The Golden Triangle Rider

[Dr. G]

<b> BAR FINED IN THE FIRST JUNGLE </b>

The “<b>No Stranger To Danger Expedition</b>” was sexed on Loi Kroh, brought to a short time sputtering stop.
On the eve of the planned departure the prepped Kawasaki KMX 200 was on a shakedown ride. A stop at BTS 2000 Travel office had the Big Boss looking at the motorcycle and describing it as “sexy.” That was a new twist, a new description. To verify the description the bike was later parked on Loi Kroh where a flock of night doves swarmed around it.
I asked one of the professionals surrounding it if she thought it was sexy. Her name was Pee. She answered, “Yes, sexy, very sexy. You handsome man. Where you from? What your name?”
I answered, “My motorcycle is from Japan, the only one in Thailand. Me, I am from an Indian reservation in Montana, the only Big Indian Boom-Boom in Thailand. Do you want to go for a ride?”
She laughed, then answered, “I work now, you pay bar fine?”
Laughing, I replied, “I no pay bar fine. You pay bar fine for me.”
The whole covey of doves now laughed. I saw that Pee was confused though. I tried to help her understand what I was proposing. I explained the Kawasaki KMX 200 was known as the “Cult Bike” around the town of Chiang Mai and to members of the inner circle working out of the Bat Cave operated by Wrong Way Robert. I told her it had been meticulously prepared over the previous month for a long and arduous expedition into the jungles along the Thai and Cambodia borders. I carefully explained that if she wanted to go for a short time ride for a little fun, she would have to pay for the pleasure, starting with 400 Baht for taking the Cult Bike out. I tried to help her understand that like a rice canoe, there were only so many times or kilometers the unit could be used before it became worn out, that prepared as it was, it was now in its prime.
The rice canoe analogy she understood like all working professionals understand the letters a, t, and m. A deal was finally negotiated and the Cult Bike had the first of its many adventures, although it was more like a warm-up lap rather than a real race. As the Cult Bike was ridden out of the urban concrete jungle of Loi Kroh, it was followed by jealous cries from the tittering birds left behind.
The Expedition had started but some hours later the 17 horsepower, high revolution engine sputtered and stopped, nearly out of gas. The Kawi, Pee and me were spent. Switching to stored power we slowly came back to life. Limping to Loi Kroh and arriving at closing time the crowd cheered even though they could tell there was very little power and were we only on reserve. Good byes were said and the 6:00 departure time next morning was rescheduled for a couple hours later.
<b>[Next installment: ATTACKED IN THE NIGHT]</b>

[Dr. G]

<b>ATTACKED IN THE NIGHT</b>

The first hours of riding were uneventful, giving me time to reflect on the send-off I had received the night before. Fully loaded the Kawasaki was happy at 90 kph, ripping along at 6,000-7,000 rpm. Every 80 k’s I would have to start looking for petrol because of the small gas tank but it would give me a nice break about once an hour. With six gears I was able to maintain my speed up hills and if I wanted to pass a truck or slower moving vehicle I could kick it down a cog and zip around. The 200-cc engine was performing flawlessly.
Forty kilometers after a 7/11 lunch and gas stop my gut started to rumble. My exhaust chute twitched and I knew things needed to be gotten rid of before the next pit stop. A tentative eruption from that end caused me to pull off the road, barely get the side stand down and make a run for the bushes.
I heard the Kawasaki fall over as I ran away from it but Nature was more important to me than turning around and picking it up. As I ran into the bush I was pulling off my gloves, helmet, and trying to get out of my riding armor and my suspenders down. The twitches of my sphincter were seconds apart as I stumbled behind a tree, dropped my pants and squatted. I let go with a blast and groaned with relief. Then I felt something moving under my right boot. Wondering WTF? I looked down and saw my foot was on top of a snake that was withering, trying to get out from under me. I had pushed its head into the soft jungle. In my rush to get my colon cleared I had squatted before looking and now saw one meter of very mad Siamese or small King Cobra inches from my exposed baby soft back end.
A bite from one of these snakes can kill an elephant. I thought about doing the tough-guy thing, slowing lifting my foot, grabbing the cobra behind the head and then throwing it as far as I could. I chose to do the other manly thing. I screamed as I jumped up and forward as far as I could. There was nothing pretty about my get-away. When I landed it was head first and my pants were still below my knees. Rolling and thrashing 2-3 times I got as far away as I could before worrying about what might make me a eunuch or using toilet paper. I stood, pulled my pants up and ran back to the downed motorcycle, not looking back to see where Mr. Snake was.
After using a hand full of cleansing wipes I got myself sanitized, then dressed. Picking up the motorcycle was my next chore. When I did I noticed there was no return spring pressure against the throttle. The plastic coupling to the carburetor and the oil injector had been jammed against the expansion chamber and melted. I was screwed.
It was nearly dark when I started to work on trying to make something to connect the cables. Darkness fell and I tried working and using my flashlight, but nothing I cobbled together would work. Depressed, with no water and a pissed off snake somewhere nearby, I decided to push the bike to an abandoned sala across the road and sleep there for the night, try to think through a fix for the cable and deal with it at first light. At least I’d be off the ground a foot or two.
I slept in my clothes, wearing my helmet and gloves. It was cool where I was, somewhere above Phitsanulok. Sleep was fitful because I kept thinking about the snake and whether it would cross the road looking for me or if it had friends on my side. Several times I heard animals moving through the bushes but when I turned on my flashlight I could see nothing and things would quiet down
Around 2:00 I woke up when I heard the motorcycle fall over. Sitting up I turned on the light and saw 10-15 pair of eyes looking at me from near the bike. It had been pushed over by a group of monkeys, white-handed gibbons. They were trying to tear open the tank bag where I’d had cookies and chips earlier in the day and crumbs were inside.
I started to yell and run at the monkeys. They scattered, and then as I got closer to the motorcycle they started to circle me. I kicked at them, and they tried to grab at me, hissing and yapping. Next we were in a pitched battle, them ducking in and out of my range and me trying to kick them. They were quick little bastards, darting in and out of my reach, sometimes yanking at parts on the motorcycle, sometimes snatching at me. I finally connected with one of the slower ones and booted it about 10 meters away. It really screamed but the others backed away. I started to run at them and yell. It was a standoff. Finally they group melted back into the bush and I was alone.
The motorcycle had suffered some more damage. The windscreen was cracked and a gas line had been ripped off and was missing. In the morning I would use the breather hose off the battery to replace the missing gas line, glue the crack inn the windscreen, and fashion a connector for the throttle cable out of a piece of a soda can I found. I was back on the road by 8:00 AM, but it had been an ugly 15 hours at that toilet stop. As I rode I remembered what Prince Charles once said when asked what he had learned in his many travels, “ Always use a toilet when you see one.” Had I done that at my last gas stop I would have never met Mr. Snake and his friends, the Nasty Monkey Clan.
<b><b></b>[Next Installment: TIGER, HEINEKEN AND THE UGLY ROAD]</b>

[BignTall]

Wooohooo. I'm loving it. Continue on!!! what about some pictures of the surly beauty you have bewteen your legs (the bike you perv).

[Rhodie]

Great report Greg.
You must copy your chums @ PETA in on this.
I've suggested BB at BTS to read daily, as she had an impression that you were a risk adverse biker - tho she might feel the need some handy wetwipes when u next meet.
Keep the cylinder dog roasting reports coming in, but with pix pse!
Surely, unless u spk with forked tongue, u must have a great one of the cobra hissing trouser snake!
Pure reptilian rapture!

[sargent]

One hell of a exciting account waiting for the rest............

[Dr. G]

<b>TIGER, HEINEKEN AND THE UGLY ROAD AHEAD</b>

The Cult Bike was happily knocking down morning kilometers on Route 12 through The Thung Salaeng Luang National Park over the mountains when a tiger ran out of the jungle. It raced along the road parallel to me on my left side, then suddenly hooked a right and nearly ran into the motorcycle! As quickly as it had run out of the woods it zagged as I zigged the motorcycle. I think each of us surprised the other, and then it ran back into the woods, or lumbered. For a large animal it was surprisingly nimble. Seeing a Siberian Tiger that big, in the wilds of the Thai mountains, gave me thoughts of it’s “time to stop and give a little baht at the next temple, make some merit.” My guess was the beast weighed at least 100 kilograms. Later I was told it was one of less than 500 still wandering and living off the land in Thailand.
After that morning surprise the day was pretty boring. Every 80-100 kilometers I would stop, tank up and use the toilet. After every four tanks of petrol I would unhook my bags, pull off the seat and top off the oil tank. My meals were 7/11 specials, whatever I could grab that was quick and filling at the pit stops.
A temple I stopped at to make some merit had two monks looking at my motorcycle intently when I came out. One spoke excellent English and was interested in my Expedition. We chatted for five-ten minutes. When I started to go he asked if I had any spare stickers like the ones on my windscreen. As I dug through my tank bag all I could find were a couple Motorcycle Sexpeditions ones. I passed over them but as I did he saw them and said, “Can I have one of those?”
I hesitated, knowing some person might think there might be an out-of-balance-with-Buddha-cosmic repercussion if I gave the nice monk what he wanted. I asked, “ Are you sure you want one like this? “
He laughed, then answered, “I’m only doing my monk time for a month. When I get back to Bangkok I want to put a sticker on both my bikes.” I gave him two and saw him smiling a mile wide as I rode away. I was thinking, “Sure, Buddha was serious, but he must have also had a sense of humor, teaching followers not to look at the totality of life as all seriousness, that part of this life and the next included humor and fun.”
A text mail at my next stop from a fellow traveler on a BMW R1200 GS suggested cold beer, a guesthouse and air con at the Thai/Cambodia border. He had just finished tagging every province in Thailand and was headed to Cambodia. I had Heineken on my mind. A bed, shower and air con sounded great after my experience the night before with the monkeys and sleeping on bamboo slats in my clothes. He texted he would find a guesthouse and save a beer for me if I could make it in by dark. I do not ride after dark but calculated if I had no break downs and kept at my splash-dash-toilet pace I could get there before the sun set.
I had been having a problem with the gear shifter. Over the years abusers of the lever, the guys that like to lift their foot and jamb it down into first, had stripped nearly all the teeth off the lever, the shift shaft being the stronger of the two when bolted on. I would have to break out my tool kit once or twice a day and to tighten the pinch bolt enough to keep it from the lever from slipping on the shaft when I shifted or I could not move from one gear to another. It was a nasty, dirty, hot repair that made a cold Heineken with a shower and air con the focus of my riding day.
Arriving in town at dusk I stopped at a petrol station to top off the tank, not wanting to have to waste time doing it in the morning. As I tried to leave the shift lever slipped again. While the sun set and street lights came on I was laying on my back getting my hands dirty with chain lube, trying to tighten the nearly stripped bolt in the lever. My mood was black, and I thought I could smell fecal matter on or in my riding pants. As I tried to locate the unsavory wafting I happily discovered it was soi dog droppings I had parked the bike on when I rolled it away from the pumps to work on it.
Carefully shifting gears through town, trying to stay in second, I found the guesthouse and the Beemer rider, Barry BBQ. He must have had some premonition of my stress level because he had booked me a room, paid for it, then gone inside and turned on the air con. He had also made a serious dent in the cold Heinenken supply, eaten dinner, and made friends with the owner and her pretty daughter.
I showered and while doing so washed some brown stuff out of the inside of my riding pants. Then I met him in the restaurant and helped celebrate his being the first rider we knew who had ridden to all of the provinces. Over beers we made plans to cross the border early in the morning.
When he asked how the Cult Bike was performing I extolled its agility to duck oncoming trucks and the Cloaking Device I had installed before leaving. I told him that as long as I had the device turned on he and I would be OK if he stayed close enough to my Kawasaki, that his Beemer would probably make it over the 50 k’s of ugly road ahead after we crossed the border. He was intrigued because as a good BMW owner he had installed nearly about every electronic device he could buy on his motorcycle but had missed buying the secret Cloaking Device.
As I stumbled off to my room 2-6 Heinekens later I saw him fingering the mysterious device on the front of my headlight pod. I told him, “Hey, keep your fingers off that, it’s a sensitive unit.”
“So’s mine,” he answered, “but I keep mine hidden.”
I replied, “I don’t go fingering yours, so quit playing with mine.”
As I fell asleep I had a lingering thought that maybe his touching my unit might have taken some of my mojo, my Cult Bikes good joss, our Ying and Yang, and drained it to him and his BMW. That would be like some other BMW owners I had met, jealous of the Cult Bike and our capabilities. We would see tomorrow. The test would be getting into Cambodia, down 50 k’s of ugly washboard and pot-holed road, ducking oncoming cars, trucks and buses, then winding our way through the madness of traffic into Phnom Penh and to a walk about 100 meters from our planned hotel for a tiger, this one a beer and not one of the four-legged ones like I had nearly run into me in the morning. What I had not considered were the two-legged dears that come out at night and would be hunting my sexy bike and me after dark that night as we started for the Walk About.
<b>[Next Installment: MOTORCYCLE SEXPEDITION – ABSOLUTE RIDING IN CAMBODIA</b>]

[BarryBBQ]

We agreed to spend the night of the 16th in Aranyaprathet and cross the border on the morning of the 17th for a week, more or less, in Cambodia. I left Chiang Mai 6 days earlier so that I could complete my goal of visiting all 76 provinces in Thailand on my GS. Mini report in Thailand Other. http://board.gt-rider.com/topic.asp?TOPIC_ID=2282

The following thread occurred via sms:

<blockquote id="quote"><font size="1" face="Verdana, Arial, Helvetica" id="quote">quote:<hr height="1" noshade id="quote">Sent:
2/15/07 8:01 PM
From:
Frazier, Greg
THROTTLE CABLE BROKE-CAMPING IN JUNGLE TILL LIGHT.GET TWO ROOMS. LAST NIGHT BAR FINED, THIS NIGHT FU**ED IN THE JUNGLE. NOW I TAKE PILL-UP AT LIGHT,PUSH. shyte!

To:
Frazier, Greg
Sent:
2/15/07 8:04 PM
OK, keep in touch. Good luck in the jungle. Watch out for the mosquitoes. bbq

Sent:
2/15/07 8:09 PM
From:
Frazier, Greg
SNAKES-I WILL SLEEP ON THE BIKE!<hr height="1" noshade id="quote"></blockquote id="quote"></font id="quote">
I ate fresh seafood with friends in Samut Sakhorn on the 15th and left for Bangkok the next morning. I took the ring road around Bangkok as I knew that the probability of hitting a police checkpoint on the ring road during rush hour was low. I’ve been nicked midday on the ring road before. I arrived in Aranyaprathet about 2:00 and stopped at customs to find out what time they opened and confirm that they wanted 3 copies of everything. I found the Nava Phanom guest house, 2.5 km before the border. I booked 2 rooms and as Greg said, I turned the air on in his room - because I’m a nice guy.

I showered, turned on the TV and took a nap. Greg rolled in just at dusk and did smell kinda funny. He mentioned the tiger and I couldn’t help but wonder to myself if it wasn’t a 660ml tiger rather than a 100kg tiger.

We ate dinner and then proceeded to finish the last of the refrigerated Heinekens and were reduced to drinking our beer with ice cubes. We flew the Tea Drinkking flag high. As we headed to our rooms, I noticed a strange glow coming from the cloaking device on Greg’s bike. I looked closer and could smell something burning. I put my hand near the device and exclaimed “this is f’ing cold”. Greg said it had something to do with the superconductor the drove HPU (hand powered unit) in his cloaking device and that I should never touch it again. Little did he know that the very next day, during the first of many fuel stops, I caught the cloaking device as it fell off his bike. "Greg”, I said, “put this away and start RIDING your motorcycle.


Cloaking device

Over breakfast the next morning, Greg gave some tips on writing. We talked about how you feel when you throw your leg over the saddle of an iron horse. We finished eating and jumped on our trusty steeds, brought them to life then headed for the border. I made sure to wear my lucky Buddhas on the outside of my shirt, as I usually wear them inside to give me more protection. Every civil servant that we came in contact with commented positively about them.

I tried to help Greg with the trouble he was having with his motorbike. He had breakdowns daily. I think he rode 200 km more than I did in Cambodia because of his early morning parts hunts / repair sessions. I told him it wasn’t the bike, but that it was he hadn’t become one with the machine yet. I tried as hard as I could to educate him and tell him that he should be RIDING his motorbike, not DRIVING it and that as soon as he became a rider the bike troubles would go away. He countered that if he was a rider then who is the person sitting behind him when he’s 2-up? I replied, “a passenger”. Despite my best efforts, bike gremlins would plague him for the remainder of the trip.


Greg driving his motorcycle


The cult bike


An all too common sight


The cult bike ate the master link and the rear tire ate the license plate.

I think I smoked more cigarettes this ride than any other in the past. I’m comfortable riding at 130 on the GS, the KMX200 ran best at 80 and had an 80 km tank. We stopped every hour for fuel. Out of concern for my friend, when I did ride ahead of him, I’d stop every 15 minutes (20 km) and wait for him to catch up. I don’t want to be accused of leaving the dead and crippled behind again.


Every damned hour…

Coming up? A lovely 10 km mud slalom on the GS

[Rhodie]

Guys, this is pure "Fear & Loathing" Gonzo journalism at its best.
I'm hooked... Keep it up & keep posting.
Only sorry that things in CNX needed attending to and missed the trip.

Is the Cult Bike back on sale - only potential purchasers may be wary should they read this.

[Dr. G]

<b>MOTORCYCLE SEXPEDITION – ABSOLUTE RIDING IN CAMBODIA</b>

Paper is the scourge of border crossings around the world. It is great to have a wad of it when you need to use one of the Immigration toilets but at pain in the ass to collect and pay for if exiting and entering with a motor vehicle or just yourself.
The exit out of Thailand was eased for me by my having the Cloaking Device on the Cult Bike turned “On.” BBQ went with the “Dangling Buddha, Gold King and Wooden Penis” option, wearing a chain around his neck adorned with amulets and talisman, including a small carved male sexual image. We were out of Thailand and into Cambodia in 90 minutes.
Barry BBQs BMW paperwork out of Thailand was greased because the computer could find it and him from previous crossings. The Kawasaki Cult Bike gave the computer a bit more of a challenge. While it was Thai legal with plate and Green Book, it was not shown as a Kawasaki model in the computer. After the Customs Agent Inspector came out of his office and inspected it he and the computer decided it was a 1999 model and valued it at 200,000 baht.
A month before I had been offering to sell the Kawasaki, with papers, to some Cheap Charlie’s for 50,000 baht. Smart used motorcycle buyers in Thailand knew the Green Book alone was worth 40,000-50,000 baht. The Cult Bike status to motorcycle collectors added even more value, and now with official paperwork in hand I saw the 200,000 figure. I realized I had wasted a lot of time trying to educate the Cheap Charlie’s about the deal they were being offered to own the Cult Bike.
<i>[So as not to be admonished by GT-Rider moderators and watchers, what follows is but a snippet of the Cambodia portion of the Cult Bike Expedition. This is because what is below is posted in the North Thailand Trip Report Forum and the horrors of the Cambodia Sexpedition and research therein took place in Cambodia. I’ll save the monitors and readers from their flagellation exercise for my having prostituted this cyber space and merely allude to or “bullet” the darkness of the depths of the physical abuses both motorcyclists and motorcycles had to endure as they passed through Cambodia.]</i>
I began pacing myself as soon as we left the border, knowing that the next 15-18 hours could be repeatedly hard and arduous. I was also trying to pace the BMW GS knowing that if it raced to Phnom Penh at its full potential it might be spent before the time needed for our research.
The Cult Bike Expedition had been designed to research and debunk some rumors spread by numerous motorcycle owners in conjunction with a follow-up book I have been working on for some time to a first book titled <b>MOTORCYCLE SEX or FREUD WOULD NEVER UNDERSTAND THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN ME AND MY MOTORCYCLE </b>(First edition 1994). When offered a chance to join the field research team some purported experts on the subject came up with wildly creative reasons as to why they could not. Some were: 1) I need to ride to Laos to look at some elephants, 2) I’ve got to go to a wedding, 3) I’ll be doing similar research on my own in the Muslim world, 4) I’ve got to get my motorcycle painted at that time, and 5) I think I’ve got to cigar smoke while selling my boat in Phuket. The most forthright excuse was “My wife would castrate me before I went.” Probably the motorcyclist with the best reasonable excuse was the one who said he’d be there, helping to the degree he could, but had to be mindfully limited in advice and associate status because his lady friend would be joining him for a ride to tourist to the temples in the north.
With gasoline breath (from having to suck some petrol to wash parts) and body parts covered in mud, dust and diesel, Barry BBQ and I managed to arrive at the Flamingos Hotel and not get assigned the room where the previous manager (Frank) died. Some interviewees are highly superstitious and would not enter this room if we used it for interviews.
Our research began with happy hour in the hotel lobby while we mapped out the 100 meters to our first research station, then we were sucked into the vortex of walking about after dark. Barry BBQ looking for a massage specialist, and me, monk-like as I am, I began looking to strike up conversational intercourse with a friendly local.
We’d chosen Chinese New Year for our arrival. That was a mistake. The professionals we wanted to interview were mostly back in the villages, shops were closed and nearly all of the punters we had planned to rely upon for advice and information were too drunk or burned out to know much more than where to buy erectile enhancing drugs and cheap swill.
Personally I wanted to research a claim about a former girlfriend who, while in a committed relationship with me, reportedly gave a dose of the white drippy stuff to a Phnom Penh local bike guy some years earlier as she passed through town on her own ride while I was riding in Africa. He’d either died or left town because all I could find out was “Oh yeah, we remember her.”
I also needed to spend time on my slippery lever, that eight-inch unit that helps me increase and decrease speed when riding. An afternoon of poking around town got the flopping thing tightened up for a most reasonable price, welded solid for less than a box of VeeTabs.
After four nights in Phnom Penh, Barry BBQ and I had had enough. We decided to move on to Snookyville to try some riding down there. It was an easy day of driving our bikes. I kept the Cult Bike in the 90-100 kph range, helping Barry BBQ maintain his smoking habit by letting him stop every 80 k’s for a smoke while I made friends with the local petrol girls. I was also saving him big money because at my speed he was getting nearly twice the mileage he had been running fast enough to use his top gear, the gear the Germans designed for autobahn driving, not the roads of 98% of the rest of the world.
In Snookyville I needed to take time to top off the Cult Bike liquids and enter my research findings in my journal. At the Oceans Hotel I also found a Bible in my room, so felt a night of reading was needed to clear my mind of the horrors I had encountered in Phnom Penh. Barry BBQ, younger and spunkier, soldiered on with the field research while I stayed in my room, reading and postulating.
One night of Snookyness or “Snooky-No-Looky-So-Good-Ville” and Barry BBQ and I voted 2-0 to “blow this town.” I voted for the gentle four-hour ferryboat trip to Koh Kong, needing the peaceful time aboard to meditate and reflect on the doves I had interviewed. Barry BBQ wanted to spend six hours riding over some of the same road we had already covered, then some under construction he had researched and concluded was “BMW 1200 GS dual-sport adventure bike” doable. I flipped my vote from R & R to take his option, knowing that if his Bavarian behemoth had any problems on his route choice he might need the Cult Bike to tow him into Thailand. As we left the hotel I was so lost in my reflections on my research findings and what we might find at our next destination of Pattaya I forgot to turn on the Cloaking Device to keep danger from finding us.
The Cult Bike threw the drive chain by shaking loose the master link and also ate my registration plate after 10 ks of bonner-numbing, washboard-hammering on a new construction section of road. A half hour of roadside repairs using my spare master link and Barry BBQ excitedly using his Leatherman knife to whack-off my bent rear mud guard got us moving again.
Then the rain started, not on us, but on the bull dust in the new construction sections ahead. The bull dust became foot-deep brown spunk. Bulldozers were pulling cars and trucks up the hills. Barry BBQ was using his size 13 boots for outriggers to keep the Bavarian bulk upright and pointed uphill. His cigarette smoking, in-depth nocturnal sexpedition research and Anchor consumption could not overcome 350 kilos of German plastic and metal wanting to lay down like a pig in the mud one time. He’d made a valiant attempt to keep it from wallowing but my good karma on the Cult Bike was too far ahead of him and the Cloaking Device was “Off.”
We spent another half hour getting to the top of the KY Jelly-like hill, me carrying his broken saddle bag filled with something inside heavy as rocks, muttering “ferryboat, God told me last night when I was reading about Noah there is a reason for ferryboats.” Barry BBQ followed, using all of his off-road riding skills to muscle his dual-sport motorcycle sideways up the hill, trying to wipe his personal hard drive clean of those fraudulent photos created for BMW advertising pictures in motorcycle magazines about their off-pavement capabilities.
Later, as we used the hotel garden hose to wash our riding gear off, we laughed at ourselves. I kept muttering “ferryboat, we should have taken the ferryboat, God came to me last night, pointed me right at the section in the Bible about the boat and I did not listen,” while Barry BBQ was saying, “I think I am going to hurt tomorrow.” We both knew we could have spent the day looking at elephants in Laos, or watching our bikes get painted back in Chiang Mai. Instead, we had had an absolutely tough riding day, beating up ourselves and our motorcycles. We were in no shape for research that night, other than to see how long cold beer would last in the small restaurant at the guesthouse. As for the sexpedition part of our day, I had bagged another day on the Cult Bike Expedition and both Barry BBQ and I had been f*****.
<b>[Next Installment: RING JOB IN THE LAND OF SMILES] </b>

[penetrator]

You should of wiped your arse on the cobra

[BarryBBQ]

And then there were two… There were supposed to be three riders on this Cambodian leg but the third member was called away suddenly to Chiang Mai and wouldn’t be able to join us. I am looking forward to reading his Chiang Mai trip report as are many others.

20 miles from our hotel in Phnom Penh, Greg’s shift lever came loose again while he was driving. We pulled into a roadside gasoline shop and repairs commenced. The sun was going down. Greg refused to give up on bolting the stripped shift lever to the semi-stripped shaft. He had a nice, long pair of needle nose vice grips in his toolkit that I kindly suggested Greg use as a make-shift shift lever but he was reluctant to cause any harm to any piece of his beloved cult bike. Just as the sun set on the horizon, the shaft was firmly attached. The tools were gathered quickly and I rode, Greg drove, to our hotel with the help of headlights.

That night, after we showered and settled in for the weekend and quickly learned that we had the town to ourselves. Chinese New Year is a time when people go back to their village and share their wealth with the family. How lucky for us, a nice quiet weekend.

On advice of the good Reverend Bob, we hired a tuk tuk for the day and toured the city. Being Chinese New Year, there was light traffic and we moved about swiftly. We visited open air riverside bamboo huts where fresh, local fruits and juices were served. We searched for the best value we could find for our hard earned money. That night, our driver to us to one of the finest establishments in Phnom Penh and we quickly decided to go eat somewhere we knew could stomach it. We went for a walk about and ended up having tossed salad and shark fin soup. For drinks, we had a martini and then we finished with a hearty massage.

A frequent Phnom Penh visitor from Alaska was in town with his tg. We exchanged current data and he was off the next day to Angkor while we were off to find our sand at the beach. Sihanoukville was our destination. We stayed at Oceans – nice place, secure parking, close to food and drinks. If I was a beach guy, I think I would like it there. Nice cool breezes, good value for money and nice European food in the restaurants and mini marts.

Having decided to pass on the three day minimum rental/ride (not drive) to Bokor, we pushed on towards Koh Kong. Greg was hearing things again. Little voices kept telling him to take the ferry. Our Alaskan friend told us how wonderful the road to Koh Kong was so off we went.

[img]http://BarryProm.smugmug.com/photos/133085386-S.jpg [/img]
We decided to wait for the next car ferry rather than force our way onto this one

The little voice knew his stuff. We rain into rain between the 3rd and 4th river crossings. For 10 km we trudged along what used to be bull dust but with water added became wet bull patties. If Bull Dust Bob were here, I’m sure he would have earned a new nickname. Greg rode ahead and stopped periodically to take photos. I soon realized that he was stopping to take photos of me with hopes of me sliding sideways on my arse. We watched as bulldozers pulled waiting mini-vans up the steep sections.


Bull dust + water = two wheel mud slalom

Being 200 cm tall has its advantages. My legs make good outriggers for slalom skiing on the GS. Things went well for a long time, especially the flat sections and downhill’s. Then we came to the section where they were drilling rock and the road went uphill. I stopped when I was exhausted and needed a break but the drilling machine nearby was just so danged loud that I had to push on another 50 meters. This time when I stopped, the air compressor that powered the drilling machine seemed just as loud so I pushed on again – into the uphill incline. I watched as the cult bike climbed up the hill and out of sight.

I spotted a nice place to park and rest and just as I was making my way there the rear wheel spun and slipped out from under me causing me to lay my wonderful ENDURO bike in the mud. Fug it I said, as I stopped to drink a bottle of water and contemplate my next move. A construction truck pulled up behind the GS and looked anxious for me to move it. I motioned to him to come and help me pick it up as I wasn’t ready to do it alone.


Barry with mud

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KMX 200 front wheel – clogged with mud

We stayed at the Champa Koh Kong guest house and enjoyed the hot shower, hot food and depleted the supply of cold Heineken again. Our Alaskan friend came through this road 2 days later on his Africa Twin and commented that the road was only wet in a few places. I think the cloaking device upset the cosmic karma balance and caused the rain. The locals said it hadn’t rained there in months. After a restful night’s sleep, Greg announced the morning that he was still “Master of his Domain, Lord of the Manor”. He also commented that “The accommodations at the Champa Koh Kong Guest House leave you feeling refreshed and ready to ride the next morning.”

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Dr G. had a hard ride the day before but woke up feeling bright and chipper

We crossed the border at Hat Lek, and made our way towards Pattaya. The highway opened up to 6 lanes as we approached our destination and I enjoyed opening up the GS between red lights and then waiting for the cult bike to catch up. About 20 km out of Pattaya, I stopped and waited for Greg. Two cigarettes later, I made a u-turn to find my friend. I rode 25 km back to the last place I saw him and made another u-turn. Another 25 km back to my original stopping place and the cult bike was not to be seen. I wondered if the cloaking device had finally started working?

Upon arrival at the hotel I found that Greg was already there, having ridden the last 20 km in the back of a pickup. We decided that this is where we should rest and recover from our long journey. We worked hard, rode hard and Greg even drove hard. We deserved a rest and Pattaya was the natural choice.

Photos from Pattaya:


Cult bike delivery vehicle

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True love, when your girl tows you in your wheelchair around town with her step through.


Antique bike flying the Swedish flag, a Nimbus, 4 cylinder, inline, very rare....

[Dr. G]

<b>RING JOB IN THE LAND OF SMILES</b>

“Ring-ring-ring-ring-ring-ring” at 9,000 rpm, then “SCRUNCH!” Like an old farang experiencing <i>coitus stop-us</i> while mixing heart pills, Viagra, Mekong Whiskey and Chang with a 20-year old spinner on top, the Cult Bike’s heart stopped. The piston seized at 100 kph.
The fix-job I had done on the carburetor and oil feed cable in the jungle days before had come loose and the oil was not mixing with the gas. That is OK in a four stroke engine, but was death to my two stroke pumper.
My Zen could have been worse. The heart attack had happened 25 kilometers from Pattaya where Barry BBQ and I had booked rooms for the night. A friendly pick-up truck owner and his wife were happy to help me hump the Cult Bike into the back of their truck, carry us into town and drop us at the hotel. I felt a bit like a Harley-Davidson owner, my bike being in the back of a pick-up truck. But in my case it was more like a triumphant success parade after a long ride because I was sitting on the Cult Bike, keeping it from falling over. As we passed buses filled with tourists, truck drivers and cars of curious onlookers they would wave and I would wave back. We arrived at the hotel just as Barry BBQ drove his bike into the parking lot, almost exactly at our proposed ETA of 17:00. As he unpacked his BMW, alone and unattended, I had a crowd made up of motorbike taxi drivers, my pick-up driver and his wife, and 3-4 bar girls helping me unload mine, all yak-yaking in Thai. They all laughed as I showed them how the piston stopped from going up and down by using my index finger on one hand poking in and out through my circled thumb and index finger on the other hand. It was like a small party, a “Welcome Home! Job Well Done!” celebration.
Of all the places I had been stranded with broken motorcycles on the globe, one could say it could have been worse this time. On the flip side, I think the only place better would have been at the Kawasaki factory in Bangkok as the doors opened on Monday morning. Instead, I was broken down in what my Quaker relatives would surely call Hades. Those Quakers would probably think downtown Mexico City or Cairo would be better, but they had not been sleeping in jungles the last two weeks, attached by rabid monkeys, nearly run over by a tiger, hunted by two-legged dears or run off the road by numerous truck/bus/car drivers.
As I tried to get over my depression of being stranded with a broken bike by strolling down Walking Street I concluded the Pattaya-Hades was similarly hot and humid, almost torrid, but far better than Cairo or Mexico City. After looking into several oasis’s on the Walking Street I concluded the Cult Bike had stopped me in Pattaya for a reason: I needed to research this town, make a long, arduous and deep comparative analysis between it and Salt Lake City, Utah; Omaha, Nebraska; Delhi, India; Newark, New Jersey; and my home town of Yellowtail, Montana.
Barry BBQ, like a good wingman, stayed to help me suffer through my funk. He found a quiet place near our hotel where I could seek solace for 50 baht an order. At 50 baht a cup he knew that I, as one of the three founding member of the North Thai Tea Drinking Society, one of the Drink Kings, could be consoled in this kind of setting. He also knew that I needed to get my mind off the damaged melted rings, so started me thinking about a ring job. As I sat that first night, watching a live lesbian and body painting show, I could not get the horrors out of my mind. I knew I was in serious need of a ring job. I finally caved in into my needs and started asking around the bar if anyone knew where I could find someone one to do a ring job for me.
Thankfully Barry BBQ spoke some Thai and the boss lady spoke some English. For what I would have to pay 100’s of dollars for back in the United States I was able to get my ring job done for far less in Pattaya. I got things up and running most efficiently and professionally at Wat Service, 20/123 Soi 17, a service I can highly recommend. On the down side was to get the full service I needed it was going to take more than a couple of days.
Barry BBQ left me getting my ring job and headed for Chiang Mai-he had gotten a notice that water had been running out from under his condo door that was locked! Just before he left I asked him how he was fixed for grays (1,000 baht notes), sensing the possibility that my ring job and the time needed for the associated work and research might leave me well spent before I could get out of town. Barry BBQ told me he had a few grays left, then said, “Greg, you’re a good GT Rider buddy, but remember what I wrote about money and people who borrow money on my blog (www.barrybbq.blogspot.com/2007/02/money.html), or did you already forget?”
Shamed, I looked down at my motorcycle boots, then I remembered I had a couple hundred dollars hidden in them, my emergency stash. Life began looking up. While Barry BBQ was leaving me broken on the beach, Wrong Way Rob and his brother Cigar Man Mark were coming into town, and Joe was already there. All three are entertaining guys with tastes for delights that run from carnal to cigars with motorcycles being the glue holding us together.
The <b>No Stranger To Danger Expedition</b> had been a successful research project. As I monkishly shuffled back to the oasis Barry BBQ had found for me, I reflected on the last weeks of being bar fined, nearly knocked off the Cult Bike by a tiger, in a fight with a gang of small gorillas, attacked by several flocks of doves, and here I was finishing up with a first for me, an extended ring job in Pattaya.
The Cult Bike and I would be united and back on the road again. We would be doing more research on my new book <b>MOTORCYCLE</b> <b>SEXPEDITIONS – ABSOLUTE RIDING</b>. Maybe the Cult Bike and I might even find a couple of new volunteer researchers along the way that do not prefer to look at elephants, paint their motorcycle, go to weddings or sail boats.
<b>[END – CULT BIKE NO STRANGER TO DANGER EXPEDITION RIDE. Next: The horror story of the <i>puying</i> with the glass eye that came out during a hard ride, but you will have to buy the book to find out how I came to that Land of Smiles tale.]</b>

[rhiekel]

Its's alive and looking sharper than ever !!! A brief camera shot of the cult bike before its journey up to Chiang Mai in the back of a truck.
The shop even put shiny stuff on the tires .....