Easy Riders

We met the 'Easy Riders' on a busy street corner in Hoi An last night. They're a happy lot, with wind blown hair and a trace of the '50s in the style of their coiff. They have tanned skin, oil stained fingers, and an easy smile, as motorcycle dudes often do.

Benjamin and I were on a mission to find real motorcycles to rent, as opposed to the Honda Wave 110cc scooters found all over Vietnam. We walked the streets asking, "Minsk?" and were successively pointed down the street, then around the corner to the left, then down the street again. Among the tailor's shops and restaurants Hoi An is famous for, we found nothing that looked like a bike rental shop.

We stopped on the corner where the motorbike taxi drivers hang out and in no time flat, one of them came over to us, inquiring if we'd like to hire his services. "Minsk," we said again, "Minsks, we're looking to rent Minsks." The man gave us a nod, a knowing look, and then pulled a cell phone from his pocket. Several minutes later, an 'Easy Rider' wearing flip flops and blue jeans pulled up on a beat up red Minsk.

"You want to rent a bike?"

"Yes! Do you have two? For tomorrow?"

Negotiations ensued, deals were made. In the course of 10 minutes, Benjamin and I had 2 beat up red Minks in our possession for $7.00 a day. Our plan was to ride the bikes to ancient Cham ruins located 50 some kilometers from Hoi An. We were a group of 3: Benjamin, myself, and an Aussie friend named Aaron, who we'd met in China and again here, in Vietnam.

*****

We woke up this morning at 5:00 a.m. We wanted to get to 'My Son', the site of the ruins, by 7:30, before the busloads of tourists showed up. I admit I was a bit nervous: third world country, third world traffic, third world hospitals, beat up red Minsk older than me, etc... But I reminded myself that this is why I learned to ride a motorcycle in the first place: so I could ride while we travel.

We picked Aaron up from her hotel at the scheduled hour, 6:00 a.m., and after a lengthy consultation with the hand drawn, xeroxed map we were given, we set off into the bright heat of the morning.

I chucked everything I learned in my 'motorcycle safety school' out the window, and these thoughts pervaded my mind for much of the ride to My Son.

We'd been taught to carefully examine the bike before riding: make sure the turn signals work, check the brake lights, toot the horn, adjust the mirrors, ensure competent brakes, check fluids, kick the tires... Of course, no-one really does all of this each time they get on their bike at home, myself included. And even if I wanted to, I could not do these things here, with this bike, for my bike had none of these superfluous accoutrements.

The turn signal button was melted to the handle bar, there were no brake lights, the horn was mute, and mirrors? who needs mirrors? I did have tires and well, I guess I did have some braking power -- Benjamin suggested I only use the back brake as the front one seemed to be on holiday. Aside from all of that, I was not dressed 'appropriately' for riding a motorcycle. At home I wear a full face helmet, a padded jacket, kevlar gloves, jeans, hard toed boots. All I had to wear here was a t-shirt, capri pants, and hiking sandals.

As I rode, I considered the story Aaron told me the previous day about a woman riding a bicycle in the crowded streets of Hoi An. "No breaks, no breaks!" she yelled as she zoomed by and zigzagged through the throngs of tourists. I figured I could do the same if my breaks failed, and likewise, I figured that I could yell out, "Beep! Beep!" at the top of my lungs since my horn, the all important driving tool of Asia, did not work. Of course, no-one would be able to hear my cries over the din of the bike: it was a 2-stroke antique and made sounds like metal bits thrown into a blender or nuts and bolts ricocheting around an air-powered popcorn popper.

Driving in Vietnam reminded me of a video game, where things dart on and off the screen with erratic behavior. This is a trick by those sick and twisted video game programmers to get you tensed up only to, eventually, let your guard down to your ultimate demise... many times the potential obstacle is really no obstacle at all. You relax as you become accustomed to them. That's how those programmers get you: just when you least expect it, a potential obstacle becomes a real obstacle -- you just never know when.

The obstacles on Vietnamese roads: children playing in the street, wobbling cargos of produce on bicycles, meandering pedestrians, dense packs of fast moving motorbikes and autos, speeding busses and tank-like trucks, mindless livestock, pecking chickens, vagrant dogs, water slicks, sand piles, gravel spills: all of the things I hoped to never encounter while riding a motorcycle. There are no stop signs or traffic lights or painted lines to keep things in order -- this is where that all important horn comes in. "Beep! Beep!"

Several times I found myself praying. "Hello? God? I know I have denied you in the past, but please keep the dogs from running out in front of me!" I'd heard about those suicidal dogs in my motorcycle safety class. One of the beefy guys in my class, the sort of male who wears thick gold chains around his neck, unbuttons his shirt to his navel, and has a flat-top hair style, recounted a story about how he, once, had to run right over a dog. He talked about the dog as if it were a mere speed bump that had gotten in his way. I thought it was in bad taste, and it was, but our teacher asserted that in some situations, it is better to hit the dog to avoid a worse accident. But I imagine running over a dog might cause an accident anyway, especially if one is blinded by tears and guilt.

Aaron told me I looked so serious while riding my bike, like James Dean in 'Rebel Without a Cause'. I assured here I was having fun, but driving a bike takes concentration, especially in Vietnam. Nonetheless, I'm happy that I can look so dashing in the face of sheer uncertainty.

As we neared My Son, I was faced with another of those 'things I never want to encounter while on a motorcycle'. And that was having a passenger. It was my turn to ride Aaron on the back of my bike. "I've never ridden a passenger before," I told her, "so the choice is up to you." "What does that mean?" She asked. I smiled. "Well, hop on then!"

I knew that riding with a passenger would off-set the balance of the bike. It also means another's life (or unsplintered bones) are in my hands. Aaron, all 6 feet of her, made an excellent passenger, though, and after a wobbly start, it was if there was no-one there at all.

It wasn't until the back tire blew that I became, once again, aware of my charge of another person's safety (incidentally, blowing a tire tops the list of 'things I never want to encounter...'). When the tire blew, I had no idea what happened except that what once was a humming hunk of metal between my legs had become a vibrating, epileptic, convulsive, jack-hammering hunk of metal between my legs. The bike shuddered and skidded and swerved all of the road.

"What happened?" Aaron asked when we'd come to a safe stop -- still upright, I might brag. She told me later she thought I was pulling some fancy riding trick out of my bag to impress her -- it must be my 'James Dean' appeal.

Several locals were on the scene right away, pointing and gasping and laughing that kind of laugh that accompanies wild shit that happens. It was a bad blow, but Aaron and I were safe and I controlled the bike as if I'd had 100 tires blow in my 1.5 years of riding experience. It occurred to me that in the space of one hour, I'd faced -- and conquered -- all of my riding fears.

The tire was fixed while we toured the ruins and when our bus from the entrance of the site to the relics broke down with a frazzled fuse, I began to wonder if transportation issues were to be the bill of the day. Indeed. I returned the bike when the back brake broke -- the spring had sprung and it was rendered useless.

"Beep. Beep."