A Thai Cycling Interlude

The Road Decides
April - October 2026

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Prelude

Some places in the world behave normally; then there is Thailand, where time stretches, folds, and occasionally takes a long lunch break. I arrived fully intending to pass through with purpose and efficiency, only to discover—yet again—that the road has its own opinions. What follows is a record of days spent cycling, melting, drifting, and occasionally making decisions that could charitably be described as “improvised”. It is a chapter of small detours, unexpected comforts, and the quiet joy of moving through a country that seems determined to surprise me, even when I’ve already cycled half of it. 

 

A Return to Thailand - Friends, Pubs & Procrastination

I returned to Thailand after my brief stint in my home country, feeling rather pleased with myself. Not everything on my grand to‑do list had been accomplished, of course—some items were still sitting there, smirking at me—but I’d done enough to declare the trip a success. The rest, I decided, could be tackled at some vague, future moment when I would be more organised (highly unlikely).

A few friends came to visit, which meant my days were suddenly filled with long, pleasant, meandering walks along Jomtien Beach and evenings spent socialising in the many pubs that seem to sprout here like mushrooms after rain—if mushrooms served beer and played questionable 80s music. Eventually my friends returned home, leaving me with the familiar silence of my own company and the looming guilt of an overdue blog.

Updating the blog is, for me, a bit like doing laundry: always necessary, never finished, and somehow multiplying when I’m not looking. I chipped away at it with the determination of someone trying to remove barnacles from a ship hull, and at last—victory.

 

Liberation by Bicycle - Jomtien to Rayong (68 km)

With the blog finally wrangled into submission, it was time to move along. I don’t know why I waited until the absolute last moment to take the bike in for a service—perhaps I enjoy the thrill of living under pressure, or perhaps I simply forgot, which is far more likely. Either way, eventually I rolled out of Jomtien feeling both triumphant and mildly irresponsible, ready for the short jaunt to Rayong and whatever fresh surprises Thailand had prepared for me this time.

Once on the road, I felt a rush of liberation so strong it could probably be bottled and sold as an energy drink. The sun was already blazing with the enthusiasm of a toddler who’s found the light switch, but even that couldn’t dim the thrill of finally getting going.

Pedalling along the rural backroads, I found myself grinning like someone who’d just discovered a forgotten stash of chocolate. I’ve ridden this route more times than I’ve sworn at potholes, yet somehow it still manages to surprise me. Today, it even revealed a few new paths—apparently, Thailand is still generating fresh geography just to keep me entertained.

With no destination in mind and no schedule to obey, I didn’t go far—just a casual 70 kilometres, the cycling equivalent of popping out for milk. Every kilometre felt like a small, sweaty celebration of freedom. Eventually, I rolled into the familiar embrace of Ricky or Richy Grand Guest House, where the air‑conditioning is cold, the showers are forgiving, and the staff have long since stopped being surprised by my sudden reappearances.

After unloading the bike and restoring myself to a vaguely human state, I set off in search of food. The night market beckoned like a neon-lit siren promising deep-fried salvation. I wandered through the maze of stalls, each one offering something sizzling, steaming, or skewered. By the time I was done, I had assembled a feast so impressive it could have fed a small diplomatic delegation.

I returned triumphantly to my cool, air‑conditioned cave, arms full of edible treasures, feeling like a hunter-gatherer who’d mastered the art of modern foraging.

I may not know where the road will take me next, but honestly, that might be the most beautiful—and entertaining—part of the whole thing.

 

A Slow‑Roast Coastline - Rayong to Witkey Resort (87 km)

I woke early, though my body staged a small but determined protest at the idea of actually getting up. Eventually I coaxed myself upright, loaded the old iron horse, and we wobbled off along the coast. Almost immediately a wave of gratitude washed over me—partly for the privilege of cycling the southeast coast, and partly because the breeze was the only thing preventing me from melting into a small human puddle.

Kilometres of sandy beaches stretched ahead as I pedalled through tiny villages where people waved and gave me enthusiastic thumbs‑up, as if I were doing something far more heroic than sweating on a bicycle. The heat was once again of the “slow‑roast” variety, so I stopped at every opportunity to refill water, hide in the shade, and contemplate the ocean like a philosopher who’d misplaced her will to move.

By the time I spotted a cluster of small bungalows, I pulled in without hesitation—even though it was still early enough that most sensible people were just finishing lunch. I was instantly impressed: not only did the room have air‑conditioning, it also boasted a small bar fridge, which in this climate feels like winning a minor lottery.

By evening I ventured out in search of food; my expedition yielded a portion of fried rice so enormous I’m fairly certain it was intended for two people, or possibly a family of four. I ate as much as I could before admitting defeat.

Tomorrow, as always, the road will decide what happens next. I’ll slow down and try not to evaporate.

 

Melted in Chanthaburi - Witkey Resort to Chanthaburi (35 km)

I absolutely melted today, and there was no pleasure in cycling in such conditions. I called it quits in Chanthaburi. Fortunately, with its old quarters along the river, it’s one of my favourite towns along this coast. I hid in the room until most of the heat had disappeared, then ventured out for a stroll along the river, which ended with a beer loaded with ice at one of the riverfront cafes.

 

Hills and Headwinds - Chanthaburi to Roadside accommodation (86 km)

Today proved yet again that when travelling by bicycle, no two days are ever alike—though some are more determined than others to test your will to live. This one, for instance, had all the makings of a classic: take a lack of sleep, add a lack of food, throw in hills and a headwind, stir vigorously, and voilà—you’ve cooked up a truly character‑building day of cycle touring.

The first 30 kilometres were absolute bliss. My chosen path wound through rural areas where villagers stared at me with the wide‑eyed astonishment usually reserved for UFO sightings. The landscape was lush and green, with rivers and forests so pristine I briefly wondered if I’d accidentally pedalled into Papua New Guinea.

Eventually, I veered off to join the new Chanthaburi–Sa Kaeo Road, which runs over the Soi Dao mountains—a protected region that also houses the Khao Soi Dao Wildlife Sanctuary. Numerous signs warned about wild elephants, which added a certain thrill, though the only thing I saw was my own sweat dripping steadily onto the tarmac like a leaky faucet.

I stopped so many times to refill water that my progress could best be described as “glacial,” if glaciers also panted and muttered to themselves. After ninety‑odd kilometres, a village finally appeared ahead, and a sign pointed to a guest house. It felt like divine intervention. The tiny bungalows materialised just as a storm rolled in, and no sooner had I stepped inside than the heavens opened with thunder, lightning, and a wind so ferocious I briefly wondered if the roof might take flight.

Fortunately, the storm passed as quickly as it arrived, leaving behind a fresh, rain‑washed world and that glorious wave of petrichor that makes you forget, however briefly, that you nearly dissolved on the road an hour earlier.

Tomorrow, who knows—maybe the elephants will actually show up.

 

Floating to Sa Kaeo - Roadside accommodation to Sa Kaeo (77 km)

I woke to one of those mornings that make you briefly believe you are the sort of person who makes excellent life choices. Sunlight streamed through the trees, birds carried on like tiny motivational speakers, and I strapped on my panniers with the confidence of someone who had completely forgotten yesterday’s headwind and general suffering.

What a difference a day makes. Yesterday I had been pedalling into a wind that appeared to hold a personal grudge. Today, by comparison, I seemed to be floating north, helped along by an invisible hand—or possibly just the absence of meteorological hostility, which amounts to much the same thing on a bicycle.

Almost immediately, a side road appeared and called my name in the persuasive way side roads do when they are about to add unnecessary kilometres to your day. Naturally, I obeyed. This turned out to be an excellent decision. The rural lanes unfurled through fields, trees, and villages with such charm that I became annoyingly poetic about the whole thing. I know I keep raving about this area, but honestly, it is hard not to when Thailand keeps laying on the scenery as if it has a tourism brochure to prove it.

By mid-morning, my stomach began making remarks, so I stopped at a roadside stall. The lady offered me noodle soup, and I accepted with the grateful enthusiasm of a person prepared to eat almost anything as long as it involved sitting down. I avoided the meaty bits. Still, one must make sacrifices for survival and not be rude to nice noodle ladies.

Later, I came across a makeshift shelter where a kind soul handed me a coconut smoothie. I hung it from my handlebars and set off again, feeling like a professional athlete, if professional athletes routinely wobble along country roads with beverages swinging from their bicycles. Soon, dark clouds began gathering ahead, but I dismissed them with the calm expertise of someone who has been wrong about weather many, many times.

They looked harmless enough, I thought. This, of course, is precisely what clouds want you to think.

Within minutes, the sky opened with theatrical conviction. What began as a polite drizzle became a full biblical demonstration. With nowhere to hide, I lowered my head and pedalled on.

I squelched into Sa Kaeo in a condition best described as recently retrieved from a canal, and then, with perfect timing, spotted the River Resort and Spa. For 433 THB—about thirteen US dollars—I secured a spacious room with air conditioning, a hot-water shower, and breakfast included. Some days the road throws rain, hunger, and indignity at you; other days it adds air-conditioning and breakfast, and suddenly all is right with the world again.

 

A Dreamy Drift Southward - Sa Kaeo to Roadside Cottage (95 km)

I very nearly stayed another day in Sa Kaeo. The room was dangerously comfortable, the pool looked as if it had been designed specifically to seduce weary cyclists, and my motivation was somewhere under the bed, refusing to come out. Eventually, though, I talked myself into saddling up.

I must be slipping back into the cycling routine, because I drifted through the day in such a dreamy haze that I hardly took any photos. Either that, or the rice porridge at breakfast contained some kind of tranquillising agent. In any case, I’d decided to head back to Pattaya for a doctor’s appointment I’d made ages ago—one that had already been postponed because the doctor was on holiday. (A detail I discovered only after arriving the first time, naturally.) The new date was set for 2 July, so with no particular destination in mind, I threw a sharp left and began the trek south.

The funniest part of the day—and there were not many contenders—was discovering that I had somehow lost one of the lenses from my sunglasses. I have no idea when this happened, but I’m fairly certain I cycled the entire day wearing a single-eyed pair of shades like a budget-conscious pirate. No wonder people stared. Even the stray dogs kept a respectful distance, probably unsure whether I was eccentric, dangerous, or both.

Tomorrow, with any luck, I’ll manage to keep all my equipment attached to my face.

 

The Hotel of Last Resort (90 km)

To my considerable dismay—I was forced to secure not merely a humble bungalow but an actual hotel room, complete with walls that looked alarmingly permanent and a price tag to match. By any reasonable standard, it was a spectacular waste of money, but I had reached that delicate stage of exhaustion where one might gladly mortgage a kidney for a pillow.

There remained a trifling 50 kilometres to Jomtien, which under normal circumstances might be described as “practically there,” but in my current state felt more akin to crossing the Gobi Desert. Heroics would have to wait. Jomtien, I decided, could stay where it was until tomorrow.

 

A Sprint to the Sea - Jomtien (50 km)

Strangely enough, I woke refreshed and eager to get going. It's not something that should surprise me, as I’ve long since come to the comforting conclusion that tiredness is not, in fact, a disease, but rather a persistent lifestyle choice. The remedy is wonderfully low-tech: you eat something, you sleep, and—miracle of miracles—you reappear in the morning as a functioning human being, more or less reset, like a slightly unreliable household appliance.

On this particular occasion, I even managed to sprint (and I use the term in the most generous, aspirational sense) 50 kilometres to my bunker by the sea. My Garmin watch, which normally regards me with quiet disappointment, seemed visibly startled by the whole affair. As if it had been expecting a gentle amble to the fridge and instead witnessed a minor Olympic upset. I foresee a few days of R&R before I set off again. But first laundry!

 

Procrastinating in Jomtien

The days slipped by with suspicious speed — the kind of speed that makes you wonder whether someone’s been tampering with the calendar. Eventually I saw the doctor (everything was hunky-dory, despite my spelling suggesting otherwise), my friend popped in for a visit, and somewhere in the middle of it all I discovered I could merge voiceovers with flipbooks.

This revelation fascinated me far more than it had any right to. Fast‑forward a few months and, to my absolute astonishment, I was still in Jomtien. I kid you not! Most people come here for a weekend; I apparently came for a geological era.

What intrigued me most was that I didn’t actually do anything with these flipbooks. Every now and then I’d post a link on Facebook, where the masses politely ignored them. They weren’t exactly riveting listening — unless your idea of excitement is hearing someone describe a bus ride in Laos in a tone that could tranquillise livestock. And yet, for reasons known only to the universe, I enjoyed making them. I now call them my Sleepy Travel Stories, because they could put even the most determined insomniac into a medically concerning level of slumber.

Eventually, even that peculiar hobby lost its charm, and I decided it was time to leave Jomtien. But I was adamant about one thing: I was not cycling out of here. I’ve ridden every possible route so many times that I could probably navigate them blindfolded, backwards, and in the rain — and frankly, no human being should repeat a route that often unless they’re being paid or punished.

 

Finally, The Great Bus Escape - Jomtien to Hua Hin (17 km)

At long last, I saddled up and cycled to the bus station, unsure if the bus would allow my iron horse. But I thought maybe I could cross the driver's palm with silver.

All went well, and we arrived in Hua Hin somewhere between 8 and 8.30 PM, in the dark. Still, it was an easy cycle into town—about 7 km to Hua Hin Plaza, a basic but cheap room.

I was so happy to be back on the road that the moment I set off, an immense wave of calm washed over me and all seemed right with the world. This is, admittedly, not normal behaviour. Any rational person would take one look at my room and immediately begin searching for alternative lodging, or perhaps a tetanus booster. Yet here I was, absurdly content, as happy as the proverbial pig in mud, if the mud happened to have peeling paint, a flickering light bulb, and an odour best described as “historic”.

I stayed in town the following day, wandering about town and along the beach.

 

The U‑Turn of Shame - Hua Hin to Cha Am (35 km)

I was keen to get going, maybe over keen, as in a rare and unsettling departure from my usual travel standards; at least one thing went right today. Somewhere just outside Hua Hin, I was struck by the sudden and horrifying realisation that I'd left my bag of electronics behind. This was less a memory than a delayed emergency broadcast from my brain.

A quick phone call confirmed that the bag had indeed been found and was waiting patiently at reception, demonstrating considerably more responsibility than its owner. Needless to say, I didn't get very far before executing an elegant U-turn and retracing my steps.

Anyway, after a day of proving that travel can be an endurance sport even when you're sitting down most of the time, I was eventually safely installed in a room in Cha Am and decided not to move again unless fire is involved.

Honestly, if my backside weren't permanently attached to me, I'd have left that behind years ago, probably in an airport lounge, a taxi, or hanging over the back of a restaurant chair somewhere in Southeast Asia.

 

Ancient Bricks and Batless Caves - Cha Am to Phetchaburi (50 km)

My first stop was barely 10 kilometres outside town at the little-known Khok Setthi Historical Site. "Historical site" may be slightly generous these days, as what remains is mostly a collection of ancient bricks trying their best to remember the 11th century. Nevertheless, these are the remains of a Dvaravati-period stupa, which means they have been sitting around for roughly a thousand years, considerably longer than most governments and several household appliances.

The ruins form part of the Khao Chom Prasat limestone hills, a wonderfully lush, forested area crisscrossed by quiet tracks perfect for walking or cycling. Even if the stupa itself requires a certain amount of imagination, the surrounding landscape more than compensates. It is the sort of place that encourages you to slow down and contemplate life, or at least to stop frequently and admire the scenery while pretending you aren't slightly out of breath.

From there I ambled along narrow country roads past the region's famous bat cave. Unfortunately, the bats had adopted the sensible policy of sleeping during daylight hours, so there was little sign of the thousands of tiny airborne mammals that normally occupy the place. I felt a slight sense of disappointment, although I couldn't really blame them. If strangers kept turning up outside my bedroom with cameras, I'd probably sleep through it too.

Last the previous night's rain had transformed the rice paddies into great shimmering mirrors. Everywhere, people were busy doing whatever it is that rice farmers do with such purpose and efficiency. There seemed to be much walking about in broad hats, inspecting things and occasionally bending over. Whatever the activity, it was clearly vital to the production of rice and far beyond my agricultural understanding.

I reached Phetchaburi before lunch and found a lovely room in the old quarter right beside the river. It was one of those lucky travel discoveries that feels as though it has been patiently waiting for your arrival all along. Better still, its location made exploring ridiculously easy, allowing me to wander straight out into the maze of old streets, temples and riverside life without having to think too hard, which is always my preferred method of sightseeing.

 

Palace Hill and Cave Detours - Phetchaburi to Samut Songkhram (50 km)

First thing in the morning, I set off on foot for Phra Nakhon Khiri Historical Park, better known as Khao Wang or "Palace Hill", which sounds rather more regal and considerably easier to remember. Perched above Phetchaburi, the site sprawls across three hilltops and contains an agreeable jumble of palaces, temples, monuments and museums. It is one of Thailand's most important royal heritage sites, though "historical" should be taken in a relative sense. It was only completed in 1860, making it younger than some of the pubs back home. Built as a summer palace for King Mongkut, it appears to have been designed on the sound principle that a hilltop breeze is preferable to sweltering in the lowlands.

My next stop came some 25 kilometres later when an intriguing limestone hill appeared beside the road, possessing the sort of mysterious look that practically obliges a traveller to investigate. Fortunately, the detour revealed a network of caves that have served for centuries as places of Buddhist meditation and worship. They were cool, peaceful and atmospheric, as caves usually are.

After satisfying my appetite for both geology and mild trespassing into sacred spaces, I pedalled onwards towards Samut Songkhram, following a series of rural lanes that wound cheerfully through the countryside. By the end of the day, I decided that further exploration could wait until tomorrow. I checked into Hometown Hostel, a place whose name promised familiarity, even though it was several thousand miles from my actual hometown.

I also stayed the next day to explore more of the town.

 

A Barely-Cycling Day - Samut Songkhram to Ratchaburi (35 km)

I hardly cycled today at all. In fact, by the end of it, I suspect I covered more distance on foot on an average day than I cycled today, which seems a curious achievement for a cycling trip. Still, it was a thoroughly pleasant meander through the countryside along the Mae Klong River. As usual, I couldn't pass anything remotely interesting without investigating it, so I zigzagged off course several times to inspect various promising sites. None turned out to be especially noteworthy, but I'm glad I looked. Better to discover that something is disappointingly ordinary than spend the rest of your life wondering if you missed the Lost City of Atlantis hiding behind a banana plantation.

I rolled into Ratchaburi early and found a budget room in the old town, largely because the words "Old Town" exert on me the same irresistible pull that a porch light has on a moth. I set out for a stroll shortly afterwards, but it was a short-lived expedition. The sky had adopted the sort of dark, menacing appearance that generally precedes insurance claims, so I turned around and hurried back. I reached my room just in time, moments before the storm arrived in a flurry of wind and indignation, rattling everything that wasn't nailed down and a few things that probably were.

 

Drizzle, Coffee, and River Roads - Ratchaburi to Wang Sala (75 km)

It must have rained all night because when I emerged in the morning the world still appeared to be leaking gently from above. There was no point rushing. The weather clearly wasn't. So I packed up at a leisurely pace, had a second coffee in the interests of scientific hydration, and eventually loaded the bike and headed off in the general direction of Kanchanaburi.

The map, in its usual optimistic way, suggested a much shorter route. Maps are like that. They sit comfortably on a table making bold recommendations while taking no responsibility whatsoever for how pleasant those recommendations might be. I ignored it and followed the river instead.

A steady drizzle accompanied me northwards. It was actually rather enjoyable. The rain was warm, the road was quiet, and there is something deeply satisfying about cycling through rural Thailand in a light drizzle. Besides, every roadside stall offering coffee and shelter exerted a gravitational pull that I was powerless to resist. As a result, my progress towards Kanchanaburi was measured less in kilometres than in cups consumed.

Things carried on agreeably enough until a collection of clouds arrived, looking as though they had serious business to attend to. Within minutes the drizzle graduated into a full-scale aquatic event. Rain hammered down with such enthusiasm that I abandoned any notion of heroic perseverance and pulled into the nearest establishment advertising rooms.

Ten minutes later I was installed in a lovely dry room, listening to the rain attack the roof while I congratulated myself on my excellent judgement. The remaining 20 kilometres to Kanchanaburi can wait until tomorrow. One of the unexpected pleasures of travelling by bicycle is that there is very little point in hurrying. Wherever you are going will still be there in the morning, and if it isn't, it was probably the wrong destination anyway.

 

A Traffic Cone Arrives in Kanchanaburi - Wang Sala to Kanchanaburi (23 km)

The ride into Kanchanaburi was gloriously short, though the persistent drizzle persuaded me to don my bright yellow rain jacket, a garment so conspicuous it could probably be seen from orbit.

Before long, I left the main road and wandered down a narrow path (glowing like a lost traffic cone) into Kanchanaburi, home of the famous "Bridge on the River Kwai". The town sits beside the river of the same name, a waterway with a rather more eventful history than most rivers can claim.

I found accommodation on the riverbank for the princely sum of ten dollars. The room had all the luxuries one could reasonably expect for ten dollars, and perhaps one or two that nobody had specifically asked for. After a long, hot shower to wash off both myself and several layers of accumulated road muck, I faced the traveller's most dreaded task: laundry.

There is something deeply dispiriting about doing laundry while travelling. It can transform even the most adventurous explorer into a suburban householder standing around, wondering if socks have always taken this long to dry. With the weather remaining stubbornly wet, there was little else to do. I spent the rest of the day watching the River Kwai drift past to its chosen direction.

Tomorrow, I told myself, I shall be more productive.

 

Drizzle and Death Railway History - Kanchanaburi

It was still drizzling, which seemed as good a reason as any to spend the day in Kanchanaburi doing as little as humanly possible. I settled into the task with admirable dedication.

The Mae Klong River, which I have been following for the past few days, technically begins here at the confluence of the Khwae Yai and Khwae Noi rivers. In a twist that seems designed specifically to confuse tourists, the famous "Bridge on the River Kwai" was not actually built over the River Kwai at all. It was constructed across the Mae Klong River. The film was so successful at misleading generations of travellers that the authorities eventually renamed this stretch of river to match what everyone had come looking for.

The film itself adds another layer of geographical mischief. Although it is forever associated with Thailand, most of it was actually shot in Sri Lanka, several thousand kilometres away.

The bridge in the above pic remains an active railway crossing. Trains still rumble across it daily, while visitors stroll about taking photographs and buying ice cream. It serves as a quiet memorial to the many thousands who suffered and died building the infamous Death Railway, a sobering reminder that some of history's most famous landmarks have stories far more extraordinary than the films that made them famous

 

Floodplains and Old Ruins - Kanchanaburi to Roadside Bungalow (75 km)

I spent three full days in Kanchanaburi. It never actually rained, which sounds encouraging until you realise the drizzle simply carried on with the determination of a civil servant approaching retirement. As a result, I stayed put. Seeing that the fourth day brought a temporary ceasefire in the weather, I finally ventured forth.

One of the remarkable sights at this time of year is watching the rivers gradually swell from respectable waterways into vast, muddy entities with expansion plans. Eventually they spill over into the surrounding farmland, occasionally relocating a few houses in the process. Nobody seems especially concerned because this happens every year. In this part of the world, annual flooding is treated much like an unwelcome but familiar relative who turns up unannounced, eats all the food, and leaves several days later.

My first stop was the ruins of the original Kanchanaburi, which was abandoned sometime in the 1800s when somebody sensibly decided the new site offered better protection against the Burmese. Standing among the remains, I reflected that relocating an entire town is quite an undertaking. Most of us find moving a sofa traumatic.

I was in no particular hurry and drifted northwards, though I hadn't entirely decided where I was going. Rest assured; a plan is brewing somewhere in the background. At least I hope there is. The clouds started gathering again, looking distinctly purposeful, so I pulled into the next available guesthouse as a precaution.

The place was pleasantly isolated, which is another way of saying it was five kilometres from the nearest shop. The owner, however, was extraordinarily kind and promptly offered me a lift to the local 7-Eleven. Five kilometres may not sound far, but when a thunderstorm is considering your future, it feels considerably longer.

During the drive she casually informed me that she was 54 and that the two children accompanying us were her grandchildren. As anyone who has travelled in Thailand knows, this is merely the scenic route towards asking how old you are. Sure enough, the question followed shortly afterwards.

"Seventy-one," I replied in Thai.

This produced the sort of silence normally associated with unexpected lottery wins or minor road accidents. Assuming there had been a misunderstanding, they produced a translation app. After due consideration, the translation app also arrived at seventy-one. More silence followed.

With time on my hands back at the guesthouse, I rinsed out my cycling gear and hung it up, hoping it might dry overnight. Given the atmospheric conditions, this may prove to be an exercise in optimism rather than science.

 

A Late Start into Green Country - Roadside Bungalow to Dan Chang (50 km)

I didn’t get very far today, though in fairness the day was already well underway by the time I rolled out of my roadside accommodation sometime after ten o’clock. It was less a departure and more an archaeological excavation of an ageing cyclist from a comfortable bed.

Still, I felt lucky to be out there. The countryside was far more beautiful than I had expected, all green fields, wide-open views and quiet roads. It felt like a tremendous privilege to be travelling through it all under my own steam.

Unfortunately, steam soon became the operative word.

The heat arrived with the subtlety of a blowtorch. Within minutes I was sweating so much that local farmers were probably wondering if a small rain shower was following me around. My shirt became less an item of clothing and more a moist lifestyle choice.

Then came the hills.

Not proper mountains, of course. Merely gentle undulations according to the sort of athletic people who think a 200-kilometre cycle ride is "a nice recovery spin". To me they looked like the north face of the Eiger.

As I wheezed my way upwards at approximately the speed of continental drift, all the voices from the many who questioned my lifestyle began to return.

"You're too old for this."

"What exactly was wrong with cruises?"

"Have you considered gardening?"

"Knitting is nice."

The knitting suggestion was particularly hurtful because it was beginning to sound sensible.

There I was, crawling uphill at a speed that would have allowed a determined tortoise to overtake me while stopping for snacks. My fitness tracker, which had been encouraging at the start of the trip, now seemed to be quietly monitoring me for signs of impending death.

Not now, I muttered. There would be plenty of time for knitting in the future. Assuming I survived long enough to buy the wool.

Water became my principal objective in life. I stopped at virtually every roadside stall I encountered. I wasn't really cycling any more. I was conducting a highly specialised tour of beverages across rural Thailand.

At one stall, the lady took a single look at me and immediately refused payment for the water. She filled my bottle with ice and sent me on my way with the kind of concerned expression normally reserved for people who have just emerged from a natural disaster. I suspect she wasn't thinking, "What an admirable adventurer." More likely, it was, "That poor old fool has become separated from her carers."

To be fair, I probably looked dreadful. Salt stains, sunburn, wild hair and an expression suggesting I had recently received disappointing medical news.

By the time I reached Dan Chang on the Krasiao Dam, my ambitions had become wonderfully straightforward. I no longer dreamed of conquering great distances or pushing through adversity. I dreamed of air conditioning.

So when I spotted a hotel, I performed what was easily my fastest manoeuvre of the day and turned straight in. Never has a building looked more magnificent.

My ride, I decided, could continue tomorrow. Today, survival had already been a sufficiently impressive achievement.

 

A Downhill Ride Through Rice Fields - Dan Chang to Suphan Buri (107 km)

I have finally decided where to go. India it will be!! I haven't cycled there since the COVID years, which feels roughly equivalent to saying I haven't visited since the invention of fire. Suddenly, the prospect seems enormously exciting.

First, however, comes the small matter of renewing my Thailand visa. This is considerably easier than applying for a new one, much like having a tooth filled is preferable to having it extracted. So, the plan was to head back to Pattaya to do the necessary bureaucratic dance, box up the bike, and then fly to India. Myanmar, unfortunately, still makes overland travel awkward.

With the decision made, I set off towards Suphan Buri, about a hundred kilometres away through luminous green rice fields that seemed almost artificially coloured, as though Thailand had hired an enthusiastic landscape painter. The route wound through tiny villages where life appeared to proceed at a pace determined entirely by the sun.

I passed through Sam Chuk Old Town and followed the Tha Chin River towards Suphan Buri. The region had recently experienced flooding and the evidence was everywhere. Although the roads had been cleared, many people were still paddling themselves about in small boats. It was one of those wonderfully surreal sights that would attract international headlines anywhere else, but here seemed to be regarded as merely a slight inconvenience, like having to park a little farther from the supermarket than usual.

Suphan Buri itself has a long and fascinating history, but by the time I arrived the weather had reached the sort of temperature at which sensible creatures seek shade and lie very still. Consequently, my interest in ancient monuments diminished dramatically. I managed a brief stop at Wat Phra Si Rattana Mahathat Historical Park before deciding that cultural enrichment could wait until conditions were less compatible with spontaneous combustion.

What I really wanted was a room.

Before long I found one for the princely sum of ten dollars a night. It came with air conditioning, at least according to the sign outside. The machine attached to the wall certainly made a noise suggestive of effort and occasionally produced air that was fractionally different from the air already in the room. In fairness, for ten dollars, expecting actual cooling might have been unreasonable. As travellers learn sooner or later, you generally get what you pay for, and occasionally a little less.

 

Drifting Through Quiet Country - Suphan Buri to Ayutthaya (90 km)

I must have been downhill to Ayutthaya, as I blitzed the 90 km there and headed straight to Baan Lotus Guest House, an old schoolhouse converted into a guesthouse. No sooner had I offloaded the bicycle than I was swinging in a hammock.

 

Rain Clouds and Detours - Ayutthaya to Bangkok (95 km)

I packed up at a leisurely pace, secure in the knowledge that Bangkok was a mere 85 kilometres away. In cycling terms, this is generally regarded as "just down the road". By the time I finally waved goodbye to the guesthouse owner, however, the morning had quietly slipped away and was edging towards lunchtime.

Things began to unravel almost immediately.

My trusty Organic Maps insisted that I follow a narrow track alongside the railway line. It looked less like a road and more like the sort of place investigators search when somebody has gone missing. Naturally, I ignored it and chose my own route. As is so often the case, the map was right, and Miss Smarty-pants was wrong. Within half an hour, I had somehow deposited myself onto a major highway, where I spent an unpleasant amount of time being overtaken by lorries the size of small apartment blocks before finally finding an escape route.

For a while everything was splendid. The road behaved itself, the traffic was manageable, and I began entertaining cheerful thoughts about arriving early in the afternoon. The weather, clearly offended by my optimism, decided it was time to make a dramatic entrance.

Clouds gathered from every direction, muttering dark threats to one another. Then, apparently deciding subtlety was overrated, they unleashed absolute pandemonium. Thunder shook the earth. Lightning struck overhead power lines with alarming enthusiasm. Rain fell in such quantities that I briefly considered building an ark.

I joined a collection of motorcyclists sheltering beneath whatever cover we could find and waited for nature's temper tantrum to subside.

Eventually the storm seemed to ease, so I set off again, only to discover the rain had thoughtfully transformed many roads into canals. I considered finding a hotel and continuing in the morning. Sensible people would have done exactly that. Unfortunately, by the time I found somewhere suitable, the rain had eased and my confidence returned.

This, as it turned out, was a mistake.

The previous hours of biblical rainfall had left much of the area underwater. Although pumps worked furiously to clear the floodwater, progress didn't keep pace with the weather. Several times I found myself pushing the bike through knee-deep water while wondering whether Bangkok hadn't quietly moved somewhere else.

Eventually the rain stopped. By then I had only 16 kilometres remaining, which sounded encouraging until I reached Bangkok itself.

The city was in full post-storm chaos mode. Roads were closed, diversions appeared without explanation, construction projects seemed to occupy every available space, and traffic had condensed into a giant immobile knot of frustration. It was less a transport system and more a social experiment.

Still, I pushed on with the determination of someone who had come too far to admit defeat.

With five kilometres to go, I finally removed my rain jacket, although I kept it draped over the bike for visibility. After the day I'd had, being visible to motorists seemed a sensible precaution.

And then, at long last, the Riverline Guesthouse appeared.

I rolled into the courtyard soaked, muddy, exhausted, and enormously relieved. Phew.

The bike had survived, I had survived, and Bangkok had survived.

Time for a shower, a beer, and absolutely no more adventures for at least several hours.

 

The Slow Train Toward Whatever’s Next - Bangkok to Jomtien

I had no intention of cycling to Jomtien, partly because I've done the route more times than is good for any normal person, and partly because of the traffic. The train to Pattaya left at 7 AM, so I was up early to pack and cycle barely 5 km to the station.

Getting my wagon onto the train turned out to be less "boarding public transport" and more "recreating a scene from an early silent comedy." Thankfully, the Thai people were, as always, endlessly kind and helpful. Before I knew it, several smiling strangers had joined the operation and were treating the challenge with the calm confidence of a Formula One pit crew.

Best of all, the ticket cost just 31 THB, which is less than a dollar. I've spent more than that on a disappointing bottle of water at airports. For 31 baht, I got a train ride, a workout, a comedy show, and a renewed faith in humanity. Outstanding value.

 

Jomtien - Coffee, Chores & Cold Beer, A Day of Small Victories

I declared it a successful day—mostly because I began it with coffee from my little capsule machine. Purists will insist this isn’t real coffee, usually with the same tone people reserve for discussing tax fraud, but I maintain it’s leagues better than instant.

With caffeine in my veins, I marched off to hand in my passport for visa renewal, a process that always feels faintly like surrendering a hostage. Then I stocked up on vegetarian meals for Thailand’s Vegetarian Month, which I dutifully shoved into the deep‑freeze. I now have enough tofu‑based sustenance to survive a minor natural disaster.

Back home, I performed the heroic act of dumping every single piece of clothing from the bike into the washing machine. Watching it churn away felt like witnessing a small domestic miracle. Three mind‑numbing chores completed before lunch—surely grounds for a national award.

By six o’clock the sun had clocked out, which meant it was officially beer time. I took my rightful place on the balcony, armed with a proper beer glass and my scandalous ice cubes—an act that would get me excommunicated from certain beer‑drinking societies. But honestly, in this climate, cold beer is less a luxury and more a survival strategy.

And that, I decided, was quite enough achievement for one day.

 

Epilogue

Looking back, I’m not entirely sure whether I travelled across Thailand or simply allowed Thailand to carry me along like a leaf in a warm monsoon puddle. The days blurred into a pleasant mixture of drizzle, roadside kindness, ancient ruins, and the occasional personal catastrophe involving sunglasses or forgotten electronics. Yet somewhere between the long coastlines, the flooded fields, and the endless cups of coffee, the journey stitched itself together into something quietly wonderful. As always, the road didn’t just take me places—it rearranged me a little. And now, with laundry dry and legs vaguely functional, it’s time to see where the next stretch of tarmac intends to send me.