You’ve got to be a good portion of bat s**t crazy to travel the world by bike.  Imagine a spin class.  The instructor hasn’t been laid in over a year, he’s angry like a banshee and locks the door for an 8 hour slamming.  A spiteful 25kg back pack is strapped to everyone before being told to get pumping.  When you think you’ve reached you’re limit it’s time for 4 hours of high resistance hill climbs.  Pain is what this boys dreams are made of and no ones leaving till limbs are burning like Beelzebubs knickers!

Thankfully we’re spared the delights of such an instructor, choosing to beast our bodies all of our own accord. The great outdoors has been our studio and these days almost always end on a high.  Failing limbs and depleted muscles are rewarded with sumptuous views that instantly remind you it’s all worth the burn, sweat and tears.

Getting back on the bikes after a prolonged stop in Hanoi was a relief.  We’d soon fixed Brians wheel and rolled out of Lang Son to continue our journey North.  As if to welcome our return the first day was spent climbing through lush valleys amidst flocks of butterflies.  A dreamlike re-immersion to biking life.

This part of Vietnam is well known for both its dramatic landscapes and groups of ethnic minority peoples.  As the road and surroundings become ever more rural traditional clothing and housing replace the concrete and jeans of the urban jungles we’d left behind. 

Timber bungalows on stilts and mud clad houses submerge you in a land standing firm against the swell of modernisation.  Due to past tensions with China this region is only just opening up.  The lack of tourists keeping things magically authentic.

With the best part of a month off the bikes and the climbs coming in earnest, frequent rest days potted our first weeks back.  Stopping in Cao Bang and Bao Lac the beat of a more urban drum strikes again.  Residents clearly preparing themselves for the change and hopeful influx of tourists as the doors begin to open.

From Bao Lac we began our ascent to the Dong Van Karst Plateau Geopark.  From the off the weather was looking moody.  A few km down the road one of Brians spokes broke.  Seconds later, the heavens opened and we began a very wet 40 min repair to mend the wheel.  Snapping spokes were to be an unfortunate feature of the journey ahead.

With a fragile back wheel and skin soaking sheets of rain intermittently coming down we pushed on.  Reaching our final 1000m climb that would take us into the geopark we’d already churned out 1000m of ups and downs. Wet, tired of changing spokes and gagging for a hot cup of tea, it was time to dig deep and scrape the bottom of our barrels.

As the pass approached the clouds began to clear. Every arduous peddle instantly forgotten as the outer edges of the park came into view.  A landscape of ginormous rolling green hills, a mixture of camel humps and ample breasts, burst before our eyes.  Dark shards of eroded rock, precipitous crop fields and traditional dwellings fighting amongst the vistas.  An interwoven organic muddle that almost doesn’t make sense as each element morphs from one thing to the next.

The flowing descent to Meo Vac was a glorious end to a tough day.  A dinner of roasted pork belly and fresh greens from the local market and we tucked up for the following days climbs.

The road between Meo Vac and Dong Van is the most famous of this region.  Valleys plummet 1,200m beneath you in a network of rivers and gorges.  While the voluptuous karsts flood your panoramic horizon.  With flat land at a premium near vertical mountain sides become a patchwork of arable opportunity for intrepid farmers.

Arriving to Dong Van on the Saturday we were in time for the weekly Sunday market. Surrounding people walk, donkey ride and scooter in to town to buy and sell their animals, produce and wears. Waking to the sound of pigs screaming as they become the fodder for the meat stalls made a unique alarm clock.  Though stumbling through bustling crowds of bartering locals and the odd cluster of inebriated men was a sensational recompense for the senses.

After a couple of days rest it was time to finish our Vietnamese mountain leg.  The weather was still against us but with visas running out there was no rest for the wicked.  It’s one thing cycling in the rain, quite another to get on your bike first thing and be drenched even before you’ve started peddling.  As streams began to burst their banks the roads became the flood plains and I’d flown over the handle bars for a mouthful of tarmac before we arrived into Ha Giang.

And the rain kept on coming.  Finally admitting defeat we threw the bikes and soggy bodies onto a bus to reach the Chinese border.

Crossing to China came with the usual baggage of preconceptions.  What has met us so far couldn’t of been more different.  Empty roads, quiet people and warm welcomes.

It was two hot days cycle before a climb of 2,000m to reach the Unesco Heritage Yuanyang rice terraces.  An astounding cluster of terraces dating back 1,200 years which stretch for miles across the gently sloping mountainsides. 

We’ve been hiking amidst the contoured labyrinth of pools and paddy fields for the last few days.  Traditional villages provide resting spots of shade and perfect windows to watch life go by.  Cartoon like water buffalos ambling up and down the steps and alley ways to and from their grazing pastures.  Children chasing pot bellied pigs and dogs and cockerels setting a bucolic cacophony for the slow and restful days.

Sense has finally got the better of us and we’ve sent Brians wheel to Hong Kong to be re-built.  The silver lining to be stranded in such a glorious spot.  It’s been a fabulous start to this much spoken about country. And once the new wheel returns we’re stoked to see what other treasures lie ahead.

Over and out till next time!