Because survival is insufficient
Flying to Vietnam is tedious, but it reminds me of all the books and films about the Vietnam war and makes me glad I’m arriving in peace time with stewardesses serving me wine, instead of on a troop transport delivering me into a war zone…
This is the inside of an Airbus A321. I’m going to have to get used to this sort of view for this trip.
This blog started as a record of my round the world bike trip. When I decided I wanted to do more bike travel (a lot more), the blog was redefined to be a blog about bike travel. I will be doing more bike travel, but this particular trip won’t be on two wheels. Not with an engine attached, at least. South east Asia appeals as a travel destination but not as a biking target, so for this venture I’m doing the backpacking thing. I’m still going to use this blog, which will now be redefined as a record of my attempts to see as much of the world as possible.
Travel without the bike means lots of public transport. When you travel by bike, there are a lot of things that can go wrong, but you’re always the one in control. It’s always just up to you to make things work. When you want to move on, you suit up and ride. Backpacking means lots of waiting around, queueing, more waiting, and everything is in other people’s hands. A double booking, a late departure, a cancelled flight, a careless baggage handler, there are lots of ways for things to go wrong. Maybe that’s why I’m feeling trepidation and apprehension, where normally I’d have an ear to ear grin at the thought of weeks of travelling. I’d prefer to be in control. On my bike, not only do I have plenty of leg room, a great view, no hassle finding space for my luggage, and no screaming children nearby, but also no need to wait when I’m ready to go, and no need to transfer to a bus to do the last couple of miles.
At least the flight from Newcastle to London with British Airways is considerable more refined than the hell that was the EasyJet flight I used to do twice a week to go to work, mostly because BA has allocated seating unlike the idiotic EasyJet free for all. There’s also a complimentary glass of Tempranillo, which is satisfying and relaxing enough for that ear to ear grin to reappear, even though the next day and a half will be more airports, busses, queues, stupid airport security, cramped seating, one very long flight to Kuala Lumpur and a short one to Saigon.
I’m not expecting to have any interesting stories or scenic photos for a while. I’m just hoping that Air Malaysia’s economy class also features a complimentary red wine…
Today is exactly one year since I suffered near-fatal head, face and leg injuries when a car hit me at 40mph, and it’s also the end of this leg of my worldwide travel adventure, after more than 10,000 miles through 12 countries. But it’s not over.
Watch this space!
Germany, The Netherlands, Belgium, France. Three tanks of super, one currywurst, two pints of coffee, one conversation with an inquisitive German, two with curious Belgians, one singing session with German truckers. The sun is out in France! Dry out, mostly, and check into the same Calais motel as an English couple who left the same Berlin motel this morning. Berlin to Calais, 600 miles, ish. Easy in a car, not so easy riding an off-road bike in heavy rain, but an absolute doddle compared to the hell that will be tomorrow’s 400 mile endurance event on British motorways. Give me a German autobahn in the rain over that, any day. Oh yeah, a quick word to the 100 German Hell’s Angels who pushed in front of me at the petrol station: You are all puffs, you look ridiculous, you don’t know how to ride a motorcycle, and the only way you’re scaring anyone is with the disgusting smell of your stupid beard that makes you look like a constipated walrus, you ridiculous, obnoxious, incompetent, malodourous, embarrassments to the worldwide brotherhood of bikers, to which you stupid fucking pricks do not, and never will, belong. Die under a bus, you pointless wankers.
Best view I’ve had all day is the one from an anonymous motel room outside Berlin, because I’m dry in here and not peering through a rain soaked visor, after spending the day nearly drowning in torrential rain and seeing nothing but the backside of Polish HGVs. Actually that’s not true, there was also one brothel, or "24 Hour Night Club", about every ten miles, a 47 mile traffic jam, 632 potentially fatal near-misses due to insane Polish driving, and another thirty or so that were due to a couple having sex on a motorway bridge.
