I never intended to learn to drive a motorcycle. I lived in Thailand for an entire year when I was 26 and far more adventurous and far less concerned with my own mortality. During all that time I never bothered to learn. It was a handy excuse when someone was needed to run errands during rush hour or during monsoon season. I didn’t really miss the independence, as everywhere I wanted to go was a cheap motorcycle taxi ride away. To be honest, the whole idea sounded like a harrowing hassle that I could really do without. I left Thailand never having given it a try.
Fast forward six years and I am back again in Southeast Asia, this time on the island of Phuket. For all its tourism, much of the island is still inaccessible by convenient public transport, and one’s own set of wheels is a must. When I got my job teaching, about 10 kilometers from my home, I let my boyfriend shuttle me back and forth for months, as he wasn’t working. I really enjoyed the luxury of a chauffeur. It was one less thing to worry about on busy school mornings.
As I started to get to know some of my coworkers, I quickly distinguished the “lifers” from the “gap year” teachers, and learned whom to approach about all my immigrant-related questions and concerns. One gal teaching down the hall from me, I learned, had been living in Thailand for 10 years. She had come here straight from college, fell in love with the country, and never left. She had all kinds of insider tips as to where to get ripe avocados or cheap wine, and I asked if we should get together. While trying to plan, it came to light that neither of us could drive or speak Thai.
I was struck by surprise and had to fight off the judgement. I had only been here six months. I was still settling in. After 10 years I would certainly know my way around the Thai language. When I had my one year Thailand anniversary, I felt the panic creep in that I had done little to nothing to assimilate into my new home country. I could barely say more than what I wanted to order at a restaurant, and even that was a bit of a struggling mess. And I still couldn’t drive. What was I waiting for?
As a history teacher, in my daydreams, I fancy myself the female version of Indiana Jones, and one day, I just know I’ll need to draw on my knowledge of world history, my grit, and mad skills to save my friends and provide the world with righteous knowledge and priceless artefacts. Indiana Jones could ride a motorcycle. He could even fly a plane. Obviously, the list of reasons to learn was getting longer and longer.
I decided to turn my panic and shame into action. I rented an automatic Honda Click, the same scooter that the other tourist girls used to explore the island and bought a helmet. I asked my boyfriend to drive me to the golf course so I could practice my driving. I wanted to be very sure of myself with the mechanics of the machine before I threw myself into the treacherous traffic that menace the streets of Phuket. My first try was with a six foot dude on the back. This really throws off your game. I just couldn’t find my groove, everything felt wobbly, I could swear the starting and the stopping were in slow motion, and it just wasn’t fun. I wanted to feel like Chris Pratt in Jurassic World with my trusty pet velociraptors loping by my side and the wind hitting my chest.
Instead, I became frustrated and defeatist and called the whole thing off. I went home pissed off at myself and everyone else. What the hell was wrong with me? Why could everyone do this seemingly necessary thing, in high heels while holding an umbrella even, except for me? I gave myself a little room for failure and waited until the next weekend to give it another go. I was determined not to let my attitude get away from me. It did get a bit easier, but it still wasn’t…fun. But at least I learned it, right? Now I could at least get to a place all by my big grown self.
Which became necessary as soon as my boyfriend got a job and couldn’t run my commute at my convenience. He got the job over a weekend and started on Monday. Which meant I needed to drive the motorbike all by my little self, through the scary Thai traffic and negotiate the roads with everyone who was clearly trying to kill me. On top of that, I had to arrive looking professional as I was getting observed by my boss first thing in the morning.
I climbed aboard the automatic Honda Click and gave myself a quick pep talk. What are you going to do? Call in sick? Die? Or get your motherfucking ass to school? Although it did feel like everyone was trying to kill me, I was able to stop and steer more quickly and precisely without the extra weight of a passenger. This was an entirely new and different experience. I felt so competent and confident in myself that by the time I arrived at school my inner dialogue blocking out the wind went from, holy shit, don’t die to bring on the day, motherfuckers!
It wasn’t as simple as one “Eureka” moment, as I needed a few more weeks of practice to really feel at home on my scooter, and I soon decided to graduate myself to a semi-manual Honda Wave. I now drove not only with my hands, but also with both feet. I enjoyed the added concentration, not to mention the much lighter weight without the automatic transmission (although the automatic scooters have a spot on the giant foot holder that is perfect for transporting a 5 liter box of wine, not so with the foot pedals of a manual) and it became even easier to swerve around traffic. I soon went from confident to overconfident. I was passing cars, getting irritated by slow drivers, and occasionally running red lights. Come on, everyone was doing it! (Seriously though, don’t judge me too harshly. Simply observation indicates that “rules” are more like suggestions on Thai roads. And I get my comeuppance in due course.) I didn’t have enough respect for the road and after a certain amount of time hitting the road, the road hits back.
I was driving too quick on slick roads after a sudden rain, a truck pulled out in front of me, I broke too quickly, fishtailed and watched the impassive faces of the workers piled in the back of the truck as I bit it, flew across 4 lanes of traffic on my ass, while my motorbike flew in the opposite direction. Long story short, I was fucked up, but not as much as I should have been. I had bruises all down the left side of my body, some scrapes on my ankle and elbow, a rip in my favorite sweatshirt, but no road rash. I hit my head, which was pretty scary, but I was wearing my helmet.
I had to get back on the bike right away. I was shoeless on the side of the road staring as the remorseless truck rumbled and sputtered off into the distance. I had to get myself home and clean myself up. Every single person I know has crashed their motorbike. That may not be a particularly comforting nugget of information for anyone who is trepidatious about giving it a go. All I can say is, wear your helmet and know your limits. I slowed my ass way down and learned to respect the weather, the machine I was operating, and other motorists as well.
Although the crash made me more aware of my own limitations and mortality, I realized that the thing I was scared of from the very beginning had happened and I survived it. I’m aware that’s due to some dumb luck and not my own tenacity. Nonetheless, my worst fear came true, and I wasn’t scared because of it. I knew what I did wrong and I changed my behavior.
By the summer, I decided to go on a motorcycle trip in Vietnam. With a real motorcycle. A fully manual bike with a clutch and 5 cylinders, treaded tires and everything. I originally planned to get my own bike, but at the last minute my boyfriend decided to come with me. For the sake of saving money, we decided to share a motorcycle instead of each getting our own. If I thought I had seen some crazy shit driving in Thailand, it was nothing compared to Hanoi. Each and every intersection is a free for all with 15-20 bikes honking incessantly while they dodge and swerve around each other. I decided to be the googlemaps navigator on the back while the hubby negotiated getting us out of the city.
Once we got on the country roads and started passing the rice paddies, we switched places. I was smart enough to tell him to chill on foot while I figured out the bike without his added weight. Once he hopped on, it was quite challenging, but instead of getting cranky, I figured it was like practicing with two baseball bats. If I can maneuver a 200cc motorcycle with his big bones on the back, then I can certainly save at least one friend when we are outracing tomb raiding bandits and rescuing priceless artefacts, right?
After three long distance motorcycle trips I have finally purchased my own Honda Phantom. I still have a small bike for the dense traffic of Phuket Town, but I love riding my motorcycle along the coastal roads of the island. I may get lots of looks, but I’m passing those small-minded fellas before they can utter a word of doubt in my direction. I just ride on with my bad self.
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