Life at full throttle
Elspeth Beard was just 23 in 1982 when she set off to become the first British woman to motorcycle 35,000 miles around the world on her 1974 BMW R60. In this extract from her memoir, she recounts her adventures in Thailand
For the first time on my trip, I was in a hurry. Having spent a leisurely couple of weeks stopping off at every ruined temple on my way up to the Burmese border in the far north of Thailand, I was now on deadline to get to Penang with enough time to make arrangements for my passage to India. Adherence to tight itineraries was a Western way of thinking that I’d already discovered didn’t work in Southeast Asia. Fortunately, the smooth roads of Thailand were some of the best I’d encountered. With the good roads and my time limited, I increased my speed, riding faster as I became more carefree. That’s when I hit the dog. It ran out from behind a truck and was under my front wheel before I had a chance to brake. Within seconds I was sliding up the road. It all happened so suddenly, there was nothing I could do.
When everything had stopped moving I staggered to my feet. I looked around but the dog was gone. I limped over to my BMW, which had hit a tree. Parts were scattered all over the road, and as I tried to pull my bike free I noticed my bloody handprints all over the front wheel. I was battered and bruised all over, a total mess. But all I could think about was reaching Penang in time to catch my boat.
While I’d been contemplating my predicament, five men had appeared on the side of the road. I got them to help me pull the bike off the tree.
We’d taken a hammering, my bike and I, although it was not as bad as previous injuries. This time at least we were both still standing. But that ship wasn’t going to wait for us, so I immediately set about getting us back on the road.
Limping, I searched for my bike’s missing parts. Beside me, the farmers tapped my shoulder, attempted to make me rest in the shade. After a few minutes they gave up and joined me. Within ten minutes we’d located everything and I was sitting, as they’d instructed, in the shade of a large tree surrounded by a large crowd of Thais of all ages. Women with babies clamped to their hips, men with stubby cigarettes between their lips. I guessed they were all one big family, staring at me while I clenched my teeth as the mother of the farm dabbed at my wounds with a bright pink antiseptic they called curo. At least two of my swollen toes appeared to be broken.
I felt faint, not least because of the thought of the mammoth task required to get back on the road, but after about an hour, I decided if I did nothing, I’d achieve nothing.
The keys were still in the bike’s ignition, so I twisted them. She fired up immediately, and didn’t sound too bad. Behind me, the family cheered. I could guess that they were saying something like ‘What’s the problem?’ but I frowned and pointed at the base of one cylinder. Oil was pouring out.
A pick-up truck drew up and the eldest son jumped down, barechested, his hand held out. He had more English than I had Thai, but not enough to keep up a conversation all the way to the small clinic he drove me to. The nurse bandaged my hands
Parts were scattered all over, and as I tried to pull my bike free I noticed my bloody handprints all over the front wheel
and foot, and sent me off with a wave. On the way back, passing through a village, I spied a shack with a row of motorbikes outside it. I pointed at it and yelled ‘stop!’
I started work with the owner of the shop helping me, but he soon realised that I knew more about my bike than he did and left me to it, only helping me when I couldn’t hold a particular tool in my bandaged hands.
As I worked, an entirely male audience built up around me. I guessed they’d seen very few tourists and probably none that were female motorcyclists. Standing in a semicircle around me, they pointed, exchanged comments, clearly not knowing what to make of me or my bike. I concentrated on my bike until the mood suddenly changed. A Thai woman had arrived. Slowly, other women joined the crowd and started talking. The women’s voices started to match, then drown out the men. Then I felt a slap on my back. I turned and was greeted by a young Thai woman with a raised thumb and a broad smile.
We were unable to share a single word, but from the glint in her eyes I knew exactly what she wanted to convey.
‘You and me, we’re the same,’ she was saying.
Something flashed between us and I realised we were united in our common cause. I knew that she wanted to prove to the men standing idly around that we were just as capable as any man, if only given the chance.
Smiling and nodding conspiratorially with the Thai woman, I turned back to my cylinder. By now, I’d been working for more than two hours. The sun was blisteringly hot and just as I was starting to lose strength an old man on a Honda scooter pulled up beside me. He mimed eating a bowl of noodles, then pointed at the pillion on his scooter. I climbed on and we rode to a food stall where kids surrounded me, poking my skin as if I was oblivious to it. Their eyes followed every spoonful from the plate to my mouth, fascinated, I guessed, to see how Westerners ate. Giggling as they stared, they obviously found me very amusing.
When I’d finished, I patted my trousers for my wallet, but the man
and woman shook their heads. I was their guest, they explained in gestures. Any attempt to pay them would be refused.
Touched by their generosity when they clearly had so little, I rode pillion back to my big BMW, humbled by the awareness that it was worth many times what my hosts would earn in a year. It took me another hour to finish my repairs, by which time most of the men had wandered off, although the women were still watching closely.
With a smile and what I hoped my audience of ladies would take as a flourish, I started the engine. It roared into life. Now I just had to hope my injuries would repair as easily.
Bats were swooping in the failing light as, gesturing towards the farmhouse, the brothers insisted I should stay with their family until I had fully recovered. In no condition to ride, I gratefully accepted.
After dinner, the mother brought in a pile of blankets. We lay down beside each other: father, mother, grandmother, the sons and me and went to sleep. And so it continued for two days and three nights, a simple routine of lazing around while my body healed itself.
On 17 April, the day before the Madras boat was due to sail from Penang, I felt ready to leave. I thanked the mother for her extraordinary hospitality. Clutching her small bottle of curo, she extended a hand and offered me the antiseptic. I was very touched and leant towards her, intending to hug her, but my eyes were drawn to something extraordinary behind the woman, on the table. The dog I’d run over. Most of the animal was missing, but it was unmistakable. The knife marks were clean, the work of a skilled butcher. Well, that explained the generous portions of meat with every meal.
For a few moments, I hesitated. Then I accepted the offer of the curo, bowing my head with a smile to show my thanks. Once I’d got over the thought of what I’d been eating for the last week, I realised I felt comforted to know what had happened to the dog. I had killed it and provided food for the family. No wonder they were so welcoming to me.
Lone Rider by Elspeth Beard is out now, published by Michael O’mara Books Limited at £14.99.