View on Amazon

A Solo Cycling Odyssey Through Northern Vietnam

The Breaking Point

After ten days of cycling through northern Vietnam, I hit a wall. The persistent gloom had begun to sap my enthusiasm, but on this day, the sun finally broke through, lifting my spirits. I was entering the mountains, a moment I’d both anticipated and dreaded. It was time to climb.

The previous day’s rest had done wonders—my legs felt somewhat recovered, and I’d caught up on work. But today’s challenge loomed large: an average of 1,000 meters of climbing and 63 kilometers on asphalt. I hoped for light traffic as I set out, aiming for quieter roads ahead.

Yet, despite the sunshine, doubt crept in. My legs still felt heavy, and I hadn’t even reached the toughest part of the route. I began questioning everything—could I keep up with this ambitious plan, handle the heat, stay positive, or cope with the solitude? In a moment of panic, I called my friend Tristan, confessing that two months suddenly felt impossibly long. I even checked flight change prices, but the cost was prohibitive. More importantly, I realized no one was forcing me to stick to a rigid plan. I could slow down, stop, or change course. That simple thought brought enough relief to keep me moving forward.

View on Amazon

Confronting Contrasts

One unexpected challenge was witnessing the state of animal welfare. Seeing animals roam freely was refreshing, but it was hard to see them caged or transported for market, especially dogs. I had to consciously step back from judging through a Western lens. Many here don’t have the luxury of choice—they eat what’s available. It made me reflect on meat consumption back home, where animals likely face worse conditions, just out of sight.

Finding Rhythm

Days later, I found my rhythm. I reached a personal milestone: the border with China, just across the river. Sitting in Vietnam, I made myself a sandwich—tomatoes, boiled eggs, and banh mi—as finding food in small towns was often tricky. The solitude was most palpable during meals. After hours of introspection on the bike, I craved connection, missing casual chats with Tristan. But things were about to change as I approached Ban Gioc Waterfalls, my first tourist attraction.

Leaving my bike unattended to visit the falls felt risky, but Vietnam inspired a surprising trust. The dry-season cascades were still breathtaking, a reward that boosted my confidence. Wearing my nón lá (Vietnamese conical hat), I pedaled on, feeling the trip’s magic starting to unfold.

View on Amazon

Exploring Beyond the Saddle

In Cao Bang, I stayed at a homestay, a game-changer for this journey. Despite carrying camping gear, I rarely needed it—homestays offered safety and comfort after sweaty days. This gave me the freedom to explore, like visiting Nguom Ngao Cave. Arriving early, I had the Tiger Cave to myself, its towering stalactites and stalagmites evoking a quiet awe. Standing in such a timeless place felt grounding, a moment of stillness amid the journey’s intensity.

Moments of Connection

The road brought unexpected human connections. One day, a woman on a bicycle invited me to follow her to town. We giggled as we rode, and she welcomed me to her home, sharing banh cuon and pho. At 75, her vitality amazed me. Despite the language barrier, her kindness bridged the gap, leaving me grateful and inspired.

But not every moment was uplifting. Later that day, exhaustion and the struggle to find a place to sleep led to a meltdown. Locals I approached seemed confused, and I felt uneasy. Tristan’s voice on the phone calmed me, urging me to push 20 more kilometers to a guesthouse. Exhausted but determined, I made it before dark, finding safety in a meadow where a kind woman offered me a bed and boiled water for washing. Her generosity, appearing just when I needed it, felt like a gift.

View on Amazon

Adapting to the Challenge

Northern Vietnam’s terrain was relentless—steep climbs, brutal heat, and humidity. Camping was nearly impossible due to the rugged landscape and agricultural fields. I relied on homestays and learned to listen to my body. At Pác Bó, I visited the Ho Chi Minh memorial, a reminder of Vietnam’s resilient spirit. Despite historical conflicts, locals were warm and curious, their openness humbling.

When my knees began to ache on a major pass, I flagged down a local bus. The driver kindly took me to the top, sparing my legs. The next day, I skipped a 70-kilometer climb by bus, my bike strapped to the roof. Motion sickness made it a rough ride, but I was grateful to avoid the heat and protect my body.

Entering Ha Giang

Arriving in Meo Vac, I entered the Ha Giang loop, a tourist hotspot buzzing with motorbike travelers. After days of solitude, the crowds were jarring, but I was ready for the perks—better communication, food options, and shared stories. As I pedaled away from the noise, I felt excited for the road ahead, knowing it would bring a new chapter to this adventure.

This journey was teaching me to let go—of rigid plans, expectations, and even fears. Vietnam’s landscapes, people, and challenges were shaping an unforgettable odyssey, one pedal stroke at a time.

Embracing the Ha Giang Loop

The Ha Giang loop, a renowned circuit in northern Vietnam, promised some of the most dramatic scenery of my trip. Towering limestone peaks, deep valleys, and winding roads awaited, but so did more tourists and motorbike traffic. After the quiet solitude of the past weeks, this shift felt both exciting and overwhelming. I settled into a guesthouse in Meo Vac, savoring the chance to rest, eat well, and prepare for the next leg.

Waking up at dawn, I hit the road early to beat the heat and the crowds. The air was crisp, and the first few kilometers offered a gentle climb, giving me time to ease into the day. The landscape was unlike anything I’d seen—jagged mountains rose sharply against the sky, their slopes dotted with small villages where locals went about their morning routines. I passed farmers tending rice fields and children waving as they walked to school. Their smiles were a quiet encouragement, a reminder of the warmth I’d come to associate with Vietnam.

Navigating the Crowds

As predicted, the Ha Giang loop was busier. Motorbikes zoomed past, often carrying groups of young travelers snapping photos or filming with action cameras. While I appreciated their enthusiasm, I missed the tranquility of the less-traveled roads. Still, I found moments of peace by pulling over at viewpoints to take in the vastness of the landscape. At one stop, I met a Dutch couple on a rented motorbike who shared their snacks and stories of their own journey. These brief exchanges with other travelers rekindled my excitement, reminding me how shared experiences can bridge the gap of solitude.

The climbs were grueling, often steeper than anything I’d faced earlier. My knees, still tender from the previous weeks, protested with every pedal stroke. I adopted a slower pace, stopping frequently to stretch and snack on bananas or mandarins from local markets. I’d learned by now to stock up whenever I passed a town, as food options could be scarce on remote stretches. The non-LA hat, now a staple, shielded me from the relentless sun, though the humidity made every climb feel like wading through a warm fog.

A Moment of Doubt

Midway through the loop, doubt crept in again. The heat was oppressive, peaking at 35°C, and a particularly long ascent left me drained. I stopped by a roadside stall, sipping on sugarcane juice while staring at the road ahead. The thought of another 40 kilometers of climbing felt daunting. I considered hitching another ride but hesitated—part of me wanted to push through, to prove I could do it. I called Tristan again, who reminded me of my own mantra: there’s no rigid plan. “Take it one kilometer at a time,” he said. “You’re not racing anyone.” His words grounded me, and after a quick nap in the shade, I pressed on, slower but steadier.

Cultural Encounters

The Ha Giang region is home to several ethnic minority groups, including the Hmong and Dao, whose vibrant cultures added a new layer to my journey. In one village, I stopped at a market bursting with color—women in traditional embroidered clothing sold handmade textiles alongside fresh produce. I bought a small woven bracelet as a keepsake, struck by the craftsmanship and the pride in their work. Language barriers persisted, but smiles and gestures went a long way. One vendor, an older Hmong woman, insisted I try a piece of grilled corn, refusing payment. Her generosity, like so many others, left a lasting impression.

The Highs and Lows

The loop’s highest point, the Ma Pi Leng Pass, was both a triumph and a test. The climb was brutal, but the view from the top—a dizzying panorama of cliffs and the Nho Que River snaking below—was worth every drop of sweat. I lingered there, taking photos and soaking in the moment. For the first time in days, I felt invincible, like the mountains and I had reached an understanding.

But the descent brought new challenges. The road was narrow, with loose gravel in spots, and I had to stay alert for oncoming traffic. A close call with a speeding motorbike shook me, a reminder to stay cautious even in moments of exhilaration. By the time I reached Dong Van, a bustling town at the heart of the loop, I was ready for a break.

Finding Balance

In Dong Van, I treated myself to a proper meal at a restaurant catering to tourists—steaming pho and fresh spring rolls, a welcome change from my usual roadside sandwiches. I swapped stories with a group of backpackers, learning about their motorbike adventures and sharing my cycling tales. Their curiosity about my solo journey boosted my confidence, and I realized how far I’d come since that breakdown weeks ago.

That evening, I reflected on the balance I was starting to find. The Ha Giang loop was teaching me to embrace both the highs and lows—the breathtaking views and the grueling climbs, the solitude and the fleeting connections. I didn’t need to conquer every mountain or stick to an arbitrary schedule. The journey was about listening to my body, trusting my instincts, and staying open to the unexpected.

Looking Ahead

As I prepared to leave Dong Van, I knew the final stretch of the loop would bring more challenges—more climbs, more heat, and likely more tourists. But I also knew I was ready. The road had tested me, but it had also shown me the kindness of strangers, the resilience of my own spirit, and the beauty of a country that felt both foreign and familiar. With my non-loan and my bike in good shape, I pedaled out of town, eager to see what the next horizon held.

This wasn’t just a bike trip anymore—it was a journey of letting go, adapting, and finding joy in the unpredictability of the road. Vietnam, with its mountains, markets, and moments of connection, was shaping me as much as I was exploring it.

View on Amazon