Biking Through Bagan

We received the following submission from a tourist recounting a trip to Bagan:

When I decided to rent a bicycle to explore the temples of Bagan, I had this vision of gliding effortlessly through the landscape, with ancient pagodas rising majestically in the distance, and a serene breeze gently guiding me along my path. What I didn’t anticipate was how the “path” would be a series of never-ending bumps, potholes, and loose sand traps that seemed to have it out for me and my poor bicycle.

The day started innocently enough. I rented the bike from a small stand near my guesthouse, and the man who handed me the bicycle was all smiles and assurances: “Perfect condition!” he said, waving me off as if I were about to embark on the greatest cycling adventure of my life. What he didn’t mention was that “perfect condition” was apparently measured by the standard of a bike last inspected sometime in the Ming dynasty.

Within minutes, I realized something was wrong. The dirt roads of Bagan, which I had naively imagined as being flat and packed, were more like a chaotic stretch of lunar craters. Every bump sent my handlebars jerking left or right, and I quickly found myself navigating less like a cyclist and more like a ship captain in a storm. And the dust—oh, the dust! It was like riding through a sandstorm, with particles flying up into my face at every jolt. Soon, I could feel the grit between my teeth, and I wondered if I’d end up being the first tourist to choke on Bagan’s dust.

Then there were the potholes. These weren’t just any potholes. No, these were the kinds of holes you could lose a bicycle in. At one point, I saw a group of locals watching me from a distance, amused, no doubt, at this Canadian tourist who appeared to be in constant battle with the ground. I hit a particularly deep hole, and the entire bike shuddered as if it were about to collapse. I stopped, got off, and checked the bike’s condition. Somehow, the wheels were still attached, though I swore I heard the faint groaning of the bike’s frame begging for mercy.

In an attempt to solve my dilemma, I tried different techniques. I slowed down, thinking that a gentler pace would help me navigate the bumpy roads more easily. This, of course, was a mistake. At slower speeds, the bike seemed even more unstable. The sandy patches, which had seemed benign when approached with momentum, suddenly turned into quicksand-like traps, sucking the wheels in and causing the bike to wobble violently. I nearly went over the handlebars twice before deciding that perhaps speed was my ally after all.

So, I sped up again, but this led to a new problem: overheating. Have you ever ridden a bike in the midday sun, in the middle of Myanmar, with no shade in sight? It’s like being in an oven, except the oven occasionally throws sharp rocks and loose dirt at you for added excitement. I had brought a bottle of water, but it quickly turned warm, and drinking it felt like pouring hot soup down my throat. I realized I needed a better hydration strategy—possibly an ice bath at the next temple.

My next brilliant solution was to walk the bike whenever the road looked particularly bad. This seemed like a reasonable idea at first, but it soon became clear that walking the bike was almost as difficult as riding it. The tires sank into the loose dirt, and I found myself dragging the bike through what felt like a never-ending beach. Worse, every time I tried to remount and start pedaling again, the bike would skid, and I’d have to do this awkward hopping dance to stay upright. By this point, I was no longer cycling—I was performing some kind of comedic routine that, had it been filmed, could’ve gone viral on YouTube.

To add insult to injury, I began noticing other tourists zooming past me on electric scooters. They looked so effortless, gliding over the bumps and through the sand as if they were floating on air. I, on the other hand, was drenched in sweat, covered in dust, and fighting for my life against a bike that seemed determined to throw me off at the next opportunity. I considered abandoning the bike altogether and flagging down one of the e-bike rental stations, but pride (and the fact that I’d already paid for the day) kept me going.

By the time I reached my first temple, I was too exhausted to appreciate it. I leaned the bike against a tree, sat down on a crumbling stone ledge, and drank the rest of my lukewarm water. The temples of Bagan are indeed magnificent, rising out of the landscape like ancient sentinels guarding the secrets of centuries past. But at that moment, the only secret I was concerned with was how to keep myself from passing out in the heat.

The rest of the day followed much the same pattern: ride, bump, skid, stop, curse, and repeat. By the time the sun began to set, I was a broken woman. My legs felt like jelly, my back ached, and I was pretty sure I had swallowed enough dirt to plant a small garden. But despite all of this, there was something strangely satisfying about my misadventure. Sure, the temples were awe-inspiring, but in a way, it was the struggle of getting to them that made the experience memorable.

In the end, I returned the bike to the man who had rented it to me, his smile as wide as ever. “Good ride?” he asked, clearly oblivious to the ordeal I had just survived. I nodded weakly, too tired to answer with words. He handed me a bottle of cold water, and as I sipped it, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the day. Bagan’s temples are a marvel, but the roads? They’re an adventure all on their own.