A smart guy once said that when buying a bicycle, you can take cheap, light and durable. Then choose two. In my case, I go with cheap and durable every time. My bike weighs very close to 16kg, has a heavy cromolly steel frame, full fenders, front and rear racks which accept a variety of bags and panniers, 36-spoke wheels, a saddle as thick as a telephone directory and rims designed for the stresses of eBikes. Nothing—and I mean nothing—has been chosen for lightness, but, in the world of mid-to-high level bike gear, it was all very reasonably priced. A heavy bike, if it has decent components, only serves to make you stronger, though, and when you’re a generously proportioned man like me—I’m somewhat overweight—you need a certain degree of strength in anything that’s going to carry your body weight for any distance.

The first subway service into Seoul from my home in Uijeongbu is at about 5.30am. If I was to take the subway with my bike, which is perfectly fine on weekends, it would get me to the start of the brevet at close to registration closing time, so I set off to ride the 30kms or so to the check in desks at Banpo Bridge, in the heart of Seoul, at 4:00am. My apartment lies beside the route, so I actually pre-rode the first section of the course in reverse. It was a cold morning, but that's par for the course in early March in Seoul. I hoped that my water didn't ice up in my bidons, a hope that proved forlorn. I had a lemon slushy to drink and I would carry a small lump of ice in the bottom of one of the bottles for hours, a small triangle of ion-rich lemon-flavored ice. A rush of cyclists adorned with reflective vests, leg bands and headlights passed me, the 5:00am start group. This rush of Randonneurs was to be repeated closer to the registration point, as the 5:30 start group embarked on their circumnavigation of northern Seoul, many of them looking over at me curiously, as I was obviously about to follow in their tracks.

I arrived at the Banpo Ministop convenience store Start/Finish location and got myself registered, received my brevet card from Jason Ham, a very well-known local Randonneur, and had my bike checked. Thankfully, I had done my homework and had the required medical insurance documents, night riding gear and spare light. I was on track for a 6:00am start, but I was unexpectedly nervous, like I was waiting for a dentist appointment, rather than a long-anticipated ride.

The 6:00am starters assembled and we were waved off. I had a nagging feeling of something being wrong—in my nervousness I had forgotten to turn on my taillight—but I rode out anyway. Most of the starters were bunched up for the first few hundred meters, until the pack sorted itself out at the turn north onto the Jungnang bike path. Most of the riders were on fast road bikes and smaller minivelos and I was quickly dropped. I still had quite a lot of winter in my legs, I was not as fit as I might have liked and I was feeling a little out of sorts.

The route crossed the Han river right after the start and followed it for a couple of kilometers, before turning north on the Jungnang bike path. It’s a logical way to escape Seoul to the north as it follows a long river valley to Uijeongbu, where the mountains form a bottleneck. I rode up the Jungnang bike path behind a rider on a road bike, another rider on a titanium hardtail MTB and their friend on an orange Specialized cyclocross bike was behind me for much of the way. They diverged from the route I was expecting, riding the eastern bank of the stream, rather than the western, but there was some discrepancy in the .gps file I had downloaded (ride the west side) and the cue sheet (ride the east side), so I surmised that it would not matter too much and just rode north in the soft light of dawn. The riders ahead of me seemingly pulled me along and pretty soon we were passing my apartment building where my wife and son were still asleep. Just thinking about them made me question myself and my motives for doing what I was doing. Here I was in the early twilight, freezing cold and still somewhat unsure of myself and my purpose in riding this ride.

We rode through the bottleneck formed by Suraksan (Mt. Surak) and Dobongsan (Mt. Dobong) and then past Cheonbosan, the final small mountain in a range of hills that form a rough “J” shape. The course left the riverside bike path there, and at the start of a rising road, following the hills to the north east, there was a rear light, obviously fallen off a fellow rider’s bike, flashing red on the road. The three guys I had been riding with briefly slowed, but kept riding past it. I stopped to collect it and was dropped by the three riders I had ridden the bike path with. I was all alone, but my mood improved somewhat, as I finally felt free. I had ridden the course several times, always alone, so I felt a lot more familiar with things. I knew exactly where I was and where I needed to go, and there were no other riders around. I calmed down a bit and rode the familiar roads forming that part of the course alone, just as I had on similarly cold mornings in the past while on training rides. That part of the course has some very nice little moments along the way, in particular, the little road just past Lakewood Country Club and the lovely little wooded lane between the final apartment complex in that section and the highway underpass. I passed a small clump of riders stopped for a comfort break under the highway underpass and carried on with their encouragement, passing the new apartment complexes and the power station on that part of the route, finally arriving at the first real climb up to Hoeam pass. I was riding fairly automatically at that stage of the ride, concentrating on riding to the top of the pass without taking a breather and I was actually climbing quite strongly, as compared to some of my previous outings on that climb, feeling the beneficial effects of the training rides I had done in the previous weeks.

 I was suddenly surrounded by riders close to the top and realized I had been caught by the 6:30am starting group. It sort of threw me off my stride a little, as I was uncharacteristically self-conscious around such strong road riders, me, an overweight foreigner on a weird touring bike among a sea of young, very strong Korean riders riding expensive carbon fiber bikes while fashionably attired in Rapha jerseys, Castelli pants and other exclusive brand name clothes. I must stress here that all of my fellow riders were welcoming and entirely polite to me all day; while I may have felt like I stuck out, I don’t think many people actually really noticed me, seeing as how they were suffering from the climb and also had about 160kms more to ride. I remember that a younger Korean guy came past me on a single speed Brompton with a chain tensioner and got off to walk the final part of the hill; I really admired his strength to have ridden a single speed bike that far up the pass. It was an impressive show of riding strength and I realized that I was riding with some very capable riders who didn’t just look the part.

I summited the pass and stopped for a much needed drink, before dropping down the other side of the pass in a rush of frigid early March morning air and riding most of the way to the first control alone. I self-stamped my brevet card and ate a few handfuls of mini cookies with some coffee flavored milk, just topping up the tanks. Jason Ham, the randonneur who had given me my brevet card earlier that morning, arrived as I was shoveling the tiny biscuits into my mouth. He’s very well known in the Korean randonneuring community as being one of the strongest randonneurs in Korea and I as far as I know, he had actually designed the course we were riding. As an organizer, he must have left at 7:00am in the final start group, but he had caught me at the first control, even though I had an hour’s head start on him. We spoke a little, but I was keen to be off and left the first control to ride most of the way to Pocheon alone. 

A rider on a hardtail titanium MTB came up behind me and with a shouted “Fighting,” a friendly Korean word of encouragement, and a wave, he pulled past me and disappeared into the distance. I was still a bit out of sorts and in something of a strange head space. I was in a daze, riding automatically with my thoughts drifting. I suddenly realized that I had started to argue with myself and that things had gotten way out of hand. I am still a little shocked at how vicious I was being to myself, but the mildly amusing thing is that myself was seriously holding his own in the nastiness stakes. I managed to negotiate an armistice between the antagonistic parts of my psyche as I passed Mt. Suwon to my right, my legs cringing at the memory of a particularly cold and brutal climb up its flank in sub zero temperatures a few weeks before. I kept riding, though, and passed through Pocheon uneventfully, trying to make myself snap out of my malaise, because the next climb was upon me.

I have been trying to be a stronger climber lately, so instead of idly spinning in my granny gear as I may once have done, I was actively attacking the hill and had selected a relatively high gear to push up a flatter part of the grade quite quickly.  I was thankful that I was riding strongly and confidently at that point in time, as Jason Ham caught me just then and with a “Ride strong Mark!” he steamed past and attacked the hill. I had a moment of amusement, smiling to myself and thinking about what he would have thought had he seen me in the same place a few weeks before, cold, shivering, out of breath and miserably grinding away at low speed. I arrived at the summit and kept riding after a quick drink, down the hill to then turn back to the west and onto the next hill, the third and last of the significant climbs of the course. I was riding quite well and did not stop to catch my breath mid way up any of the three main hills, as I might have just a week or two before. After quick energy gel and some water at the top, as well as a change into lighter gloves and a thin Buff-style helmet liner, I was off again, making fairly good time riding mostly alone through the narrow valley to the turn north on route 3. I was feeling a little better, but I was still a bit off and just not myself.

I pulled into Yeoncheon, quickly replenished my water and was off again, having seen my workmate, Mr. Jeong riding his road bike. We were separated then, and I carried on alone for the most part. I was starting to get worried about time, trading nervousness for anxiety as I passed through my favorite part of the course just after the halfway point. The views were stunning and the day was warming up nicely, but I was still in the dark parts of my psyche when I arrived at the second control point, fumbled my brevet card, clumsily collected my purchases and was generally a tightly wound ball of anxiety. I ate lunch quickly and rode away from the second control.

And then everything changed.

Somehow I left all of my worries, fears, self-consciousness and nervousness behind me at the combination plough dealership and convenience store that was the second control in northern Gyeonggido. I felt my stomach unknot itself almost immediately after leaving the second control. I pulled away down the road and my whole body seemed to relax. I had not done anything consciously, but for some reason my brain made the switch to “okay” mode from its “gloomy” setting. I shifted into my favorite cruising gear and sped down the course on a pretty road, past a turf farm and river embankment, suddenly smiling and relaxed. I may even have had a little sing. I knew the course well, and it seemed as if a veil of darkness had been lifted from my eyes. Several other riders from the control pulled in behind me and I led the way down toward the river, honestly enjoying myself for the first time all day. We crossed the Imjin river and then started the first of numerous small climbs. Korea really doesn’t do the rollers I read about in US ride reports, it often has steep little climbs interspersed with flatter ground. I descended from the first small climb and rode down the long valley there towards the highway that would carry us south. The road on that valley floor is lined with small farms and goes through a little village that time seems to have forgotten about. In Korea you often get truly excellent food in such places and I looked at the small restaurants we were passing with interest, regretting that I couldn’t stop and enjoy a leisurely meal of Jaeyuk Bokkeum, the spicy stir fried pork that is one of my favorite Korean dishes.

A short climb again, and we were descending to the highway. I caught up with several riders at the intersection and several riders caught me, so a group of us turned onto the highway. A husband and wife couple riding together stopped suddenly in front of me, almost causing me to have an accident, but I pulled up in time and confirmed for them that they were on the correct road. We rode on and I was feeling good, leading a pack of riders down to the underpass turn off to leave the highway. The small climbs and descents continued after that and we started to see casual Saturday afternoon riders. Passing Haeri Art Village, out in Paju, we met the bike path and I unwisely kept riding on the road behind a small group of riders. You have to get onto the bike path there, but the error was soon rectified and I was off the road, onto the bike path and riding past the military defenses. At that part of the ride, North Korea is just a few short kilometers away where the DMZ meets the water, so to deter infiltration by Navy SEAL-type North Korean combat swimmers—not an idle threat at all, as the captured swim fins and other SCUBA gear at the war memorial in Seoul attest—there are extensive fences and military blockhouses along the shoreline beside the bike path.

I saw a rider on a beautiful blue-grey track bike there and I had seen him at other points of the course. A bike like that has a single gear with a fixed rear hub, so the cranks are continually moving, and no brakes. To slow or stop the bike, you have to use the muscles in your legs to slow the rotation of the cranks, slowing the rear wheel. That rider was wonderfully fluid, completely at home on his bike, and I was slightly in awe of anyone who would tackle that course on such a bike; it was genuinely impressive.

I arrived at the last control in good spirits. One of the Korean riders I had been riding with kindly bought me an ice cream, I filled up with Pocari Sweat, as I was out of my own electrolyte tablets and cheerfully let my legs rest for a few minutes. The Korean woman owner of the convenience store recognized me from my recon ride two weeks previously and gave me a big smile, as did many of my fellow riders. Jason Ham gave me some encouraging words after I admitted that I had struggled a little mentally in the morning, and then I was off again in the pleasantly warm afternoon sun, crossing the bridge to Gimpo and riding down the Han River to meet the Ara Canal bike path, before stopping for a bottle of Pocari Sweat.

It was there that I realized my brevet card was missing.

My brain refused to feel sad or annoyed, though, and I just felt happy, despite my catastrophically lost brevet card. I had gained a lot of experience and I had the feeling that in knowing what lay ahead, I would not suffer through the new-kid-at-school first-day-on-the-job nervousness that I had felt all morning in future brevets. I had a handle on this new activity and was feeling strong, riding down the bike path and passing my personal 200km mark (I had ridden about 30 extra kilometers to the start). It was the farthest I had ever ridden in a day and I knew that I could ride even further with more chamois cream and a little more conditioning. The brevet card situation took a back seat to my overall sense of happiness and contentment. I was finishing strong, well within time and I knew that I would be able to call myself a randonneur for the first time. Anyone who officially finishes a 200 kilometer brevet is allowed to call him or herself a Randonneur, a title that lasts for life. I might not be the fastest, best looking or most fashionably attired, but hell, I could ride the distance in the time required and that’s really all that counts.

I got down to near my old stomping ground, close to where the bike path coming in from Anyang meets the Han River bike path and slowly passed a group of inline skaters. Around twenty of them, obnoxiously taking up the entire lane and making a huge fuss, calling cyclists off and generally making themselves very known. It is a busy part of the trail and I slowed down with traffic, before pulling a slightly crazy move out of desperation when the first few skaters started passing me again. I pulled onto a drain cover grill beside the path, and, with bushes slapping at my arms and legs, accelerated past the skaters and dived back onto the path in a small opening in bike traffic. I heard a yell then, and the fellow brevet rider who had bought me an ice cream at the final control and his friend were suddenly there. We stormed home together, the three of us working the Han River bike path to our advantage. If there’s anything I know how to do in Seoul, it’s how to ride the Han River bike path in heavy traffic while in a hurry. The two Korean guys must also have had a lot of time in on the Han River bike path, because we flowed seamlessly through the kids, dogs, kimbap, fried chicken, grandmas, hire bikes and chaotic humanity of Yeouido Park on a warm afternoon in early spring. The guy in front of me was making expert hand signals, letting me know when to speed up and when to slow down and I was really enjoying myself, taking the AWOL up to ramming speed and cruising with the road bikes.

We raced towards the finish, getting there in a  rush of bikes, before finding the desk. I saw Jason Ham and somewhat shamefacedly admitted that my brevet card was MIA. He just said we could maybe call the owner of the convenience store control, the Korean woman who had recognized me, when one of the Korean organizers spoke up, the guy known as Gom Gom who makes the Korea Randonneurs Youtube videos (check them out, they’re really good). He had my card right there. A fellow rider had just arrived with it, saving my ride and earning my eternal gratitude. 

Lesson learned: keep track of your brevet card at all times.

I had ridden the course in 11 hours and 48 minutes and I happily bought my savior a thank you beer and got myself a sprite, walking on air and happy to have an intact brevet card.

I left soon after, slowly riding up to Line 7 to get a bike-friendly weekend train home to have one of the best showers of my life.