Hanoi to Bangkok - Grounded: A Down to Earth Journey Around the World - page 69

pour stops. I glance around and realize that I've in fact climbed up through the rain cloud, and am now
looking down on it from above. The valley below is filled to its brim with swirling fog.
When the summit comes into view ahead, the faster finishers are waiting there for me, cheering me on.
All sensation in my legs has ceased. I am now pure distillate of will. It's not a race against the clock or an
opponent—it's a race against loss of consciousness due to exertion.
At last I reach the peak, to a chorus of huzzahs. I manage to untangle my aching limbs from my bike
just before the whole jumble topples over. I slump exhausted onto a stone wall at the edge of the road as
one of the Aussies hands me a beer. He'd stashed them in a cooler in the van before we left this morning,
declaring them a reward for any among us who conquered the mountain. “Good on you, mate,” he says,
clapping me heartily on the shoulder.
The beer is ice-cold. I swallow it down in about four seconds. It may well be the most delicious beer I've
ever had. Or perhaps I'm just tasting my own endorphins.
We've covered a lot of ground making our way around the world. Yet none is sweeter than the ground I
just covered under my own power. Again I'm reminded that when it comes to travel, the slower you go, the
more you appreciate where you've gone.
THE traffic-choked roads that lead into Saigon would be dangerous and wretched for us to bike on, so for
the final leg of our trip we ride in the van. As we creep deeper and deeper into the central city, the density
of motorbikes becomes almost dizzying. We watch them zip past, swirl around us, and disappear down off-
ramps and onto side streets.
I've decided my favorite make of motorbike is the Honda Super Cub, which I admire for its classic, util-
itarian look. This iconic little 50 cc workhorse was first manufactured in the late 1950s. We've seen them
all over Vietnam, new and old, shiny and rusted. Thanks mainly to its enduring popularity in Asia, the Su-
per Cub has become the best-selling motorized vehicle of all time.
Tiger—the spritely, Saigon-born tour guide trainee who's joined us as Scott's intern for the last few days
of the trip—tells us that he owns not one but two motorbikes. Most of his Vietnamese friends own two mo-
tos, as well. The first is a knock-around bike for daily use. “Made in China. Two hundred dollars,” explains
Tiger. The other is a formal, out-on-the-town bike. “For picking up girls. Or maybe for taking on a long
holiday.” Tiger says the fancier bikes are generally Japanese made and range in price from two thousand
dollars up to nine thousand and beyond. Their owners touch up their paint every weekend to keep them
looking tip-top.
Motorbike traffic in Hanoi and Saigon has become so overwhelming that Vietnam's Ministry of Public
Security experimented with restricting the number of motos to one per person. The rule was eventually
struck down, though, and in Saigon alone there are now one thousand additional motorbikes registered each
day. A local magazine quotes a British expat describing the chaos that reigns on the streets: “I can never
guess who or what will appear in front of my motorbike—another motorbike, a pedestrian, a dog, or even
a buffalo.”
If getting a bicycle means freedom in Vietnam, then getting a motorbike is the dawning of the Age of
Aquarius. Compared to the 3 mph pace of a pedestrian, or the 10-12 mph pace of a cyclist, a motorbike that
clips along at 35 mph is a warp-speed spaceship. And they're highly functional: Young families here treat
their motos like station wagons. I've seen a mom, dad, and three kids all precariously balanced on a single
50 cc scooter.
I've also noticed that women solo-piloting motorbikes look incredibly fetching. It's that blank, aloof ex-
pression—suggesting icy confidence—as they focus on the road ahead. Also, their skirt hems rustle sug-
gestively in the breeze. True, many female riders here wear surgical masks to combat the air pollution, but