Returning to Nanjing on Saturday evening, I spotted a group of cycling enthusiasts in the waiting hall. Dressed in professional gear—shorts, jerseys, and cycling shoes—they carried their bikes by the front wheels, chatting and laughing as they moved in a lively procession.
After boarding the high-speed train, I struck up a conversation with one of the women. It turned out they had cycled from Nanjing to Zhenjiang and were now taking the train back. This was just a weekend excursion for them; they'd also traveled to Shandong, Henan, Zhejiang, and Anhui.
Seeing her sun-kissed cheeks and slightly muscular thighs, I felt envious and exclaimed, "Wow, you guys are amazing! I'm so jealous!" She smiled and said, "What's so hard about it? You could do it too!"
I replied, "I don't have a bike."
She pointed to a tall boy beside her and said,Look at him, Dawei. He can't afford a bike either, so he borrows others'."
"Huh? That works?" I asked.
She laughed. "Why wouldn't it? Not everyone joins every ride, so he borrows bikes from those who skip. A good bike costs thousands, and he's still a college student saving up secretly!"
I said, "I haven't had professional training. I won't be able to keep up!"
She replied, "When we set off today, there were over twenty of us. A few took the bus back partway. About a dozen made it all the way to Zhenjiang by bike, and a few more rode back to Nanjing. Those who felt they didn't have the stamina took the train. Road transport is so convenient now. If you can't keep going, just hop on a bus back."
Hearing her say that, I truly couldn't think of anything that wasn't possible.
I have a friend from a rural village in northern Jiangsu who drifted to Beijing. He earns 6,000 yuan a month, reads e-books on the subway every morning, eats instant noodles while playing Dota at night, and will be 30 in four years. He often complains to me, always ending with the same line: "Fuck this shitty life in Beijing—I'd be better off back in the countryside.At least back home in our two-story Western-style house, we eat fresh food and live comfortably!"
I'd say, "Then go back!"
He'd reply, "Like hell I will!"
I'd counter, "Why not? Just hand in your resignation tomorrow, buy a train ticket, and you're back!"
But he'd always say, "Cut it out, stop messing around."
Was I kidding? Quitting a job, buying a train ticket—does that sound like a joke?
My college roommate once saw a photo in a travel magazine: a female artist sketching portraits for passersby at a Parisian sidewalk café. She loved it so much she cut it out and pinned it above her bed, telling us daily she'd go to France to be an artist.
Of course we all laughed at her, saying she was dreaming. We kept reminding her of facts she knew better than us: Your parents are working-class; going abroad costs a fortune;you have no formal art training; French is incredibly difficult—you can't even pronounce the uvular consonant; even if you made it to France, there's no guarantee you could stay, and you might end up coming back anyway... She ignored us. While we were all swamped preparing our graduation projects, she enrolled in French classes.
One time, we pulled an all-nighter in the library—I was writing storyboards, she was poring over her French textbook.My eyes were glazed over from exhaustion when I looked up and saw her across the table: a huge backpack—the kind only high schoolers use—to her left, an electronic dictionary she'd scored at a school flea market to her right, and two or three dictionaries and French textbooks piled before her. She was muttering to herself while scribbling notes, her brow slightly furrowed, hunched over her work.In that moment, I was utterly moved by her determination, convinced she would succeed.
Last year she rushed back for my wedding and gave me a small sketch she'd drawn. During the reception, we stepped outside for some air. Her long, permed hair cascaded past her waist, and between her bright red-painted fingers was a long ladies' cigarette. She bore no resemblance to the bookworm girl buried in dictionaries all those years ago.
She said, "Remember that time we pulled an all-nighter in the library? I thought you looked so handsome sketching storyboards. I almost wavered—considered staying to join your film crew in China, ha! Thank goodness..."I finished her sentence: "Thank goodness you stuck to your guns!"
She told me she was now a photographer, occasionally sketching portraits in the square. She said Europe's economy was sluggish and she was planning to return home. She said she still hadn't mastered the French trill. She said, "Look at all of you married up, and I'm still drifting around..." Before she left, we both cried. She said she really wanted to come back—just as we'd predicted all those years ago.
But I know she won't truly return. Because if she really wanted to, she'd be searching online for the cheapest flight right now—just like back then when she borrowed money from every roommate without hesitation to enroll in French classes. Her life path diverged from ours for good.
We constantly complain about life's dullness while envying those who take action. Each day passes in a haze, our greatest effort being whether to have tomato scrambled eggs over rice or stir-fried rice noodles for lunch. Then, late at night when all is quiet, we ask ourselves, filled with regret so deep we wish we could die on the spot, vowing fiercely that tomorrow we will absolutely do this or that.
I think whenever we say "I want to do this or that," we don't truly mean it—we just want others to think we do. Those who genuinely want something never say a word. They just turn around, borrow a bike, and ride off.