ON BEING A MOTOMAMI

From an attitude perspective, it’s undeniable. I am a motomami. 

From a literal translation perspective – biker chick – I could not be less of a motomami. I don’t drive in the snow, I don’t drive at night, I don’t drive over mountain passes and I require assistance from at least two people if I’m to change lanes with less than a half mile heads up. 

A nervous driver renting a motorbike in the notoriously chaotic Vietnam? What could possibly go wrong?!

Allow me to set the scene. We’ve been in Vietnam for 24 hours. We’ve made our way from Saigon to Ben Tre, the first stop for travelers making their way to the MeKong Delta. I was white knuckled the whole way down because the traffic was…pandemonium. Mind you, at this junction we’re being driven by a chauffeur in an SUV….and my ass was already nervous.

We’re dropped of at Mr. Biker Ben Tre. He brings out the bikes. He tells us to take them for a test spin. It takes about 45 seconds of me lurching around the parking lot for Mr. Ben Tre to proclaim he won’t be renting to us because I am a liability. After a tense standoff and one more practice session in the parking lot he concedes. With that, we’re off. 

It takes us an extra 30 minutes to get out of the city because I’m too timid to exit the traffic circle on anything but the first, thus outer, exit meaning I have to take three left turns to get where we’re going at least five different times. Tensions are high and without a shadow of doubt, Quintin is questioning his decision to love me. After an excruciating 45 minutes, the road opens up, traffic thins to a trickle and I let myself think “wow, this actually might be fun.” Enter LA MOTO MOLLY.

We enjoy a heavenly 30kms of two lane, country roads. No major bridge crossings. Rice fields, coconut trees and blindingly bright wildflowers as far as the eye can see. 300 million different types of fruit trees lining the wide roads. You’re never far from a gently flowing river. The smell of honeysuckle replaces the smell of exhaust fumes. Impossibly, the sound of a Vietnamese man wailing on a karaoke machine cuts the sound of country dogs barking. The Mekong Delta is paradise.

We round the final bend before making it to our resting place for the day, Can Tho, and my heart sinks lower than New Orleans. The biggest, steepest bridge I’ve ever seen or dreamed of seeing towers in front of me and my romantic vision of the delta comes crashing down like a house of cards. I fucking hate it here.

Hands shaking, eyes watering and heart rate at 237 I start my ascent. Gone are the days of 2 lane country roads. This is a full on 6 lane highway, steeper than any mountain pass I’ve faced, with a deafening cacophony of motorbike, bus, truck and barge horns bringing the chaos to a full on factor 50.

I hear Quintins voice in my head “the only thing you can’t do is freeze and then shut down.” Unhelpful, I think, as everything fades to white. We get off the bridge and I psychotically flag Quintin down and tell him to pull over so I can LAMBAST him for leaving me on that bridge ALONE and SCARED. 

I start in —

“you cannot ever leave me in a situation like that again”

“Sorry, I was scared and had to get off that bridge ASAP”

*******anger melts away, he was scared tooooo!!!!!*******

I did, however, spend the rest of the day and the next morning furious because I knew we had to go back over the bridge to get home. I wouldn’t say the second time was the charm, but the easy chant of “all you have to do is not faint”, with Quintin slowly motoring behind me?!? Easy. Heart rate hovering around 126.

*****three weeks later*****

After 4 days zipping through the Mekong Delta, I show up to QT Bikes in Ha Giang confident. Smug, even. The roads in were (Vietnamese) calm. Throngs of naïve tourists also hoping to bike the loop littered the streets. Certainly, CERTAINLY I’m more experienced than these 19 year old’s. Eye protection in my pocket, pollution mask attached to my wrist, not a single inch of skin exposed. I’m ready to ride.

Take off with my kickstand down?! Never.

Knowing I need to have the break pressed to spark the ignition?! That's 101, babe, you don’t need to demonstrate.

Wait, OMG, this man is talking about shifting into gear?! Pause. Ask for a repeat. Confirmed. He’s talking about how to shift gears. The bike is not automatic. Infarto.

Under not a single circumstance will I be shifting gears, on a motorbike, in these streets I think to myself as some other tourist *literally* goes flying off her bike on a test run. Without hesitation our guide nods his chin towards her and says “see, very dangerous if not know how.” I look Quintin dead in the soul and let him know I’ll either be riding on the back of his bike or waiting for him in the hostel for 4 days because it will NOT be ME flying off the side of a MOUNTAIN.

Sensing my trepidation, the attendant asks if we’d prefer full automatic. DAWG, duh, LOOK AT MY ANXIOUS ASS. Lead with that!!! I’m a motomami, no doubt, but MOTOMOLLY knows her limits.

I escaped the danger of crashing while trying to shift gears, but the danger of crashing from cracking my neck gawking over the scenery?!? Ever present. I can confidently say you’ve never seen anything like it.

Lush limestone cliffs rocketing into the heavens, sweeping valleys with every square inch covered with rice or corn, huge rivers cutting the valley floor. Every day we venture through the fog blanketing the ascent to up above the clouds where we meander back down again. I’m constantly hoarse from screaming “STOP!!! PHOTO!!! OH MY GOD!!! QUINTIN DID U SEE THAT!!!! TAKE OUT THE BIG CAMERA!!! MOTOMAMIIIIII” Ha Giang is paradise.

I like motorbiking not because it made me feel closer to Rosalia (~30%), but because it was a new experience that grew my confidence. Previously, I would have emphatically insisted it was something I could not do. I knew I wanted to have these experiences while in Vietnam, so I had to set my fear and self doubt aside to get what I wanted. Like driving the camper van in New Zealand, I was very brave.

Once we set off on the bikes, there was no point in complaining or being a snot. My option was to be brave and ride from Point A to Point B regardless of the conditions. I’m learning that when you take the approach of accepting where you are and what needs to get done to get where you want to be, things aren’t that bad (though I maintain riding over that bridge really was that bad and I don’t regret crying and cursing the day I said yes to the motomami life).

I also appreciate that riding IS the activity. All there is to do or see for the duration of the journey can be done from your bike. You FEEL the temperature change as you drive up and over passes, you HEAR the difference of being on a rural road versus a main thoroughfare, you SEE the vastness of the rice fields, you SMELL the morning mist rising. And when you finish a day of driving you’re wholly filthy, every orifice is coated in grime and your hands are sore from death gripping the break.

I never want to drive a motorbike again, but I’m glad I did it.

xoxo,

LA MOTO MOLLY