Riding the Edge: A Morning in Vietnam’s Heartland
By Ralph
November 17, 2025 – Northern Vietnam
Our ride is now nearly finished. But just imagine if you could, for just one sweet second, an awesome group of riders capable of riding anything that can be tossed out at them. Like threading the needle up a mountain road out of the town of Na Han.
The CRF300s that we’re riding are all snarling like over-caffeinated terriers. Kim, our guide, rides point. Chris, the rockstar, right behind him; this time followed by Jose and Tyler. The switchbacks are nothing but pure joy: lean left, lean right, bamboo jungle pressing in so close at times you can smell the green. We’re killing it, twisties unfolding like a dream, when a blind curve sneaks up. Suddenly I smell them before hearing them. Water buffaloes headed down and taking up the entire roadway—Kim’s already anticipated the whole mess, the ultimate guy who clocks miracles before they happen.
The air’s thick—mid-70s, humidity curling off the rice paddies like steam from a kettle. Sky’s a hard, cloudless blue, the kind that makes you squint without glasses.
Red dust hangs in the still heat, kicked up by every passing truck and scooter, coating our teeth and the inside of our throats with red grit. I’m now riding the cheap seats, fourth place, which means I miss half the miracles. As we negotiate the buffaloes, a lumber truck lurches around the bend, fat tires kissing more of the concrete ribbon path like it’s trying to French kiss it—Kim’s left hand slices down: easy, big fella. His right boot flicks out, a phantom kick that never lands but carries the full weight of I will end you.
The driver blinks, lifts off the throttle, and the CRF300s slip through the gap like they were threaded on a string. Aggressive scooter weaving through traffic? Kim clocks the trajectory, flicks a signal, and the kid on the Honda backs off like he’s been scolded by his mother. Car drifting wide on a dusty corner? Kim’s already carving the perfect line, leaving the rest of us a clean ribbon of red dirt. You’d swear the man has precognition, or at least a guardian angel who moonlights as a traffic cop.
Then there’s Hollywood—our photographer, all elbows and lens caps—rocketing past on the inside like he’s late for his own wedding. His job: sprint ahead on his CRF, flag down oncoming trucks, slow the world so Kim can keep us alive. Symbiotic, really. Kim sees the future; Hollywood buys it time.
Kim’s already clocked the construction zone ahead—fresh asphalt still steaming, both lanes choked with idling trucks and scooters. Dead stop. Back at the construction berm—three feet of vertical dirt, warm from the morning sun—Kim kills the engine, plants a boot, surveys the scene like a general. Without a word, he walks his bike up, rear tire spinning, knocking the edge down with every push until the mound slumps into a gentle ramp. My several-days-ago brand-new 300 tiptoes over the fresh-cut berm like I’m a pro rider; the veterans just gun it and laugh.
Kim’s bending physics like the road owes him money. We blast out of a dust cloud and into the smell of something not good or bad—just Vietnam smells. Kim pulls over at a roadside café called YEN, as if the universe itself whispered a coffee break—he anticipated we needed it after the twisties and dust. Engines tick cool while we sip thick Vietnamese brew like salted coffee; later Jeffrey comes out with two smoothies and hands me one; a mango and banana combo. I take it and continue dictating what you’re reading now. It’s 10:54 a.m. here, the morning already packed with a lifetime’s worth of switchbacks and near-misses; back in the States, the clock’s just a suggestion, ticking toward whatever comes next.
The Real Badasses
The excitement stays hot as we roll on. Jose does a double take off to our right as we’re heading downhill: a woman on a scooter with a baby, crossing a rickety board over a culvert onto a 45° incline, hitting it almost straight uphill. He shakes his head like he can’t believe it—probably thinking about his daughter back home, how we think we’re all badasses riding these machines when these folks that are all smiles just do what they do and call it life.
We stop at a bridge. Farm workers are everywhere, smoke fires curling up.
A woman’s now sporting my scarf—one of those three-for-$20 deals from Costco—that I handed over. She’s splitting bamboo to wrap straw bales, mounting them up for feed later in the year. Grain’s spread out on tarps, chickens running around pecking pests from the fields, others burning stubborn patches. It’s all green and harvest here, rice or whatever grows thick in this soil. The boys are having a blast, partaking in it all—Jeffrey then Missy grabbing a huge bale to help a woman, others riding a little tractor across the road laughing it up like they’re on a Disney ride back home.
The women seem to do the majority of the work; come to think of it, the guys are mostly driving tractor or trucks, and that’s about it. The women are even the construction workers.
Echoes in the Cave
We push on and make it to a huge cave, a big altar inside that I can’t read—obviously not in English. This is a historical place, the monument dedicated on April 15, 1945, right in the thick of the anti-Japanese resistance.
It’s the Trường Nghĩa Hậu Martyrs’ Cemetery, honoring soldiers and civilians who fell in the lead-up to the August Revolution, part of the mobilization after Japan’s coup against the French that March.
The site rallied folks for the general uprising that exploded in just 15 days, leading to Independence Day on September 2.
Graves, steles, inscriptions about unifying armed groups into the Vietnam Liberation Army—it’s a key spot in the revolutionary network, symbolizing sacrifices and national unity. We pay our respects.
Bill takes a tumble as the three lost brothers return, onlookers yell; it’s slippery. The cave echoing with the weight of it all.
This Is the Ride
An hour or two from now, guess what—we’ll probably be having lunch, another one of those indescribable meals. Let’s see, the day’s not nearly over yet.
Good luck, Vietnam. You’re making considerable progress in your road building. Glad to see we got to experience it in every aspect—from single water buffalo track to a ribbon of poured concrete and most everything else thrown in. Not one road rage. Well, maybe one or two. Not one road kill All the waving at us like we’re celebrities on a parade. The memorable moments of kids faces following a hand-slap or as they suddenly find themselves recipients of candy tossed out to them by the likes of Jeffrey, Missy, Bill or Joe. Those are treasured moments my friends. Safe travels.
Ralph
17/11/2025 – 07:48 AM +07, Somewhere in Northern Vietnam
Trawlercat Chronicles 