Gifts from the Thunder Dragon People

This article is picked from the in-flight magazine 'Tashi Delek' with compliments from DRUKAIR CORPORATION LTD.

Plunging down the Himalayan mountain in paralyzing darkness, I cling to my bicycle named “Dragon Rider.” The smell of burning juniper caresses my nostrils, fires lit to appease Bhutan’s mountain deities. I need divine assistance now to avoid every mud slide, cow, and stray dog obstructing my 42 kilometer downward madness. Then light flickers from behind. A guardian motorcycle illuminates my path, piercing the dense fog that rolls off blue pine and broadleaf forests. My hands loosen their death grip.

As dawn’s rays steal over Bhutan’s ancient Trongsa fortress, bewitching lights from medieval ramparts wink at my quest: Daughter of the Dragon title. Who dares to test her 55-year-old stamina against a 255 kilometer bicycle race through four Himalayan mountain passes? My motorcycle knight gives me a thumbs up and rides away.

References to chivalry are unavoidable in the land of the Thunder Dragon where His Royal Highness, Prince Jigyel Ugyen Wangchuck, rules the peloton. In 2010, he conceived the race on a dare that no one could ride from central Bhutan to the western capital of Thimphu; hence, the Tour of the Dragon was born. According to legend, demons once ruled the foreboding peaks until guardian deities subdued them. Now I attempt to climb those same peaks, competing against my own demons as a failed athlete.

Yet, I also know that attachment to expectations causes suffering, so when Chimi, a young Bhutanese racer wearing pink socks, passes me on the second mountain, I let her go. Enter Jamyang, my Bhutanese guide. He waits for me at the top of the third mountain pass where I anticipate drinking suja, a curious Bhutanese specialty of butter, salt, and black tea. I suddenly see Jamyang running towards me. “Lu,” he shouts, “Chimi is only two kilometers ahead of you. Can you go faster?” Is he insane? I have already climbed 130 kilometers at lung-sucking altitudes with another 125 kilometers and the hardest mountain looming ahead. Not to mention, I’m thirsty, have to pee, my butt’s on fire…wait…I have to press on: the kind of push where you ride like a madwoman and ignore the thirst, ignore the bladder, and ignore the pain. I fight my way around a fuming construction vehicle and charge down the 53 kilometer descent. I channel the Prince and his command to choose my best line, leaning in and out of hairpin curves, redistributing my weight anywhere but on my sitz bones.

Then I spot her: pink socks to my left, and straight ahead, the 45 kilometer climb up Dochula mountain. I hesitate for an eternal second. Let’s go. Each kilometer fades into the next torturous kilometer up ten percent gradients as I struggle intensely to put distance between us, never daring to look back. For three hours, I stomp on the pedals. Loud wheezing clutches my airway, filling the thin air with desperate sound. My entire body threatens mutiny. Will I ever reach the prayer flags at the summit? A car slows beside me. “Do you water?” the Bhutanese driver inquires. “No,” I rasp, “How far to the top?” “I don’t know.” He drives away. I slog on. Ten minutes later, the same car reappears, but this time from the opposite direction. “It’s eight kilometers.” I manage a wobbly smile. Eight kilometers shorten to four, then three, then two. Dare I look back now? I see no one; the switchbacks below me- empty. Like sirens in the mist, prayer flags beckon me onwards.

Fourteen hours and 16 minutes after I start, kind Bhutanese assist me off my bicycle and place a ceremonial victory scarf around my neck as the new Daughter of the Dragon. Unable to stand, I am overcome with exhaustion and gratitude. The deities had blessed me and Chimi, who rolled into history in second place as the first Bhutanese woman to finish the race. At night I lie awake and relive the suffering and ecstasy of endless climbs and dizzying descents in a mystical Kingdom far away, smell the pine on its dark slopes, hear Jamyang call to me, and wonder at the gifts from the Thunder Dragon people. Do they know what gifts they bore: gifts of light, inspiration, and wisdom, but mostly, of hope? “Yes, Jamyang, I can go faster.”

This article is written by Lois Olney. She is a Mennonite preacher’s daughter raised on a dairy farm in Morgantown, PA, is a registered nurse, and lives with her husband, Bruce Olney, in Lancaster, PA. They call Chiang Rai, Thailand their second home. She loves mercy, true stories, the bike, and pet chickens.