Cycling Vietnam 

After a month in Bali, both of us were eager for a change of pace—and, more truthfully, eager to be properly on the move again. With growing impatience and high expectations for this next chapter, we flew to Vietnam. In our minds, we were finally leaving the gentle safety net of tourist-tailored Bali and stepping into a less curated and more authentic Southeast Asia.

Ho Chi Minh City greeted us with heavy heat and the immediate realization that English would no longer get us very far—Google Translate quickly became our third travel companion. After a slightly dodgy and, as we later realised, well overpriced taxi ride from the airport (Tip: do yourself a favour and always use Grab, their version of Uber), we found ourselves with our two enormous bike boxes in a narrow alley, trying to find our accommodation. At his stage it was dark, and the alley was alive with tiny one-room homes open to the street: people dozing in the heat with their TVs on, food being prepped on the pavements out front, pans clattering, fragrant smells, fans spinning, scooters buzzing and people watching the world pass by whilst sitting in the impressive deep Asian squat. It all looked cluttered and chaotic, but, in fact, we were the alien component in this setting.

We spent our first week acclimatising—literally and figuratively—assembling the bikes, sweating constantly, learning how to cross roads like the locals, and visiting war museums. We did what any new-to-the-country foreigner would do: we hunted down Phở, the national dish, and Bánh Mì—both well known by Westerners. Of course, we were humbled by the new depth of flavor and it was just the start of a culinary journey that we will forever crave to repeat. 

After a week, we were as acclimatized as we were going to get and the bicycles were rebuilt; It was time to move. 

Part One: The Coast of Southern Vietnam

Our exit strategy from Ho Chi Minh involved a boat ride down the river and across open water to Vung Tau. The crossing was so rough and the boat so speedy that several passengers got sick. At one stage the boat literally took flight as we raced over a particularly large wave. We were mostly concerned about the bikes tied merely with a rope to the deck, but they hung on with only squeaky saltwater brakes to show for it.

Vung Tau revealed itself as a local surf spot and holiday destination, complete with beach culture that was quirky and unfamiliar—people fully clothed in the water, not swimming so much as standing in the sea chatting with friends.

The entire coastline was lined with enormous seafood restaurants that looked like they catered exclusively to groups of 30 or more. We were intimidated and ended up in a smaller local spot where, using hand gestures, we ordered a sour stingray hotpot, fried squid, greens and rice. It was delicious, and the first of many dinners eaten while sitting outdoors on colourful plastic stools, which we’d usually classify as children’s furniture. Nervous at first, we quickly surrendered to the flavours.

Leaving Vung Tau, we braced for chaotic traffic on the multi-lane roads ahead of us, but we found that the roads were equipped with a dedicated lane for scooters, bicycles, and tricycles with trailers. A sense of satisfaction swept over us, as we started pedaling North, the entire country ahead of us. We soaked in the sights: locals in the traditional conical Nón Lá hats, street food vendors on every corner, and an endless supply of iced drinks. Scooters whizzed past carrying the impossible—crates of live baby chicks, entire restaurant setups, even construction poles easily ten metres long.

Then, instead of cycling alongside beaches, came the empty mega-resorts. Shortly after leaving Vung Tau, we encountered kilometres of freshly built casinos, theme parks, golf courses, and castle-shaped hotels—completely deserted. At one point we rode six-lane roads without a single car in sight. It felt post-apocalyptic, or like someone had built an entire coastline in anticipation of tourists who hadn’t been born yet.

Food was hard to find in this strangely fabricated area, until in one of the side streets we stumbled into a tiny family-run place, which at first looked deserted, too. But then a woman appeared and ushered us to sit down. She gave us no menu—just disappeared, and soon returned with dish after dish: a rich broth with potatoes, rice, fermented vegetables, fish, and much more. And then, as a finale, a shot of bright red infused alcohol she called a “vitamin booster.” She charged us about €3 for the entire meal, and we could not have been happier. 

The heat soon became our main enemy. By the time we reached the red sand dunes outside Mui Ne, our surroundings started looking like a shimmering desert, and we had learned the hard way that cycling past 12am was close to impossible. And with heavy rain arriving every evening like clockwork during the rainy season, we were left with very little choice about when we could cycle. Our new rhythm started to look something like this: Wake up at around 6am and try to get as many kilometres in before the sun became unbearable; stop for a breakfast Bánh Mì, regular fresh coconuts for hydration, and eventually the sugar boost of a salted coffee; ideally arrive at the next accommodation around midday, shower, and then surrender naked under the divine power of the AC until it was time for dinner. 

Despite the heat, the roads were smooth and flat, and we were doing 80-100km days easily. The coastal route became surprisingly manageable—if monotonous. We soon were wishing for change.

Part Two: The Central Highlands

After we reached the coastal town of Nha Trang, it was finally time to turn inland toward the Central Highlands, swapping the endless coast road for mountains, coffee plantations, and the more lush and rural Vietnam we had hoped to see.

The first day nearly broke us: long climbs, unrelenting heat, and a total distance of 90km to the first and only option for accommodation. It marked the shift from the more heavily populated coastal area to the more remote and rural inland roads, as both food and shelter would start becoming more scarce, forcing us to plan our days around the guesthouses available en route. Our minds went back to considering wild camping, but the combination of humidity and violent afternoon storms made the idea comically unrealistic.

We started riding past rice fields, water buffalo, coffee, tea, and tropical fruit plantations. We did not encounter pure wilderness, but rather heavily worked land: agricultural workers everywhere, tractors on the roads with engines fully exposed like mechanical skeletons, and people of all ages scaling steep slopes in this hilly landscape, working under the heat and humidity. By noon, roadside cafés equipped with many hammocks were full of men smoking, dozing, waiting out the heat: Vietnamese midday life is built around strategic suspension.

We followed the southern/central portion of the Ho Chi Minh Road—a well-known route linking the country’s two biggest cities, Ho Chi Minh and Hanoi, supposedly it is particularly popular with touring motorbikes, though we hardly encountered any. The Ho Chi Minh Road is also very distinct from the original wartime trail, which was made up of footpaths dipping into Laos and Cambodia and was used for smuggling supplies through dense rainforest from north to south. 

We started taking notice of the cultural aspects that can be found in these highland areas, like traditional huts on stilts with thatched roofs, and learned that up to this day there are still numerous ethnic groups living in Vietnam, mostly in the mountainous regions— each one with a rich cultural background of language, cuisine and tradition.

As we worked our way up and down the hills, we had to start thinking about how we would continue our route. We knew we would head back to the coast midway up the country to visit Hoi An, Da Nang and Hue— but the big question was if we would go back inland to rejoin the Ho Chi Minh Road. The northern/central part of the Ho Chi Minh Road—the stretch fellow bike tourists rave the most about—would require several days of riding without food or accommodation options, meaning wild camping was required. Our minds were torn. 

It turned out an incoming typhoon would make our choice easy. Northern/central Vietnam was going to be hit by heavy weather systems, which could lead to flooding and landslides— especially in the more remote areas. Our decision was made, after Hue we would be taking the train up to Hanoi instead of cycling the second half.

Part Three: From Hoi An to Hanoi

And so we tackled our last days of cycling, and as it happened, we were blessed with probably our favorite leg of the route in terms of scenery as we descended back to the coast, riding smaller roads and hovering at the edge of the weather system about to hit Vietnam.

We arrived in Hoi An, a colourful and touristy town, full of heritage and picturesque streets lined with lanterns. It was to some extent a shock to the system, as we had not seen any other tourists for a couple of weeks. Though we embraced it and enjoyed a sense of superiority, convinced that we knew enough tricks now to recognize the real street food gems. 

Shortly after, we cycled the last 30km to Da Nang, from where we would ship our bicycles by train (shockingly easy, and the how-to well explained here). We now effectively felt naked and had to awkwardly lug around our dozen bags made for strapping onto bicycles, but not so much onto humans. We would have to wait a week to be reunited with our two wheelers all the way up in Hanoi. In the meantime, we took a stopover in Hue, which had been recommended to us. Unfortunately, Conor spent a full day in bed with fever during our stay, but we still managed to visit the Imperial City before boarding our sleeper train north.

The sleeper train in Vietnam is somewhat infamous—practical enough, considering you can traverse the entire length of the country, but uncomfortable enough to not want to repeat it too often either. We shared a four bed cabin with two Vietnamese men, the bunk beds were hard, and the rattling and announcements kept us awake. Sleep was not part of the journey.

We arrived in Hanoi sleep-deprived and stepped right into the absolute pandemonium. Without realising it, we had arrived the day before the 80th anniversary of Vietnam’s National Day. Thousands of flags hung from every building. Streets closed. Parades everywhere. All of this explained the high accommodation costs we had faced to stay the first few days in the centre of Hanoi.

We collected our bicycles and rode them through the chaos as police ushered traffic around parade routes. We did not witness much of the National Day itself, as we were catching up on some desperately needed sleep. We preferred discovering Hanoi on some calmer days, as we tasted its signature dish Bún chả, sourced some quality coffee, explored the crammed streets and took in this last piece of Vietnam. 

For the second part of our Hanoi stay, we booked a quieter spot and focused on the logistics of leaving: sourcing bike boxes, padding materials, and a van big enough to carry everything to the airport. We ended up outsourcing the packing of our bikes to a trustworthy bike shop and relished not having to do this annoying task ourselves. 

The final goodbyes to Vietnam were marked by some last salt coffees, as many delicious bowls of street food as we could handle and, to be honest, much needed time to rest. We left Hanoi in the dark and boarded our final long-haul flight home to Europe.

Leaving Vietnam

When we arrived in Vietnam, we had plans to travel through Laos and Thailand, and then maybe fly home from Bangkok. But as time passed, we realised our minds were drifting elsewhere. Somewhere along the road we stopped thinking about the here and now and started seriously considering what our next project would be once we returned home.

It’s been said that a good dancer knows when to leave the dance floor. We don’t claim to be good dancers, but we did recognise when it was time to stop shaking our stuff and get a taxi home before waking up on a stranger’s couch wondering why our heads hurt so much.

Before leaving, we were convinced Southeast Asia would be the experience of our trip—the defining chapter, the place “real adventurers” go. Real adventurers, we imagined, would camp next to precarious paddy fields through storms and heatwaves, undeterred because they’re made of stronger stuff than your average bicycle tourist. Real adventurers would buy a round of shots for everyone just before the club lights come on, find an after-party, and not sleep for two days because they’re simply that much fun to be around.

So no, there will be no books written about our time in Southeast Asia, nor any death-defying stories that make anyone say, “wow, you guys are so crazy.”

Nevertheless, we got what we wanted—or at least, we’re happy with what we got. Vietnam was beautiful, overwhelming, delicious, and kind, and it gave us exactly what we needed to know: it was time to go home.