Minsk motorbikes are a bunch of arse. They were designed by (blind) Russians before WWII, and are revered locally as a testament to simplicity and reliability. ‘They can be fixed by anyone, anywhere in Vietnam.’ What they mean is that they are decaying, never worked very well in the first place, and are neglected by every coke can cutter in Vietnam. I hired one for an hour in Sapa, the kind of place to which tarmac is a legend passed on from distant travellers. True, I didn’t hire one from a reputable hire shop – some bloke in the street asked me if I wanted to borrow his, so I said yes.

I learnt to ride in the UK on a 5 day ‘pass your test or bust’ course. The instructor was patient, and used a radio microphone in his helmet to communicate with a group of three students. This meant you could overhear the advice to one of the students, who on his first day decided to go off-roading. The first time biker had been scared by an overtaking car by a shopping centre, and had tried so hard to avoid being clipped by the wing mirrors, that he had taken to the pavement. The advice from the instructor was calm and simple, and the student managed to avoid all of the old ladies, and families with shopping trollies admirably, before rejoining the proper carriageway.

My Minsk instructor had no radio equipment, but instead sat on the back of the underpowered 125cc abomination he was renting me. His command of English was comparable to my command of Vietnamese, but at least he did know the numbers. ‘Two!’ he would yell when he wanted me to change gear, ‘Tree!’, ‘Fo!’. Incoming pedestrians? No problem. ‘Bee-bee-beep,’ came the instruction on how to use the horn to achieve the desired effect. He neglected to mention that the front brake was worse than useless – perhaps the language barrier prevented this. It was worse than useless, in that it was totally dangerous. The head stock was badly worn, which meant the forks carrying the front wheel were tenuously attached to the bikes frame. The wheel was buckled, the tyre was flat. An attempt to use the front brake resulted in an uncontrollable shaking which would eventually slow the bike, and terrify the rider(s)

The back brake wasn’t much better, and slowing down required large lumps of mud to wedge the wheels in, and a small prayer. The guy who rented it to me didn’t ask for any form of ID or deposit. He knew very well that the bike couldn’t get more than a few miles from its owner without falling apart. He got it back after a death defying hour.