howiecobb

Leaning against the wall opposite was a motorbike, a ‘For Sale’ sign around its neck – like a slave. With sudden interest, I skipped down to the bar and grabbing a chill glass of lemon, stood in the doorway, all but my toes in the shade, eyeing the motorbike. It had recently arrived; ridden the 1500 miles up from Saigon by an Irishman called Ian;  I had an irresistible urge to turn it around and take it back.

A plan had come out of nowhere. It was a ridiculous idea built on a flimsy foundation; perhaps I was turning into a traveller at last! I was going to spend 300 dollars on an old Russian bike, ride it through Vietnam alone and sell it for the same amount in Saigon before my plane left the runway; hopefully without me chasing after it, the bike parked forlorn and ownerless at ‘Departures’ –…