Travelling by e-bike conferred one advantage over motor vehicles: I could ride on ‘closed’ roads, like the one from Longyangxia to Gonghe. When I was checking out, the hotel manager told me that because of construction work I would need to take a 30 kilometres detour to get into the nearest town, but I decided to take my chances and the gamble paid off.
The road followed the shoreline of Longyang reservoir and went through some of the most barren sandstone hills and ‘desert’ terrain that I had seen so far. There were barrels blocking the road at the official entrance to the ‘Longyang Scenic Area’, but the security guard waved me through without a word when I told him I was heading towards Gonghe.
The newly-built scenic highway ran through narrow cuttings that had been excavated from the brown sandstone hills. In some places the flat sides were almost vertical and extended for tens of metres above me. In other areas the road took wide detours around hills and sandy river beds. The only constant was the almost complete lack of vegetation in the brown surroundings.
It was an eerie and lonely ride because of the lack of traffic, and I was glad to reach the more fertile inhabited area on the outskirts of Gonghe. This was still part of the Longyang holiday zone, with signposts for homestays and ‘fishing areas’.
It was here that I also saw the first of many Tibetan-style ‘camping sites’. Unlike their western counterparts, these did not require you to bring your own equipment: they were areas of grassland where a variety of tents and shelters had already been set up. There were Tibetan-style white marquees, bell tents, flysheets strung over hammocks, and even Mongolian yurt-style circular shelters. All the sites seemed to have beds, cookers and barbecue facilities already provided.
Gonghe seemed like a big city after the backwaters of Longyang and Kanbula. It was major junction for the highways that radiated westward from Xining to Yushu (玉树), 600 kilometres away on the Tibetan border, and into the vast expanses of Qinghai and beyond to Xinjiang. A bit rough around its Tibetan edges, the town’s fancy shops and cafes seemed at odds with its remote location on the highland plateau near Qinghai Lake.
My ride along the closed road from Longyangxia had brought me into town by lunchtime and because it was too early to check into a hotel I unashamedly popped into a KFC when I saw one. Soon I was sipping a coffee and scoffing a Zinger burger while being watched inquisitively by the two Tibetan girls working for Colonel Sanders.
I looked at the map for the next day’s route. This would take me along the main highway from Gonghe to the south across grasslands and a small mountain range, and then a turnoff to a town called Xinghai. It was 130 kilometres away and this meant I would not have enough battery to get there in one day. I looked for smaller towns en route, but there was only a small truckstop at 70 kilometres called Heka (河卡). Even on the most detailed Chinese map app this appeared to have only a couple of restaurants and a guesthouse that looked dirty and run down on the review photos. But other than camping by the roadside, this was my only option.
Back on the street it had started to rain and I noticed how cold it was in Gonghe. It was 3200 metres in altitude and the wind blowing in from across the Qinghai plateau seemed to cut through me. The other thing that I noticed when I checked into my hotel was that everything was bilingual in Chinese and Tibetan - even the lift buttons.
I spent the rest of the afternoon doing some maintenance on my bike and stocking up on supplies for the long road trip the next day - I had to assume there would be no shops on the road.
I made an early start the next morning, just after daybreak. It was around the time of the longest day of the year and I was on the road back out of Gonghe by 7.30am, shivering from apprehension about what might lay ahead, and also from cold.
Even though it was an overcast day, I was hoping to see something of the extensive solar energy project that was along today’s route. As well as claiming to have the largest solar power capacity in the world, there was also a novel “molten salt light tower”. Like something out of a sci-fi movie, this sat in a circle of thousands of mirrors that focused the sun’s rays on a glowing photothermal device at the top.
Beyond the outskirts of the town I entered a moorland-like landscape of rough gravelly grassland with flocks of grazing sheep. The wind was gusting hard from the side and there were still a few drops of rain from passing showers. The first few kilometres were uphill to a point where the regular highway joined up with the new motorway, which ran alongside to a toll station and checkpoint. This is where I became unstuck.
As I stopped in the shelter of one of the buildings to check my map I noticed two traffic cops flagging down passing cars and trucks to check their licenses. When I remounted my bike I tried to give them a wide berth when I pedalled past them, but the younger one of them stepped toward me and held up his hand.
“Ni hao. Deng yi xia” (Hello. Wait a moment) … then he asked me politely where I was going.
My heart sank. I wasn’t sure if this was official or whether he was like many Chinese and just wanted to chat.
I told him I was cycling towards Xinghai and then blurted out my back story about following the Yellow River. His older colleague came over and they both complimented me on my good health and how tough I was to do such a trip. They asked the same questions that everyone else asked me on this trip: where I was from, how old I was, how was I able to speak such good Chinese?
They seemed satisfied with my answers but the older one started giving me a lecture about the road ahead.
“The weather conditions are very bad today, it’s not safe to be cycling on the high altitude highway. There is snow on the mountains and the wind is strong enough to blow you over!” he told me.
I told them about my backup plan to go to Heka and find somewhere to stay there. The older cop then informed me that the local guesthouses did not accept foreigners and it was too risky to be on my own in this area in case I got lost. He then told me again to “wait a moment” and stepped away to call someone on his phone.
After a couple of minutes he returned and told me:
“The road to Xinghai is closed temporarily. You should go back to Gonghe and rest there. You can visit Qinghai Lake (靑海湖) and the Chaka Salt Lake (茶卡盐湖), these are very nice places.”
Their demeanour was friendly but firm. It was clear I wasn’t going to get past them.
“It’s safer for you,” the younger one kept repeating.
Reluctantly I turned around and headed back towards Gonghe.
[I later learned a possible alternative reason for the road closure. Just a month earlier in April 2025 the Qinghai government announced that construction work was to begin on a new dam at Tsiha Gorge (茨哈峡, Cihaxia) which was located between Xinghai and Tongde. This had caused an outcry among Tibetan exiles who protested that it would involve the relocation of farmers from 20 villages in the area. It may have been sensitivity about this project that led the police to block my travel along a route that would take me on the road to the dam construction site on the road between Xinghai and Tongde.]
Part of my route travelled through these 'closed' areas of Qinghai
On the way back I thought through my options. Other than going all the way back to Guide via Longyangxia and the mountains, this was the only road to Xinghai. I could have another rest day in Gonghe and try again on this road tomorrow. Or I could do as the cops suggested, and go have a rest at Qinghai Lake. It was only 40 kilometres away - and since it was still early in the day, that is what I decided to do.
Back in Gonghe I stopped for a late breakfast of baozi (包子, steamed meat buns) before setting out for the lake. My map showed a direct road to the lake, but it ran over some hills. The major highway was a longer 100 kilometres journey. I chose the direct route.
Heading north out of Gonghe I passed through a whole ‘new town’ district of huge government buildings on long avenues. And then suddenly after crossing the motorway, I was out in rural farmland. It was more sheltered here than out on the plain, and there were orchards and clusters of beehives.
The road was pretty basic, little more than a farm track, and while pedalling through some ploughed fields I had one of those frustrating ‘missed photo opportunity’ moments. Coming towards me driving a tractor was an older Muslim woman in the usual black headcovering, and sat next to her was a Tibetan woman wearing the traditional chuba and headscarf wrapped round her face to keep out the cold. It was a perfect visual representation of the two communities living and working together, but I was cycling and didn’t have my phone camera handy to get the photo.
As the road approached more farm settlements I was also worried about dogs. Experience from my previous trips to Tibetan areas had taught me to be very wary of the mastiffs that were widely kept and used as guard dogs by Tibetan farmers. They looked like longer haired rottweilers and they could be aggressively territorial. They were often kept on a chain to guard the entrance to a house or farm, from where they would launch themselves out in a sudden frenzy of barking as you passed by. The more scary ones would roam around the property, sometimes in packs, and chase down any intruders.
I could hear barking ahead of me as I approached one group of farms, and sure enough, a snarling dog leapt out at me, straining against its chain. I upped the power and pedalled away as quickly as I could, now hypervigilant for other possible dog ambush locations. About a kilometre further on I approached a road junction at the edge of a small settlement. My heart sank when I saw three black and brown dogs sitting on the road there. I stopped to pick up some rocks and then slowly pushed the bike towards them - they did not react, and I was able to enter the village. At its centre was a large Tibetan Buddhist monastery, painted yellow and with a golden roof. There was nobody around as I propped up my bike and went through the gateway to have a look.
From across the empty courtyard I could hear the sound of chanting from the main hall. I crossed over to take a look and found a caretaker on the steps who gestured in sign language that I should remove my shoes before going any further. I did so and peered through the doorway into the dark interior.
The ornately decorated prayer hall was dominated by a golden Buddha statue, beneath which two rows of monks sat opposite each other on the wooden floor, chanting prayers under the supervision of two more senior lamas. They paid no attention to me as they swayed back and forth, ringing bells and repeating the mantras from the prayer books in their laps. On the altar beneath the Buddha was a photo of the 10th Panchen Lama - the one who had been born in the town of Xunhua that I had passed through just days earlier.
After observing this scene for a few minutes I returned to my bike and resumed my ride, passing more groups of dogs sitting around on the road. Two of them jumped up and began to chase me, but backed off and ran away when I dismounted and held up a rock as if to throw it. Fearing further such dog encounters, I picked up a long stick from nearby bushes and tucked it into the pannier straps for quick access.
The road now led towards the grassy hills beyond the village, running across deep gullies with sections that were so steep I had to get off the bike and push. As the broken concrete trail continued over rough paddocks I began to doubt if this was the ‘main road’ and stopped to check my map. It showed an abrupt 90 degree turn ahead, which thankfully proved to be a more substantial highway with more regular traffic. This road was not so steep and a Tibetan sheep herder waved as I passed by further along the way. I stopped to confirm that this was the right road to Qinghai Lake, and he nodded, giving me a detailed description of the route. Speaking in clear Mandarin, he asked me my age and praised my good health when it turned out we were almost the same age.
I continued up to a pass that opened out into a grassy plateau of sheep grazing country with a few scattered huts belonging to Tibetan herders. With the stiff breeze and rainy overcast low cloud weather it reminded me of the Yorkshire moors. I threw away my stick and pedalled on past a small reservoir, across the plateau until I eventually reached the Luohe (洛合) pass that led down to the plain on the other side of the hills.
The sign told me it was 3740 metres, but I no longer felt any altitude sickness symptoms. Just below the pass there was a cairn of stones bearing Tibetan inscriptions, intertwined with colourful scarves and some orange-like fruit offerings to the gods. Qinghai Lake now came into view, its grey waters stretching to the horizon like a sea.
The road descended steeply, with a couple of viewing points further down that were crowded with sightseers. When I stopped to take my own photos I was almost mobbed as the visitors asked me where I’d cycled from and requested group photos with me. One of them even filmed with his drone buzzing overhead as I resumed cycling down the road, amid flocks of sheep and goats.
From the lowest viewing point I could see the road led to a lakeside collection of concrete buildings that looked like hotels and shops, with a pier jutting out into the water. When I reached this ‘tourist centre’’ it was like a seaside resort, thronging with visitors arriving by coach and car. The ‘front’ was a parade of restaurants and gift shops, outside each of which was a tout waving a menu and urging passers by to come inside to try the local fish or Tibetan lamb hotpot.
The shops also offered local specialities such as yak milk yoghurt and dried yak beef jerky. At the rear was a motley collection of guesthouses, bars and travel agencies again with touts outside chanting their own mantra of “chifan, zhusu” (吃饭, 住宿, “something to eat, somewhere to stay”). The whole place had a tawdry carnival atmosphere, with fairground rides and pushy local Tibetans offering rides on horses, or the opportunity to dress up in Tibetan garb and pose for photos with yaks.
Some of the hotels were recently built Tibetan-style boutique homestays with prices that were way beyond my maximum budget of 250 yuan per night. When I inquired at the more regular places they all brusquely told me they didn’t accept foreigners. After a few such rejections I sought hotel advice from the ‘tourist police’ cops who were touring the village in electric buggies. They told me there were international hotels in the next village about five kilometres down the road.
A new four-lane dual carriageway ran along the edge of the lake and It had a cycle lane that I followed to the next turnoff where I found a much more low-key street of hotels. The Pastoral Inn looked nice and the manager greeted me enthusiastically when he saw my bike, telling me that he was a keen cyclist and had once cycled all the way to Lhasa and back from his hometown of Shandong.
The weather on the plain was much better than in the hills: by mid afternoon I was enjoying sunny skies with distant banks clouds hanging over the low hills surrounding the lake. Its waters now reflected the clear skies and in some directions the vistas of deep blue water, green grass, white clouds and blue skies had a perfect simplicity and could have been a computer screensaver.
The grassy shores of the lake looked inviting but access was blocked by barbed wire fencing with ‘no parking’ signs telling visitors to use the official scenic viewing areas back at the tourist village some five kilometres away. I found a track behind a farmhouse and parked my bike there to walk across marshy grass down a small area of beach along the lake shore. It was an idyllic setting, with birdlife in abundance. I wished I'd brought my binoculars to better identify the many types of ducks and terns that I could see at a distance. The water was pristine and clear, and I could imagine it being a great place for kayaking and fishing.
Back at the road, I noticed there were a few cyclists coming along the cycle lane. Some had touring bikes but others were riding on the hire bikes that I had seen advertised for rent outside hotels and travel agencies - the 360 kilometre circuit of the lake was a popular five day itinerary. I thought about doing the circuit myself until I saw on the map that its route passed through the ‘Atomic City’ (中国原子城) at Xihai (西海) where China’s first nuclear weapons development had been based. It was still off limits to foreigners.
At the hotel, the manager suggested that I visit the famous Chaka Salt Lake, which was about halfway round the lake. He pointed out the route on a large map of the region that he had on the wall of the reception. I was more drawn to another route that I saw on the map: a series of roads highlighted in red that led down from Qinghai to the First Bend of the Yellow River in Gansu. This would take me to the apex of the backward loop in the river where it changes direction on the border with Sichuan province.
Going direct to this ‘first bend’ would mean bypassing sections of the Yellow River loop in Qinghai - but I reasoned that most of them were inaccessible by bike anyway. Apart from a crossing of the Yellow River between Xinghai and Tongde, there was no way to follow the river through the 100 kilometres of canyon country in the Tsiha (Cihaxia) Gorge in Qinghai until reaching a place called Ragya (Lajia, 拉加). I had previously visited Ragya by bus in 2012 and seen the remote nature of the Yellow River there: a dirt road led further upriver through remote mountains but there were no towns and certainly no hotels until a place called Maqu (玛曲), which was near the ‘First Bend’.
When I mulled my options over a local Qinghai Lake craft beer, I decided to go the direct route to the First Bend, with my goal being a town called Tangke where there was a “First Bend Scenic Area.”
Back in Gonghe I stopped for a late breakfast of baozi (包子, steamed meat buns) before setting out for the lake. My map showed a direct road to the lake, but it ran over some hills. The major highway was a longer 100 kilometres journey. I chose the direct route.
Heading north out of Gonghe I passed through a whole ‘new town’ district of huge government buildings on long avenues. And then suddenly after crossing the motorway, I was out in rural farmland. It was more sheltered here than out on the plain, and there were orchards and clusters of beehives.
The road was pretty basic, little more than a farm track, and while pedalling through some ploughed fields I had one of those frustrating ‘missed photo opportunity’ moments. Coming towards me driving a tractor was an older Muslim woman in the usual black headcovering, and sat next to her was a Tibetan woman wearing the traditional chuba and headscarf wrapped round her face to keep out the cold. It was a perfect visual representation of the two communities living and working together, but I was cycling and didn’t have my phone camera handy to get the photo.
As the road approached more farm settlements I was also worried about dogs. Experience from my previous trips to Tibetan areas had taught me to be very wary of the mastiffs that were widely kept and used as guard dogs by Tibetan farmers. They looked like longer haired rottweilers and they could be aggressively territorial. They were often kept on a chain to guard the entrance to a house or farm, from where they would launch themselves out in a sudden frenzy of barking as you passed by. The more scary ones would roam around the property, sometimes in packs, and chase down any intruders.
I could hear barking ahead of me as I approached one group of farms, and sure enough, a snarling dog leapt out at me, straining against its chain. I upped the power and pedalled away as quickly as I could, now hypervigilant for other possible dog ambush locations. About a kilometre further on I approached a road junction at the edge of a small settlement. My heart sank when I saw three black and brown dogs sitting on the road there. I stopped to pick up some rocks and then slowly pushed the bike towards them - they did not react, and I was able to enter the village. At its centre was a large Tibetan Buddhist monastery, painted yellow and with a golden roof. There was nobody around as I propped up my bike and went through the gateway to have a look.
From across the empty courtyard I could hear the sound of chanting from the main hall. I crossed over to take a look and found a caretaker on the steps who gestured in sign language that I should remove my shoes before going any further. I did so and peered through the doorway into the dark interior.
The ornately decorated prayer hall was dominated by a golden Buddha statue, beneath which two rows of monks sat opposite each other on the wooden floor, chanting prayers under the supervision of two more senior lamas. They paid no attention to me as they swayed back and forth, ringing bells and repeating the mantras from the prayer books in their laps. On the altar beneath the Buddha was a photo of the 10th Panchen Lama - the one who had been born in the town of Xunhua that I had passed through just days earlier.
After observing this scene for a few minutes I returned to my bike and resumed my ride, passing more groups of dogs sitting around on the road. Two of them jumped up and began to chase me, but backed off and ran away when I dismounted and held up a rock as if to throw it. Fearing further such dog encounters, I picked up a long stick from nearby bushes and tucked it into the pannier straps for quick access.
The road now led towards the grassy hills beyond the village, running across deep gullies with sections that were so steep I had to get off the bike and push. As the broken concrete trail continued over rough paddocks I began to doubt if this was the ‘main road’ and stopped to check my map. It showed an abrupt 90 degree turn ahead, which thankfully proved to be a more substantial highway with more regular traffic. This road was not so steep and a Tibetan sheep herder waved as I passed by further along the way. I stopped to confirm that this was the right road to Qinghai Lake, and he nodded, giving me a detailed description of the route. Speaking in clear Mandarin, he asked me my age and praised my good health when it turned out we were almost the same age.
I continued up to a pass that opened out into a grassy plateau of sheep grazing country with a few scattered huts belonging to Tibetan herders. With the stiff breeze and rainy overcast low cloud weather it reminded me of the Yorkshire moors. I threw away my stick and pedalled on past a small reservoir, across the plateau until I eventually reached the Luohe (洛合) pass that led down to the plain on the other side of the hills.
The sign told me it was 3740 metres, but I no longer felt any altitude sickness symptoms. Just below the pass there was a cairn of stones bearing Tibetan inscriptions, intertwined with colourful scarves and some orange-like fruit offerings to the gods. Qinghai Lake now came into view, its grey waters stretching to the horizon like a sea.
The road descended steeply, with a couple of viewing points further down that were crowded with sightseers. When I stopped to take my own photos I was almost mobbed as the visitors asked me where I’d cycled from and requested group photos with me. One of them even filmed with his drone buzzing overhead as I resumed cycling down the road, amid flocks of sheep and goats.
From the lowest viewing point I could see the road led to a lakeside collection of concrete buildings that looked like hotels and shops, with a pier jutting out into the water. When I reached this ‘tourist centre’’ it was like a seaside resort, thronging with visitors arriving by coach and car. The ‘front’ was a parade of restaurants and gift shops, outside each of which was a tout waving a menu and urging passers by to come inside to try the local fish or Tibetan lamb hotpot.
The shops also offered local specialities such as yak milk yoghurt and dried yak beef jerky. At the rear was a motley collection of guesthouses, bars and travel agencies again with touts outside chanting their own mantra of “chifan, zhusu” (吃饭, 住宿, “something to eat, somewhere to stay”). The whole place had a tawdry carnival atmosphere, with fairground rides and pushy local Tibetans offering rides on horses, or the opportunity to dress up in Tibetan garb and pose for photos with yaks.
Some of the hotels were recently built Tibetan-style boutique homestays with prices that were way beyond my maximum budget of 250 yuan per night. When I inquired at the more regular places they all brusquely told me they didn’t accept foreigners. After a few such rejections I sought hotel advice from the ‘tourist police’ cops who were touring the village in electric buggies. They told me there were international hotels in the next village about five kilometres down the road.
A new four-lane dual carriageway ran along the edge of the lake and It had a cycle lane that I followed to the next turnoff where I found a much more low-key street of hotels. The Pastoral Inn looked nice and the manager greeted me enthusiastically when he saw my bike, telling me that he was a keen cyclist and had once cycled all the way to Lhasa and back from his hometown of Shandong.
The weather on the plain was much better than in the hills: by mid afternoon I was enjoying sunny skies with distant banks clouds hanging over the low hills surrounding the lake. Its waters now reflected the clear skies and in some directions the vistas of deep blue water, green grass, white clouds and blue skies had a perfect simplicity and could have been a computer screensaver.
The grassy shores of the lake looked inviting but access was blocked by barbed wire fencing with ‘no parking’ signs telling visitors to use the official scenic viewing areas back at the tourist village some five kilometres away. I found a track behind a farmhouse and parked my bike there to walk across marshy grass down a small area of beach along the lake shore. It was an idyllic setting, with birdlife in abundance. I wished I'd brought my binoculars to better identify the many types of ducks and terns that I could see at a distance. The water was pristine and clear, and I could imagine it being a great place for kayaking and fishing.
Back at the road, I noticed there were a few cyclists coming along the cycle lane. Some had touring bikes but others were riding on the hire bikes that I had seen advertised for rent outside hotels and travel agencies - the 360 kilometre circuit of the lake was a popular five day itinerary. I thought about doing the circuit myself until I saw on the map that its route passed through the ‘Atomic City’ (中国原子城) at Xihai (西海) where China’s first nuclear weapons development had been based. It was still off limits to foreigners.
At the hotel, the manager suggested that I visit the famous Chaka Salt Lake, which was about halfway round the lake. He pointed out the route on a large map of the region that he had on the wall of the reception. I was more drawn to another route that I saw on the map: a series of roads highlighted in red that led down from Qinghai to the First Bend of the Yellow River in Gansu. This would take me to the apex of the backward loop in the river where it changes direction on the border with Sichuan province.
Going direct to this ‘first bend’ would mean bypassing sections of the Yellow River loop in Qinghai - but I reasoned that most of them were inaccessible by bike anyway. Apart from a crossing of the Yellow River between Xinghai and Tongde, there was no way to follow the river through the 100 kilometres of canyon country in the Tsiha (Cihaxia) Gorge in Qinghai until reaching a place called Ragya (Lajia, 拉加). I had previously visited Ragya by bus in 2012 and seen the remote nature of the Yellow River there: a dirt road led further upriver through remote mountains but there were no towns and certainly no hotels until a place called Maqu (玛曲), which was near the ‘First Bend’.
When I mulled my options over a local Qinghai Lake craft beer, I decided to go the direct route to the First Bend, with my goal being a town called Tangke where there was a “First Bend Scenic Area.”
 |
| (Looking south): Plan A to get to First Bend via Ragya (red) vs Plan B (blue) |
第21章 共和警察遣我去青海湖
电动自行车相比机动车有个优势：我能在"封闭"道路上骑行，比如从龙羊峡到共和的这条路。退房时酒店经理告诉我，由于施工需要绕行30公里才能进入最近城镇，但我决定碰碰运气，结果赌赢了。
这条路沿着龙羊峡水库岸线延伸，穿越了我此行所见最荒凉的砂岩山与"沙漠"地带。在"龙羊峡景区"正式入口处设有路障，但当我对保安说要去共和时，他二话不说挥手放行。
新建的景观公路穿行在棕褐色砂岩山开凿出的狭窄切口间。某些路段平整的岩壁近乎垂直，在我头顶延伸数十米；另一些区域道路则绕山丘与沙质河床大幅迂回。唯一不变的是棕黄环境中几乎寸草不生。
由于缺乏车辆，这段骑行诡异而孤独。当终于抵达共和郊外较肥沃的居住区时，我不禁松了口气。这里仍属龙羊峡度假带，随处可见民宿和"垂钓区"指示牌。
也是在此处，我首次见到众多藏式"露营基地"。与西方不同，这里无需自备装备——草地上已搭建好各式帐篷：藏式白帐、钟形帐、吊床防雨布，甚至蒙古包式圆形帐篷。所有营地似乎都配备现成的床铺、炉具和烧烤设施。
相比龙羊峡与坎布拉的偏僻，共和俨然是座大城市。作为交通枢纽，这里汇集了从西宁辐射至600公里外玉树（靠近西藏边界），以及通往青海广阔地域直至新疆的公路。尽管藏族聚居区略显粗犷，但城内精致的商铺咖啡馆与高原湖畔的偏远位置形成奇特反差。
沿封闭道路骑行使我正午就抵达城区。因入住酒店为时过早，我毫无愧色地溜进一家肯德基。当吮吸着咖啡狼吞虎咽香辣鸡腿堡时，两位藏族女店员投来好奇的目光。
研究次日路线时发现，从共和向南沿主干道穿越草原和小型山脉，再转向兴海镇有130公里路程。这意味着电池电量无法支撑单日抵达。沿途仅70公里处有个叫河卡的卡车停靠点，中文地图app显示那里只有几家餐馆和评论照片中脏乱破旧的招待所——但这已是我除路边露营外唯一选择。
回到街上时已开始下雨，我注意到共和寒意刺骨。海拔3200米的此地，从青海高原刮来的风似乎能穿透身体。入住酒店时还发现所有标识都是汉藏双语，连电梯按钮也不例外。
下午余暇用于自行车保养和采购次日长途物资——我必须假设路上没有商店。
次日破晓即启程。正值夏至前后，清晨7:30我便哆嗦着驶离共和，既因对前路的忧虑，也因凛冽寒气。尽管阴云密布，我仍期待能看到沿线大型太阳能项目的壮观景象。这里不仅有号称全球最大的光伏发电容量，还有科幻电影般的"熔盐光塔"——数千面镜子组成的阵列将阳光聚焦于塔顶发光的光热装置。
驶出城郊后，眼前呈现碎石遍布的荒原景象，羊群在风中啃食草皮。侧风猛烈，偶有阵雨飘落。前几公里上坡路后，普通公路与新建高速交汇于收费站检查点。就在这里，我遇到了麻烦。
当我在建筑背风处查看地图时，注意到两名交警正拦车检查证件。当我重新骑上车试图绕开他们时，年轻那位却跨步抬手拦住了我。
"你好。等一下..."然后礼貌询问我的去向。
心下一沉。不确定这是例行公事还是如许多中国人那样单纯想聊天。
我告知正骑车前往兴海，随即脱口而出追寻黄河的故事。年长警官也凑过来，两人都称赞我身体好，能进行如此艰苦的旅行。他们问出了旅途中最常被问的问题：来自哪里、多大年纪、中文为何这么好？
看似满意我的回答后，年长警官开始告诫前路情况："今天天气条件很差。在高海拔公路骑行很不安全。山上有积雪，侧风强到能把你吹倒！"
我提及去河卡过夜的备用计划。老警察随即告知当地招待所不接待外国人，独自在此区域迷路风险太大。他再次让我"等一下"，走到旁边打电话。
几分钟后回来宣布："去兴海的路暂时封闭。你应该回共和休息。可以去青海湖和茶卡盐湖，那些地方非常美。"
他们态度友善但坚决。显然我无法过关。"这样更安全，"年轻警察不断重复。
我不情愿地调转车头，朝共和方向骑去。
[后来我了解到封路的另一个可能原因。就在一个月前的2025年4月，青海省政府宣布将在兴海和同德之间的茨哈峡修建一座新水坝。这引起了流亡藏人的强烈抗议，他们抗议说，这将导致该地区20个村庄的农民搬迁。或许是出于对这个项目的敏感性，警方才封锁了我前往兴海和同德之间通往水坝工地的路线。]
回程路上，我仔细权衡着选择。除了经龙羊峡山区返回贵德，这是通往兴海的唯一道路。我可以在共和再休整一天，明日重走此路；或者听从警察建议去青海湖休憩。那里仅40公里之遥——鉴于天色尚早，我决定选择后者。
回到共和后，我先停下吃了顿迟来的包子早餐，随后启程前往青海湖。地图显示有两条路线：一条需翻越山丘的直达小路，另一条是100公里的主干道。我选择了捷径。
从共和向北骑行，穿过政府大楼林立的"新城"区。刚越过高速公路，眼前骤然呈现田园风光。这里比平原地区更避风，果园与蜂箱星罗棋布。
道路相当简陋，几乎只是农用便道。当骑行经过耕地时，我遭遇了那种令人懊恼的"错失拍摄良机"时刻：迎面驶来拖拉机上，坐着戴传统黑色头巾的穆斯林老妇，身旁是裹着防寒头巾、身着楚巴藏袍的藏族妇女。这完美展现了两个族群共同劳作的画面，却因正在骑行且手机不在手边而未能捕捉。
随着道路接近更多农庄，我开始担忧犬只问题。此前藏区旅行的经验让我对藏民广泛饲养的獒犬保持高度警惕。这些长毛罗威纳般的大型犬极具领地意识，常被铁链拴在农舍入口，会在路人经过时突然狂吠扑咬。更可怕的是那些成群游荡的护卫犬，会追逐任何入侵者。
临近某片农庄时，犬吠声如期而至。果然有条龇牙的恶犬拽着铁链扑来。我立即加大电力全速逃离，此后全程警惕可能遭遇的伏击。前行约一公里后，在小聚落边缘的岔路口，三条黑棕色野狗蹲坐路中的景象让我心头一紧。我停车捡起石块，推车缓慢靠近——它们毫无反应，使我得以安全进村。
村中心有座金顶黄墙的藏传佛教寺院。院内空无一人，我将自行车支在门口入内参观。穿过空旷庭院时，主殿传来诵经声。走近后发现台阶上的管理员用手势示意脱鞋。我照做后从门廊窥视昏暗的殿内：鎏金佛像下，两排僧人相对而坐，在高级喇嘛监督下摇晃着身体摇铃诵经。佛坛上供奉着十世班禅像——正是数日前我途经的循化县出生的那位。
静观数分钟后继续骑行，途中又遇多群路犬。其中两条追咬时，我下车作势投石将其吓退。为防不测，我从灌木丛折了根长棍插在驮包绑带间便于取用。
道路延伸向村外草山，穿越沟壑纵横的陡坡，部分路段不得不推车前行。当混凝土便道在崎岖牧场间愈发破碎时，我开始怀疑是否误入歧途。地图显示前方有直角转弯，所幸拐弯后竟是条车流正常的正规公路。
坡度渐缓，沿途放牧的藏民向我挥手。停车问路确认青海湖方向时，这位与我同龄的牧羊人用清晰普通话详细指路，并对我这个年纪仍能长途骑行表示赞叹。
翻越山口后，眼前展开一片牧羊草场，零星散布着藏民毡房。在阴云低垂的寒风中，这景象恍若约克郡荒原。丢弃木棍继续骑行，经过小水库后终于抵达海拔3740米的洛合垭口。经幡缠绕的玛尼堆上供奉着柑橘类果实，山脚下灰蒙蒙的青海湖如海洋般延伸至天际。
下坡途中的观景台挤满游客。当我停车拍照时，几乎被要求合影的人群包围。重启行程时，甚至有无人机在羊群上空跟拍我骑行的画面。
山脚处的"旅游中心"宛如海滨度假村，大巴与小轿车川流不息。临街排列的餐馆和特产店外，揽客者挥舞菜单吆喝着青海湟鱼和藏式火锅。后方聚集着参差不齐的旅舍与旅行社，同样回荡着"吃饭住宿"的招徕声。整个区域弥漫着廉价嘉年华氛围，包括付费骑牦牛、穿藏袍拍照等游乐项目。
部分新修的藏式精品民宿远超250元预算。普通旅店则一律粗暴拒绝外宾。多次碰壁后，我向巡逻的"旅游警察"求助，被告知五公里外的下个村落有涉外酒店。
沿湖滨四车道公路的自行车专用道骑行至下一路口，终于找到低调的住宿区。"牧歌客栈"经理是位山东籍骑行爱好者，曾骑车往返拉萨。他热情接待了我，分享了许多骑行经验。
湖滨平原的天气远比山区明朗：午后晴空下，湖水倒映着环绕的矮丘与云团。蓝水、绿草、白云与青天的组合纯净如电脑壁纸。虽然诱人的湖岸被铁丝网封锁，我还是从农舍后找到小径，得以漫步人迹罕至的湿地浅滩。这里水清见底，鸟类繁多，本是划艇垂钓的理想场所，可惜未带望远镜难以细观远处的鸭群与燕鸥。
回到路上，我注意到有几个骑自行车的人沿着自行车道过来。有些人骑着旅行自行车，但也有些人骑着我在酒店和旅行社外看到的出租自行车——360公里的环湖骑行路线是一个很受欢迎的五日游路线。我本来想自己也去走一圈，直到我在地图上看到路线经过西海的“中国原子城”，那里曾是中国第一个核武器研发基地。那里当时对外国人是禁区。
在酒店里，经理建议我去参观著名的茶卡盐湖，那里大约位于青海湖的半程处。他指着挂在接待处墙上的一幅大地图给我指出了路线。而我却被地图上另一条用红色标注的路线所吸引：这条从青海向南延伸的道路，将通往甘肃境内的黄河第一弯。那里是黄河在川甘交界处转向形成的回环顶端。
选择直抵"第一弯"意味着我将错过青海境内部分黄河回环路段——但我判断那些路段大多无法骑行。除了在兴海与同德之间有一处黄河渡口外，在青海境内的茨哈峡（Cihaxia）峡谷长达100公里的河段中，直到一个叫拉加的地方，根本没有可供自行车沿河而行的道路。2012年我曾乘巴士到过拉加，见识过那里黄河的原始风貌：一条土路沿着人迹罕至的山区继续向上游延伸，但在抵达靠近"第一弯"的玛曲县之前，沿途既无城镇，更无旅店。
喝着当地酿造的青海湖精酿啤酒权衡再三后，我决定选择直达第一弯的路线，目标定在一个叫唐克的镇子，那里设有"黄河第一弯风景区"。
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