Motorcycle Explorer October 2014 Issue 2 | Page 26

Antonia Bolingbroke-Kent
I
couldn’t go through life acting like
character from The Only Way is Essex every
time I encountered something with more than
four legs. Nor did I want to turn into one of
those women who relies on their other half so
much they end up unable to change a light bulb.
If I always travelled with other people, I would
never have to confront my weaknesses. There
would be times when I’d want to share a laugh
or a moment with Marley or have a stiff gin with
friends. But hopefully there would also be
moments of simple achievement. It was times
like these that going solo were all about.
I
breakfasted in a daze, my back still knotted, a
ball of anxiety lurking in the pit of my stomach.
For the first of many times, I packed up my hotel
room and loaded the bike. I’d wanted to keep
my luggage as simple and light as possible. I
would be loading and unloading the bike every
day, so it would be foolish to travel with any
more than the bare minimum. Plus, in the same
way that I’d wanted a simple bike, I didn’t want
to be riding through poor villages clanking with
showy, expensive equipment. My kit consisted
of two small textile panniers – bought on eBay
for £20 – which slung over the seat behind me
cowboy-style, a pizza delivery-style top box and
a ladylike wire front basket. The top box carried
essentials such as my laptop, compact toolkit,
camera and paperwork: International Driving
Permit, driving licence, bike registration papers,
photocopies of passport and visas. The front
basket – added in Hanoi at the last minute –
held bike spares Cuong had given me, plus my
daily water supply. One side pannier fitted my
limited wardrobe: a fleece, a single pair of jeans
and one long skirt, a handful of tops, a floral
shirt, a sarong, waterproof trousers, a bikini,
three pairs of knickers, two pairs of socks, one
decent set of matching underwear and flip
flops. Shoe-horned into the other side pannier,
along with a basic medical kit, balloons to give
to children, solar charger and jungle hammock,
was a precious bottle of Boxer Gin. Embarking
on a solo expedition into the jungle was
unquestionable without an emergency supply of
the juniper nectar.
R
ound my waist I strapped a concealed money
belt containing a debit card and a small supply
of cash. And over my top I wore a nerdy but
incredibly useful bumbag with: an iPhone, a
small amount of dollars and local currency, a
handheld GPS unit, a local phrasebook and my
coterie of lucky talismans. Other stashes of
currency were hidden in my backpack and in a
secret sealed compartment on the bike.
Designed to hold a few tools, it was the perfect
size for a small waterproof bag containing a
spare credit card and an emergency supply of
dollars. With money hidden in four different
places, I’d be unlucky to be cleaned out entirely.
Without much ado I said goodbye to the hotel
staff, pulled on my Weise helmet, jacket and
gloves and set sail. No big rush of nerves, no big
fanfare, just a quiet ‘Right, let’s go!’ to the bike,
a slight wobble, and off we were.
"Given the dangers and
challenges I’d be facing on the
road, hair washes and head
massages weren’t something I
had envisioned"
I
was thankful I hadn’t asked anyone to come
and see me off. I didn’t need the added pressure
of people or photographs this morning. Digby
had come to bid me goodbye the night before.
don’t forget to go to lots of c?t tóc’,’ he advised,
pointing to the hairdresser next to the hotel
where a woman was having her head massaged.
‘They’re fabulous; you can get your hair washed
all the way down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. You
don’t even need to take shampoo with you.’
Given the dangers and challenges I’d be facing
on the road, hair washes and head massages
weren’t something I had envisioned. Is that your
parting advice? I asked, probing for something
more applicable. Yes. It’s about the little things
in life. Now goodbye and good luck.’