Cycling Across China & Central Asia (Solo): Entering a New World on Two Wheels

If you’d told me that bikepacking across a communist country would involve being showered with generosity, treated like an A-list celebrity, riding through vast landscapes beneath clear blue skies and molten-orange sunsets, promoted to flag bearer of a provincial championship team, and invited to post-tournament raves. I would’ve laughed it off as pure fantasy.

And yet, that’s exactly what unfolded once I clicked into first gear and felt the hum of my bicycle beneath me. That restless itch I couldn’t quite name finally had a shape. With no real experience and barely any training, curiosity took the handlebars. I packed my worldly possessions into panniers and aimed West, committing to six months on the road across China and Central Asia, an idea most people warned was reckless, unrealistic, or outright mad.

Would I make it? How far could I really go? Who knew.

I wasn’t chasing extremes for the sake of it and this wasn’t entirely new.

A decade earlier, cycling through Vietnam and Cambodia had quietly rewired my sense of adventure. Every kilometre hurt and exhilarated in equal measure. The wide-eyed stares of kids as a foreigner rolled through their village. The thick scent of garlic and charred chillies drifting from roadside kitchens. The road unfurling beneath me like a living ribbon. Cycling became a moving meditation, part runner’s high, part downhill ski run. I learned to sync with the bike, to accept imperfection. Every crack in the road was proof I was alive and moving.

I wanted to revisit that kind of experience, the one that had shaped how I thought about travel and adventure all those years ago. There felt like no better place to begin than China, rolling out from Guilin and into the unknown.

China, and the broader plan itself, drew me in because of the unknowns. The what ifs. A quiet sense of adventure paired with a deliberate decision to seek discomfort. I knew, in one form or another, I would be placed in situations where I had no option but to ask for help. Where self reliance would eventually reach its limit. Where pushing myself physically would be unavoidable, and navigating the isolating terrain of my own thoughts would be just as demanding as the road beneath my wheels.

There would be language barriers that made even simple interactions uncertain. Moments of frustration and misunderstandings. But alongside that, there would be the opportunity to move slowly through cultures and countries that are often reduced to headlines and assumptions, rarely understood through lived experience.

Bikepacking strips travel back to first principles. You can plan as much as you like, but the truth is you adapt as the day unfolds. You solve what is directly in front of you, make decisions with incomplete information, and then repeat. Over and over again. There’s no race against the clock. No finish line dictating urgency. Just you, yourself, and a long continuous black ribbon of road that quietly interconnects the world as we know it.

First Miles in Southern China

Fresh off the plane, I wasted no time assembling the bike. Fueled by pure stoke, I pedalled deep into farmland straight from the airport before circling back to explore the nightlife of Guilin, a brief pause before heading East toward Yangshuo, famous for its dramatic limestone karst mountains. China didn’t announce itself loudly. It revealed itself gradually through small villages, wide highways that dissolved into back roads, and landscapes that felt both vast and intimate.

Cycling through the karst mountains of Yangshuo felt less like moving through a place and more like riding through a painting that refused to repeat itself. Towering limestone spires rose straight out of the valley floor, their shapes shifting with every turn of the road. Morning mist clung low to the fields, lifting slowly as the sun warmed the day. Water buffalo stood motionless in rice paddies. Farmers worked quietly, barely glancing up as I rolled past.

The riding itself was deceptively gentle. Narrow roads, little traffic, constant undulation rather than sustained climbs. But it was mentally absorbing in a way that’s hard to describe. The landscape demanded attention. You couldn’t rush through it without feeling like you were missing something. I found myself stopping more than usual. Not out of fatigue, but because the road kept offering reasons to pause. A bend revealing another cluster of peaks. Reflections of limestone towers rippling across irrigation channels. Villages tucked into folds of the land as if they’d grown there naturally. It was here, in Yangshuo’s countryside, that the scale of China first felt personal rather than abstract. Not overwhelming. Not intimidating. Just quietly immense.

Leaving the flatter roads behind, the landscape began to fold in on itself as I climbed toward the Longsheng Rice Terraces. The air cooled slightly with elevation, and the road narrowed into a steady, unbroken rhythm of climbing. Rice terraces carved into the hillsides appeared gradually at first, then all at once. Layer upon layer of green steps wrapped around the mountains, water glinting in the paddies below.

They weren’t ornamental. They were functional, shaped patiently over generations. Every contour reflected the labour of farmers who had learned how to work with the land rather than against it. An unbroken system, quietly efficient, sustained not by spectacle but by repetition, discipline, and care. Riding through it, I felt less like a visitor admiring a landscape and more like a temporary participant moving through something far older and far more deliberate than my own journey.

The climbing was constant but manageable, just enough to demand patience. Sweat mixed with the humidity, legs settling into a tempo that matched the slope rather than fighting it. The further I rode, the quieter it became. Fewer vehicles. Fewer people. It was one of the first moments on the trip where I felt properly inside China rather than passing through it. Not observing from the edge, but moving through a living landscape that existed entirely on its own terms.

Watch the Film — Bikepacking Across China (Part 1)

This film documents the opening weeks of my solo bikepacking journey across China; from landing and adapting to an entirely new system, to the first long days on the road and the early encounters that hinted at what this country would reveal over time.

It’s an honest record of what the beginning actually demanded: uncertainty, adaptation, and learning to move forward without clarity.

https://youtu.be/Y9DaOhQHMd8

This is Part 1 of a long-form documentary series following a 10,000km ride across China and Central Asia. Each film is paired with a written chapter here on the site, expanding context, reflection, and lessons that don’t fit on screen.

Learning New Systems on the Move

Crossing into China wasn’t just a geographic shift, it was a digital one too.

Overnight, familiar Western tools vanished. Navigation, payments, communication, even booking accommodation required adapting to an entirely different ecosystem. Learning new systems became part of the daily ride, often with limited language and no margin for error.

I won’t unpack that fully here, but it became a quiet, constant challenge, one I’ve detailed properly in a separate guide on Navigating China by bike, covering local apps, payments, and what actually works on the road.

The First Acts of Generosity

Somewhere among classic mountain backdrops and dusty roads, I met Lin Xin, a university student who insisted on showing me around campus before inviting me to dinner. Later, in Qingyang, I met Haitao in a hotel lobby. He helped translate, then welcomed me into a local dinner where we shared food and stories from opposite sides of the world. These weren’t grand gestures. They were human ones. They were also the first hints that this journey would be shaped as much by people as by terrain.

From Passing Cyclist to Flag Bearer

What began as a simple conversation about the bike escalated far quicker than I could keep up with. Somewhere between curiosity and hospitality, my hostel host had invited me to the province football championships.

I was ushered toward a local stadium under the impression we would just spectate from the grandstand. I didn’t fully understand what I’d agreed to until a flag was pressed into my hands and I was motioned forward. Moments later, I found myself walking out as a flag bearer, part of the opening procession, with hundreds of eyes fixed not on the players but on the foreign cyclist who had wandered into town.

It didn’t stop there.

I was pulled into the cheer squad, taught chants I couldn’t pronounce, and swept up in the collective energy of the crowd. Phones appeared instantly and Endless photos. Group selfies. Kids, parents, players, officials; everyone wanted a moment and a picture. I even experienced my first international interview at halftime I didn’t feel like an outsider being observed. I felt welcomed, absorbed into the spectacle as if I was some famous football player!

After the final whistle, the night took another turn entirely. The centre of the pitch transformed into something closer to a rave than a sporting venue. Music blasted through the stadium speakers, a surreal blend of pounding techno rhythms layered with what sounded unmistakably like traditional or regime-style Chinese anthems. Players, supporters, officials, and now cyclist danced together under stadium lights, the formality of competition dissolving into something unexpectedly communal.

It was absurd. Unplanned. Completely unearned and yet, it felt entirely sincere. There was no performance expected of me. No obligation beyond showing up as I was. For one evening, I wasn’t passing through China, I was participating in it. Experiences like that don’t appear on routes or maps. They happen when you’re willing to let the road interrupt your plans and trust that not every detour needs explaining.

Asking for Water

One afternoon, the heat finally caught up with me. The humidity was heavy, the road exposed, and I’d misjudged my water supply. I slowed to a crawl, every pedal stroke becoming more deliberate than the last. There were no shops in sight. No shade worth stopping for. Just heat, distance, and the quiet awareness that I was pushing closer to empty. I remember saying it out loud, not dramatically, not eloquently. Just honestly.

"Lord, I’m struggling here. Could you please provide me with some water"?

Within five minutes, the first car that had stopped for me on the entire trip pulled over.

The driver jumped out smiling, handed me a bottle of water, and asked for a photo. No questions. No hesitation. Then he was gone.

I stood there for a moment longer than necessary, bottle in hand, letting it register.

It brought to mind a passage from Matthew 7:7-8: ⁷ “Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. ⁸ For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened".

This was a reminder that the Lord was with me in every pedal stroke along this journey and that this wouldn’t be the only encounter where His presence made itself known. There would be many moments still to come, some subtle, some unmistakable, all carrying the same

Slowing Down in Huangguoshu

By the time I reached Huangguoshu Waterfall, I hadn’t built it up in my head.

It’s a five-star rated tourist attraction and one of China’s most visited natural landmarks in the province, usually the kind of place that lowers expectations. Polished walkways. Big crowds. Something impressive, but over-managed.

I was wrong.

The waterfall itself is genuinely powerful, wide, loud, and relentless. Early in the morning, before the crowds arrive, the place is almost eerily quiet. Mist hangs in the air. The sound of water carries before you see it. Still, as impressive as the waterfall is, it wasn’t the highlight. That distinction belongs to the cave systems.

Inside, the scale shifts completely. Vast chambers open up beneath you. Long passages disappear into darkness. Artificial lighting reveals just how enormous the place is, even if the loudspeakers and megaphone announcements occasionally pull you back into tourist mode.

I wasn’t expecting that.

Tickets are valid for three days, allowing you to explore the waterfall, caves, and surrounding national park at a slower pace. Spread out properly, you’ve got a better chance of catching park buses directly to quieter sections before the crowds arrive, sometimes finding yourself almost alone. If you enjoy the noise and movement of busy attractions, you can follow the flow and do everything in one go. I did both the waterfall and caves in a single day. It’s doable but intense once the mass crowds start to increase. Slowing it down would have been the better choice. Even so, the rest stop mattered. It forced a brief reset, physically and mentally before turning west again.

Overall Ride Log: China (Part 1)

This opening phase wasn’t defined by extremes, but by adaptation; learning how China moves, how the road flows, and how quickly assumptions dissolve when you travel slowly

Timeframe: First three weeks in China

Region covered: Guangxi to Guizhou

Total distance: ~1,158 km

Total elevation gain: ~11,284 m

Riding days: 21

KML file for overall route can be located here.

GXP file of individual days can be located here.

A Detailed day-by-day log retained in the below table for accuracy and record. If you'd like any further details or files, feel free to reach out!

Day	Date	Route	Time	Distance	Elevation
Day 1	Thu 03/04/2025	Fresh off the plane	2:30:39	44.15 km	187 m
Day 2	Fri 04/04/2025	Guilin → Yangshuo	5:57:21	96.98 km	699 m
Day 3	Sat 05/04/2025	Rest day (local riding)	0:29:05	7.86 km	18 m
Day 4 (Pt 1)	Sun 06/04/2025	Rolling south	2:31:56	28.67 km	739 m
Day 4 (Pt 2)	Sun 06/04/2025	Rolling south	3:29:05	60.59 km	272 m
Day 6	Tue 08/04/2025	Guilin → Longsheng Rice Fields	5:26:48	83.57 km	1,228 m
Day 7	Wed 09/04/2025	Longji → Sanjiang	4:01:19	80.48 km	361 m
Day 8	Thu 10/04/2025	Sanjiang → Congjiang	5:31:07	108.23 km	691 m
Day 9	Fri 11/04/2025	Congjiang → Rongjiang	3:59:55	72.49 km	575 m
Day 12	Mon 14/04/2025	Rongjiang → Sandu	6:39:08	116.04 km	903 m
Day 13	Tue 15/04/2025	Sandu → Danzhai	2:30:07	31.38 km	674 m
Day 14	Wed 16/04/2025	Danzhai → Duyun	3:04:18	46.05 km	701 m
Day 16	Fri 18/04/2025	Duyun → Longli	6:28:34	95.91 km	1,568 m
Day 17	Sat 19/04/2025	Longli → Qingyan	2:54:46	43.32 km	588 m
Day 19	Mon 21/04/2025	Qingyang → Pingba	4:22:13	63.84 km	629 m
Day 21	Wed 23/04/2025	Pingba → Huangguoshu	4:12:39	84.06 km	471 m

Filming on the Road (Sponsored Disclosure)

This episode includes a sponsored segment created in partnership with Insta360.

Any gear shown is used in real riding conditions—exposed to weather, vibration, and failure risk. If it didn’t hold up, it wouldn’t appear here.

A full, unsponsored breakdown of the setup will live separately for readers who want technical detail without interrupting the story.

What Comes Next?

The opening weeks in China unfolded gently, but I knew that rhythm wouldn’t last.

Ahead lay fewer towns, longer stretches between resupplying and the gradual rise toward higher elevations. The terrain would harden and the quiet dependence on chance encounters would become something more deliberate. If Part 1 was about entering a new world and learning how China moved, how people responded, how the road revealed itself, then what followed would test how well I’d actually adapted. Part 2 begins when the road starts pushing back, calling upon the generosity of the Chinese people getting me through each day.