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"Don't tell anybody. They will ruin it." I had been roaming around the Golden Triangle in Northern Thailand for several weeks when I met Don Duval. Another American leaf in the wind, living on a sailboat with his Honda XR600 strapped to the bow as he moves around the globe, we had collided in Chiang Mai. Duval likes to do the "tough guy stuff," riding single tracks and animal trails with only a fanny pack and your wits to get you through a couple hundred miles of insect and snake infested jungle. During our collision dinner Duval suggested that together we might try a path we had both looked at on our maps. It was not far, less than 400 kilometers, but the dotted lines disappeared on our maps in several places and neither of us were sure the road/trail/path would continue onward. I had wanted to try the route, but speaking no Thai and on a questionable Yamaha 250 TTR with no tool kit, I had been hesitant to go alone. Duval spoke Thai, had a full set of tools and a lady friend who was going to be happier staying in Chiang Mai at a hotel and shopping than she would be bouncing through the jungle on the back of his XR. I said, "Yes, let's do it." For the next four days Duval and I were two wheel soul mates. Don Duval testing his personal riding envelope. |
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The north of Thailand has thousands of kilometers of gravel and dirt tracks through the jungle, some leading right up to the Burma and Laos borders. It is over these tracks that some of the illegal drugs flow south, but mostly they are used by the local hill tribe natives to get from their villages to the lower towns and markets. In the dry season many of the tracks can easily be traversed by a two-wheel drive pickup truck. When wet, they are impassable. Don and I enjoyed both the wet and dry. Wet Thai jungle mud is more slippery than K-Y Jelly on glass and an error in judgement found my motorcycle high-centered in a two-foot deep rut. Averaging 5-10 miles per hour, we crossed streams, slid down red mud mountainsides and dabbed our way up hills with 180-degree turn after 180-degree turn. After eight hours on the first day we were less than 100 kilometers from where we started, tired, hungry and the sun was nearly gone. Duval said he knew a place where we could stay, a "secret place." It was a private lodge, maintained by the government for dignitaries, surrounded by golf course lawns, a lake and blooming flowers. A half dozen bungalows with hot water showers, clean pressed white sheets on soft beds and a friendly manager made for the end of a perfect day of motorcycling in what seemed to be Paradise. For $10.00 we were bedded like kings for the night, with a few dollars thrown on top for a meal and a couple of beers. The next morning, as we left, I asked if the place was even on any map. Duval smiled, said "No," then suggested I not tell anybody where it is, so I won't.
I am saying, "OK, I won't whisper where this is to the clouds, flowers, nor into the wind." The next three days were more of the same. Even after a morning rain made mud slicker than tire Slime, Duval and I found ourselves still laughing at each other like schoolboys playing in a summer rain. The best part of the adventure is knowing that there is another 2,000-3,000 kilometers of the same kind of riding waiting for me when I return. |
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Copyright © Dr. Gregory W. Frazier 1999- All Rights Reserved.
Thoughts and opinions expressed here are those of the author, and not necessarily Horizons Unlimited
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