Minsk Diaries: Initiation Sessions

Before I begin, I propose a photograph, from Thailand, in the hopes of acquiring some type of insurance...


when it goes (and it does, I assure you), it goes a little something like this...close to hell, but definitely not your little angel / applying for residency in bumf***ville, vietnam / Y.E.S. / "we are always running for the thrill of it, thrill of it" / chain...sawed...a bit too literally / zephyr wayfarers /beelined it, keened it, missioned it / Powlesland you mingy dog, what in the HELL have you gotten us into now? /cheese with that whine? / snail of a drip, but a winged buzz / PHO X3 / you want ten dollars? / NOT so easy rider / were going to need bikkies with that, sorry / BOOM / free.

Granted, that's in no particular order, and doesn't make sense unless you have serious mental issues, but for all you visual learners...


An English bloke (a fellow gap-yearer) and I decided to raise the bar of adolescent idiocy, so the game of limbo goes a bit smoother for those who follow. On a bit of a whim, we bought Minsks: Russian made beasts, strong to no end, yet sturdy to the other end (breakdowns are norm), loud enough bring shame to muffles round the world, and ultimately, beautiful, beautiful things.

I've already described Hanoi traffic, which, when wading through, can seem a lot like a very real, fatal version of the game Frogger. It's one thing to walk across the street, but to drive amongst rage that is the road is a completely different animal altogether. I really loud, big, and scary animal. Especially if you've never driven a bike before. Genius? Check. So, a few hours after the forced growth of some rickety motor skills, we roared right into the fray, and somehow managed to escape the clutches of untamed Hanoi streets, heading north, into the wild, the mountaintop town of Sappa our destination. My chariot, the Red Baron (already a tender moniker, alluding to the intimate), is a thirsty one (gas costs about the same as in the states), but nothing compared to my parched being, yearning for a splash of experience from the road. Boy did we get drenched. Starting with the first day, the bikes were quick to bite the hand that feeds, resulting in a situation that found us broken down, stranded in the middle of nowhere, and forced to sleep at a very peculiar little man's house - the archetypal theme throughout was dealing with the failures of our steeds.


Since our bikes were being fed so well, we decided it would only be fair to implement the same culinary unselfishness upon ourselves. Ambrosial bowls of Pho (rice noodle soup) offered steam, twirling upwards, thawing frozen faces and satiating grateful lingual cavities. And then there's the coffee. I've figured out the advantage the Vietnamese hold in their evolutionary progressions: their lack of hair is designed to survive the insanely strong blends, which marshal all locks to strict attention. To me, it's perfect. It's drip coffee, and is served basically as a syrupy shot, with condensed milk to spare, there's no room in here for softies who like to water their brew down: go hard or go home. The anticipation is killer, similar to watching a pot boil, each drop teases you before the final indulgence.

I knew that riding was in my DNA, as I have a Hermann reputation to uphold, considering the diversion of my father and brother, but I had no idea of the way cruisin' would sweep me off my feet in such a romantic affair. I find it akin to skiing in many ways, but as if galloping about itself weren't enough, the scenes flitting past ensure constant stimulation: old women waddling about, hands behind their backs in traditional tribal garb, the water buffalo in repose (...in the middle of the road), the child, lost in mentation in the corner of the doorframe, old men ripping away at their tobacco bongs...you want to stop and interact with each and every one of them. The land itself is stunning: we floated along a countryside evocative of the land before time, next to rivers, through rice paddies etched into hillsides, we inchwormed our way up the sides of brooding fatherly figures, clad with milky sashes and scarves of mist, throwing a rager of a first and second gear party, with a soundtrack barring admittance to anything other than a scream or whine. Ahh to be free.

Crap weather most of the time, you couldn't see ten meters in front of you in Sappa, but that was hardly the point...
Our return to Hanoi made our foolishness concrete: a 10 hour day (6-8 is real long) at full throttle, winding up right where it all started, smack dab in the midst of all the fury, wholly delirious and exhausted, yet antsy with the forecast of further adventures.


I'll ride out to a JIJ (Jankowski Inside Joke)...Overall, I'm in love with my bike, on the topic of comfort though, I'd consider 8th Amendment infringements if anyone decides to throw the Hillary Clinton Nutcracker into the recycled gifts pile again - there's really no need as its all been done before.

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