Journal entry 25: A Race Against Nature
Thursday – 12/10/15
It was a beautiful sunny day when I left Huế, a small city on the central coast of Vietnam. I set off with the intention of making it as far south as the Quảng Ngãi Province before the day’s end. No end destination in mind, just south. I had no idea what was there, and I didn’t really care; I just knew I needed to cover as much ground as possible over the next few days.
The day before, I purchased a motorbike from a local Vietnamese shop owner. It set me back a good four and a half million Vietnamese dong, only $200 or so USD, but I now had the freedom to go anywhere. The only thing was, I planned on booking a flight out of Ho Chi Minh City in a couple of days and that was over a thousand kilometers away. I had little time to explore or fool around. Between the scenic mountain road and coastal highway, the coast was the only route that would get me to my flight in time. Even then, it would only give me about a half day to sell my bike. I tried not to think about the details of it all, hoping that future Sam would figure it out.
I was making great time, cruising at a steady 80 km/hour. I had the Rolling Stones plugged into my ears and the repetitive flap of my shirt and jacket, tailing in the wind behind me. My pack was heavy, tied tightly to my body, but the majority of the weight sat on the bike and I got used to it fairly quickly. The sun was gleaming and warmed my chest, arms, and face while the fast wind, rushing against me and my bike kept me cool and comfortable. I felt like I was on a different planet. Nothing could shake the smile from my face. The idea of time was irrelevant and appeared to stand still. There was no feeling like it.
With a few hours of riding behind me, I blew past the small town of Quảng Ngãi and still had plenty of daylight left. Something kept me motivated to stay on the road.
As I closed in on Qui Nhơn, the next big city on my map, heavy storm clouds appeared off in the distance behind me, dividing the sky in half. In front of me was a calming cloudy blue sky. Behind me, and gaining, were dark and ominous storm clouds. The line in the sky looked like it had been drawn and it was sweeping across the sky in the same direction as me.
Where the sky divided the sun peeked through the clouds illuminating the rice patties below. It was a stunning sight but alarming all the same.
I picked up my speed in an attempt to outrun the fast-moving storm; the last thing I needed was to be caught between lightning and rain. I wrenched on the throttle, watching the speed gauge slowly creep up over 95 km/hour. I was in a race against mother nature, trying to outpace where the two skies collided.
A sense of relief set in as I left the monstrous clouds behind me in my sideview mirrors. As it’s said, I was home free.
I wasn’t the only rider trying to escape the storm. Moving at a quicker pace than me, another rider came cruising past, leaving me with no choice but to move aside. Beneath me was loose gravel and dirt from fresh construction of the 1A. Initially I thought nothing of it until the feeling of my back tire sliding underneath my bike registered in my brain. Immediately, I knew what was happening and all I could do was close my eyes and let the inevitability of what was about to happen, happen.
I once heard that there are two types of riders: those who have gone down and those who are going down. I was going down, fast and hard.
I slid under my bike against the loose gravel for what felt like an eternity before it kicked out from on top of me in another direction. I continued to slide for another couple of meters while a thousand thoughts raced through my head, chief of them being the absence of my helmet. Adrenaline coursed through my body, numbing me from any pain. I had been moving at a pace close to 100 kmh (60mph) for several hours and now I was completely still. I slowly stood up processing what had just happened as a few locals who witnessed the accident rushed over to assist me.
As I came to, I hobbled over to my phone, sitting in the gravel a few meters in front of me. I picked it up to see the screen had been shattered to pieces. It still lit up. My Nikon still hung around my neck. The flash was hanging on by its wires and the lens was shaved down to the glass. It didn’t work. My sunglasses sat beside my bike somewhat intact. They were nicked and the glass was scratched a good bit but they still did their job. My pack was still on me, and I could see the side had been shaved down quite a bit with the side buckles busted open. Bulging at the seams, my pack took the brunt of the damage. If it hadn’t been strapped to my body, I don’t know what shape I would’ve been in. My bike sat sputtering in front of me with visible body damage.
My material objects were a small price to pay for a seemingly clean bill of health. Sure, I was pretty beat up and bleeding in various spots, but I could still think clearly.
Gear assessment: camera smashed to bits, sunglasses cracked and shaved, phone shattered, pack shredded, bike mangled.
Physical assessment: palms completely skinned and bloody, knee split open, oozing blood, numbed elbow, most likely fractured.
The Show Must Go On
In an attempt to pick up my bike, I accidentally pulled on the throttle, kicking the bike forward. Maybe I wasn’t thinking as clearly as I thought. The sun was setting, and, now, I only had one working headlight. The rest of the bike remained intact, intact enough to keep riding.
I strapped on my pack and got back on my bike. Outside of the visible physical damage, I didn’t bother doing a deeper assessment. I wanted to wait until I made it somewhere safe before analyzing the rest of the damage to avoid any unnecessary anxiety.
I rode for about 16 kilometers, watching as the last bit of light fell below the horizon. The adrenaline slowly wore off and pain took its place. My entire body ached. The blood from my left hand crept up my arm as it was pushed by the wind. My right arm was most likely fractured. I clutched it in close to my body, resting it on my lap as I kept my bike straight and steady with one arm. It was hard to breathe, each deep breath sending bursts of pain throughout my body.
I continued on in the dark for a few more kilometers, keeping my eyes open for any sign of civilization. I was in the middle of nowhere with dirt and sand on either side of me.
Off in the distance, I saw a lonely light. As I got closer, I could make out a several-story cinder block building with a flickering hotel sign that barely hung to its side. There was nothing else around for as far as the eye could see except for a one-story building that sat directly across the street. It had lights that gave off a cold neon white glow. The entire place resembled a scene out of a horror film, Texas Chainsaw Massacre coming to mind, but at this point I was running out of options and needed to get off of the road. I was in no shape to continue on and I was running out of petrol.
They were open. Other than the owner, there wasn’t a soul in sight, yet the only room available was the lovers’ suite. Who cares, I thought. I handed over a few bills and headed straight for my room.
In The Loneliest of Places
Most of my cuts and scrapes appeared to be superficial and just needed to be cleaned and bandaged. The gash in my knee was deep, very deep, and was filled with bits of gravel. Both of my hands were shaved just shy of the bone, and I had road burn on my stomach and legs. My leather jacket was worn through on the right arm, the arm I think I fractured and my long pants were ripped and tattered giving them a little bit of character.
After examining the state of my body, I went down to the lobby, looking for some medical supplies. I had low hopes, but I had to try for peace of mind. The owner, who doubled as the desk attendant, didn’t speak any English. I revealed my cuts, hoping he would get the picture. After a quick head to toe scan, he looked up at me and said, “ahhh,” then proceeded to the back room out of sight. He was only gone for a second before returning with a medical kit. He poured a liquid green solution onto my hands and knee and began scrubbing it with gauze. The pain was excruciating, and I couldn’t help but let off a loud groan. He appeared to know what he was doing, so I let him continue. I trusted him.
Bandaged up, I retired to my room flopping down onto my heart-shaped bed. My lungs tightened, making it difficult to breathe. I tried to analyze the severity of my situation only making things worse. I began to worry about the deep cut on my knee, the throbbing pain in my arm, and my severe shortness of breath. I was scared and alone, and the closets town was over 50 kilometers away. I had to find solace in my situation, but at the time that seemed nearly impossible.
A Long Way to Go
In the morning, I woke up with no recollection of falling asleep. My body was stiff, and I was ready to get out of this lonely place. I took a moment to recenter my attitude and came to the realization that this is what adventure is all about. I didn’t need to be afraid or put my tail between my legs. I stood up tall, regaining every ounce of my confidence I had lost the night before. I strapped on my pack and jumped back on the bike that took me down. After all, I still had over 650 kilometers to go.
The Wanderer 