“Dear family, I’m camping in a police yard tonight. I rode into Chiayi town, western Taiwan, around 8pm and asked at the local station if any campgrounds were nearby. Officer Harry said, “we have some space out the back”. I laughed - offer accepted. He gathered the squad for 15 minutes of iPhone photography, then offered me a sweetbread and shower. Cops are great here! I’ve ridden 300km in three days and am beating sun-up tomorrow. Gotta go. x” Six months before scrawling this message to my family in Australia, I discovered bike-packing. Travelling by bicycle, carrying enough to eat, sleep, stay warm, and not a kilogram more. Total liberation from bus schedules and ride bartering. Turn down any street, sleep anywhere! I knew a little about Taiwan. A small island, politically controversial but spiritually independent. Coastal lowlands that linger on their past as an industrial epicentre. A perimeter dotted with cities, enclosing fierce highlands where 268 peaks soar above 3000m elevation. With cycle-friendly roads along its 1000km coastline, it was prime for a bike-packing debut. I booked flights (7kg carry-on only), set on circumnavigating the island on a rental bicycle. October 24. Sydney airport. Every item in my bag had been weighed on kitchen scales and recorded in a spreadsheet. I reengineered my tent to stand without the inner net, saving 0.7kg. I knew the weight of my undies. I was ready. ... There I was, setting up camp behind the police station. Night three. I asked Harry if Taiwan had any crime. “There’s not much but not none”. Brilliant, I thought, picturing thumb-twiddling officers ahead, waiting to be my tour guide and hotelier. This vision wasn’t far off. I camped free at another station in Dulan. I got a blood pressure check and shower in Hualien. I was photographed for the police newsletter in Ruisui. I loved stopping in for (questionable) advice whenever passing a station. One officer recommended camping at the train station, despite the “many feral dogs”. Another advised against visiting the coastal scrub as there were “no 7/11s nearby”. Side note: The number of convenience stores in Taiwan is baffling. Rest assured, during every gruelling climb through villageless forest, there’s a neon house of tea-eggs, chocolate milk, and instant noodles just around the corner. ... I had no itinerary, just a start and end point. I was ready to follow instinct; stop wherever, whenever. Discover the undiscovered! But, in an unexpected twist, I became weirdly motivated to just ride fast and go far. So, I hammered down the west coast, reaching Taiwan’s southern tip in six days and 561km. I passed the Baihe fire-water cave, where an eternal flame dances on spring water. Nearby, incense burned in a stunning temple. I entered, momentarily distracting the caretaker monk from a sitcom on her iPad. A perfect juxtaposition for modern Taiwan. I took Route 175 south, where red coffee cherries burst from roadside trees. Homestyle timber cafes trace the undulations, intermittently revealing the montane view below, rolling like the sea out to a bumpy green horizon. In Kaohsuing I ate dragonfruit in a gutter. Steel-framed balconies swayed above. A washing machine spun in an alley. Morning shadows stretched over colourful drying clothes. Old folks walked and hummed. It was pleasant as fuck. ... 400km up the east coast was Taroko Gorge. An immense canyon chiselled through formidable mountains. Ancient marble walls that plunge into turquoise waters. Vibrant temples where toes dangle over cliffs. A symbiosis of serenity and turbulence. Iconic. Road-walking after a hike, I stuck my thumb out to a smoky blue truck rattling behind. It stopped! I was welcomed into the cabin by an energetic betelnut-chewing labourer. Hitchhiking was THE way to travel in Taroko. In four days I scored 12 rides and met 18 locals. Nobody asked for money and only 8 spoke English. Everyone simply wanted to help. This perfectly captured my experience of Taiwanese culture; heart-warming and wholesome. ... Riding back into frantic Taipei, the life lessons of unplanned riding hit me: 1. The next hill is always steeper. 2. Some detours lead to beauty. Many to a place no different from the last. But you only find out by steering wide-eyed into the unknown.