Trust a fellow Ayrian to come up with undoubtedly the world's greatest creation: tarmac. That his genius could spread to this odd South East Asian backwater is something for which I will be forever grateful.
There may be 100km ahead of us but they happen to be through some of the most arresting, bewildering and crash-inducing scenery in the entire continent. Laos is the 31st country I've visited and I'm hard-pushed to remember any drive that was so consistently astonishing as this. And along road too! Actual road!
Sixty kilometres fly past along sheer cliff-faces that rise from neon green rice paddies on our right and jagged, surely unnatural stone forests pass our left. Our moods improve so much that we even get a chance to take more videos and bid merry “sabaidees” to local kids. Above them, signs proudly proclaim German-Laotian partnerships that have cleared villages of American UXO. Over 10,000 Laotians have died since the despicable Secret War ended, but no more – not here anyway.
We turn south for the final 40km of the day and it's all change again, now into a vast plateau that is framed by a colossal crown of those sheer peaks. Farmyard animals clutter the road, but as it so often stretches to the horizon, they're easily spotted. The sky above is absolutely huge. Unfortunately, we're too tired and sore to take photos, but resolve to do so in the morning light.
We finally arrive at Konglor and happen upon Chantha Hosue, surely the nicest guest house in the area and certainly the most hospitable budget accommodation we've stayed in for a while. They put on some great tea and give us ice for our singed, ruined hands. The room has a spring mattress too. What an amazing world we live in.
Day three starts with rain and laughably inflated entrance fee to Konglor cave. We decide not to go as the trip is more about the ride, man... Plus we couldn't afford it even if we wanted to.
Unbelievably, there are also more problems with the bike to contend with. Rain has joined the caked mud and now bike 37, the utter hunk of shit that it is, won't start. The affable guesthouse owner advises us to go to the nearby mechanic, but again he's nowhere to be found. Given that his kids who are manning the pumps are under 10, I think it's a bit inappropriate to ask them to pitch in.
Instead Wee Mo sets about it and some tinkering and determined kick-starting later, the thing is back running. The locals are flabbergasted. Me? I don't know if I've ever been so proud of anyone.
Keeping the revs as high as I dare, we start to head home. Alas, all the sights from the day before are obscured by cloud and the rain is too heavy to get our camera gear out. Instead we just concentrate on riding and try to forget about the amazing photo essay we can't complete.
Or do at least until after about 50km when, yet again, the engine dies. This time, though, there's no foul play: without a fuel gauge to read, I'd forgotten to keep track of our petrol and now old 37 has been run dry, the bastard.
I host a butterfly under my umbrella while Wee Mo scoots off for the second time, this time for fuel. Then something strange happens. For no particular reason at all, I have a totally stationary crash, cutting my leg and breaking the other wing mirror in the process. Somehow the bike ends up in a dish. The butterfly, disgusted by my clumsiness, soon leaves. An easy rider I am not.
I haul the thing out of the gutter in time for Wee Mo's return and we get going for the last time, stopping only to get petrol and to spend the last of our money on coffee and crisps to see us back to Tha Khaek. The rain continues to whirl down around us and Wee Mo now finds herself in the odd position of having hands that are simultaneously too hot and too cold.
We motor along the last 100km of pristine highway in a little over two hours, and though the last 10km takes an eternity with my arse nearing total collapse, part of me hates how easy it all is. There's even a sadistic part of me that wants our Road of Bones back.
Instead, we pull into the town without incident. Or almost. So we can leave the following morning, we drive to the bank for cash, then bus station for tickets to Vientiene. We're about half a mile from hotel when my engine begins to wheeze for a final time. I cut the engine and free-wheel down a big hill, grinning at the ridiculousness of it all. But it's to no avail – the thing conks out, conveniently just in front of a petrol station. Everyone gets a laugh when I ask them to put 15p of unleaded in the tank.
We limp home on fumes, 450km after we started. Our hands are blistered, our faces burnt, my hand looks like it's broken, my elbow throbs, my leg is scabbing over, our rear-ends may never be the same again, our shoulders are tight, our forearms in spasm, our clothing is destroyed and, personally, I reek like a feral beast.
And yet when were we last so satisfied? When did we last achieve so much?
