Easy Riders

Our first full day in Chiang Mai was a chilled affair. It hadn't started that way for poor old Steve who had had a fever during the night and alternated between being hotter than a thousand suns and shivering in his sleeping bag. Understandably, his main priority that morning was to find a doctor who could prescribe him some strong medication. Meanwhile, Nick and I headed off to do some research about our onward travels into Laos.

The afternoon we spent exploring the dozens of wats (Buddhist temples) that were scattered sporadically around the city. Although each one was similarly adorned with more gold than Fort Knox, each of them had their own unique feel.

Steve got his haircut in a place that appeared, on closer inspection, to come directly from the set of the 'Grease' movie and then Nick, John Travolta and I had some food and an early night.

The next day was altogether more eventful.

I've always wanted to ride a motorbike. When I was little I spent hours riding around French campsites on my Raleigh Activator pretending I was Carl Foggarty. The only time I came close to fulfilling this dream was when I was about 12 and I had a go on Steve's old Honda CB100. I say 'a go' but my ride lasted about 5 seconds as I let the clutch out too quickly, wheelied the bike and promptly fell off the back.

Since that moment I have not trusted myself to get on anything I could throw myself off. But that Tuesday morning I sat astride my very own Harley Davidson ready to face my demons.

My 'Harley Davidson' was, in fact, a 50cc mo-ped. A pink 50cc mo-ped, with leopard print detail and a foot rest that bore the images of Lilo and Stitch. Steve and Nick chuckled as they chose their more elegant, suave looking vehicles. But I was already slightly attached to my bike, or Tracey, as I now called her.

Our thorough CBT consisted of a rather rotund lady showing us our meager supply of petrol and explaining, in broken English, that Nick's key was a bit dodgy. With that sound advice ringing in our ears we wobbled off down the road, only causing a minor traffic jam as we pootled along.

Two hours later, though, the wobbles had disappeared and we were winding our way up some brilliant mountain roads. We stopped to admire views but, to be honest, this was all about being 7 years old again. I was finding the racing lines and hitting apexes as we traversed up towards the temple at the top. The only slight interruption to me being Valentino Rossi came when I forgot to put my foot stand up and tried to turn left. Needless to say I didn't turn left. Fortunately, Tracey's 50cc engine wasn't pumping out enough speed for me to go very far and I corrected my error before I found myself in a grass verge.

We visited the temple but were too late to see the royal palace perched on the very top of the hill. Reluctantly, we decided to turn around and return to the city. Our bikes were due back at 6 and we had a minibus to catch at 7.

As we descended I could feel that Tracey's engine was misfiring. Then, as we stopped to look at the panoramic view of the city, Tracey stopped working altogether. I'm not a mechanic, but I think it was probably something to do with the fact I didn't have any petrol left. Nick was dangerously low too. Thankfully, gravity enabled me to freewheel the bike to the bottom of the hill - but that was as far as we could go.

We now had two options. Nick and I thought it would be best to send Steve to get some more fuel. Steve, however, was sure that we would be able to siphon some of his surplus petrol into my fuel tank. Knowing this was dangerous, Nick and I attempted to convince Steve it wasn't a good idea - but Steve had gone all Bear Grylls on us and was in the hedge searching for a pipe. So when he came back seconds later with a tube we thought that it must be fate and reluctantly let him attempt the procedure.

Never ever siphon petrol. This is always sound advice. Especially if your recovering from a chest infection. There is a certain sense of inevitability about the story I'm telling - it's the same feeling Nick and I had as we watched Steve place the hosepipe in his petrol and suck. 

Incredibly, it worked and the liquid began to flow in to my bike... for all of a second. And then it stopped. So Steve tried again - this time, however, he sucked too hard and we watched helplessly as Steve got a mouthful of petrol.

The next few minutes were spent watching Steve wretching by the roadside as we occasionally offered a particularly helpful, "Are you alright, mate?" Of course he wasn't. He just used FourStar as mouthwash.

Only now, a week later, is Steve able to eat or cough or breathe without tasting petrol.

We couldn't stand and sympathize with Steve for long though - after sending him in search of a petrol station it was now 5.40pm. We had twenty minutes to get through the city's rush hour traffic and get our bikes back to the rental place. 

We weaved in and out of queues, narrowly avoided being side swiped by vans and prayed that traffic lights stayed green. Which they did. We felt like we were in a movie - racing through the streets was exhilarating. It was only when we were overtaken by a girl in school uniform that we realised we couldn't have been going that fast!

Later that evening, as we sat on the minibus heading northeast to the Laos border, we were able to smile and reflect on a brilliant day. Even Steve was smiling - or was it a petrol induced grimmace? I couldn't tell.