Riding the Ghost Road: Part Three
Act of God.
Having made much of Monsieur Punty’s legendary food packages, I did omit to mention that his perfect little '“Parcels of Pleasure” contain not only pasta and pesto but also many other sinful delicacies, including mixed nuts, fruity granola and sachets of full-cream milk. All that is lacking, as we sit down for breakfast on Day Three of our little expedition along the Vietnam-Laos border, is something to eat it with. Improvisation is in order!
For his part, Monsieur Punty eats his granola out of an old toothbrush cup he found in the bathroom, using a complimentary comb as a spoon. Not to be outdone, I mould the peel-off lid from the tin of nuts into a kind of shovel-cum-cuthroat-razor, which, while effectively delivering the cereal, manages to lacerate the corners of my mouth, affording the granola a pleasant raspberry aesthetic.
My tasty but blood-drenched breakfast over with, I slide into my damp, shampoo-frothing cycling attire and we bid farewell to the infamous “House of Inhospitality.” Time for the next leg of our little cycling odyssey!
Back in the saddle, we climb back up into the thick of jungle. The sun rises ominously into a clear blue sky; a harbinger of the hurt to come. One hundred-and-forty kilometres and three thousand metres of climbing lies ahead. From the first pedal stroke to the last, the road will rise and fall with barely a centimetre of flat land in between. We are in for another long and scorching day in the saddle. Glorious!
Today’s route is even more sparsely populated than yesterday’s, with barely a soul to be seen along the way. Appealing as this is to my innate sense of unsociability, it also means no stalls, no drinks and no food. I thank God for Monsieur Punty’s nuts… so to speak.
After just forty kilometres of steep and undulating terrain, we are already cooking in the stifling heat of the jungle. I begin to worry that Monsieur Punty might succumb to the effects of the intense heat and humidity. A proper bout of heatstroke would spell the end of the tour for the fearless Frenchman. But I also know that Monsieur Punty is made of stern stuff and would probably have to spontaneously burst into flames before giving up the ghost on this Ghost Road.
And then, all of a sudden, out of the cloudless, azure sky, a soft rain starts to fall all around us. Cool drops of water trickle down our faces. We pull over to the side of road and bathe our fevered brows in the miraculous mist that has suddenly appeared out of nowhere; tears from heaven, caressing our scorched temples. It is like a dream. But what is it? We climb a little further, rising up through the cool, dewy spray that washes over us, like a cloud of morphine.
As we round the corner, we find our answer. Far below in the valley, a huge hydro-electric power plant has opened its sluice gates to release the overflow from a dam, following a recent typhoon. The immense power of the cascading torrent sends towering jets of spray high into the air, which is then carried on the breeze, all the way up to us, high, high above. A feat of human engineering and a heavenly gesture, for two toiling cyclists, grinding their weary way through the Vietnamese jungle under a cruel sun.
In this fleeting and magical moment of serendipity, I am once again reminded that cycling is the most beautiful pastime in the world.
The climbs that follow are steep and relentless, with gradients reaching sixteen percent and beyond. By now, however, we have found our rhythm; with our machines, with our effort, with each other and with all the challenges we face along the way. It is the rhythm of touring, where you stop fighting the bike, the terrain and the fatigue. You simply let it in and then let it go. It is the Holy Grail of the endurance athlete.
In the golden light of the late afternoon, we arrive at our destination for the day. It has been a day of immeasurable beauty, exquisite suffering and great camaraderie. Forever memories harvested on the jungle pathways of Vietnam.
The proprietor of the hostel, fully clothed, greets us warmly as we clamber off our bikes. Yes, he will wash our clothes; and yes, he does have a kitchen and yes, Monsieur Punty can use it to cook whatever he wishes. Things are looking up!
That evening, as we dine like kings in the glow of this fine hospitality, our minds turn to the looming issue of the bike cases, or lack thereof. Tomorrow will bring us to our final destination, where we will need to pack up our bikes, ready for the trip home. But we have no cases. What to do?
Somewhere between the pasta entrée and the fruit course, a plan of ingenious dimensions is forged. A man we have never met who works in a bike shop we have never been to, will get a taxi company we have never heard of to deliver two large cardboard boxes to an airport terminal we won’t be at at a time we probably can’t make. Our plan has more holes in it than an O.J. Simpson alibi but having just witnessed an act of God in the jungle, I know destiny is rooting for us and so dismiss any notion that it might actually be a bit stupid.
Monsieur Punty, clearly a man of questionable faith, thinks it prudent, however, to prepare a Plan-B, just in case. Godless soul! The contingency plan we arrive at essentially boils down to “If we see two cardboard boxes on the way, we stop, pack the bikes in them and call a taxi.” What this plan lacks in complexity and guile, it more than makes up for in its ability to be written down on a beer mat.
With everything sorted, we retire to our rooms to breathe in the scent of our freshly laundered bike kit and fall into a deep and sumptuous slumber.
Tomorrow would surely be another beautiful day!