March 13, 2025 to March 15, 2025
Days K10-12: Seoul to Busan Bike Trail
After a strange eight days in Seoul: a blur of emotional whiplash, late-night parties, and a gnawing sense of being both free and directionless, I knew my time in the city had run its course. I had been floating somewhere between relief and disorientation, feeling unmoored after the chaos of my escape but still not fully grounded. Seoul had served its purpose.
It was time to move.
The Seoul to Busan bike trail had been calling to me since I first heard about it from Ray Pokai, who fittingly described it as “a vacation from cycle touring.” That paradox made perfect sense. There was 600 kilometers of uninterrupted bike path stretching the entire length of South Korea. No highways to battle, no logistics nightmare, just a clean path winding through the country’s heart. It was everything a cyclist could ask for.
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The ride began on the north bank of the Han River, gliding east out of Seoul on a dedicated bike path with no cars, no stoplights, no stress. Just me and the track with a bunch of other riders and people out walking to enjoy this beautiful spring day with unseasonably good weather. It was that simple. No spaghetti of highway overpasses to untangle or any snarling traffic. Just the rhythm of the pedals and the reassurance that I was on the right track.
Or so I thought. The first hiccup came sooner than expected: a sudden dead-end with barricades and Korean warning signs I couldn’t read. Google Maps was failing me completely, and I hadn’t yet figured out that Kakao Maps — South Korea’s preferred navigation app — was the key. But I was still under the impression that the entire Seoul-to-Busan route was one seamless bike highway. It wasn't.
After fumbling through some side streets, I reconnected with what looked like the trail until I realized I was heading north, straight into stiff headwinds. I was literally pedaling toward North Korea.
So much for smooth sailing.
There was, however, a small bench with a sign above it reading Healing Zone. For a brief moment, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, this was where I was supposed to be. So I stopped, sat down, and let the wind settle. After catching my breath, I reversed course and made my way back the way I came. Not long after, I passed under an overpass and was greeted by a full-blown Korean band belting out tunes with full energy. OK then. A concert in the middle of nowhere. Why not?
Eventually I was spat out onto city streets yet again, but this time I managed to locate the actual trail, the real path south. From there, things began to click. The riding became smooth and mostly uninterrupted. The further I went, the more the city peeled away. The rolling countryside then honestly gave Thailand a serious run for its money.
Coffee stands were scattered everywhere like little oases, each offering a moment to pause, recharge, and simply exist. At one point I stopped at a public washroom and noticed something surreal: soft classical music playing gently from the speakers inside. That’s when it hit me. I broke down. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But the emotion swelled quietly and then poured out. The tension of the past weeks, the chaos of the run, the mental fog, it all cracked open in that oddly serene bathroom. And then, just as quickly as it came, it passed. I washed my face, stepped back outside into the sun, and kept riding.
The chains on the new Montague bike had been grinding and crumping the entire time. They were clearly in need of oil. I hadn’t found any decent bike shops in Seoul, so I just let it slide. But luck, for once, was on my side: right along the trail were dedicated bike repair stations. Of course they were. South Korea’s infrastructure for cyclists is second to none.
I called into a shop and the guy quickly diagnosed the issue. He didn't just oil the chain, he did a full tune-up: adjusted the derailleur, realigned the wheels, and checked the tire pressure. All for just 10,000 won. An absolute steal. I thanked him and hit the trail again, this time riding smooth and strong, like I actually belonged out here.
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A bit later I stopped for a coffee because in Korea, even the most remote countryside seems to have these places. I then pulled up my phone to scout for a place to stay. My app showed the town of Yangpyeong not too far ahead with a hotel that looked decent enough. I booked it. As the sun dipped below the mountains, I found a cozy little spot for dinner. A steaming bowl of Korean noodles hit the spot, and the couple running the place were warm and generous despite the language gap. Nourished and content, I kept on riding uphill to the hotel.
That’s when things got interesting.
Turns out, I had accidentally booked a love hotel. What did I know? The manager greeted me kindly and explained how it all worked: simple enough, you roll into the private garage, close the garage door, and enter your room from there. But I panicked. I couldn’t figure out how to open the garage door back up and worse, I somehow locked myself inside the room. The Korean-only digital lock system gave me instant flashbacks to the Shanghai lockdowns. A wave of PTSD bubbled up.
But I calmed myself down. No panic. Just figure it out. After some patient trial and error I finally cracked the lock system and even mastered the garage door mechanism. The hotel manager saw me struggling and chuckled as if to say "Why not just open it all the way?" He gave me a demo and we both laughed it off.
It had been a chaotic first day — but somehow, fitting. Here I was, spending the night in Yangpyeong, resting on the free side of the DMZ. Compared to the staged tours I’d taken in Pyongyang, this place felt alive. And I was free to ride wherever I wanted.
The next day it was even more beautiful. The weather would crack up to 20 degrees which is unheard of for early March. I wasn't complaining.
After a few kilometers of riding on the road before the trail picked up, I stopped at a small convenience store. This time, the clerk spoke English — a rare but welcome surprise. He was curious about my trip and peppered me with questions. One that stood out: “Is it safe?” I told him, truthfully, that Korea was the safest country I’d ever been to. Safer than China, without question. The kind of place where you could leave your phone charging unattended and come back an hour later to find it still sitting there.
After that brief chat, I found my way back onto the main trail. While riding, my phone buzzed. It was a message from one of the very first colleagues I ever worked with, way back in 2010 during the glory days of China. She had been the one to help connect me to my first job there, so her message carried weight.
"Hey Steve, you ok? I saw you left China. That’s a big move after all this time and history you have there."
I summed up my reasons. I then went on a full-blown rant about the organization we both used to work for. The corruption. The exploitation. The shiny surface that masked something darker. I felt a wave of guilt mid-way through because she was the one who had opened that door for me all those years ago.
Her reply came quickly
"Really? That organization? This is super wild. I had no idea that Chinese school was under that same umbrella. I thought they were their own individual thing. I remember meeting the head guy once. He had his wife and two tiny kids with him. He seemed like such a nice family man. Are you sure he was into all that karaoke and China stuff you said? Do you think our old bosses even knew? His wife never came to China when he did… hmmm… maybe you're right."
Then the other shoe dropped:"So, speaking of which… did your wife come with you?"
Oh boy. That was a whole story in itself, one I tried to summarize gently. The growing emotional distance. The realization that she wouldn’t leave China. The life paths that no longer aligned.
She took it all in: "I’m glad you’re alright. Looks like a beautiful bike ride. Where do you plan to end up? Are you moving somewhere for good? Either way, I’m glad you ran from that company after all you’ve explained. Things will work out. You’re smart and have so many connections."
The message landed like a soft exhale. One of those rare conversations that helps you feel seen and confirms you’ve made the right call. I put the phone away. The wind picked up slightly. And I kept riding.
The bike trail, as scenic as it was, had a knack for presenting forks in the road at the worst possible times. There were no signs in English, and Google Maps was practically useless. I would stop, pull out my phone, and try to figure out where to go next but the confusion was starting to wear on me.
At one such moment of indecision, two touring cyclists zipped past. One of them glanced back and shouted, “Going to Busan?”
“Yeah!” I called back.
“Come join us!”
That was how I met Karam and John, a pair of riders who turned what could have been a lonely stretch into a memory. Karam was an expat living in Seoul, and John, a local, was essentially the human version of a navigation app. He had a route-tracking system synced up with Kakao Maps that showed everything: restaurant stops, coffee shops, lodging, alternate routes, even the location of the red phone booths where cyclists could stamp their "trail passports" to mark progress.
Karam, to my surprise, was also a hardcore F45 member. “Welcome to the team,” he grinned. “Here’s how it works. Every time we hit one of those red stamp booths, we do five pushups.”
I laughed. “Sounds like a plan.”
These guys were exactly the kind of company I didn’t know I needed. The trail was still the trail, but suddenly it felt like an adventure I was sharing.
I clicked with Karam and John right away. There was an easy rhythm between us. John was incredibly patient. He kept an eye on me, but never hovered. He gave me space to make mistakes, take wrong turns, or fall behind for a bit, always trusting I’d catch up. I appreciated that. It never felt like I was slowing them down. To be fair, they had the advantage of partial e-bikes while I was hauling the full weight of everything I’d brought on the midnight run.
At one rest stop, I asked John why Google Maps kept glitching or sending me in bizarre directions. He explained, “It’s a security issue. Google isn’t allowed to use its own foreign servers here. The government fears those servers could be hacked by North Korea. So until Google sets up local servers — which they’re still negotiating — the app doesn’t really work properly. That’s why everyone here uses Kakao Maps or Naver, but Kakao is better.”
That was fascinating and a stark contrast to China. Google was kicked out of China completely years ago for refusing to comply with CCP censorship demands. They stood their moral ground and the CCP slammed the door shut, permanently. But South Korea was different. Google was still in the game here, just playing by slower rules. That said, for now, Kakao was king.
Meanwhile, Karam was capturing everything: the views, the laughs, the unexpected detours with the finesse of a pro. He was the social media expert of the group, and his camera skills turned every scenic backdrop into a postcard. The ride was quickly turning into something unforgettable.
As the sun dipped below the hills, John found us a pension to stay at for the night. We rode into the darkness through the rural quiet. On the way, Karam and I struck up a debate, one of those wandering, half-philosophical conversations you only really get on long rides. The topic? Chinese EVs.
Karam argued they were worth it: cost-effective, functional, and improving fast. “Why not?” he said. “They work. They're cheap. Same specs, better price. The market has demand for them so why all the regulations?"
I saw his point, but pushed back. “Sure, they run fine at first,” I said, “but they’re built to fail. They’ll start breaking down in a few years and end up as landfill. That’s the problem. China floods the global market with cheap, disposable tech, and it’s devastating the environment. That can’t continue unchecked.”
It was a spirited, respectful back-and-forth. No winners, just different angles on the same question.
Eventually we rolled up to a small but bustling restaurant that John had recommended. The smell of grilled meat drew us in like magnets. We feasted on samgyeopsal — Korea’s famous grilled pork belly — and toasted with cold beers. It hit the spot perfectly after a full day in the saddle. Then we cycled a short distance to the pension John had pre-booked. I was blown away by the room — warm, clean, spacious. After a couple days of gritty cycling, it felt like a mini oasis.
I thanked both of them again. It was a Friday night, and after nearly two weeks of staying on the sidelines during the worst market volatility, I finally braved the trading screen again. I had been risk-off for so long, waiting for some calm to return. That calm, as it turned out, wouldn’t last long.
The next morning we awoke to the sound of howling winds. As I peeked outside, I had a sinking feeling they were headwinds. Brutal ones. On top of that, the weather was quickly shifting. Yesterday's sunshine was just a tease. We had, at best, one more dry day before the forecasted rains would unleash. After a quick group huddle, we agreed to clear the first mountain pass together, then I’d bounce and find a way to Busan by bus. I know it was a wimp move, but the decision was logical.
We hit the road early. The first part was smooth and energizing, and I felt relaxed enough to finally share my midnight run story in full. Karam was cracking up. “You’re on the run from the Chinese police!” he joked. When I mentioned I was aiming to find work in the Middle East next, he laughed even harder: “Man, you must really love dictatorships!” I explained that places like Kuwait and Dubai operated more like royal monarchies. Yes, they are technically dictatorships but without the micromanaging paranoia of a civilian police state. In a weird way, that made them more livable.
We rode on into the wind, stopping in a larger town, I think it was called Yeongju. We did our now-customary stamp station pushups. But the wind kept pushing back, and the trail tilted ever so slightly upward, grinding away at my energy. The guys were doing fine since their e-bikes gave them that crucial assist but I was fully manual, weighed down by all the gear I carried from the midnight run. Slowly, inevitably, I was falling behind.
They were kind about it, never rushing me, but I could tell: I was holding them back. Stop after stop, we regrouped, but I knew I couldn’t keep pace. After just 40km, it was already late afternoon and we were sitting down for lunch. I looked at my bowl, looked at the sky, looked at their bikes. Then I looked up and said, “I’m not gonna make it, guys.”
No hesitation. They both nodded in understanding. “No worries,” John said. “Let’s help you figure out a bus from here.” But it turned out this small mountain town didn’t have any buses heading to Busan that day. Karam just smiled and said, “Steve’s a global traveler, he’ll figure it out.”
We clinked bowls one last time, shared some laughs, and parted ways. I thanked them profusely, apologizing again for the pace. But I knew this was the right call.
Realizing there were no buses running out of the small mountain town, I had no choice but to double back to Yeongju. Fortunately, the same winds that had been a brutal slog were now at my back. What a difference that made! With the tailwind pushing me forward, I absolutely flew down the trail. It felt like a gift. In no time, I was back in Yeongju gliding effortlessly into the bus station.
The setup couldn’t have been more convenient: no need to lock up the bike, no need for any complicated logistics. The bus station was right inside a modern shopping mall. I wheeled my ride next to the entrance and headed straight to the ticket machine. A few clicks later, I had a bus booked to Busan leaving in a couple of hours.
I wandered over to a nearby Starbucks, found a comfy seat, and promptly passed out for nearly an hour. That’s how much those winds had drained me. When I woke up, I felt refreshed and ready. I loaded my folding bike onto the nearly empty bus with ease. The driver gave a casual nod, clearly used to this sort of thing. The ride itself? Smooth, quiet, and perfect for decompressing.
As the landscape rolled by, I started mentally plotting the next steps. The Korea journey had been intense, healing, and beautiful in all the right ways. But the next chapter was already calling. Taiwan was up next, and I was ready for it.
Today's ride: 125 km (78 miles)
Total: 230 km (143 miles)
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