A Loopy Lap Around Taiwan
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MAP
PHOTOS
VOICEOVER
FLIP-BOOK
Prelude
Taiwan was
never meant to be more than a curious detour—a small, bicycle‑shaped scribble
on a map while waiting for the next bureaucratic miracle to occur. Yet the
moment I arrived, bleary‑eyed at two in the morning and humming Gangnam
Style against my will, the island began its slow, determined campaign to
charm me. It wooed me with steaming night‑market soups, temples tucked into
alleys like forgotten treasures, and landscapes so dramatic they looked
suspiciously Photoshopped.
I came
expecting a quick ride. Taiwan, however, had other plans. It handed me
mountains, marble gorges, hot springs, headwinds of biblical proportions, and
people so kind they routinely stopped to offer water, coffee, or unsolicited
life advice. Somewhere between the tunnels of Taroko and the clackety‑clack of
moon blocks in Beigang, I realised I wasn’t merely cycling around an island—I
was being gently adopted by it.
The 3 AM Arrival in Taipei
Touching
down in Taipei at the ungodly hour of two o’clock in the morning, I discovered
that the airport was one of those rare places where everything works exactly as
it should. My luggage arrived, my bicycle arrived, and—miracle of miracles—the
whole shebang came out on the belt, bike and all.
Unfortunately,
the city was still asleep, and so was the hostel, which didn't open until nine.
The bike shop wouldn’t open until ten. This left me with seven hours to kill
and a set of airport couches that were surprisingly soft—so soft, in fact, that
I slept like a baby who had just discovered central heating.
By daylight,
I ventured into Taipei humming Gangnam Style, though thankfully without
performing the dance. Even at dawn, Taipei was already awake, caffeinated, and
speeding in every direction at once. Highways, flyovers, trains, cars, neon
signs—it was like someone had taken capitalism, shaken it vigorously, and
poured it over lush green hills.
Unable to
read a single character, I felt as out of place as stinky tofu at a barbecue
back home. A fair assessment, considering stinky tofu smells like
something that escaped from a chemistry lab.
Taipei: Shopping, Temples & Getting Lost
Artistically
The next
morning, I set off in search of a new Ortlieb handlebar bag and warmer clothing.
Taipei, I was convinced, was the sort of place where if I couldn’t find what I
were looking for, it simply didn’t exist anywhere on Earth.
I spent the
day wandering narrow lanes, markets, and alleys that seemed designed
specifically to confuse foreigners. I became lost repeatedly, only to
reappear—magically—exactly where I started. Taipei’s streets are like a maze
designed by someone who hates straight lines.
Between
malls and noodle stalls, temples appeared like serene time capsules. Incense drifted
through the air, koi swam in ponds with the smugness of creatures who know
they’re sacred, and devotees chanted in a way that made the whole city feel
momentarily peaceful.
Later I
moved to Ximending, Taipei’s ultra‑consumerist heart, where I can get anything
pierced except, possibly, your soul. It was Ing, loud, neon‑lit, and
delightful.
By evening,
I wandered into the night market, where the food was—as always in
Taiwan—intriguing, tasty, and plentiful. If Taiwan ever runs out of
electricity, they could power the country on night‑market enthusiasm alone.
The Scenic Freeze‑your‑Face Off Route to Shimen (50
km)
The weather
was bitterly cold, but the bicycle path out of Taipei was gorgeous. It followed
the Tamsui River past colourful temples and weekend cyclists who were all
extraordinarily friendly. One of them, William, even bought me coffee before
heading home. I suspect Taiwanese cyclists are genetically engineered to be
nice.
Once outside
the city, the icy wind hit me with the enthusiasm of a Labrador greeting its
owner—except far less pleasant. Drizzle joined the party, and together they
made cycling feel like a punishment for a crime I didn’t remember committing.
Shimen
offered both food and a room with a thick duvet, which immediately made it the
best place on Earth.
On to Keelung:
Drizzle, Dog Temples & A Giant Rubber Duck (40 km)
The next
day’s weather was, once again, miserable. Drizzle. Wind. Cold. Repeat. Taiwan’s
northern coast in winter is essentially a long, scenic refrigerator.
The route passed more temples, including the
wonderfully eccentric 18 Lords Temple, also known as the Dog Temple. Legend
has it a man went out fishing but never returned. His loyal dog pined for days
until he could no longer bear the suffering, and it’s believed he leapt into
the foaming ocean, drowning himself. People were
so astounded by this act of loyalty; they built a temple in honour of the dog.
It’s the only temple I know of dedicated to a dog who died of heartbreak.
Taiwan does sincerity extremely well.
Keelung,
however, stole the show with a gigantic yellow rubber duck floating in the
harbour. Thousands of people braved the cold to stare at it. There were duck T‑shirts,
duck hats, duck umbrellas, and even duck‑themed food. Humanity is a strange and
wonderful species.
Keelung’s
night market was legendary, and rightly so. The crowds were so dense I could
barely move, but the steaming pots of soup made it all worthwhile.
Keelung to Jiaoxi:
Gold Hills, Sea Cliffs & Hot Springs (85 km)
The weather
remained wet and cold as I pedalled past the old mining towns of Jiufen and
Jingush, where people still whispered: “there’s gold in them hills.” Taiwan is
a delightful contradiction—modern yet traditional, hectic yet organised, and
always scenic.
Bitou Cape
offered dramatic sea‑eroded cliffs and a bicycle path that hugged the coastline
so perfectly I briefly considered nominating Taiwan as the world’s best cycle‑touring
destination.
Jiaoxi,
famous for its hot springs, was the perfect place to stop. My hotel room had
natural hot spring water piped directly into the bathtub, and I soaked until I
resembled a contented raisin. The town’s vegetables are grown in hot spring
water, which may explain why I ate twice.
Jiaox1 to Suao: Folk
Arts & A Quiet New Year (40 km)
My first
stop was the National Centre of Traditional Arts, a massive 24‑hectare complex
that somehow managed to be less interesting than my mother’s garden.
Not wanting
to camp alone on New Year’s Eve, I headed to the quaint town of Suao. Taiwan
doesn’t make a big fuss over the Gregorian New Year, but there were a few
fireworks—just enough to remind me that time was passing, even if the weather
hadn’t changed.
Suao to Taroko
National Park: Uphill Into the New Year (80 km)
Nothing says
“Happy New Year” quite like cycling straight up a mountain. From Suao, the road
wasted no time in climbing, and soon I was high above the coastline, looking
down at the town like a smug bird who had discovered the joys of altitude.
Fortunately,
Taiwan’s road builders are geniuses. They seem to have mastered the art of
constructing roads that go up without making you feel like you’re being
punished for past sins. The east coast was magnificent—tunnels, valleys,
cliffs, and a coastline stretching so far north and south it felt like Taiwan
was showing off.
Winter meant
early darkness, and Taroko Gorge would have to wait. I sensibly opted for a
room, food, and relaxation—three things that should always be grouped together.
Taroko Gorge: Marble, Tunnels & Swallows (40
km)
By morning,
I moved to a hostel I’d spotted the night before, as it was easier on my
wallet, and set off up Taroko Gorge without luggage, which made me feel like a
professional cyclist, or at least someone pretending convincingly.
Taroko Gorge
is one of those places that makes you question whether you’ve accidentally
wandered into a documentary narrated by David Attenborough. Sheer marble cliffs
soared 1,000 metres into the air, the Liwu River roared far below, and the road
threaded through thirty‑eight tunnels, including the famous Tunnel of Nine
Turns.
Swallows
Grotto was particularly spectacular, with tunnels carved directly into the
cliff face. I hiked to the Eternal Spring Shrine, built to honour those who
died constructing the cross‑island highway. It was peaceful, beautiful, and
slightly humbling—especially when I consider how much complaining one can do
about a mild headwind.
The gradient
was gentle, or perhaps it only felt that way because I wasn’t hauling my worldly
possessions. The scenery was so extraordinary it took most of the day to cover
just 20 kilometres.
Taroko to Shitiwan:
The Indecisive Departure (92 km)
I started
late, mainly because I couldn’t decide whether to stay another day. By the time
I finally rolled out, it was past ten, and the coastal highway was already
basking in winter sunlight.
The road
continued south, sometimes hugging the ocean, sometimes climbing the
mountainside, always offering views that made me forget my legs were attached
to my body and suffering.
Darkness
approached early, and I wasn’t sure I’d reach the campsite marked on the map.
Fortunately, Shitiwan appeared like a gift from the cycling gods. The
guesthouse had a futon bed, which made me suspect Japanese ownership—or at
least someone who had once visited Japan and thought, “Yes, this is how beds
should be.”
Shitiwan to Dulan:
Tropics, Tour Buses & Quesadillas (80 km)
This stretch
marked my final day riding along the Philippine Sea. The road squeezed between
mountains and ocean, passing tiny fishing hamlets where the Kuroshio Current
provided both livelihood and bragging rights.
I crossed
the Tropic of Cancer Monument, officially entering the tropics, which felt like
a milestone worthy of a celebratory ice cream—if only there had been a vendor.
The scenery
was so interesting I stopped constantly for photos. I hadn’t realised Taiwan
was such a popular tourist destination until I encountered a parade of tour
buses, each filled with people who looked far more rested than I did.
The coastal
highway climbed steadily to the Baci Observation Tower before plunging back
down. The Caves of the Eight Immortals—once an archaeological treasure—had been
transformed into shrines, which somewhat distracted from their historical
significance.
Dulan was
irresistible. The Dulan Café offered a Mexican theme, English breakfasts, and
quesadillas, proving Taiwan’s culinary confidence knows no borders. The old
Sugar Factory, now a bar/music studio/art gallery, cemented Dulan’s status as a
hipster hotspot. It was the perfect place to spend a day doing laundry and
updating travel logs.
Dulan to Dawu:
Uphill Water & Downhill Disappointment (95 km)
The route
between Dulan and Dawu was a delightful grab‑bag of oddities. First came “Water
Running Uphill”, where water seemed to run uphill, defying gravity and common
sense. Taiwan excels at these charmingly inexplicable attractions.
Next came
rural fishing communities, followed by hot springs that were so touristy I fled
almost immediately. The road then passed indigenous settlements with
fascinating art—far more authentic and interesting than the commercialised
springs.
The terrain
was hilly, with mountains dropping dramatically into the sea. Building a
highway here must have been an engineering nightmare. Dawu offered a convenient
guesthouse and restaurant, which was all I needed after such a delightful day.
Dawu to Linyuan:
Over the Mountains & Back to the Sea (105 km)
The route
turned inland and climbed steeply. After 10 kilometres, I could see the ocean
far below, which was both beautiful and slightly alarming. Eventually, the road
descended and re-joined the coast, heading north along the South China Sea
toward Taipei.
Reaching the
coast meant the mountains were finally behind me, shrinking in the rear‑view
mirror like a completed chore.
The road
passed Dapeng, a picturesque region with a famous bike path rumoured to be the
most expensive in the world. I assumed this was because it was built on stilts
over the water—an extravagance cyclists everywhere can appreciate.
Linyuan to Tainan:
Headwinds & History (74 km)
Cycling
through Kaohsiung took forever. The city seemed determined to test my patience,
stamina, and scooter-dodging skills.
Once I
cleared the city limits, the road got less congested but no less challenging.
The terrain was pan‑flat, but the headwind was relentless. It wasn’t pretty,
and the best strategy was to put my head down and pedal like a determined
tortoise.
Tainan,
Taiwan’s first capital and oldest city, awaited with history, tradition, and
the promise of a well‑earned rest.
Temples, Tea & Terrifying Deities
I hadn’t
planned to spend the day in Tainan, but the city had other ideas. It turned out
to be one of those places that ambushes you with charm. Temples everywhere.
Shrines everywhere. History oozing from every alley. It was impossible not to
stay.
The Confucius
Temple was first on the list, a place that radiated calm, grace, and beauty—as
any good Confucius Temple should. From there, narrow lanes led to the old city
gate and temples filled with deities who looked like they moonlighted as
nightclub bouncers.
People cast
moon blocks to determine their fate, which is far more exciting than checking your
horoscope. I stopped frequently for Taiwanese tea, giggling at the sheer
pleasure of being there, then wandered off to the next temple like a
caffeinated pilgrim.
The swastika
symbols were everywhere—intriguing, misunderstood, and historically rich. The Swastika,
literally means: ‘It is good. A reminder that symbols travel through time,
collecting meanings like lint.
Tainan to Beigang:
Headwinds & Heavenly Advice (100 km)
The wind
picked up and turned the day into a slow, soul‑sapping slog. Cycling into a
headwind is like arguing with a stubborn relative—I expend enormous energy and
get nowhere.
Wetland
reserves lined the route, but the weather was too miserable to explore. Around
16:00, the hunt for camping options failed spectacularly. A friendly local
pointed me east, and after 20 kilometres I rolled into Beigang.
Beigang’s
Chaotian Temple was alive with the clackety‑clack of moon blocks. Devotees
whispered, paused, and dropped the blocks with theatrical flair. One yin and
one yang are a yes… two yins mean the gods are mad… two yangs show the gods are
laughing. The gods told me to stay on Route 19, which seemed sensible—divine
GPS rarely fails.
Beigang to Lukang:
Following Orders (70 km)
Obediently
following Route 19 (because who ignores the gods?), I found the wind less
fierce and the scenery more pleasant. The agricultural landscape rolled by in
peaceful shades of green.
Lukang was a
delightful surprise. Once a thriving harbour town, it became a backwater after
silting up in 1895. Forgotten by the world, it preserved itself like a
historical time capsule. Narrow streets, ancient temples, traditional food,
lantern shops—it was Taiwan’s version of stepping into a sepia photograph.
Lukang to Miaoli:
Nezha & the Never‑Ending Wind (100 km)
The wind
howled like a creature with unresolved emotional issues. It was an unpleasant
day, redeemed only by meeting two Ing men circumnavigating Taiwan on foot,
dressed as Nezha, the Chinese god who killed the Dragon King’s son, committed
suicide to save his parents, and is now worshipped in over 300 temples.
Despite the
gale, I felt strong and didn’t even lose my sense of humour. Twice, locals
stopped to offer water—Taiwanese kindness never fails. Somehow, I still managed
100 kilometres, proving that stubbornness is a legitimate athletic skill.
Miaoli to Xinfeng:
Coffee, Courage & Sideways Gusts (55 km)
The wind
didn’t ease. In fact, it seemed to have eaten a power bar and returned
stronger. Gusts blew sideways, threatening to knock me off the bike. A kind
lady stopped and handed me a cup of piping hot coffee—proof that humanity is
still winning.
I pushed on,
reminding myself that nothing stays constant, not even wind. Change had to
happen, though I feared it might only happen once I left Taiwan.
Xinfeng
appeared through the drizzle, and with only 65 kilometres left to Taipei, I
wisely found a place to stay.
The Final Push (65 km)
Rain
streaked the windows, but Taipei wasn’t far. I pedalled into the city and found
a bed at Taipei Hostel. Small, simple, perfect. I stood under the hot shower
for ages, thawing out like a frozen dumpling.
The hostel’s
location near the central train station made it ideal for the bureaucratic
adventure ahead.
Taipei: Visas, Coffee Culture & New Friends
Taiwan had a
ferry to mainland China—easy. Getting a Chinese visa—less easy. With no Chinese
embassy in Taiwan, the day turned into a bureaucratic scavenger hunt, but
absolutely nothing got done, which is the unofficial motto of visa days
worldwide.
Eventually, I
found ST International Travel Service, which handled everything. They sent
passports to Hong Kong, and it took five days. No problem—I had plenty to do.
The nearby
bike shop gave my bicycle a thorough overhaul. I met travellers from
everywhere: a Dutch guy who didn’t look Dutch, a British guy who looked exactly
British, a New Zealander fresh from China, and even a rare South African.
I befriended
Borut Kocar, a Yugoslavian‑born Dutch cyclist and dance/movement therapist.
Returning to the hostel one day, I found a tiny box containing a porcelain clog
and a sweet message from him—one of those small kindnesses that make travel
magical.
Taipei
offered endless sights. Taipei 101, once the tallest building in the world,
impressed with its 660‑ton tuned mass damper—a giant steel pendulum that keeps
the building steady during typhoons and earthquakes.
I visited
the Martyrs’ Shrine, mostly to watch the guards perform their elaborate hourly
marching ceremony.
Coffee
culture was booming. Trendy cafés brewed coffee with Japanese precision—one or
two drops at a time. Watching my cup being prepared felt like witnessing a
sacred ritual.
Sunshine & Rock Formations (90 km)
With my passport
in hand, I left Taipei and cycled 90 kilometres to Keelung. The weather was
glorious—sunny with a tailwind, the cycling equivalent of winning the lottery.
The route
passed odd rock formations sculpted by aeons of wind and sea erosion. I reached
Keelung in good time and explored its famous night market.
At 16:00, I
bought my ferry ticket. The ferry sat in port, but boarding took hours—because
ferries operate on their own mysterious schedule.
The Cosco Star to Xiamen
The Cosco
Star was larger and more luxurious than expected. Cabins had six bunks, but I
had mine entirely to myself. The ship rolled wildly, so I wisely stayed put.
By 9:30 the
next morning, I arrived in Xiamen. Entry into China was uncomplicated. I
exchanged my last Taiwanese dollars, withdrew yuan, and stepped into a new
chapter with excitement.
Epilogue
By the time
I boarded the ferry to Xiamen, Taiwan had thoroughly worn me down—in the best
possible way. My legs were tired, my bicycle was cleaner than it had any right
to be, and my passport was one stamp away from retirement. I’d spent days
battling winds that seemed personally offended by my presence, and nights
discovering that Taiwanese coffee culture could turn a simple cup into a
ceremonial event.
I left with
a porcelain clog, a handful of new friends, and the smug satisfaction of having
pedalled an island that had surprised me at every turn. Taiwan had been a place
of kindness, chaos, temples, tunnels, and tailwinds that arrived only as I left.
As the ferry rolled across the strait, I couldn’t help but think: if every
detour were this good, I’d never travel in a straight line again.
