On Thursday morning, heavy clouds hung low over the Chinese capital, threatening rain for an already sodden city. The old imperial capital is finally returning to life after four straight days of precipitation, which caused over 50,000 residents to be evacuated from a district west of Beijing after streets became rivers. More rain is in the forecast this weekend.

With the respite from the deluge, the old men who fished along the shores of the Liangma River have returned, wetting their lines, passing the time for the allure of a small bite or two.

Like jaywalking and lack of salt in our food, it has been one the constants of our short time here in Beijing. Old men, and it’s almost always old men, sitting on the banks of the restored river casting a line in hopes of catching whatever swims in the waters below.

They saunter up in the early morning, claim their spot, and begin fishing. Some come with more advanced setups laden with tackle, bait, and equipment to work smarter, not harder. Some poles reach the middle of the river, hoisted up and held in place by a fulcrum firmly planted on the ground. Most have brought umbrellas or sit underneath the canopy of trees that line the banks. Others have brought along radios. I imagine them listening to podcasts about river fishing, but I know that’s not true.

In the past, I’ve seen a handful of young fellas casting a casual line or two during their morning commute. It was almost always hurried. They rushed up and claimed one of the spaces picked over by the old men. Then slung their poles back and forth. The line looped across the water and dropped loudly and impatiently into the river. And while twitching their pole with one hand, they used the other to frisk a cigarette from their front pocket, jabbed it into their mouths, and lighted it.

I have not seen any of the would-be anglers reel in anything. Which is a shame, as most of the excitement from fishing is bringing in your catch.

There are fish in the river, though. I’ve seen them. Minnows, which aren’t worth much of anything except for bait. But these guys aren’t fishing for that. At least that’s what their equipment would suggest…otherwise it would all be overkill.

There are bigger fish, too. I don’t know their names, but on more than a few occasions, I’ve spotted fish the length of my forearm or bigger lurking just beyond the shallows and around the areas where the water runs faster.

If no one is catching fish, and I feel pretty confident it’s not happening regularly, why are these folks spending so much time casting a line?

I’ve asked some of the locals about it. Most, if not all, initially responded with a sheepish grin. Then they usually tell me their stories of observing old men fish in canals. Each ends with confusion about why folks continue to fish despite the lack of success.

Maybe it’s just their way to get out of the house. Perhaps it’s a way to pass the time in an outdoor setting surrounded by other like-minded dudes they may or may not find agreeable. Maybe it’s just like when old men in the US play golf.

Are any of them good at it? Nope. Do any of them get better at it? Nope. But there they are day after day, at the links slicing every drive and four putting every damn green imaginable. All to get out of the house.

Honestly, though, more than golfing retirees, it reminds me more of the very real cultural phenomenon of old men in America watching high school football practice. Every day from July to November, ex-players, boosters, dads without talent with sons who have some, and hangers-on stride with confidence and conviction up to the practice fields, sling open their lawn chairs, and plop down for two hours in the scorching sun to watch a group of 14-to 18-year-olds run around tackling each other.

To quote Allen Iverson, “We’re talkin' bout practice.”

And like folks here who have no good answer for their older neighbors fishing in a restored river, I have no good explanation for the older men clamoring for clout at the high school football team’s practice field.

But here’s the thing, let ‘em have it. Because I’d rather them be out and about than holed up in some cramped apartment or stuffy office.

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And once I feel more confident approaching a local angler, either because my Mandarin skills have improved or I’ve sorted out more information about fishing in the city, I’ll get their perspective on the whole thing.

Just after lunch, when I ventured back out into the old imperial city, the air was thick and muggy. The sort I’d imagine commonplace in the tropics and the kind I know from my time in the far reaches of Kentucky’s Jackson Purchase. As I made my way back toward the Liangma Riverwalk, the tall office buildings dotting the skyscape along my walk were obscured by a dense haze of humidity. It was cooler than what it has been, but with all that sticky air whatever respite we could have expected has evaporated. The river anglers, however, were unbothered by the near sauna-like conditions. Instead, they sat exactly where they were earlier in the morning, casting their lines, and hopeful for a nibble or two.