The view from my hotel balcony is ominous. I’m 14 floors up and can just about see the car park below, and a hint of the river that runs beside it, but the cars driving over the bridge disappear into a thick cloud of smog which sits heavily upon Phu Ly. Over breakfast with Malcolm, sitting by glass windows opaque with pollution, we discuss how we’re going to cope with cycling in this toxic miasma.
This part of Vietnam is close to the border with China, who have very kindly built a string of power stations along it knowing that the prevailing winds blow the huge blooms of contamination south-east into Vietnam. We’re not yet aware that an even deadlier disease emanating from China is going to infect the entire world with coronavirus in a matter of weeks, but our solution to the pollution will come in handy in ways we never envisaged very soon.
Smog over Phu Ly
We walk across the bridge to a pharmacy where I proceed to buy 60 face-masks to distribute amongst our fellow cyclists, providing protection for whoever wants it from the traffic fumes and coal-fired smog that is obscuring everything and making the air taste of charcoal. Back at the hotel I repack my luggage so all the cycling gear I’ve been dragging around for the past few weeks is now at the top of my bag, and catch up on some work.
I’ve got a few hours until the Truants arrive so decide to treat myself to a massage ahead of three days of pain. The hotel boasts about its spa, with posters in the lift showing a woman lying asleep with hot stones on her back and orchids surrounding her, so I’m looking forward to a similarly Zen experience. However what happens next is anything but.
Face masks
I pay for the only option on offer at the spa’s reception – the VIP Body Massage – and am led into a room where there’s a bath and shower, drinks and in the corner a massage table. I wait in a chair for my masseuse but in through the door walks a woman who is barely out of her teens and dressed like a saucy schoolgirl with a mini-skirt and an unbuttoned cleavage. She speaks no English but gestures for me to get undressed and into the bath.
I try to explain that I don’t want a bath, just a back massage, but she looks confused, so I take off my top and lie face down on the table. It’s a big mistake. She instantly straddles me, grinding herself suggestively on my behind and tickling me. I ask her to stop and then try to explain again that I want a therapeutic massage, using hand gestures. Cue more grinding and then some violent smacking of my shoulders and spine. It’s so brutal I feel like I’m being beaten up so I have to shout for her to stop.
She looks crestfallen as I push her off my buttocks and climb off the table to pull my clothes back on. I try and explain that she’s misunderstood the kind of massage I want and head back to the spa reception but I’ve obviously caused a commotion because the receptionist refuses to give my money back and calls the hotel manager instead who comes up to see what has happened. Fortunately he speaks (a little) English and a light bulb goes off in his head.
“Aaaaah, sports massage?!?” he repeats. “Across road. Proper massage! Me go there for my back, yes. Here…” he winks, “is VIP massage, you know. Fun!” Turns out the hotel spa is essentially a knocking shop and the poor girl sent to me was expecting to give me a happy ending at the very least, if not the full works. That night I notice a steady stream of drunk Vietnamese businessmen pushing the lift button for the fourth floor spa, knowing full well what they’re expecting from the school-uniformed girls upstairs.
Choosing bikes with Alan
It’s 4.30pm when a commotion in the lobby reveals the arrival of two coaches containing 40 Brits in red Truants t-shirts, who are refreshing their way through jetlag with cans of local beers. In fact, the team medic Lee announces that two beers hydrate you faster and better than water alone as beer also contains salt, sugar and water. Turns out we all heed this piece of advice as if it is gospel over the next few days.
Greetings are exchanged, along with hugs, handshakes, laughter and a fair few colourful stories as the Truants check in and get allocated their rooms and sharing partners. I’m paired with the team photographer Ryan who is a last minute addition to the ride and bemused and horrified in equal measure as the events of the next few days unfold. Fortunately he’s a calm and chilled room-mate, un-inclined to roll in at 3am and drunkenly snore through the night, so we get on well.
View from balcony later in the day
Once we’ve had our bike fittings and taken a few spins around the hotel car park to familiarise ourselves with the bikes we assemble for drinks, dinner and the pre-ride briefing, preparing us for the challenges and routes to come. We’ve got three days to cycle 250km, on and off-road, and the weather is looking distinctly changeable. It’s all to raise money for Teenage Cancer Trust, Childline and Nordoff Robbins Music Therapy and there’s no illusions about the fact it’s going to be a tough endeavour.
However the hardcore gang who make their way up to the karaoke floor and party into the night don’t let thoughts of tomorrow trouble them. I instead wait for my friend Alexander Milas to finally arrive, having been held up at Singapore Airport due to visa issues, toasting his arrival with a margarita and head for bed before midnight.
