This is an excerpt pulled from ‘South From Hanoi’, my account of a short but benignly animated motorcycle trip I made along the length of Vietnam in 2023. In this story, I detail the event of crashing my motorcycle, and how the Lord protected and even blessed me through it.
…Back on my bike, I poured water on my neck and drove fast through the countryside. I was only two hours from Dong Hoi and found myself in a lackadaisical mood as I entered a smooth valley road. I followed the valley until its end and climbed up a verdurous mountain range before plunging into another gorge. A wide, dirty river runs along the center of this valley, called Song Gianh. I puddered along the East side of the river for the better part of an hour.
Then I crashed my motorcycle.
I was traveling at 64 Kilometers an hour. I know because I was zoning out, staring at the speedometer when, in the distance, I saw a small red car pull a fast left turn and stop directly in my path. I put on the breaks, hard, but it was no use. As my bike made impact with the hood of the car and my body was hurled over and along the windshield, I lifted a desperate prayer:
God, please let me live.
I landed well on the other side of the car, tucked, and rolled several feet. I stayed down. My left leg and my right shoulder were both numb. The driver and his family piled out of the car.
They surrounded my frame, which laid haphazardly in the center of the busy road, and helped carry me to the shoulder of the street where I was propped up under the shade of a large stone wall. A crowd began to form as other drivers and passersby came to see what the stupid westerner had done this time. When they saw the blood and my bike and the red car the crowd erupted into a flurry of commotion. Water, rubbing alcohol, bandages, Neosporin, Advil, beer, and a dirty, sweaty bandana were all brought to me. A man with a deep tan and a blue hat crouched before me and rolled up my pant legs. He rubbed Neosporin deep into the gashes on my thighs and shins. As I sat there, still in shock, drinking water in the shade and being pampered by a hoard of kindhearted locals, I felt truly relieved. Then the pain hit. I initially felt it in my shoulder, which was the first thing to hit the car. The pain carved an electric arc in my neck, down along my biceps and elbows to the tips of my fingers, back up my arms where it then shot down to my hips and my torn legs. I wanted to stand and find my bike, continuing on until I found a safe haven in Dong Hoi, but there I was - in the dirt, peering up at the adults in the situation like a child who had just fallen from a tree. I checked my head and a man in a yellow shirt, protected by the shade of two others, checked my pupils for dilation. I did not want to jump the gun; I simply could not believe that my wrists and knees were intact, unshattered. Still, I knew, after checking my neck and head and major arteries, that I was alive and even well. Now the large task of recovery was at hand. I gritted my teeth and tried to distract myself with practicalities.
Against the murmurs and admonishments of the crowd I pulled myself to my feet and started to ask the real questions: My phone? My bike? My pack? The car? Was everyone else alright?
I found my phone exactly how I left it before the crash. Unharmed, still telling me to turn left on Doang Cha Avenue in 120 meters. I then inspected my bike. The handlebars and entire frontal frame was mangled into an ugly sight. The headlights, transmission, front body, and tire rim were all either damaged or gone. The right mirror was completely missing (I found it 12 meters from the site). I looked at the entire pitiful scene with an impossibly unhopeful eye. I recalled the words of the kind American, in Hanoi, who sold me the bike:
“There’s no insurance in Vietnam”
I examined the car which I had hit. The front-right side of the body was peppered with small dents. The right headlight was busted. A spider-web crack had erupted in the far left side of the windshield. I realized that it was from my head smacking against the glass when I first landed on the hood. I thanked God that I was wearing a helmet.
The entire time, while I analyzed the scene, I was followed by a group who were all, in their native tongue, beckoning me to sit back down and tend to the scrapes on my arms. I slumped against the wall and let several of them rub alcohol on my cuts and cover them with various bandages. In my pack, which had miraculously stayed attached to the rear of my bike (a testament to the bowline), I had a full first-aid kit with gauze and limb wraps. I wasn't bothered to access it, though. My support team was doing a fabulous job at patching me up. Once the last bandaid was secured I stood back up and found the man who was driving the red car. He did not speak English and so his daughter, a woman named Mai, translated for us. Mai was kind and wore a full formal getup. Her hair was perfect and her lips were covered in a thick but even layer of red lipstick. She told me that they were all on their way to the wedding of their cousins when I came barreling over their windshield.
I asked several questions about the logistics moving forward. She would turn to the crowd and translate, and I would watch with amazement as the crowd fell into chaos about every decision, obviously disagreeing. When there had been enough yelling the driver of the car would speak up to the daughter and the daughter would turn to me to translate. Finally, she imparted the most impactful news:
“We have agreed,” She began, “That the crash was our fault.”
The driver approached me with his wife and laid a hand on my shoulder. He gave me a thumbs-up and gently patted my arm. The daughter continued,
“We will cover your medical and your bike fixes. We take you to mechanic now.”
The wife began a barrage of arguments towards her daughter. The older woman, also dressed in formal wear, was contorting her face in an odd mixture of worry and anger and general displeasure. The daughter was apparently consoling and assuring her when, in an instant, the father snapped his fingers once in irritation. The wife stopped her complaints and the daughter said something to the father. I was in the dark, aside from presumptuous observations based purely on facial expressions, and so I asked Mai what they were saying.
“My mother wants to take you to the hospital. She thinks you may be badly injured.” The mother came close to me and placed two fingers on my temples.
“She thinks you have a head injury.”
The mother pointed to my head and then walked over to the car and pointed at the large, head-shaped crack in the windshield. She had a point. Even so, I was alright. Shapes and lines and colors were all sharp, and though my neck hurt, I knew I was certainly un-concussed. I did my best to dissipate her concern, though the mother did not surrender her maternal instincts in full; she continued to give me wary looks as I collected my scattered belongings, probably to substantiate my claim to good health.
The crowd thinned out as I climbed onto the back of a man’s motorcycle. Mai told me that he would drive me to the mechanic and that someone else would walk my bike there as well. Once we arrived I was ushered into the garage where a group of dirty mechanics all sat, smoking cigarettes. As soon as the procession arrived all of the men, who wore denim coveralls, leaped into action. Mai explained what happened to one of the mechanics and the man nodded along. I explained, with Mai as my mouthpiece, that I needed to be in Dong Hoi before dark. A delayed arrival to the coast would result in a missed train to Ho Chi Minh City and, subsequently, a missed bus to Cambodia. After a minute my bike arrived and it was brought into the shop. Mai translated regarding prices, duration, and the technical side of things. She and her parents insisted they pay for the damage. Her father approached me and handed me over 1,000,000 Dong in cash. The damages would cost nearly 800,000 dong (About $40 USD). They told me it would take 2 hours.
Mai led me by the hand into an air conditioned lobby. She sat next to me and we talked for 10 minutes before she rose and beckoned a mechanic over. She briefly spoke to him and then turned to me.
“I have to go now. My cousin is getting married in an hour.”
Before she left she brought me a bottle of water and a cold can of coca cola. I attempted to thank her but felt remarkably inadequate. How do you thank a legitimate guardian angel, someone who turned a theoretically nightmarish situation into a simple and straightforward problem with a feasible solution? She and her parents left, driving away in their dented red car.
I sipped on the water and watched the men work on my bike. They were impressively efficient and I observed them with fascination as they replaced the body, transmission, and entire front tire frame. I dug into my pack to find my first aid kit and re-dressed several of the gashes on my legs. I found a bathroom and washed the dried blood off of my hands and wrists.
Less than an hour later I was approached by one of the men and was beckoned to rise. I walked into the garage and saw a completely new motorcycle. I could not believe my eyes, it looked better than when I first rented it in Hanoi. Two brand-new mirrors were attached to a polished frontal frame. I tested the transmission and gear and was astonished to hear it start up and shift with ease. I paid the mechanics and thanked them profusely before tying my bag to the rear rack. Before I left one of the men approached me, placed a hand on my shoulder, and uttered one effective word of advice,
“Slow.” He said.
I gave him a thumbs up and promised to be careful. I swung my sore legs over the bike and, slowly, pulled back onto the road. My eyes were then fixed on the coastline.
