Riding through Northern Thailand: Chiang Khan to Uttaradit

We loved Chiang Khan. We loved waking up to that view every day. We loved the Walking Street. We loved the Thai candy we tried. (We didn’t like the breakfast, nor the fact that the coffee shop was closed, but those were small potatoes compared to everything else.) We were sad to leave, but motorcyclists have an onward imperative. Bruce Chatwin said that despite our modern world’s love affair with all things stationary and orderly, it’s actually when we’re on the move that we’re most in our element. When we’re traipsing about, like nomads or like motorcyclists, we come into our own, fully alive and in the moment.

And so it was time, Chatwinesque, to move on. We were heading to Chiang Mai to see an old friend, Mr Simmons. Mr Simmons and I had known each other for going on thirty years, both having taught in the creative arts at two institutions at the same time. We’d always addressed each other as “Mr Cashman” and “Mr Simmons” (despite my unsuccessful efforts to adjust my title upon gaining my doctorate). After my painful divorce in 2017, I came to see him in Bangkok, and he helped me pick up some of the pieces. It had been years since I’d seen him.

But first, we had to get there. Chiang Mai was a bit of a leap at eight and a half hours, so we decided to head for the small town of Uttaradit. I knew nothing of the town except that it had hotels, was the capital of Uttaradit province and that it reduced our run to five hours. This Thai habit of naming provinces after the principal town is understandable, even admirable, but it is very confusing for motorcyclists. If you take your phone and type “Uttaradit” into Google Maps, it will take you to the centre of the Uttaradit province, which is miles from where you need to be. We’d developed the habit of inputting “Uttaradit Town Hall”, which would do until we worked out a hotel.

We rarely book far ahead. It’s something that startles our fellow travellers, who ask what happens if all the hotels are booked. Our response: it’s never happened. We either book our hotel the morning we leave or do it en route once we’re sure we’ll make it. Five hours may not sound like much, but if you figure in lunch and stop every hour to stretch, it is often six or seven. The downside of this is that we’re often tired when it comes to booking a hotel, and so we usually look them up beforehand.

We set off. We’d chosen the road that ran beside the Lao border, which looked promisingly twisty on maps and proved to be so. We were going slow enough not to need our visors down, and the wind on our face felt fresh and inviting. The corners were quick enough to be mildly thrilling but not sharp as to be impossible. We were getting used to the scooters now, and more comfortable leaning and carving into the bends in the road. The surfaces were good. There were few other vehicles around. It was motorcycle heaven.

The only thing worrying was that Dalma was on one bar of petrol on her five-litre capacity bike. As we stopped to consider this problem, another motorcycle group with maybe a dozen bikes roared past, all giving us the thumbs up. We’d seen several foreign motorcyclists in Thailand on large bikes, often Ducatis or BMWs, but most had ignored our friendly waves. We weren’t sure if this was because we were unworthy on scooters or, more probably, because they were just assholes. In contrast, every single one of this group gave us some acknowledgement. We smiled at each other, our faith in motorcyclists restored, and got back on the road.

Some little way down the road, we caught up with the group again. They were a mixed bunch from Malaysia, led by an Indian-diaspora gentleman named Nelson and a Malaysian named Pong. While most were on big bikes, their number included a fantastic Spiderman-themed covered scooter with dual wheels at the front. They’d ridden up for a month travelling in Thailand and were headed further north. They explained that in remote Thailand, petrol stations don’t always look like petrol stations. In this part of the world, they are likely to be just a pump standing in the street that you put cash into, which dispenses that amount of petrol. It was a brilliant system, and we filled Dalma’s tank and topped mine up. After a pleasantly motorcycle chat, they gave us a thumbs up and roared off. I wish we’d exchanged details.

We headed out again, and the roads continued in the same theme. There were no large towns between Chiang Khan and Uttaradit, so we were mostly winding through pleasant landscapes with rolling hills and perfect motorcycling roads. Once you get out of the mayhem that is Bangkok, Thailand really is a motorcyclist’s dream. Eventually, we stopped at a startlingly pretty restaurant that was in the middle of nowhere in particular, built over a pond with koi fish, and attended by two youngish, shyly smiling women. As with most of the menus we encountered, this was entirely in Thai. They assumed that we’d much prefer the pizza menu, but we firmly led them to the Tom Yum menu. Tom Yum, for those who don’t know, is a spicy Thai soup. We found ourselves eating more regularly in Thailand than at home, but much smaller portions. This often happens when we’re travelling, and I think our bodies are better for it. We lose weight and get fitter as we’re walking more and eating less. The Tom Yum was pleasingly spicy and, sated, with an hour to go until we got to Uttaradit, we set sail upon the asphalt seas.

We wended our way to our hotel. This included going through a morning market which, unhappily, was closing up by 4pm. We turned in at a bilious green building that brought to mind moving into someone’s gall bladder. I won’t give away which hotel it was, except to say that this was an extraordinarily mediocre hotel. It was as if the owners had purposely set out to create the most mediocre hotel in the world. Certainly, it would have been a finalist in the mediocre hotels awards. What especially stung was that we had dinner at an obviously spectacular hotel with room service, live music, and an excellent restaurant that was actually cheaper than Mediocre Towers (damn, I wasn’t going to tell you the name). Nonetheless, we were there for a night only, and we’d be heading off in the morning, and as long as it kept the rain out, it would do.