I learnt how to ride a motorcycle in the dark, in the rain, and in Vietnam.
This was back in 2014, and since then, I like to think I’ve gained a few brain cells.
Maybe it was the thrill of needing speed to keep balanced, or the rushing air, or being so nimble when compared to driving a car; riding a motorcycle was intoxicating.
Barely two weeks after my first ride, a colleague and I signed up to a weekend motorcycle tour from Hanoi to a village close to the Lao border.
We rode for 5-6 hours each day on winding roads that crept through impressive mountain ranges. I felt like a badass.
On the second day, I began to feel comfortable, but that quickly devolved into arrogance. I felt I could go a little faster, lean a little more into the corners, and travel a little further out from safety of the shoulder of the road.
However, late in the afternoon we rounded a blind corner, and 40 metres ahead, one large truck was trying to overtake another. The two trucks were moving towards us at pace, and they occupied both lanes of the road.
We immediately veered to the side where there was—thankfully—a strip of gravel about 2 metres wide. I was travelling too fast, though, and my back wheel slid out from underneath me.
Now don’t picture some dramatic Hollywood skid out, the bike and I only slid a few metres together, but it was enough for a small part of the bike’s frame to squash my ankle.
Our guide immediately came over to make sure I was okay, and helped me check my ankle—I was lucky that it was only badly bruised, and that my hobble would last less than a week. But I’ll never forget what he said to me, “You became arrogant, and you put yourself in danger. That was on you.”
I had no reply.
It was true.
I learnt a big lesson that day. Comfort with something can easily lead to arrogance. And in certain situations, the consequences of arrogance can be life altering.
Some call me a little over-the-top, but since then, I haven’t ridden a motorcycle. I’ve seen the risk, and I know my mind, and it’s not a game I want to play.