Travel | Ride or Die: China’s Bikers

Freewheeling motorbike cultures in the Middle Kingdom

城乡摩托车文化巡礼：身份的象征、炫耀的资本，也是自主或被动选择的生活方式

Photos by Mads Vesterager Nielsen

I can hear the beastly engines revving from hundreds of meters away. Up close, the machines gleam in the autumn sun. Benellis, chrome Harley Davidsons, dark-tinted BMWs, and Shinerays are all lined up for display on the deck of an abandoned freight train platform in Beijing’s 798 Art District.

“I come here every weekend to meet the others—this is a lifestyle,” a motorbiker surnamed Wang says through the gasoline fumes that hover between men and machines in the square. He is sitting on a concrete boulder, facing a dozen or so motorbikes that are parked in front of the Ace Cafe, a world-renowned British franchise (at least for motorbike enthusiasts) that is the go-to hangout spot for Beijing’s bikers. This is both because of its decor and because “dog riders,” as seasoned riders are called in biker lingo, get 10 percent off on any order when they arrive on a motorbike.

I have seen many “dog riders” out on the roads over the past eight years on my own motorbike adventures around China. They wear full-body black leather suits and colorful helmets, giving thumbs ups as they drive by and causing heads to turn. I have also seen many other uses of the motorbike in China—as a tool, a source of pride, and even as a companion.

Through 30,000 kilometers of motorbike journeys, and interactions with riders of all ages and classes, three motorbike cultures have stood out to me for their embrace of the bike as more than just a mode of transportation: among the Tibetan herders of Sichuan, in the coal country of Guizhou, and in the gleaming capital of Beijing.

Although the first motorbikes arrived in China in the early 1900s, homegrown production didn’t commence until 1951 when the People’s Liberation Army started making military motorbikes based on the design of the German K500 for the Korean War. Mass production only began in Chongqing, Guangdong province, and Zhejiang province after market reforms kicked in during the late 1980s and early 90s. These three manufacturing hubs churned out millions of cheap two-wheeled, gasoline-engine vehicles that quickly became a household item all over China.

Tibetan riders adorn their motorbikes with protective symbols and talismans

One of the most iconic vehicles of this era is the Honda Dayang, which started production in 1992 through a joint-venture between Japan’s Honda Motors and the Guangzhou Motors Group. This was one of the most popular motorbikes in history: It has been produced in the tens of millions. It owes its popularity mainly to two qualities—it is cheap and reliable.

From 1992 onward, the Chinese domestic market grew to 4 million motorbikes, and reached nearly 20 million in the 2000s. As the Chinese government enacted restrictions to address air pollution and safety issues caused by the large number of motorbikes in urban areas, commuters switched to electric scooters, which have much more relaxed licensing requirements and looser regulations, causing the motorbike market to cool. Today there is one motorbike for every five households in China.

Cheap motorbikes have turned into a symbol of backwardness. In cities such as Beijing and Shanghai, they have almost entirely disappeared under the joint forces of regulation and economic development. Only the extremes remain: The secondhand tiddlers which rural riders commandeer on remote or difficult landscapes, or the vastly more expensive imports that are parked outside the Ace Cafe. For work or necessity, leisure or identity, the wheels are continuing to turn in China’s unique motorbike cultures.

Herding on two wheels

Far from the expensive motorbikes of the capital, at altitudes ranging from 3,000 to 3,500 meters, Tibetan herders dart out over the highland steppes on red Lisans, Hondas, and Suzukis. It is time for the yearly administering of worm cures for the oxen, and I have arrived just in time to participate. We assemble by the side of a dirt road next to three motorbikes.

“I prefer this one,” a young herder named Gdong Dkar says, pointing at a bright red Honda model called Dayang, or Great Sun, “but I also drive cars and tractors.” Not bad for a 14-year-old.

Here in Hongyuan county, in the Aba region of northern Sichuan province, herders put their driving skills to good use out on the highland terrain. The motorbike has virtually replaced the horse as the favored mode of transportation, because it works well in off-road conditions and requires less maintenance than a live animal. Some herders have even fitted their bikes with the Kalachakra symbol, prayer flags, swastikas, and even golden plastic prayer mills, making small mobile shrines that protect them on their way.

Rural students often move to town for education, leaving small schools in more remote villages

In the distance, I can see the yaks, looking no bigger than black dots on the horizon. “You drive to the right, I will take the left,” Kelsang, the lead herder, orders like a field commander directing divisions to partake in a grand pincer maneuver. He turns to me and a female herder and instructs, “When [the yaks] come this way, you need to wave your arms, yell, and make yourselves as big as you can—do not let them get past you.”

To our left is a scantily built pen made from bricks, stones, and green tarp. The idea is to lure the reluctant yak herd into the pen, where they can be given the worm cure. The young Tibetan herders mount the motorbikes and race out over the steppes. From my position I see them getting in formation, speeding toward the herd before splitting up—two going around each side of the herd, and the last motorbiker ready to pick up any strays.

“Uuuuuoooo!” I can hear the loud cries of the herders, before the ground starts shaking under my feet as about 50 yaks come thundering straight toward us. The female herder throws her arms in the air and starts walking steadily toward the incoming oxen, each of them weighing 250 to 500 kilograms...

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