Hunt for the Wilderpoo: Hanoi - Luang Prabang

'Go get the guitar. Probably write a song about this one day' - D. Brent

The sun rose and the bikes were loaded. Nothing could stand in the way of our relentless charge from Hanoi to Laos. We were well rested, well fed, and sufficiently caffeinated from one last egg coffee. The air was still and a quiet anticipation hung over the capital city. As we cycled our way through the cordoned off walking streets past the lake nothing could have prepared us for what was to come.

Time to leave this beautiful country

Fully loaded and ready for the hills

Cycling along the unrelentingly potholed roads I noticed a twitch in the stomach. Nothing more than a flicker of pain. I rolled with a punch. The twitch became a regular knot. The knot became a bowline. The bowline, a figure of eight, and before long I was throwing up all over my shoe while cycling down the road. In my head I was screaming like Frodo when he was stabbed by the Witch King on Weathertop but outwardly I was marching toward the Army of the Dead like Aragon. This stoic facade was, however, doomed to die along with our hope of going anywhere fast. At 35km in I was doubled up over a sink in a roadside petrol station's bathroom, doing my best to make sure it could never be used again. The pump attendant was horrified and poured boiling water down after I left, eyes a mad bloodshot, slurring 'onwards to Laos! Get me on my bike. I'll ride there today if I have to. Out of the way Sean you sexy Swedish creep. I'm on a one way ticket to London. Get me a ticket to the Beejees'.

By the second break I was sleeping on the concrete. By lunch, 65kms out of Hanoi, I cried for an end to the torment. We fell short of our target and holed up in a roadside dive that was evidently (based on the wall murals) a lovemaking suite for local men who had a tendency to fork out some of the local currency for a spot of the local wahine. Terrible behaviour and a practice we noticed was rather common in Vietnam. I huddled in bed, shivering and cramping, only leaving for a power chunder in the loo. These, my friends, were dark times indeed. I began to question everything. Arthur and Sean nursed me like a baby. They saved me. I was put on a diet of coke and rehydration sachets. The rice wouldn't stay down.

Our hotel prison. The worst thing was the bathroom was open to the room so when Sean fell sick we could hear (and smell) it all

After a terrible sleep a new day dawned. I was determined not to stay put despite the food poisoning. We loaded up and pedalled the bikes over deteriorating gravel roads to a small town about 25kms down the road, the spot we were aiming for the day before. It was a much nicer town and we decided to stop there. My routine was similar. The boys hauled my gear up the stairs while I dragged my sorry self into the shower and then straight to bed. A day passed and then another morning rolled around. We had planned to leave. I woke with a fever and no energy. It was the most horrific feeling. Again we stayed put for another day. Towards the afternoon I got up and went for a walk with Arthur. I felt like a Hanoi Hilton prisoner emerging from a cell. Things improved.

The next day I woke feeling ready to go. The only problem was Sean had deteriorated, catching another form of food poisoning that resulted in him spending a lot of time on the toilet. Again we were to stay put, trapped only 90kms from Hanoi. The hotel employees started asking 'what is wrong with you guys?' We could only laugh.

As sure as night is dark and day is light the sun rose once more and this time we all felt we could do it. We rolled through tea plantations with as much bravado as we dared given the state of our bodies. We had to climb 1500m vertical which was not pleasant. Sean was hurting big time so Arthur and I relieved him of his panniers and negotiated the very heavy bikes up the climbs. Together, as a team, we made it. It is hard to describe how good that feeling was.

That's where we're heading! A one way ticket up. Sean was still sick so Art and I had his bags pushing the weight of our bikes up to 60kg

The view from the hills to more hills

We continued climbing to Dien Bien Phu until it came judgement day. It started with a climb, had a slightly bigger climb in the middle, and then took us over 1200m. Again Art and I were loaded with 60kg bikes. I was so delirious, exhausted from the effort and the recent illness, I began belting out Cher's 90s hit 'Believe' to the delight of the locals who sporadically appeared on the side of the barren mountain. I swerved like a drunk to the top of the mountain and we descended down in glory, 110 kms completed in the harshest conditions. Over the next two days we climbed more and more and made it to Dien Bien Phu, the outpost town in North West Vietnam that was scene to the great battle against the French whereby the Vietnamese finally defeated their colonial rulers.

The war museum at Dien Bien Phu. It was exhaustingly propaganda focussed

We spent a day in Dien Bien Phu visiting the most famous of the French fortifications, a museum that was more propaganda leaflet than museum, some old artillery installations and eating up a storm. We were all starting to feel good again.

The famous Vietnam-Laos peace handshake

The climbing was not over. We were to keep climbing all sorts of obstacles. Firstly my brake pads failed. After an hour and a half (embarrassing it took so long!) I had them replaced and we were rolling again. 5kms down the road Sean's went too. We then rolled over two monster climbs to get to the border. It was a fairly slow 40kms. The most mind numbing bureaucracy slowed us down but by 3pm we had the Laos visa stamped in our books and were good to go, rolling down the most beautiful descent on the most beautiful road. As we expected it went up. We had a 1100m mountain to climb. It was evident we weren't going to make the town we had planned by sun down. I asked a lady, who was working on a small plot of land that had the most amazing view out over the mountains, if it was okay if we set up tents on the land. Our conversation in two different languages went well. She phoned the owner of the land who came down to meet us, a lovely old man, who also invited us to eat at his house. We set up camp and made our way to the small, one room bamboo house.

Our mountainside campsite

Eating sticky rice with our hosts, a very popular food in Northern Laos

It was the most beautiful experience. Much like the joys of listening to Jeff Lynne serenade you to sleep with the silky smooth and endlessly romantic 'Last Train to London'. We don't need that train baby, we have bikes. Our host cooked on a fire that was inside the house on a small dirt vestibule. We were ushered in and sat on bamboo mats in the dimly lit room. We needed headlights. The kids were most amused and excited and practiced english with their school books. We really were shown how the impoverished in Laos live. We ate boiled shoot vegetables that resembled lemongrass, tapioka, and sticky rice. It felt like they had gone out of their way to impress as well. It was a sickening feeling knowing that one of our bikes cost more than the entire contents of their house. It was the most wonderful feeling to witness them share what little they had with us. We shared the food we had brought from Vietnam. It was evidently very novel and new to them. The old man plied us with shots of local whisky until it was time to sleep.

Our host, ruthlessly quick to fill our shot glasses with the local whisky at dinner

Getting learning nice an early

The next morning we were treated to the same breakfast. We ducked out and said our gracious goodbyes just as two rats were brought in, skewered and put in the fire, hair and all. 30km in I felt a familiar knot in the stomach. The knot became a bowline again and then a figure of 16 or whatever multiple of 8 it was. It was then I experienced the first 'Wilder-poo'. With 25% of Laos' land still contaminated with unexploded American bombs, the Wilder-poo is not for the faint hearted. I braved the bombs and dropped some of my own. Sometimes I liken myself to a B52. Sadly, all these years later, Westerners are still unrelenting on the Laos countryside. I was to repeat this impossibly horrible emergency act a number of times throughout what was one of the toughest days on the bike. I again went straight to bed, head throbbing, stomach cramping, and feeling faint. Art and Sean again plied me with Sprite, rehydration sachets, and charcoal tablets. The guesthouse light couldn't turn off. I slept with a fever in a room with a light on making regular toilet stops with an impending 2500m vertical climbing the next day, and a throbbing headache.

Pain, torment, wondering where the nearest bathroom is

This time I was determined.

I donned the lycra. Looking at my gaunt self in the mirror I said to myself, 'Come on, come on, come on, get through it, come on, come on, come on, love's the greatest thing, that we have, I'm waiting for that feeling, waiting for that feeling, waiting for the feeling to come'.

SONG: Tender - Blur

Get through it

Stuck in bed after the biggest day. God it had me exhausted. Eating was a challenge

It was to be my proudest moment. We climbed and climbed and climbed and in between I dashed to the bushes, dodging exploding ordinance and locals cackling with mad laughter as the lycra came down. 'Come on, come on, come on, get through it'. After 110kms I collapsed into bed, shaking, cold, hot, not knowing my arse from my elbow. The piping next door failed. The room flooded. Nothing got me off that bed. The next day we rolled into Luang Prabang. We had ridden 350kms and I'd been sick every km. They were the hardest days. I now sit, 5m away from our bathroom, listening to the sound of peaceful music, the kind you hear in Ubud, in a very relaxed place.