RIDE THE AWESOME – RIDE THAILAND – PART THREE OF THREE

PART ONE IS HERE

 

PART TWO IS HERE

 

DAY SIX – PAK CHONG TO BURIRAM – 252KM

 

“I need shorts, Tommy. My manhood needs airing.”

We were on the final approach to Buriram and the opening round of the MotoGP. For our sins, we were gifted a variety of roads, both straight and sweepery, with the highlight being a stop at the ancient Singha Temple at the Phanom Rung Historical Park. It was a Khmer Hindu complex dating back to the 10^th century, dedicated to the god, Shiva the Destroyer, and sits on top of an extinct volcano. The whole place is made out of red and pink sandstone and laterite blocks, and is simply breath-taking. As an added bonus, the road to and from the temple is a twisty delight made of sticky black asphalt, and some of us had to ride it several times, just to make sure Shiva was pacified.

 

 

That morning, we’d ridden a gentle winding road along the shores of a lake, and past a Tuscan village, complete with a life-size reconstruction of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Which struck us all as gloriously bizarre. One of the Japanese ladies was then bitten by a bee, so there was a bit of a fuss about that, but I got the chance to see a very dusty but tricked-up FLH sitting under a nearby awning.

After the temple, it was a straight run to Buriram. And straight past Buriram, and onto our hotel which was 50km away from the track. I gather that when the tour was organised, it was very close to the date of the race, and accommodation is hard to come by in Buriram. But the place we stayed at, the Eireann Boutique Hotel, was perfectly fine, and the pool was truly welcoming.

 

Tommy ran me back to Buriram so I could get my press credentials, and I went shopping for a pair of shorts because the pair I had brought were left somewhere far behind me.

 

“I need shorts, Tommy. My manhood needs airing,” I told him.

We went to a department store in a mall in Buriram, and I was treated to a level of service that stopped in Australia in the 1960s.

 

The shorts I wanted cost me five dollars, and I was attended upon by two very solicitous Thai girls. They held my purchase while I looked at other things, then led me to a counter, folded and wrapped the shorts with the utmost care, and bowed me out like I was some kind of emperor.

 

DAY SEVEN AND EIGHT – THE THAILAND MOTOGP

 

“We are from Indonesia. We don’t know where anything is.”

I am more convinced than ever the Australian MotoGP Corporation needs to be kicked into an open sewer and flushed out to sea. I am also more ashamed than ever by what we offer the fans and the riders at Phillip Island. It’s a disgrace. It’s impossible to compare the Island to Chang. We put on what is effectively a price-gouging club race, while the Thais put together a stunning international event with all the energy, pizzazz, and atmosphere we could only dream of.

 

I will write more about this at another time, because this is really about the tour, not me shaming the Australian MotoGP Corporation into righteous oblivion. But never doubt we run a shitty fourth-rate event by comparison.

I chose to ride to and from the track each day for a bunch of reasons. Primarily because I wanted to be there before eight am, and the bus with the tour group wasn’t leaving until nine. They all had grandstand seats. I had press credentials, parking, and access to the magnificent media centre, which sat just underneath the enormous main grandstand. And I had to prepare for the podcast Freido and I planned to record on Sunday night.

The other reason I wanted to ride was because I could do so without a helmet. Yes, helmets are compulsory in Thailand. But no-one seems to care, and the very few cops I saw were all at the track. I saw not a single police car the whole trip, apart from one terrifying old paddy wagon on Day Four, which seemed to be taking locals to the markets. Plus, the locals had told me the cops turn off all the forward-facing speed cameras during MotoGP week so the tourists aren’t inconvenienced.

So, each day I’d get up early, and smash the fifty-kay trip to Buriram sans jacket and lid, at about 150. I’d spend the day at the track, then I’d go out with Freido, and various people I knew from the paddock. Then I’d ride back late each night, revelling in the astonishing freedom that fast, warm run was giving me. My day ended with a beer and a swim and I’d do it again the next day.

One of the signal highlights of my MotoGP weekend was a dinner with Simon Crafar. I didn’t see much of Simon over the race weekend, what with his new job as Head Heart-Crusher and Soul-Drinker, but we managed to get together post-race on Sunday.

Simon had sent me the co-ordinates of the restaurant, and told me it was an amazing place with incredible food. I spent half-an-hour riding through old Buriram’s darkest alleys, until Google Maps announced with great satisfaction: “You have arrived at your destination”. I could see no restaurant. But I could see about ten young blokes standing outside what looked like a football club drinking beer and smoking. I asked them if there was a restaurant nearby.

“We are from Indonesia. We don’t know where anything is.”

 

I called Simon.

 

“The cab dropped us off two kilometres from the restaurant. Be there shortly,” he said.

He’s having a lend of me, I thought. Kiwi bastard. Freido arrived, and looked as confused as I was. He had already necked several beers to get through the podcast we had just recorded, so he was well zesty.

 

“I’m gonna keel him!” he declared, before starting a hilarious and animated conversation with the Indonesian blokes in perfect Indonesian. I’d had no idea he even knew where Indonesia was.

A black-skinned man came out of the arcade I’d thought was a footy club.

 

“Are you Mister Boris?” he asked. I nodded.

 

“Please, your table is ready,” he said and opened an old door I had not noticed other than to think the whole joint looked like a doctor’s surgery from the Seventies. I had utterly missed the sign on the door that read: “Mister Simon”. Inside this private room was a big, fully-set table with a spinning middle bit, with gin, soft drinks, and beer chilling on ice. Freido and I were gobsmacked.

Simon arrived with Race Director, Mike Webb, and I had one of the best nights of my life. Not only was I at table with serious MotoGP movers and shakers, but I was being fed the most incredible Chinese cuisine I’d ever eaten. It was a humbling and enriching experience. Much like when I doubled a shouting Freido back to his hotel.

 

“They’re not all prostitutes!” I yelled at him as he shouted offers to every girl he saw.

 

“And not everybody wants to race you around the streets, bastard!” he yelled back.

Cloaked in our respective and shameful guilt, I dropped him off and hammered back to my hotel, grinning like an idiot.

 

DAY NINE – BURIRAM TO KHON KAEN

 

“I’m thinking of throwing some money at her so she can do that here at the table. She’s probably German, so it’ll be alright.”

The ride to this city, and it is the fourth-biggest in Thailand, was largely straight roads and punishing heat. I did not care. I was still buzzing from the MotoGP weekend. And Tommy was never far away with his frigid towels and cold water.

 

We encountered our first thunderstorm maybe 60km out, while we were getting petrol. This caused a ripple of unease to run through my herd. But it proved to be nothing more than a few drops of rain and some thunder. Still, it was enough to slow the group right down, and we got separated coming into Khan Kaen.

George pulled over. Well, basically he just stopped in the left-hand lane, and this caused consternation in some quarters of our group. Mutterings about “safety” and “why are we stopping again?” were heard. The emanator of all displeasure, huffed, yelled at George, and rode off in high dudgeon. If he was wearing a skirt it would have swished.

 

I figured if a local is OK to stop here, I’m good with it. Once again, no horns were sounded, no-one yelled at us, and the traffic just continued to flow.

It turns out someone had got lost, and needed to be found, and George, as always, set about fixing this issue, because that is what great guides do. Pity they also have to put up with tantrums.

Once again, the hotel was beyond spectacular and intensely confusing. It was called the Ad Lib and it was 28-stories high with a rooftop pool set in a tropical garden. But, to get to my room on the 24^th floor, I had to catch a lift to the 28^th floor, then another lift down to the 24^th. No, I do not know why. I just accepted it as being edgy and modern. But the place was astounding.

I went for a walk, found a market that sold eviscerated frogs, live eels and turtles, and things that looked like giant earthworms. I then found myself in a garden restaurant where we would later have dinner. What followed was an amazing night of great music, food, and lashings of ice-cold beer.

There was a three-piece ensemble of old blokes on the stage, and this trio cranked out the most amazing covers for almost four hours straight – everything from Marley, to Seger, to Sinatra, to Dusty Springfield. And more. They were incredible. I kept chucking 100 baht notes at them and they just kept on playing. They were so good, western girls would break out in dance as they walked past.

“I’m thinking of throwing some money at her so she can do that here at the table. She’s probably German, so it’ll be alright,” I told Vorsty.

And when the rest of the group went back to the high-rise hotel to drink cocktails, Vorsty, George, Tommy, and I stayed on and sang songs until we ran out of puff.

 

DAY TEN – KHON KAEN TO CHIANG KHAN – 352KM

 

“George! You need to hook me up with some Lekpor as soon as possible.”

 

We headed north the next morning, and made for the legendary Mekong River. The first half of the journey was a little tedious – straight-road runs always are. This was briefly relieved by a coffee stop where I beheld a huge sculpture of a gorilla made out of old tyres. I was admiring this when Jeremy came over.

“You need to go and see what they’re cooking next door. I have no idea what it is, but it smells amazing,” he said.

 

I duly went to the adjoining awning and saw a lady was cooking an indescribable cut of meat on a large hot-plate. It did indeed smell divine.

“May I ask what that is?” I smiled.

“Lekpor!” she grinned back.

“George!” I yelled. “You need to hook me up with some Lekpor as soon as possible.”

 

“Lekpor?” he asked.

 

“Yes,” I said. “That lovely lady in there is cooking Lekpor. I need to eat some.”

 

Geroge went and looked and came back smiling.

“You have already eaten that,” he said.

 

“I have not,” I avowed. “I’d have known if I was eating Lekpor.”

 

“Leg of pork,” he grinned. “You ate it the other night.”

Lunch was on the banks of the Mekong, the Mother of Water as it’s known, and the 12^th largest river in the world. It runs through China, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, Myanmar and Thailand. Its headwaters are on the Tibetan Plateau and it’s famous for catfish the size of lounges, dolphins, crocodiles, and being the final resting place of far too many US soldiers.

We were treated to some Vietnamese cuisine, then wandered off to shoot some pictures on the banks, and peer at Laos on the other side. I suddenly got involved with some ladies selling second-hand clothes. We started chatting, and they decided I was in the Mafia and wanted to have their pictures taken with me. It would have been rude to refuse.

Someone else dropped their bike leaving the restaurant, so we got a bit split up, but we regrouped, and the road got super interesting. The Mekong was on my left and the road wound its way along its banks in what was transcendental riding glory. The sight of the afternoon sun reflecting off the water, the myriad small river islands, the craggy Laotian mountains hedging the vista behind it, and me chasing Vorsty through the glorious corners like a rabid animal, will stay with me forever.

Another superb hotel awaited our pleasure in Chiang Khan. The Rivertree Resort was smack on the bank of the Mekong, and as I lounged in its vast pool, I could see the vast and timorous waters of this immense river.

After another beaut dinner, and having extensively greased myself with anti-Mekong mosquito fluid, Jeremy and I went walking through the night-market. He was debating what to buy his wife, while I was buying everything I figured mine would like, even if I had to apologise for it later. We then found a little shop where a crushingly polite young Thai fellow rolled me three of the finest joints the world has ever seen. He charged me less than ten bucks.

Duly armed, Jeremy and I found a hole-in the-wall bar to drink beer in. In my mind’s eye, I could see grizzled jungle mercenaries drinking in here until the sun came up. It was nothing more than a tin roof nailed between two buildings, and a squat toilet where you had to pan water out of an adjoining tub to flush, but it was fantastic. The beer was frigid and the bottles came wrapped in plastic bags with cartoon animals on them. The Klingon Empire never ceased surprising me.

 

A short time later, we retired to our hotel’s poolside to see what these joints were about. They were pretty much about me bouncing off my room’s walls a short time later and giggling like an idiot. So top quality, I would think.

 

NOTE: At every coffee stop, the group would all make their way into the shop to sit inside the nuclear-powered air-con. Pete, George, Tommy, and I, and the odd more seasoned tropical traveller among us, would always sit outside in the shade. You know why, right? Go on, guess.

 

DAY ELEVEN – CHIANG KHAN TO NAN – 381KM

 

“I will take them as slaves when they pass through.”

 

What a day. I’m still processing it. The road we rode runs along the Thai-Lao border and it is off its chops. I would have carved more than 260km of endless corners – it was simply incredible. Some sections were four lanes wide, some just two. Some corners were even banked, FFS! Traffic was light, and apart from the odd little surprise here and there, it was flawless. I have never ridden anything like it, and I doubt I ever will again.

Jeremy proved to be a superb rider, and he carved me up on the outside when I was just too shitty to try harder. Vorsty led like the Road God he is, and we just chased.

 

And we got separated from the rest. But that was OK. We had split into two groups by this stage, with Vorsty leading those who wished to ride in a more spirited manner, and George left to tend those who wanted to take it easy.

This is kinda where I acquired my village. I was corner-manning in a village we were idling through, so I stopped as some of my group rode on. Unbeknown to me, a chunk of my group which was behind me decided to join the other group. But I sat at this intersection and waited. The village dogs barked at me relentlessly. They eventually stopped because they got used to me. I had been there for maybe half-an-hour and I was wondering what had happened to the following group. A few villagers came out to see if I was alright, offered me a drink, and some shade to wait in. I could sense they were searching for a new chieftain, and I was of the size and mien that appeared worthy. There was enough grey in my beard to indicate wisdom, and enough heft in my shoulders to signal strength. And the dogs were OK with me. The temple I could see across the road would make a suitable kraal, and I was sure I could get wives in whatever raids I led these good people on. Soon, I figured, I would have more villages. My spearmen would be cruel to our enemies, but I would always extend mercy. My throne would be made of buffalo bones and elephant hide – ethically sourced, of course – and my offspring would carry on my dynasty with pride and honour.

And then my phone beeped. Vorsty had sent me a message. “Do not wait. They have stopped for coffee.”

 

“I’m good,” I texted back. “I will take them as slaves when they pass through.”

 

“????” he texted back.

Reluctantly, I left my people. And I was soon revelling in even more corners as I chased my Google Map to the meeting point.

Lunch was in a simple roadside eatery in some village, and it was delicious. There was only one noodle dish, but I inhaled it with gusto. Our groups had come together, but they were soon to be split again, as even more corners awaited.

I was wild-eyed with corner madness by the time we arrived at our hotel, the Pim Pool Villas, about three kay out of Nan.

Dinner that night was a surprise. There was a steak restaurant attached to the hotel, and an amazing wine cellar. I had a good T-bone and split a bottle of decent South Oz Henschke with Dave, the elder of the two Americans, and an excellent dinner companion. I know shit about wine, but I know a South Australian red is rarely anything but great.

 

 

 

I followed this up by sitting around the pool with Jeremy, Michael from Belfast, Vorsty, Tommy, and possibly someone else, drinking beer, and watching how the giant koi carp in the pond adjoining the pool would surface to eat bugs.

 

It was my second last day on the road, and while I didn’t want this magnificence to end, I did want to go home. Strange feeling that. You wish the ride would just go on and on, and yet you feel a bit homesick as well, especially if you have something great to go back to.

 

DAY 12 – NAN TO CHANG MAI – 314KM

 

“Come back next year and I will sell them to you for that!”

This was another day of endless winding corners. I could not take them for granted. I just couldn’t. They seemed to get better and better. Much of this run was on superb black hotmix, four-lanes wide, cambered, and stunning.

 

As tired as I was, I just refused to cruise. So, I kept up as best I could, and still managed a podium behind Jeremy. I love seeing a smooth, unfussed rider do his thing.

Oddly enough, I have no memory of stopping for lunch. I know we did. I can only put it down to Corner Brain. I had done so many corners I had lost the power to retain anything in my brain but the ability to do more corners. Not a bad place to be, I guess.

But I do remember coming back into Chang Mai, and dropping the bikes off. It was over. It was always gonna be over. The next day I would get on a plane and go home. I would leave this astounding country behind, but I would cherish what it had given me until the end of my days. It had been a riding experience like no other. Sure, the accommodation and food were beyond superb, and we were cared for and looked after by George and Tommy, who really made it special. But it was all about the riding for me. And that was unmatched.

That night, after a farewell dinner in a restaurant by the Ping River, where George ensured I had an adequate supply of Lekpor, Vorsty and I went wandering in the massive night markets near our hotel. And I do mean massive. I walked for three hours, and had maybe covered a third of it.

We tried to buy fancy fake watches – I wanted this Hublot and Vorsty went straight for the Breitling, but the prices we were offering were just not acceptable. “Come back next year and I will sell them to you for that!” one smiling bloke said.

“He’s on,” Vorsty said as we walked away. “I am coming back next year and he will sell them to me for that price.”

 

“I have every hope that I can join you in that,” I sighed.

 

IN CLOSING

 

Sorry if this was a bit long, but that’s the way I felt this story had to be told, so if you’re still here, thank you for your patience.

 

As you can tell, I had an amazing time. I am enormously grateful to Pete Vorst and Compass Expeditions for hosting me on this trip. I have nothing to compare this tour company with any other, since this is the first such thing I have done, but I would think what Compass offers and how it goes about its business is very hard to match, let alone beat.

 

I am more than happy to put my hand on my heart, and recommend this trip to anyone who is thinking about such a journey. Sure, you can do it by yourself, and there are pluses and minuses no matter what you chose, tour group or solo wolf. Younger riders may indeed choose the solo route. And more power to you. It would be a superb adventure. But when you get to a certain age, there’s something quite magnificent about pulling into a magical five-star hotel, being greeted with cold towels and drinks, finding your luggage waiting for you in your room, and being feted like you were someone truly special. Sure, there were things that probably won’t be on the next trip and didn’t need to be on this one, and not everything ran smoothly. But that is the nature of motorcycle touring – and no-one ever remembers a run where nothing happened. It was all part of an altogether incredible experience on two wheels.

 

Bravo, Compass Expeditions, you exceeded every possible expectation I’d had. 12 out of ten.

 

Compass Expeditions does all sorts of tours to some amazing places, including four-wheel-drive ones, and you should certainly check out its website and sign up for the newsletter. CLICK HERE.