One Sunday, several of us bicycled to a spot in southeastern China where we could go into a cave. I chose to stay near the bikes. It was not that I thought Chinese people might steal or harm our bikes -- I hadn’t even taken a lock on this 1981 trip. China had a shortage of thieves, prostitutes, vandals, etc., because their lives were in danger for such behavior. There were many “watchers” and no need for lawyers.

I stayed near the parked bicycles because I liked the people and had been in Missouri’s wonderful caves. As anticipated, a crowd gathered around to look at my 15-speed Peugeot road bike with its tire pump, water bottle and flag-covered saddle bag. Early in the tour, I learned that I could visit with the natives by pointing, nodding and smiling. We spoke short sentences in our two languages, and our facial expressions often conveyed the message.

For the last time, I tried to say, “Hello, how are you?” In the guide book it was pronounced something like “kne-how-o-mah,” but the Chinese I met hadn’t read my guide book. Instead, I removed the water bottle and sipped from it. They clapped and smiled and pointed to the tire pump. A few made the pumping motion, and I flipped the pump from its holders and put one thumb over the air hole while pumping to make the air whistle out. Then I handed it to a fellow and indicated that he could pass it around in the crowd. Old teachers must teach, you know.

Another fellow asked about the skinny bike tires; I flipped the quick-release lever and removed the front wheel from the fork slots. A shout went up. As I bounced it on the ground, they realized that it was inflated to a high pressure. They had known only the heavy single-speed bike, as that was their only means of personal transportation. And they probably never forgot this spontaneous Sunday afternoon entertainment. Certainly, it was my most responsive “class,” and I shall never forget their faces.

As I bent over to put the front wheel back in place, I caught sight of bare feet that were like no other feet I had ever seen: The skin was withered and gray. I’d seen withered fingertips and blue lips on swimmers who had stayed in water too long. This was like that, but wrinkles and gray color didn’t disappear. The whole foot and ankle were affected. It was not just one pair of feet; it was several. I was puzzled.

Thinking of this as we cycled back to the hotel, I figured it out: Human feet; water too long. Yes! They waded in the rice paddies day in and day out, planting, pulling weeds and cultivating. Millions of people must have that gray withered skin on their feet. Now it was the teacher who was being taught.

This week, I was eating a compressed disk of puffed rice and was remembering those feet. I wonder if that rice came from the modernized paddies we saw in northeastern Arkansas -- or if someone with gray withered feet tended it, all bent over, by hand? And the owners of those withered feet earned $55 a month for working six long days every week, rain or shine. I wonder what they would say about my having paid $1.99 for only 14 rice cakes that weighed a total of only 41/2 ounces?