Written by Amy Lyon
Preparing for this trip took time and thought, not to mention shots and shopping. The shots numbered over ten, depending on what one might have previously had and the shopping was to outfit us in bright bike clothes, special wash and wear underwear and a big first aid kit.
We put in as many miles on the bike as our schedules allowed. Carving peddling hours out of already crammed days was not easy. Jonathan and I had a goal to ride 100 miles a week, 50 during the week and at least one long ride on the weekends. We were more or less successful, although we found no hills in eastern North Carolina, so our training was bereft of an important ingredient. This proved to be a challenge when we got to Vietnam.
We had many lovely and some tired early morning rides around Greenfield Lake and longer rides at Lake Waccamaw, rides out to Wrightsville Beach and one delightful ride on July fourth along the country roads of Columbus Country just west of Lake Waccamaw during which Jonathan and I were able to put into practice some valuable advice learned from our neighbor and avid cyclist, Norm.
Norm, a retired heart surgeon and teacher is the mildest mannered of men. His natural tendency is to smile and assuage any feelings of discomfort. A formidable Scrabble player, I had never heard him raise his voice, even in delight, as he lays down a seven letter word on the triple word tile and accumulates 135 points.
So it came as a complete shock when on one ride around Lake Waccamaw as a dog lunges towards us, barking, teeth bared, Norm belts out in a loud and mean voice Bad Dog! Bad Dog! Startled, the dog stops for a moment and we speed off. Norm explains: This is exactly what owners do when their dog misbehave so in that confused moment when the dog is registering this command, you are given a fraction of time to take off and save your ankle.
That is what Jonathan and I practice riding the back roads of Columbus County. Evidently in this part of the country, every home comes equipped not only with a gun and a pickup truck but with multiple dogs. On otherwise quiet and bucolic curvy roads through cornfields and past barns, we peddle towards and away from barking dogs, strengthening our calves and thighs and vocal chords. Bad Dog! Bad Dog!
This may be good training for America, but I knew it would be impossible to learn Bad Dog! Bad Dog! in Vietnamese with the right intonation. I was going to have to wing it and rely on the three preventative rabies shots we received in case of a bite from dog or monkey.
In Vietnam, we saw monkeys, but none on the loose and passed hundreds of dogs. Sweet, docile dogs, large and small, they meandered along the roads we cycled, slept and lounged around. At first I thought I was seeing dead dogs, expired from the heat or lack of food. But these were Zen dogs. They hardly looked at us. They just didn’t care about the passing traffic, not the Vietnamese on motorbikes, water buffalo, or Westerners on bicycles wearing bright clothes and helmets, looking like they came from outer space. Who can blame them for their lethargy for every day in Vietnam was dog day hot.
Only once did I encounter a barking dog. I was cycling behind Mike and this medium size scraggly looking dog really did act like his American cousins. He seemed so happy chasing Mike. Wagging his tail, it was as if this dog finally realized that this is what dogs did, chase cyclists! I did wonder if the dog planned to take a nip at Mike’s foot but there was something in the initial moments of the fray, when it looked like the dog was just having fun, trying something new. Mike, understandably, took off, yelling in English, Bad Dog! Bad Dog! I coasted past the now panting and exhausted dog who turned back into a Vietnamese dog and lay down and played dead.
What we had most to fear was not a dog bite, but rather running over the toe of a Vietnamese child who, all over the country, seemed to play the same game. How many Hellos and High Fives can you get from a Westerner riding through the Village? At first it was charming and endearing, but as the trip went on, I began to fear the shrieks and cries wondering if it was going to be in this village that I was going to run over a little foot.
Some rides, like the day we rode miles of levees, past rice fields and fish farms just south of Hanoi, they could see us coming from a long way off. Along with the heat waves rising off flat parched land, rose their many voices followed by small bands of charging children. They’d stop abruptly, line up, arms raised; hands open and wait for us to pass. . Depending on how tired I was, I’d either come in close and hi five them, or swerve away, needing all of my energy to keep upright after a long hot hard day of cycling.
Jonathan loved the game right back and came up with one of his own-- stop and take their picture and show it to them. They loved this almost as much as hand slapping. Entire villages loved this. The teenagers, in teenager fashion, would hold back, but they too, came forward and laughed to see their image and ask for more. The girls would giggle, the boys swagger and the younger ones jump up and down. To Jonathan’s dismay, one father put his baby on the back of his bike.
Preparing for this trip took time and thought, not to mention shots and shopping. The shots numbered over ten, depending on what one might have previously had and the shopping was to outfit us in bright bike clothes, special wash and wear underwear and a big first aid kit.
We put in as many miles on the bike as our schedules allowed. Carving peddling hours out of already crammed days was not easy. Jonathan and I had a goal to ride 100 miles a week, 50 during the week and at least one long ride on the weekends. We were more or less successful, although we found no hills in eastern North Carolina, so our training was bereft of an important ingredient. This proved to be a challenge when we got to Vietnam.
We had many lovely and some tired early morning rides around Greenfield Lake and longer rides at Lake Waccamaw, rides out to Wrightsville Beach and one delightful ride on July fourth along the country roads of Columbus Country just west of Lake Waccamaw during which Jonathan and I were able to put into practice some valuable advice learned from our neighbor and avid cyclist, Norm.
Norm, a retired heart surgeon and teacher is the mildest mannered of men. His natural tendency is to smile and assuage any feelings of discomfort. A formidable Scrabble player, I had never heard him raise his voice, even in delight, as he lays down a seven letter word on the triple word tile and accumulates 135 points.
So it came as a complete shock when on one ride around Lake Waccamaw as a dog lunges towards us, barking, teeth bared, Norm belts out in a loud and mean voice Bad Dog! Bad Dog! Startled, the dog stops for a moment and we speed off. Norm explains: This is exactly what owners do when their dog misbehave so in that confused moment when the dog is registering this command, you are given a fraction of time to take off and save your ankle.
That is what Jonathan and I practice riding the back roads of Columbus County. Evidently in this part of the country, every home comes equipped not only with a gun and a pickup truck but with multiple dogs. On otherwise quiet and bucolic curvy roads through cornfields and past barns, we peddle towards and away from barking dogs, strengthening our calves and thighs and vocal chords. Bad Dog! Bad Dog!
This may be good training for America, but I knew it would be impossible to learn Bad Dog! Bad Dog! in Vietnamese with the right intonation. I was going to have to wing it and rely on the three preventative rabies shots we received in case of a bite from dog or monkey.
In Vietnam, we saw monkeys, but none on the loose and passed hundreds of dogs. Sweet, docile dogs, large and small, they meandered along the roads we cycled, slept and lounged around. At first I thought I was seeing dead dogs, expired from the heat or lack of food. But these were Zen dogs. They hardly looked at us. They just didn’t care about the passing traffic, not the Vietnamese on motorbikes, water buffalo, or Westerners on bicycles wearing bright clothes and helmets, looking like they came from outer space. Who can blame them for their lethargy for every day in Vietnam was dog day hot.
Only once did I encounter a barking dog. I was cycling behind Mike and this medium size scraggly looking dog really did act like his American cousins. He seemed so happy chasing Mike. Wagging his tail, it was as if this dog finally realized that this is what dogs did, chase cyclists! I did wonder if the dog planned to take a nip at Mike’s foot but there was something in the initial moments of the fray, when it looked like the dog was just having fun, trying something new. Mike, understandably, took off, yelling in English, Bad Dog! Bad Dog! I coasted past the now panting and exhausted dog who turned back into a Vietnamese dog and lay down and played dead.
What we had most to fear was not a dog bite, but rather running over the toe of a Vietnamese child who, all over the country, seemed to play the same game. How many Hellos and High Fives can you get from a Westerner riding through the Village? At first it was charming and endearing, but as the trip went on, I began to fear the shrieks and cries wondering if it was going to be in this village that I was going to run over a little foot.
Some rides, like the day we rode miles of levees, past rice fields and fish farms just south of Hanoi, they could see us coming from a long way off. Along with the heat waves rising off flat parched land, rose their many voices followed by small bands of charging children. They’d stop abruptly, line up, arms raised; hands open and wait for us to pass. . Depending on how tired I was, I’d either come in close and hi five them, or swerve away, needing all of my energy to keep upright after a long hot hard day of cycling.
Jonathan loved the game right back and came up with one of his own-- stop and take their picture and show it to them. They loved this almost as much as hand slapping. Entire villages loved this. The teenagers, in teenager fashion, would hold back, but they too, came forward and laughed to see their image and ask for more. The girls would giggle, the boys swagger and the younger ones jump up and down. To Jonathan’s dismay, one father put his baby on the back of his bike.
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