Thoroughly cowed, we puttered out of town heading south and didn't stop until we were well beyond the long arm of the law. Ho Chi Minh was a depressing two hundred miles away and the short tropical twilight was fading fast. There was only one thing less appetizing than sitting in that smoke-filled room with its peeling walls and patronizing police, and we were staring right at it.

The mud.

We turned around. It was well after dark when we crept up to the town limits, put down our visors, gunned the engine and raced through the market square, heading north.

Nothing happened. No sirens, no barricades, just a drowsy village with one sleepy soup shop and a couple of mangy dogs on the street. I felt silly.

Then the tarmac ended with a six-inch drop onto uneven dirt. We were once again face to face with our real enemy, Highway 14.