Motorcycle Diaries

Since being in Vietnam I've had three trusty, and not so trusty bike companions who have facilitated many adventures, great and small.  The first, Little Moto, was so reliable and awesome that he got his own blog post, and a picture, which pretty much makes him a celebrity in Vietnam; the second was Kicker, who was so annoying (had to be kick started every time because the ignition didn't work) that I gave him back only after a month or so; and now I have Wobbler who, after a flat tyre that lead to what I suspect is a crushed wheel (whatever the metal interior bit is called) now wobbles disconcertingly if I drive too fast. 

In general, I am a very safe driver. When given the option of life or death, I invariably choose life, even if I'm late for something, or quite tired. Evidence to this is that I spent my first 11 months on a bike without mishap, which is quite something in Saigon. I'd say the average time spent before a significant accident is around 3 months, so I was really beating statistics. 

However, a few weeks ago, as I was on my way to a birthday party, a pizza delivery boy failed to acknowledge my existence and, essentially, drove straight into me from the side. My bike slid sideways, I face planted in the middle of a busy road, and I lost my shoe. 

It's funny what your brain does in situations like these. My first thoughts were that I needed to get out of the road, sharpish; my second that I quite liked that shoe, and needed to try and save it without having my hand run over. Thankfully I was able to salvage it and then get out of the road and into the nearest bar, whereupon the most wonderful demonstrations of humanity took the sting out of the whole event. First aid kits and green tea were produced; strangers got my bike to safety on the pavement; another stranger took my helmet off for me; I was ushered into a bathroom and then bettadined whilst squealing like a girl; ice bags were producdd; a taxi was flagged down and my bike looked after. Really, human beings are the most wonderful things. 

I managed not to cry until I got into the taxi, where I made all sorts of strange, suppressed noises, because I didn't want to bother the taxi driver, but really, this was probably a lot weirder and more disturbing for him. He had to rummage through my bag and take money out of my purse when we got to my apartments because my palms were ripped to shreds, and he did the whole thing without pinching any doe, which is very comforting. 

I managed to get to Risk or Death, who regaled me with stories of when she had biked through the deserts of Azerbajan in hot pursuit of international bandits and sustained similar injuries, and Frenchie took one look at me lain out, helpless on the sofa, when he popped over the weekend and said, "Eh, I 'av 'ad worse eenjuries een rugby. You Eenglish, you are 'elpless een ze face ov pain!', to which I agreed and plaintively asked for a cup of tea 

It took a day or so to get back on poor Wobbler once we'd picked him up from the bar and hammered the foot pedal away from the gear pedals (I say 'we' - some helpful Vietnamese men did it) but I got back on eventually, wrist splint, dressing and all, and spent about three days riding to work with one trouser leg rolled up so that the oozing wound on my leg could air. Mmmm. Tasty. 

Shallow wounds to the palms, left elbow, knees and hips were sustained, but all in all, not too bad an induction into the world of motor cycle crashes!