Cycling as an activity can be filled with emotions. From the first push of the pedal to the last on any given day on the bike there can be any number of emotions that run through me, around me, and over me. Some days it is a cascade of differing feelings while others are peaceful and simple days with a single sensation sweeping across it’s entirety. These are the easiest days, the peaceful ones. They are the ones where a century (a 100 km+ ride) feels so easy and is completed so fast as to imbue this rider with a sense of being superhuman. Superman Days. Leaping tall buildings in a single bound. Taking a firm hold of nature and wresting it from it’s exalted places and wresting it to the ground to be trod under foot. Or rode under wheel, as the case may be. But these days are in the minority. It is the days that offer a wide variety of emotions that are more the norm for me. And such was the day I set out for a two day jaunt from A Luoi destined for Da Nang. The first day would take me from A Luoi to Prau. A 105 kilometer trek along the Ho Chi Minh Trail through the longest and most difficult mountain climbs of my cycling life.

The overriding emotions of the early post dawn morn were those of thankfulness, relief, and joy. Thankful for the cool and overcast morning that was such a comforting contrast to the blistering heat of the previous 5 days. Relief was for the said same reason, and joy was for the ease and speed at which I traveled over the rolling hills of the central plateau. I rapidly wheeled my way through the line of small villages that littered the roadside. Even under flat grey skies the scenery that stood as a backdrop to these clusters of simple buildings was tremendously beautiful. I couldn’t help but be struck by the slow pace and simplicity of life here. The majority of people in rural Vietnam live a subsistence lifestyle, possessing little beyond the essentials that sustain them. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, they seem to have a contentment that escapes so many in western society who have so much more. I have never seen people smile so readily.

The easy and rapid kilometers of the morning ride was not to last, however, and by mid-morning I was riding ever closer to the great long mountain pass that would take up the next few hours of my day.

On the apron of the mountains in the last settlement that I would see until the mountain was well conquered I made a stop to replenish my fuel and then began my assault. I had been looking forward to this part of the trip since it began, because every post that I read by travelers that had come this way suggested that this stretch of alpine riding would be some of the best, if not the best, scenery in all the trip. I will have to take their word for it. I never saw shit.

I was barely on the mountain when heavy rains and fog moved in. Sometimes when the rain eased the fog would become so dense that I could barely see past the edge of the road. The center of the isolated and lonely highway was marked by 2-meter-long white lines that were about 8 meters apart from one another. At times I could not see from one line to the next. When the rains fell heavily they pushed the mists back just far enough that veiled trees lurched into partial view from the sides of the road like gnarled and warped grotesqueries. At the best of times visibility cleared enough to tease me and nothing more.

As I climbed higher and higher into the shrouded highlands the trail became less and less traveled and I was more and more alone. At times I went ages without hearing any sound other than my own breathing. The air was still and silent. Soon I had intense feelings of isolation like I had never felt before. They were soon to be surpassed as out of the mists loomed some sort of man made structure. Due to the denseness of the fog, I was initially unsure what it was. I thought that it was a gas station or a toll booth. But as I moved slowly forward I began to realize what it truly was. It was a tunnel. I had no idea there was a tunnel.

The tunnel was lightless. Staring into it’s pitch black and gaping maw was like looking into the infinite dark of the nothing. In the still and disquieting air there was no sound but the faint exhale from the throat of the tunnel of a breath of wind carrying plumes of the dense fog with it like the last frosty, hollow breath of a dying man. Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Welcome to Creepy-ville.

I had a snack and prepared to penetrate the great dark beyond. I had all the misgivings of Frodo Baggins as he entered the tunnel at the top of the Morgul Pass. I did feel very confident that I wasn’t about to encounter a giant spider that would paralyze me with her stinger and wrap me in a web to tenderize me until I was ready to be a good meal, but I did have nightmarish visions of slamming face first into the business end of a buffalo. I reached into my bags and pulled out my Samsung tablet and phone, both of which are equipped with reading lights. I turned them on and pinched them between fingers over the handle bars and set off through the tunnel with my weak and pitiful light sources barely leading the way.

It turned out that the tunnel wasn’t especially long. Soon I could see the light at it’s end. The dense fog on the other end gave the light a nebulous otherworldly appearance. It was as if the last of the dark of the tunnel was being eaten by the penetrating mists and the amorphous edges made it impossible to tell where the one ended and the other began. I kept expecting to hear a voice tell me to “Come to the light, boy. Come to the light.”  The closer I got to it the stranger and more eerie it looked, as if the world beyond the tunnel had somehow been taken away or eaten, leaving behind only a funeral pall sky. It was without a doubt one of the more peculiar sensations I have ever experienced.

I exited the tunnel and was delighted to discover that the world had not in fact been eaten. A short while later I came to a second tunnel of similar length that filled me with all of the same strange sensations of the first. Almost immediately after exiting this second and, it turned out, final cave, I began a long and twisty descent. The fog was now denser than ever and visibility was next to nothing. It made for an uncertain descent, but I eventually dropped below the mists, got off the mountain, and was back to racing over rolling hills as I charged toward Prau under clearing skies in what was turning into a gorgeous afternoon. And then something completely unexpected and cool happened.

As I made my way through the first small villages that I had seen in some hours, the kids were all getting out of school. There were dozens and dozens of them lining the streets of each successive little town that I passed. I had become accustomed to being barraged by hello’s everywhere that I had gone so far, so I was bracing myself for what would certainly be an onslaught of greetings. But they didn’t say hello. Not a one. Instead, they cheered. They actually cheered! And clapped their hands! It would begin with just a few small voices and would grow into a steady, prolonged group cheer. I was speeding through small gaps that separated the children lining both sides of the road. Some would run as fast as they could in a futile attempt to keep up with me, cheering and clapping all the while, while others would reach out a little hand for a high five that I did my best to deliver. And it happened in town after town after town. I felt like a racer in the Tour de France. It was surreal! And it is without a doubt, one of the single coolest things that I have ever experienced in my life. Thank you Vietnam for yet another memory that I will treasure forever.

The last kilometers from the mountains were pretty straightforward and easy with the exception of a couple of short but extremely steep climbs. I arrived in Prau and sought out the same guesthouse I stayed in when I passed through here 3 years ago. I washed, changed into fresh clothes, and had a fabulous meal of rice, vegetables, beef, and deer. The second to last day of my tour was complete. There was only 85 kilometers to go to Da Nang. With the sun setting on a challenging but great day of cycling I began to feel a little retrospective, but I felt it wasn’t the right time for that yet. That would come tomorrow.

And sure enough, almost from the moment I first touched the pedals in the morning of that last day I was heavily retrospective and filled with a vast array of emotions. The riding was largely free and easy with the worst of the climbs being only moderate in both length and difficulty. I wheeled up and down rolling hills on small narrow roads in tight farming valleys lined almost every step of the way with small villages composed largely of ramshackle buildings of rudimentary construction. The children must have been in school because the roadsides were almost morbidly quiet compared to the raucous cheering of yesterday afternoon. And with little to distract me, I thought. And I thought about a great many different things.

I thought a great deal about how privileged I felt to have had the great opportunity to ride a 600 kilometer journey through this beautiful country. And I thought of all the beautiful and friendly people I had been blessed to meet along the way. I also spent considerable time wondering if it would be feasible to move here and if so when? Questions that as of yet remain largely unanswered.

But mostly, I just thought about riding and how much I love seeing the world in this way. I thought about how I feel like I am a much better and more dynamic person when I am riding the highways of the world, and how sadness and depression are emotions that never seem to travel with me, as if the act of riding itself were a tonic of light into which no dark can penetrate. Riding is that which casts off shadows of woe and self doubt. It is the breaker of chains, chains that I sometimes feel are clasped tight to my wrists and ankles and threaten to hold me tight to a world and lifestyle in which I may be horribly ill equipped to find any lasting contentment.  And there it is. The greatest thing I feel, my truest and purest emotion. Contentment. It is that simple yet so often elusive quality that I find so easily when I ride. All of life is filled with a vast array of emotions and feelings, and cycling is no different. But it is when I ride that I feel the better ones more readily, as if I own them instead of merely borrowing.

Thanks for riding along. Until next time.

The ride from Da Nang to Khe Sanh had been an incredibly satisfying journey, but the most anticipated part of my tour was still to come: The Ho Chi Minh Trail. My plan for the Trail would cover three days and carry me more than 240 kilometers before turning off onto a different highway for the final 85 kilometers back to Da Nang. Not quite the 2000 kilometers that I would like, but we take what we can get, don’t we?

The first day out of Khe Sanh was a 95 kilometer trek to A Rong Tren, a small crossroads town in the mountains a few kilometers from the Laos border. The sky was cloudless and temperatures were pushing well into the 20’s by breakfast time so I knew that, like yesterday, it was going to be a hot day. Hot sunny days are the most challenging days because they tend to drain your energy. Proper hydration and regular rest stops are key to conserving energy, but no matter what you do, 30+ degree days under the glaring sun are going to suck a lot of life out of you. This difficulty was compounded by the residue of an unexpectedly long and alcohol filled evening the previous night in Khe Sanh wherein myself and others were kidnapped and dragged smiling into a street side karaoke party by some horribly friendly Vietnamese people celebrating the Tet holiday and forced by the twisting of our rubber arms to drink large quantities of beer! Anyway, the results of that long and wonderful night were going to make for an even more difficult day. But as the folks I worked with on pipeline in Alberta used to say, don’t stay out late with the boys if you can’t get up with the men. Onward I trudge!

After a quick stop at the morning market for supplies I hit the road. The first 8 kilometers were the same 8 kilometers that I climbed at the end of the previous day and were straight down hill. This easy cruise provided a more relaxing opportunity to soak in the scenery of deep river valleys coursing around the tall jungle coated mountains than the strenuous ride up the hill the previous day had provided. At the 8 k mark I took a sharp right turn and came to a bridge. I was on the Ho Chi Minh Trail. I stopped for a moment to check my gear and equipment and take a moment to reflect and then struck out south bound along the Trail. It struck me as odd, but after that hundred meters or so of bridge, it felt like I had arrived in a different world, and in some ways I had. Life here was a quieter life, a simpler life. The further down the road I got the less heavy vehicles passed and the slower and easier the pace of life seemed to become. There were times when I went long stretches without hearing any motorized vehicle at all, not even a scooter or small motorbike. It was so peaceful that often the only sounds I could hear were my bike, my breath, and the wind in my ears. The lush green canopy of the jungle shimmered in the tropical sun. It was so dense that it looked impossible for water to penetrate it. At times, the song of countless cicadas was the only sound I heard as it washed over the jungle from left to right and back again, volume rising in the middle and falling off to a whisper at either end of the production, like a gentle wave whooshing up a sandy beach and falling away again, pulling whispering sand in it’s wake.

I arrived in A Rong Tren late in the afternoon after a beautiful 92 kilometer ride up and down the rolling hills of central Vietnam. I checked into the one motel in town with it’s windowless rooms, washed and found some delicious dinner. I was the only one at the restaurant and when I inquired if they were serving dinner the young man took me into the kitchen at the back where I chose my food right off the stove as his mother plated it for me. The food was delicious and I savored every bite as I watched the sun set below the high mountains to the west marking the border with Laos. After dinner I topped up my supplies, did a little reading, and went to bed early. It was a great ride but I was worn out from the hot temperatures. The next day was promising to hotter again.

I got an early start the next day and before long I was zipping down the highway fully refreshed by some great food and a great night’s sleep. As I worked my way down the Trail I made a few stops here and there to say hello to some friendly mountain people and take a few photos. One young village girl that I met spoke some basic English and got so excited by speaking that she would jump up and down, squeal, clap her hands, and spin in circles. She was such a joy. It was easy to tell that she was taking great pride in being able to conduct a basic conversation with me as others from the village looked on. The people seemed quite happy to have me there in their midst except the English speaking girls’ younger sister who stared at me intently with two of the most intensely beautiful eyes I have ever seen the entire time I was there. She never as much as cracked a smile. Like the others, she did wave goodbye as I left that little village with precious memories that will last me a lifetime. Or at least until senility steals them.        And then came a big hill.   Well, mountain, actually.

The temperature was already pushing into the high 20’s on it’s way to a high of 38 and it wasn’t long before I was drenched in sweat as I pushed up the mountain. For much of the climb fortune shone upon me as the mountain cast it’s shadow over me, helping me to conserve some energy and making the hot and difficult climb somewhat less onerous. As I neared the top, however, the shade dropped by the way side and I was soon baking in the most intense heat I had felt since the last time I stuck my head too far into the oven to check on a roast. I couldn’t believe it was possible to sweat so much! I carried 6 litres of water in my pack that morning as I left A Rong Tren, but if I had put water into me nearly as fast as it was coming out I would have exhausted my supply in no time. I wasn’t sweating. I was leaking! I think my fingernails were sweating! As my dear departed grandmother and grandfather Ryan would say, it was as hot as the hobs of hell.

About the same time I thought I must be running out of sweat to donate to the searing hot pavement, I reached the acme of the sweltering beast of a mountain. The next 12 to 15 kilometers of the trail were swift and twisty as I barreled down the mountain and onto the flat plain that would bring me to A Luoi. The high speeds of the descent coupled with a minimum of humidity had me pretty well dried off by the time I reached the bottom of the mountain, but it didn’t take long for the cruel late morning sun to bathe me in sweat again. The temperature was a wicked 38 as I pulled into town about noon time. I had only traveled 40 kilometers for the day but the next room was in Prau, 105 kilometers away. There was no way I was attempting to make it to Prau through the most difficult and mountainous part of my journey in this heat. So, I soon found a beautiful hotel for the night with a massive room that cost me $10. My room had a doorway to a semi private balcony. I immediately imagined an afternoon of lounging on the chairs there and reading my book under the comfortable shade in the cooling breeze. And that is exactly what I did… for about 20 minutes. And then I fell asleep for over 2 hours. After shaking the cobwebs, I went and had a look around town and soon bumped into a couple of high school students who turned the rest of my afternoon into an impromptu photo shoot. I took a few photos of them but I have no idea how many they took of me and with me. I can tell you it was a hell of a lot but it would be difficult to be more precise. We drank some tea and chatted for a while as they excitedly took advantage of the opportunity to practice the little English they had learned in school.

After tea we said our goodbye’s and I went in search of dinner, supplies, and a cold drink to enjoy while reading on the balcony before bed. Today was a short day kilometer wise, but plenty long enough given the heat. The forecast for the next day was once again sunny. I remember thinking that it wouldn’t break my heart if tomorrow were overcast. In the morning I was soon reminded to be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.

 

Sometimes when I travel I go out of my way to visit places that some would say have a limited tourist appeal. My visit to Khe Sanh during my recent Vietnam cycle trip was just such a stop. If you research Khe Sanh as a tourist destination you will find mentions of a commemorative statue, an abandoned airfield, and little else. And that is about the truth of it. Little else. Yet, for all of that it was one of the must see points on my cycling plan when I was making it. So why then was Khe Sanh such an important stop for me? It is because of it’s place in history and the near mythic aura that the name has developed for me over the many years since I first learned of the small hilltop town and the brutal epic battle that was fought there in early 1968, the Battle of Khe Sanh. The battle began on January 21 as a distraction for the impending Tet Offensive, a widespread series of coordinated surprise attacks throughout South Vietnam that began just a week later, and raged as one of the most violent and bloody battles of the war for the next 77 days. In the war, Khe Sanh mattered enough for thousands of men to be injured and die for it. Thus, as a historian, it mattered to me.

I began the 75 k ride to Khe Sanh out of Dong Ha the day after I finished riding what I called the Hello Highway. I was up, washed, and fed by 6:40 and after a little reading, on the road by 7. The sky was a perfect crystal blue and the early morning temperature provided an omen of what was to come as I climbed from the coast into the hills of the interior. It was going to be hot.

About an hour out of town I replenished my food stores at a small road side market. As I was packing my purchase of grapes, oranges, and apples into my bags, the vendor whom I had bought from started trying to sell me a watermelon. I wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. It looked like a beautifully ripe and delicious watermelon, but where exactly was I going to carry the monstrous thing on my bike? In my best attempt at miming, I demonstrated for her and her neighbors the difficulty that such a burden would pose. We all laughed at my wild and erratic gesticulating which ended when the vendor finally just shook her head and waved me away. At which we all laughed again. I then prepared my bike, said a genuine thank you and goodbye which was warmly received and returned in kind.

The morning was an enjoyable ride that gradually transformed from a flat ride to one with intermittent climbs, to one that had more than intermittent climbs, and the uphill’s became more intense as I got deeper into the country’s interior. By mid morning the temperatures had risen into the high 20’s with not so much as a draft of wind for relief. By mid day they were pushing into the low 30’s. I made several stops along the way, mostly to grab a photo or two, or to say hello to some local people. But sometimes, it was just to feel what was around me. As I ventured ever closer to Khe Sanh I began to look at the hills and valleys around me and wonder what terrors they and the people living in their shadow may have seen. In times of quiet I could almost hear the cries of horror and pain, the screams, the wailing, and the gnashing of teeth.

The final 15 kilometers into Khe Sanh is, with a few short exceptions, entirely uphill and much of it steep. The last 8 kilometers are easily the most difficult, nearly one complete and steep ascent, especially difficult in temperatures now pushing near the mid thirties under a cloudless sky. As I ventured further and further up the home stretch I began to see signs of deforestation on several of the surrounding hilltops, scar tissue remaining from the intense bombing of the area during the siege. During Operation Niagara, the American bombing campaign in support of the besieged cavalrymen who defended the base at Khe Sanh, over 100,000 tons of bombs were dropped. Add to this the uncountable numbers of heavy caliber shells, mortars, and rockets fired and it’s a wonder that anything ever grew there again. A testament to the resilience of nature I guess.

By this time the 33-degree heat began to feel unbearable. I was in the midst of a very long and very steep climb and I began to feel a little over heated. At just the moment I needed it most my route began running parallel to a small creek. I dismounted and like a long guilted penitent I dropped heavily to my knees, straddling the sacred stream, and dipped my head full in. Absolution. I know that I have had showers much colder than the tepid water that flowed in that stream, but given the intense heat that my head had been absorbing for the past hours it damn near shocked me it felt so cold. I stayed submerged until the necessity of breathing bade me rise. I took a moment to catch my breath and then proceeded to splash large helpings of the blessed water over me. I felt like a man who had just stumbled upon an oasis after wandering lost in the desert with the scabbards of death following closely in his wake. Hmmm. Okay that last bit is taking it too far, but it was really, really good!

From my dip in the creek it was less than an hour until I checked into the room that would be home for the evening. I knew I was where I needed to be when I passed the war monument that I had seen during my online research. After checking in I quickly gathered the requisite directional information and headed off in pursuit of the Marine Base of Khe Sanh. It was only a few kilometers down the road and it didn’t take long before I found myself at the site of the most intense fighting of the Vietnam War. Shortly after paying the modest entrance fee I found myself walking in the footsteps of history, and almost immediately, swarmed by the future. As often happens, I caught the attention of nearby children and they soon flocked to me with their parents in tow to use their few words of English and say hello. After the requisite photo session, they headed on their way and I on mine. And then my camera battery died. And I had no spare. Dumb rookie mistake.

As a rule, I pack the battery in my camera plus two fully charged spares. In my haste to get on the road from my hotel I left those spares in a bag at my room. Arse! I managed to coax a few photos out before the camera keeled over dead. Double arse!! But in one respect, the camera dying was the best thing that happened. Removed now from my duty of taking photos, I was free to roam the grounds at my leisure and soak in the atmosphere. And that atmosphere was incredible. The sense of history palpable. Here I was walking upon the runway at Khe Sanh, deregulated bombers and helicopters precisely placed for effect, looking out at the hills and valleys above and below. It was quiet and cooling in the twilight of the scorching day as the big, hard sun began to set in the west below the towering range of mountains about 25 kilometers distant that mark the border with Laos. The serenity I felt was in stark contrast to the nightmare that so many men lived through in this very place nearly 50 years ago. I walked the runway, occasionally kicking at the red dirt beneath my feet, once bending to scrape a handful of it. As I held that red earth in my hand, shaking it, sifting it, as if looking for long buried treasure, I looked out at a towering spire in the haze shrouded distance. I tried my best to feel what so many must have felt in that time and realized that it was as useless a venture as asking the many that perished upon that plain to rise from their resting place and tell me of their passing, who they were, and what momentary fancy of the gods conspired to place them there at the very moment that a factory crafted piece of metal droned namelessly through the night air to make its acquaintance with one of their vital organs and erase their life force from the tablet of humanity upon which we are all inscribed. I dug my hand once more into the hard unforgiving earth and cried just a little as I thought of the frailty of life and how much of this precious gift was spilled upon this hard scrabble plain. Such a goddamned shame.

I shook myself free of the sadness of my thoughts and shifted them instead to the indomitable spirit of man and the will that we all possess to carry on. I pondered this as I rode into the setting sun toward my lodging. I thought of all of those, who for a variety of different reasons believed that, upon these grounds, they were fighting for freedom and liberty. And I thought to myself, if I am living in the freedom so many fought for, then I owe it to them to be free. And thus I stood from my saddle, and I cast off a layer of long worn shackles. And I rode.

I had been barreling through Da Nang as fast as morning traffic and red lights would allow when the north end suburban expanse ended with the suddenness of an equatorial sunset. To the right was the oily brine of the petroleum terminal. To the left, a wide swath of rice land with an ornate temple property at the rear. To the rear was Da Nang, and dead ahead was the imposing and beautiful coastal mountain route of Hai Van Pass.

About 90 minutes earlier I had taken a quick stop by the sea’s edge at My Khe Beach to bid farewell to the placid South China Sea, and to take a moment to reflect upon all the many thousand days and nights that it has been since I first dreamed of cycling in Vietnam and to marvel at the realization that the moment had finally arrived to undertake my first tour there. Truly the 8 day 600 kilometer jaunt through central Vietnam that I was about to begin was a far cry from the much longer journey that I some day hope to attempt, but I was ecstatic for the journey that time now allowed. So with an unbelieving shake of my head, a slight fist pump, an excited whoop, and a smile big enough to crack the dawn, I clipped my shoes into the pedals and made the first pushes into a world of dreams along what I soon began to call, the Hello Highway.

Within a few minutes of leaving My Khe I had crossed the Han River and was heading through the heart of Da Nang. The traffic was surprisingly sparse in the core of the city of 1 million souls. This unexpected quiet was a nice addition to an already pleasant morning, warmed as it was by the early morning sunlight. Before long I made the merge onto National Route 1A, the main highway in Vietnam. Even then the traffic wasn’t especially heavy. The ride was quiet enough that from the sides of the road I could hear the first calls of what would become a very familiar refrain over the next few days: hello!

The first greeting came from two small boys with back packs as they ambled lazily, presumably on their way to school. I powered through the north end of the city responding to a good many hellos as I went. They came from all manner of folks: kids at play or on their way to school, young couples eating breakfast together, women working their small family restaurants, and older men with cigarettes hanging from the corner of their mouths yelling at each other over a game of cards. All took a moment from their morning to shout a friendly “hello” and give a kindly wave to the bearded guy streaming through town on a bike. Some voices came from origins unknown and seemed like disembodied cries from the depths of time or another dimension.

My ride that first day was intended to be 110 kilometers and all of it flat but for the 30 to 35 kilometers of Hai Van Pass. I had been warned of the difficulty of Hoi Van Pass by several local folks that I had come to know in the time I had been in Da Nang. They actually seemed to revel in telling me how steep and tough it was going to be.  My typical response was to shrug as if to say, “Oh well.” It isn’t like I had a choice. It was go Hai Van or not go. So, when I saw the first signs promising 10% grades ahead, I adjusted my gears accordingly and set my mind to conquer. I needn’t have been nearly so dramatic. There is no doubt that there are some tough stretches while climbing the Pass, but it wasn’t that tough. Its length was the most difficult part. It just seemed to keep going and going. But before long I was at the top. Once you are there, there are a small number of worn and weary war era buildings and a cluster of shacks selling cold drinks, cigarettes, and all manner of touristy trinkets. I stopped to refill my water supply and paid a heavily inflated price for what was essentially the Vietnamese version of Mr. Noodle. I scoffed my gourmet lunch of cheap noodles and second hand smoke and was soon back on the road.

The next 20 kilometers or so was a hang on and let ‘er go thrill ride averaging speeds well in excess of 40 kilometers an hour downhill on one of the most bendy and twisty roads I have ever traveled. My speed regularly topped 50 kilometers an hour and at least once pushed into the mid 60’s until I had to slow for a sharp breaking twist-around-and-kiss-your-own-ass kind of turn. After the descent was over it was back to flat lands and steady easy speeds of 25 to 30 kilometers an hour. And that’s when the hellos started coming fast and furious.

It began in the next small town that I passed through. It came from two girls of about 12 double riding on an old single speed bike with a rusted fender and rattling chain guard. The chain on the old bike looked so rusty that it was hard to imagine that there was much good metal left to it, but the smiles of those kids were as bright and warming as the first perfect rays of a new dawn. Before long the small towns that I was slipping through became an unbroken string of houses and shops bordering the highway, and the traffic increased to steady levels. It would stay this way right to Hue which was my destination for the day. But the amount of traffic couldn’t compare to the amount of greetings I was getting from the people. It seemed at times that every kid I passed shouted to me, and at least half the adults. Even people on their motorbikes would slow down as they came alongside and wave and say hello. Occasionally I would hear a hello from somewhere far behind, the sure sign of a kid who caught a glimpse of me at the last second but was determined to have their say.

The next day in Hue was a beautiful sunny day that I spent on a motorbike tour of the surrounding countryside. I thoroughly enjoyed my day in Hue but I was ecstatic to get back on the road the day after. I pulled away from my cheap hotel shortly after 7 a.m. under a cloudless sky with 90 kilometers to Dong Ha on the menu. My first move was to get as far away as I could from the busy National Route 1A that I had ridden two days earlier, so I headed for a small coastal road.

The road turned out to be little more than a series of concrete slabs barely wide enough for two small cars to pass each other. It was the perfect choice. It brought me through a myriad of small towns and villages just a stones throw from the sea. The route wasn’t the most scenic of places lined as it was by man made ponds trimmed with black plastic, but it was quiet and peaceful so that made it just about perfect. And then, that sound returned. Hello!

And hello, hello, hello it was the rest of the way to Dong Ha. One young man that spoke English pulled alongside on his motorbike for a chat. We only spoke for a few minutes but he began to laugh at the incredible number of people greeting me as I went by. “You are famous,” he laughed. I said hello and waved to so many people I almost believed it. As I passed through one small village so many people said hello at the same time that we all burst into laughter. It was surreal. And it was a joy.

Just past mid afternoon I wheeled into Dong Ha and found myself a room for the night. Even here in town the hellos kept coming. I found a great restaurant for dinner, grabbed a couple of cold ones and headed to my hotel. I sat on the balcony enjoying my beverages and the cool evening air and read my book for a while. Sleep soon beckoned and I heeded the call. After all, tomorrow was another day of riding, and this time, I will be heading toward the western and then? There be mountains.