Footloose Cycling

Cycling the Konkan Coast: Mumbai to Goa

adminFTG — Fri, 10 Apr 2026 21:32:03 +0000

There are faster ways to travel between Mumbai and Goa.

A short flight.
An overnight train.
A long bus ride that erases the distance in a single stretch.

Most travelers choose one of these, and in doing so pass over a stretch of coastline that remains, even now, just outside the main current of travel—the Konkan coast.

Pressed between the Arabian Sea and the long wall of the Western Ghats, the Konkan unfolds quietly. It does not present itself all at once. It reveals itself in fragments: a fishing village at the edge of an inlet, a road winding beneath coconut palms, a ferry crossing that interrupts the day without apology. For long stretches, there is simply space—between places, between encounters, between moments.

It is this continuity, more than any single highlight, that defines the experience.

The Ride

Cycling from Mumbai to Goa is not about covering distance. It is about moving through a landscape at a pace that allows it to take shape.

The journey begins at the Gateway of India, crossing the harbor to Mandwa, where the city quickly gives way to quieter roads. From there, the route follows the coastal spine southward—through Alibag, Murud-Janjira, Harnai, Guhagar, and beyond—before eventually reaching the southern edge of Maharashtra near Vengurla.

Along the way, the coastline bends and folds.

There are no continuous roads here. The land gives way to water, and the ride pauses at ferry crossings—small boats carrying people, bicycles, and the occasional vehicle across wide estuaries. Progress is never entirely linear. You follow the shape of the coast, and the coast decides the rhythm.

The terrain is never extreme, but it is never flat. Short climbs rise over low headlands, followed by descents toward the sea. Inland stretches offer relief from the heat, while the return to the coast brings the horizon back into view.

And always, there is the heat—part of the experience, shaping the day, dictating when to ride and when to stop.

Why This Route Still Matters

The Konkan is changing.

Roads are improving, access is easier, and development is slowly extending south from Mumbai and north from Goa. It is not difficult to see what this coastline may become in time.

But for now, much of it remains as it has been—quiet, local, and largely unmediated.

There are no curated stops here. No carefully constructed experiences. What you encounter is simply what is there: villages that exist for themselves, not for visitors; roads that connect places rather than showcase them; a coastline that reveals itself gradually, without explanation.

To cycle through it is to experience that continuity directly.

The Book

I first rode the Konkan coast years ago, as part of a longer journey through South India. It stayed with me—not because of any single moment, but because of how the entire stretch unfolded.

This new paperback, Cycling the Konkan Coast: Mumbai to Goa, a PDF, is a reworked and updated version of that original journey.

It is not a traditional guidebook.

There are no exhaustive listings, no step-by-step instructions. Instead, the book follows the route as it is experienced—stage by stage, with practical detail where it matters, but always grounded in the ride itself.

The aim is simple: to give you a clear sense of what it feels like to travel this coastline by bicycle.

In the End

Cycling the Konkan coast is not the fastest way to reach Goa.

It is not the easiest.

But it is, in every sense, a more direct one.

A way of arriving not just at a destination, but through a landscape—one that, for now, still allows itself to be experienced on its own terms.

The post Cycling the Konkan Coast: Mumbai to Goa appeared first on Footloose Cycling.

Quan Âm Phật Đài — The Goddess of Mercy in the Mekong Delta

adminFTG — Thu, 02 Apr 2026 21:33:12 +0000

There are places in Vietnam where belief feels immediate—unmediated by explanation, doctrine, or even language. You arrive, you stand quietly among others, and you understand something simply by being there.

Quan Âm Phật Đài, which I visited on my recent journey through the Mekong Delta, is one of those places.

I came here not as a casual visitor, but accompanying members of my Vietnamese family. For them, this was not a sightseeing stop. It was a place of prayer.

At the center of the site stands an imposing figure: Quan Âm, the goddess of mercy, gazing outward over the sea and the lives of those who come to seek compassion, protection, and guidance.

The Site and Its Setting

Quan Âm Phật Đài is located near the coast, not far from Bạc Liêu, where land and water blur into one another across the wide delta. The statue itself rises high above the surrounding grounds—white, serene, unmistakably present.

Pilgrims arrive throughout the day. Some come with incense. Others bring offerings. Many simply stand, hands folded, eyes closed.

The site, as it exists today, is relatively modern—developed and expanded in recent decades—but its spiritual roots run much deeper, tied to long-standing devotional practices centered on Quan Âm throughout Vietnam and across East Asia.

Who Is Quan Âm?

To Vietnamese Buddhists, Quan Âm (Quan Thế Âm Bồ Tát) is the embodiment of compassion.

Often referred to as the “Goddess of Mercy,” she is believed to hear the cries of the world and respond to those in suffering. In Chinese she is known as Guanyin, in Japanese as Kannon—all derived from the Sanskrit name Avalokiteśvara, a bodhisattva in Mahayana Buddhism.

Traditionally, Avalokiteśvara was depicted as male in early Indian Buddhism. But over centuries, as Buddhism spread into China and then Vietnam, the figure gradually took on a female form, becoming more closely associated with maternal compassion.

This is why in Vietnam you may hear Quan Âm described as:

a female Buddha,
or even as the “Buddha mother.”

Strictly speaking, she is not a Buddha in the doctrinal sense, but a bodhisattva—an enlightened being who chooses to remain in the world to help others rather than enter final nirvana.

But in lived belief, those distinctions matter less.

To those who come to pray, she is simply the one who listens.

Mahayana and Hinayana: Two Paths

Understanding Quan Âm also means understanding the broader context of Buddhism in Vietnam.

Buddhism is not a single unified system, but a family of traditions. Two of the most commonly referenced branches are:

Hinayana (Theravāda Buddhism)

Practiced primarily in countries like Thailand, Cambodia, Laos, and Sri Lanka
Focuses on individual enlightenment
Emphasizes monastic discipline and the historical Buddha
The ideal figure is the arhat, one who attains liberation through personal effort

Mahayana Buddhism

Practiced in Vietnam, China, Japan, and Korea
Emphasizes compassion and the salvation of all beings
Introduces bodhisattvas like Quan Âm
The ideal is not only personal enlightenment, but helping others achieve it

Vietnam, particularly in the north and much of the south, follows Mahayana Buddhism, which explains the central role of figures like Quan Âm.

Yet in the Mekong Delta—especially closer to Cambodia—you will also find Theravāda (Hinayana) temples, reflecting the region’s cultural and historical diversity.

The two traditions coexist, often without tension, each shaping the spiritual landscape in different ways.

Faith Under a Communist State

Vietnam is officially a socialist state, and like other communist countries, it historically maintained a cautious, often restrictive stance toward religion.

Yet Vietnam today presents a more nuanced reality.

Both Buddhism and Christianity are practiced openly, though within a framework of state oversight. Religious institutions are recognized, managed, and at times subtly guided by the government.

In practice:

Temples are active and well attended
Churches are visible and functioning
Major religious festivals take place publicly

At Quan Âm Phật Đài, there was no sense of suppression.

People came freely, prayed freely, and moved through the space with quiet confidence.

If anything, what stood out was not restriction—but continuity.

The Presence of Chinese Temples

During this recent journey, I noticed something else.

Across the Mekong Delta—and even in Saigon—there seemed to be a growing number of Chinese-style temples.

Bright, ornate, filled with incense and intricate carvings, these temples stand apart visually from traditional Vietnamese pagodas.

It raises a natural question:

Are these truly new?

Or were they always there?

The answer is both.

Southern Vietnam, particularly areas like Chợ Lớn in Ho Chi Minh City, has long been home to a significant ethnic Chinese (Hoa) community. Many temples date back generations, even centuries.

However, in recent years, several factors have contributed to a renewed visibility and expansion:

Economic growth, allowing restoration and construction
Overseas Vietnamese and Chinese diaspora funding
A broader cultural openness that encourages religious expression

So while not entirely new, these temples are often newly restored, expanded, or more prominent than they might have been in earlier decades.

They reflect not only faith, but also the layered cultural identity of southern Vietnam.

A Quiet Moment of Understanding

Standing at Quan Âm Phật Đài, watching people come and go, I found myself returning to a simple thought.

You do not need to fully understand the theology to understand the place.

You see it in the gestures:

The bowed heads.
The incense smoke rising.
The quiet conversations with something unseen.

In a region shaped by history, hardship, and constant change, the presence of Quan Âm—the one who listens—feels both timeless and immediate.

And perhaps that is why people keep coming.

The post Quan Âm Phật Đài — The Goddess of Mercy in the Mekong Delta appeared first on Footloose Cycling.

India — A Beginning, Not an Explanation

adminFTG — Wed, 01 Apr 2026 17:42:08 +0000

India resists introduction. It is too large, too layered, too contradictory to be reduced to a neat beginning. And yet every traveler who arrives—whether by plane into the neon haze of Delhi, or by some slower, older passage—carries a private moment that becomes their India. That first encounter tends to define everything that follows.

There is a familiar phrase: you either love India or you hate it. It is repeated often, almost lazily. But in truth, the reaction is rarely that simple. India does not ask for approval. It confronts, overwhelms, seduces, irritates, humbles—and then, often quietly, it stays with you.

For me, it began not with ease, but with friction.

I entered India in the early 1970s overland, crossing from Lahore into Amritsar at the Wagah Border. At that time, I was the only Westerner attempting the crossing. India and Pakistan were exchanging prisoners after war, and the border was not a place of transit—it was a place of tension, bureaucracy, and waiting.

It took a week to cross.

There were lines of lorries stretching in both directions, pedestrians gathered in uncertain clusters, and very little in the way of shelter or comfort. Food was dubious, lodging nonexistent. Time seemed suspended in that strip of land between two nations still measuring each other in the aftermath of conflict.

And then, suddenly, I was across.

On the Indian side, I found my way to the Golden Temple in Amritsar. I stayed there for a week. It was not luxury—far from it—but it was something else entirely: calm, rhythm, humanity. The temple’s marble floors, the reflection of the sanctum in the water, the constant movement of pilgrims, the quiet generosity of langar meals served to all without distinction.

It was my first lesson in India: that extremes coexist without apology.

Since that first crossing, I have returned to India countless times. Not once or twice, but again and again, over decades—by train, by bus, on foot, and most meaningfully, by bicycle. I have crossed the country in multiple directions, tracing its plains, climbing into its hills, following coastlines and cutting through interior landscapes where time seems to move differently.

And still, each arrival feels like a beginning.

What People Love — And What They Resist

India is not subtle. It does not unfold gently. It presents itself in full volume from the outset.

What draws people in is often the same thing that unsettles them.

There is an intensity to daily life—colors that seem over-saturated, sounds that rarely subside, a density of human presence that leaves little room for detachment. Streets are not merely for movement; they are stages where commerce, ritual, negotiation, and improvisation play out simultaneously.

For some, this is exhilarating. For others, it is exhausting.

There is beauty everywhere, but it is not curated. It appears in fragments: a temple doorway half-hidden behind market stalls, a quiet stretch of river at dawn, a roadside tea shared with strangers. You do not move through India as an observer alone—you are drawn into it, whether you intend to be or not.

And then there is the rhythm of life, which does not align neatly with expectation. Things take time. Plans shift. Systems that appear chaotic often reveal their own internal logic—one that only becomes visible after patience replaces resistance.

This is where many first impressions are formed. Not in monuments or landscapes, but in the small negotiations of daily travel: finding a place to stay, ordering food, navigating transport, simply understanding how things work.

India asks something of the traveler: adaptability, humility, and a willingness to let go of control.

A Country Crossed by Bicycle

Over the years, my way of understanding India became tied to the bicycle. It is perhaps the most honest way to move through the country—slow enough to notice, fast enough to traverse distance, exposed enough to feel everything.

The routes I have followed—and later shaped into guidebooks—trace different faces of India:

The humid plains stretching toward Nepal, where the landscape opens wide and the horizon seems distant and soft
The northeastern hills of Assam and Meghalaya, where mist and forest blur the edges of the road
The dry expanses of Rajasthan, marked by forts, palaces, and thorn scrub
The Konkan coast, where the Arabian Sea appears and disappears between cliffs and villages
The climb over the Western Ghats, where heat gives way to altitude, and the air shifts almost imperceptibly

These journeys became more than routes. They became a way of reading the country—not through a single narrative, but through a series of movements, each revealing something partial, something incomplete, yet meaningful.

Among them are routes that later took shape as guides:

Cycling across Terai, West Bengal to Kathmandu
Bhutan by Bicycle
Cycling India: Goa to Hampi
Cycling Hampi to Mysore
Cycling Konkan Coast: Mumbai to Goa
Bicycle Touring Northeast India
Cycling Mysore to Fort Kochi
Cycling Rajasthan: Udaipur to Karauli

Each follows a line across the map. But India is not contained within those lines.

Returning, Again and Again

If there is one constant in my experience of India, it is this: it does not reveal itself all at once. Nor does it remain the same.

The India I first encountered in the 1970s is not the India of today. Cities have expanded, roads have improved, economies have shifted. And yet, beneath these changes, something persists—a continuity that is difficult to define but unmistakable when you encounter it.

Perhaps that is why people return.

Not to confirm what they already know, but to see what has changed—and what has not.

For me, India has never been a single story. It is a series of encounters, spread across time. Some vivid, some quiet, some difficult, some unexpectedly generous.

This post is not meant to explain India. It cannot.

It is only a beginning—a doorway into a series of reflections, journeys, and fragments that will follow. Stories from the road, from villages and cities, from mountain passes and coastal tracks. Moments that, taken together, might suggest something of what India is—and what it continues to be.

Not a place to be understood in one visit.

But a place that, once entered, has a way of staying with you.

The post India — A Beginning, Not an Explanation appeared first on Footloose Cycling.

Where to Go in Japan Now: Travel Planning in a Year of Uncertainty

adminFTG — Fri, 27 Mar 2026 20:06:44 +0000

There are years when planning a journey to Japan feels almost timeless. The questions tend to be familiar: when to go for cherry blossoms, how to avoid the crowds in Kyoto, whether to ride north into Hokkaido or follow the old roads of Honshu.

And then there are years like this one.

The world beyond Japan has become less predictable—conflict in the Middle East, shifting energy markets, rising interest rates closer to home. Japan, for all its internal stability, does not exist in isolation. It is a country deeply dependent on imported energy, particularly oil and gas. When supply chains tighten or prices spike, the effects ripple quietly through daily life—into transportation costs, accommodation pricing, and even the rhythm of travel itself.

Yet what is striking, and worth understanding clearly, is this: Japan absorbs external shocks differently than most destinations. The changes are real, but rarely abrupt. For a traveler—especially one moving through the country by bicycle—they tend to register not as disruption, but as subtle shifts in cost, density, and experience.

A Weak Yen, Strong Demand—and What That Means on the Ground

Over the past year, Japan has occupied a curious position. On one hand, the yen has remained relatively weak, making the country more accessible to foreign visitors than it has been in decades. On the other, demand has surged—tourism returning in force, particularly along the well-worn corridors of Tokyo, Kyoto, and the Fuji region.

Layer onto this the Bank of Japan’s gradual move away from ultra-low interest rates, and you begin to see a more complex picture forming.

For the traveler, the result is not contradiction, but compression:

Accommodation in high-demand areas is rising—not dramatically, but steadily
Domestic transport (rail, buses) edges upward with energy costs
Everyday expenses remain reasonable, but no longer feel “exceptionally cheap”

If you are planning cycling Japan this year, the implication is simple:
the margin for improvisation is narrowing in the busiest places, while remaining wide open elsewhere.

The Geography of Crowds Has Tightened

Japan has always had crowded places. What has changed is how tightly those crowds are concentrated.

Kyoto remains Kyoto. The approach to Fushimi Inari Taisha will still fill by mid-morning. The lanes of Higashiyama will still carry that slow-moving current of visitors. Tokyo’s major districts—Shibuya, Asakusa—continue to absorb enormous volumes of foot traffic.

But step away, even slightly, and the contrast is immediate.

This is where the distinction between tourism in Japan and travel in Japan becomes more relevant than ever.

The Nakasendo corridor, even in its more visited sections, still offers long stretches of quiet between the restored post towns
The inland valleys beyond the main routes—where roads follow rivers rather than rail lines—remain largely untouched
Regions like Shikoku, which I will return to later this year, sit in that rare space between accessibility and obscurity

For those interested in quiet Japan travel, this year does not close doors—it simply clarifies where those doors are.

Cycling Japan in a Year Like This

For a cyclist, the current moment presents an unusual advantage.

Japan’s dependence on imported energy may push costs upward in transport-heavy travel—rail passes, long-distance buses—but the bicycle operates outside much of that system. What changes instead is the context in which you ride.

Urban riding—Tokyo in particular—feels denser than before. More visitors, more delivery traffic, more movement compressed into the same streets. The stop-start rhythm along major arteries has not changed, but the volume has.

Yet once beyond those urban belts, the experience reverts to something far more stable—almost unaffected by global currents.

River paths such as those along the Arakawa still offer uninterrupted movement out of the city
Secondary roads, even when paralleling National Routes, carry remarkably little traffic
Rural Japan continues to operate at its own pace, largely indifferent to global fluctuations

This is why Japan cycling routes remain one of the most reliable ways to experience the country—not just scenically, but economically and logistically.

Energy, Prices, and the Subtle Cost of Movement

It would be misleading to say that global events have no impact. They do—but in Japan, the effect is often indirect.

Higher energy costs filter into:

Train fares and occasional service adjustments
Accommodation pricing in high-demand zones
Food imports, though less noticeably given Japan’s strong domestic supply chains

What you are unlikely to encounter are sudden, disruptive price swings or shortages. Japan’s systems are built to buffer precisely this kind of volatility.

For planning purposes, it means:

Booking accommodation in major cities earlier than you might have a year ago
Remaining flexible in less-traveled regions, where availability is rarely an issue
Understanding that costs are trending upward—but from a historically moderate base

Where to Go This Year (and Why It Matters More Than Usual)

If there is a single takeaway for this year, it is this:

Your choice of where to go in Japan now carries more weight than before.

Not because the country has changed dramatically—but because the gap between crowded and uncrowded, expensive and reasonable, compressed and expansive, has widened.

If you follow the classic route—Tokyo to Kyoto to Osaka—you will feel the pressure of global tourism returning at scale
If you step even slightly off that line, the experience opens immediately
If you design your journey around movement rather than destinations—as cycling naturally does—you regain control over both cost and experience

This is where your planning intersects directly with Japanese culture itself: the appreciation of rhythm, timing, and space.

Japan rewards those who move with awareness—of when to arrive, when to leave, and when to take the road that is not the obvious one.

Looking Ahead

I will return to Japan later this year, riding across Shikoku—an island that, by all indications, still sits outside the main currents of international tourism. It is precisely in places like this that the balance Japan offers becomes most apparent: accessible, structured, yet quietly removed.

In the meantime, whether you are planning your first journey or returning—as many do—you are not stepping into a country in flux, but into one that is absorbing change while remaining fundamentally itself.

And perhaps that is the most useful perspective to carry.

Not whether to go to Japan now—but how to go.

Because in a year shaped by global uncertainty, Japan remains one of the few places where, once you are on the road—especially on a bicycle—the world feels, once again, remarkably steady.

The post Where to Go in Japan Now: Travel Planning in a Year of Uncertainty appeared first on Footloose Cycling.

A Bicycle on a Wall — Greg LeMond and a Vietnam Ride Toward Reconciliation

adminFTG — Wed, 25 Mar 2026 14:03:33 +0000

There are moments in travel when something small—almost incidental—opens a door into a much larger story.

I found one of those moments in the lobby of a modest hotel in Rạch Giá, a provincial city on Vietnam’s southwestern coast along the Gulf of Thailand. Once the capital of Kiên Giang Province, Rạch Giá today is a quiet, functional place—more a gateway to islands like Phú Quốc than a destination in itself.

Yet there, on the wall of the Lê Đoàn Hotel, hung a bicycle that stopped me in my tracks.

It was labeled simply as a gift.

A Cyrusher “Crusher” bicycle.

And according to the small sign mounted beside it, it had once been ridden by Greg LeMond, three-time winner of the Tour de France.

A Ride Across Vietnam

In 1998, more than two decades after the end of the Vietnam War, Greg LeMond took part in a remarkable journey: a 2,000-kilometer ride from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City.

The purpose was not competition.

It was reconciliation.

The ride was organized by World T.E.A.M. Sports, an organization dedicated to inclusive athletic events, bringing together people of different abilities and backgrounds. LeMond himself served on its board.

Roughly one hundred participants joined the journey—American veterans and Vietnamese veterans riding together, many of whom had once stood on opposite sides of the conflict.

It was not a typical cycling tour.

Among the riders were disabled athletes, some using hand-powered bicycles after losing limbs in the war. Blind riders rode tandem, trusting their partners to guide them forward.

It was, by all accounts, an extraordinary undertaking—not just physically, but emotionally.

The Long Road to Healing

The ride was later documented in the Emmy Award-winning film Vietnam: Long Time Coming, which captured not only the physical journey across the country, but also the emotional weight carried by the participants.

Men who had once faced each other as enemies now shared the road.

Kilometer after kilometer, something shifted.

Cycling, in its simplest form—pedaling forward, side by side—became a vehicle for something far more complex: understanding, forgiveness, and healing.

LeMond’s presence brought visibility to the ride, but the deeper significance lay in the collective experience of the group.

This was not about winning.

It was about moving forward.

A Bicycle Far From the Spotlight

And now, decades later, one of those bicycles hangs quietly on a wall in Rạch Giá.

Not in a museum.

Not behind glass.

Just there, in the lobby of a provincial hotel, where guests pass by without necessarily knowing the story behind it.

The contrast struck me.

Outside, Vietnam has transformed dramatically since the 1990s—modern roads, growing cities, the constant hum of motorbikes replacing the slower rhythms of bicycles.

Inside, this bike remains as a quiet reminder of a different journey.

A journey not defined by speed or distance, but by meaning.

Reflections from the Mekong

Traveling through the Mekong Delta on this recent trip, I often found myself thinking about change—how Vietnam has evolved, how its landscapes and cities have shifted over time.

But standing in front of that bicycle, I was reminded that not all journeys are measured in kilometers.

Some are measured in what they leave behind.

A bicycle on a wall.

A story of former enemies riding together.

And a reminder that sometimes, the most important journeys are the ones that bring people closer—long after the road itself has ended.

#Vietnam #CyclingHistory #GregLeMond #MekongDelta #TravelStories #FootlooseTravelGuides

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Vietnam Then and Now: Returning to the Mekong Delta After 30 Years

adminFTG — Wed, 11 Mar 2026 22:15:46 +0000

Returning to Vietnam

Last month I returned to Vietnam after nearly three decades away.

The reason for the trip was deeply personal. My son—now twenty-eight—was getting married in Cần Thơ, in the heart of the Mekong Delta.

Standing there for the ceremony, I could not help thinking back to the first time I entered Vietnam over thirty-five years earlier, when the country had only just begun opening to foreign travelers.

The Vietnam I encountered felt like a place cautiously stepping out of history.

Today it feels like a country racing confidently toward the future.

When Vietnam Reopened to Travelers

In 1990–1991 I was traveling in Nepal when Vietnam first announced it would begin allowing travelers again. For years the country had been largely closed to the outside world after the Vietnam War ended in April 1975, when the last American helicopter lifted off the rooftop of the U.S. Embassy in Saigon.

Meanwhile, a remarkable transformation was unfolding next door in Cambodia.

The United Nations Transitional Authority in Cambodia (UNTAC) arrived in Phnom Penh first in 1991 and then in greater numbers in 1992, launching one of the largest peacekeeping operations the United Nations had ever attempted. Nearly twenty thousand personnel came to administer the country and organize democratic elections after years of war and a decade under the brutal Khmer Rouge regime.

The news I heard spoke of Phnom Penh as an unlikely frontier city again—chaotic, fascinating, and suddenly full of international life.

So with the possibility of visiting Cambodia and perhaps also getting a visa for Vietnam, I went.

Fried Grasshoppers at the Cambodia Border

Crossing into Vietnam from Cambodia was unforgettable.

It took an entire day to get through the border formalities. While waiting, I wandered around the nearby stalls where local vendors were selling fried grasshoppers and worms—crispy snacks that seemed perfectly normal to everyone else standing there.

Eventually, I crossed into Vietnam and began traveling eastward along the Mekong River toward the delta.

What struck me most was the absence of foreigners.

There were no tourists anywhere.

Villages appeared slowly along the riverbanks, and daily life unfolded in rhythms that seemed unchanged for generations.

Saigon in the Early 1990s

When I finally reached Saigon, the atmosphere felt very different from the countryside.

Cyclo drivers filled the streets. Many had once worked with Americans during the war and spoke some English, making conversation easy.

Saigon felt open and friendly.

Hanoi, at that time, was another story. People rarely made eye contact with foreigners, and the atmosphere was noticeably more cautious.

Saigon had a different energy altogether.

Marriage, Motorbikes, and Life in Vietnam

Five years later, I was still living in Saigon.

Remaining in Vietnam was not simple. Foreign residents had to leave the country frequently to renew their visas, which meant periodic trips to Phnom Penh, Vientiane, or Bangkok.

But by then my life had become rooted there.

I married a Vietnamese woman.

Leaving Vietnam with her was difficult because the local authorities were reluctant to issue her a passport. Some of her relatives had worked with the South Vietnamese army and Americans during the war, and that family history complicated matters.

So we stayed.

During those years I traveled widely throughout Vietnam, especially in the south.

Ferries, Snakes, and the Long Road to Cà Mau

One journey through the Mekong Delta remains unforgettable.

My wife and I rode a small Honda motorbike south to Cà Mau, the southernmost tip of Vietnam, to visit her brother. At our departure, he gave us a burlap sack of fish to deliver as a gift to another brother in Cần Thơ.

My wife drove the motorcycle. I sat behind her, holding the sack. After a while, I felt something moving inside.

“Some of the fish are still alive,” I told her.

She laughed. “No fish,” she replied. “Snakes.”

Only later did she casually mention that some of them were poisonous.

The snake was considered a delicacy.

For the rest of the ride, I held that sack a little more carefully.

Travel in the Mekong Delta in the 1990s was slow and unpredictable. Crossing the wide branches of the Mekong required ferries—often overcrowded boats packed with motorbikes, bicycles, and passengers.

Reaching Cà Mau could take days.

Life in the delta was pastoral and demanding. It was not romantic, but it was authentic—people working hard along the waterways simply to make a living.

Vietnam Today

Returning to Vietnam in 2026 felt like stepping into a completely different country.

Modern bridges now span the Mekong in many places—large suspension structures that would not look out of place beside the Golden Gate Bridge.

Where ferries once crept slowly across the river, highways now soar overhead.

A four-lane expressway connects Ho Chi Minh City—the official name for Saigon since 1976—to Cần Thơ.

What once required a full day of travel can now be completed in about ninety minutes.

Along the highway stand large gas stations, cafés, and modern roadside stops.

The transformation is astonishing.

From Quiet Streets to Pham Ngu Lao

Saigon itself has changed dramatically.

By the late 1990s, tourism had already grown, but the backpacker district around Pham Ngu Lao Street was still modest.

Today the streets are packed with travelers, tour buses, restaurants, massage parlors, and neon lights.

Walking through the area again after so many years, I could hardly recognize it.

The quiet city I first encountered in the early 1990s had become a global tourism hub.

My Son’s Wedding in Can Tho

Vietnam is also where my son was born.

For a long time, I feared we might never leave the country together. The passport situation my wife faced seemed impossible to solve – she just simply could not get a passport; the authorities kept repeatedly denying to issue her the passport.

But when our son was born—an American citizen through me—the authorities finally relented.

In 1999, the three of us left Vietnam and traveled to my home in Colorado at last. Our son was just over a year old.

27 years later, he returned to Vietnam on his own journey. And last month he married in Cần Thơ, in the Mekong Delta.

Standing there for the ceremony, watching him begin a new chapter of his life, I recalled a motorcycle trip my wife and I made to the minority areas in the north on a brief vacation when she was pregnant with our son; this time I drove and she sat behind me. And now, almost 30 years later, he got married here. I realized how deeply Vietnam had become part of our family’s story.

Cycling Southeast Asia

Over the years, Southeast Asia became one of my favorite regions to explore.

Since the 1970s, I have traveled widely across Thailand, Burma (now Myanmar), Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines, and finally Vietnam and Cambodia.

A select few journeys across the region inspired several of my cycling guides:

Each journey revealed new landscapes, cultures, and stories.

How Places Change—and Why We Return

Vietnam today is vastly different from the country I first encountered over three decades ago.

Bridges span rivers that once required slow ferries.

Highways connect cities that once took days to reach.

Tourists now fill streets that were once almost empty.

Yet despite all those changes, the memories of those first journeys remain vivid—the quiet villages along the Mekong, the slow ferries crossing the river, and even the sack of snakes bouncing on the back of a motorbike.

Places change.

Roads improve.

Cities grow.

But the memories of the journeys that first brought us there stay with us forever.

The post Vietnam Then and Now: Returning to the Mekong Delta After 30 Years appeared first on Footloose Cycling.

Japan for Cyclists vs. Non-Cyclists

adminFTG — Wed, 11 Feb 2026 18:05:32 +0000

Two Very Different Experiences of the Same Country

Japan changes dramatically depending on how you move through it.

Most travelers experience Japan by train: efficient, comfortable, fast. They move between cities, stay near major stations, and focus on cultural highlights. There is nothing wrong with this approach. It’s logical and effective.

Cyclists experience something else entirely.

On a bicycle, you notice the gradients of the land. You feel the transition from suburb to rice field to industrial zone. You negotiate tunnels, shoulders, and river corridors. You see not only temples, but distribution centers, logistics yards, and neighborhoods that never appear in guidebooks.

The contrast is revealing.

A non-cyclist might remember Kyoto for its temples and Tokyo for its neon skyline. A cyclist will remember the white line on National Route 1, the weed-choked sidewalk outside Gifu, the quiet farm road near Lake Biwa.

Neither experience is more authentic. They are simply different lenses.

For non-cyclists, Japan can feel curated.
For cyclists, Japan feels layered.

If you’re considering Japan and unsure how to approach it, the question isn’t “Where should I go?” It’s “How do I want to move?”

I explore this difference in depth in my book Cycling the Old Roads of Japan, but the principle applies even if you never get on a bike: the slower the movement, the more complex the country becomes.

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Across Tokyo to Shibuya Crossing

adminFTG — Tue, 10 Feb 2026 16:00:00 +0000

Put your headphones on and let’s ride: Tokyo east to west.

White line. Engines. Stoplights. Trucks brushing past.
Imperial Palace laps, then deeper into the city’s pulse.

This is not quiet cycling.
It’s rhythm, awareness, and momentum.

And then—suddenly—you’re off the bike, walking it across Shibuya Crossing, absorbed into the crowd like everyone else.

Tokyo doesn’t yield itself easily.
But ride it long enough, and it lets you pass through.

90 seconds
Tokyo → Shibuya

Consider it a tune-up for Cycling the Old Roads of Japan, a full journey from Tokyo through Kyoto and back.

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First-Time Japan Travel Mistakes (and How to Avoid Them)

adminFTG — Mon, 09 Feb 2026 16:50:13 +0000

Japan is one of the easiest countries in the world to travel through—and one of the easiest to misunderstand.

First-time visitors often arrive with a mix of idealized expectations and logistical assumptions that don’t quite hold up once on the ground. Most mistakes aren’t dramatic. They’re subtle, cumulative, and easily avoided with a shift in mindset.

1. Trying to See Too Much

Japan rewards depth, not breadth. Packing too many destinations into a short trip often means spending more time on trains than in places. Cities like Tokyo and Kyoto are not single-day stops; they are layered environments that take time to absorb.

Choosing fewer bases and staying longer pays off.

2. Assuming Old Routes Still Exist as Routes

Historic names like Nakasendō and Tōkaidō suggest continuous, preserved roads. In reality, what remains are fragments—post towns here, stone paths there—interrupted by modern development.

This matters whether you’re walking, cycling, or driving. Expecting a continuous historic road leads to frustration. Accepting fragmentation leads to better decisions.

I address this head-on in Cycling the Old Roads of Japan, especially for travelers considering long-distance routes.

3. Underestimating Crowds—and Overestimating Tolerance

Japan handles crowds efficiently, but that doesn’t make them pleasant. Temple districts, transit hubs, and popular neighborhoods can be overwhelming, especially at peak times.

The mistake isn’t encountering crowds—it’s failing to plan around them. Early mornings, weekdays, and off-season travel make a dramatic difference.

4. Treating Transportation as the Experience, Not the Tool

Shinkansen travel is efficient and impressive, but hopping between cities without time to decompress can make Japan feel rushed and transactional. Local trains, walking, and cycling reveal far more texture.

Movement should support experience, not replace it.

5. Romanticizing Everything

Japan is not a theme park version of its past. It is modern, dense, functional, and sometimes messy. Convenience stores, expressways, tunnels, and suburbs are part of the landscape.

Accepting this makes the moments of beauty—temples, gardens, quiet streets—far more meaningful.

6. Ignoring Weather and Seasonality

Rain, heat, and humidity shape Japan more than many guidebooks admit. Autumn and spring are popular for good reason, but even then, weather can surprise you.

Build flexibility into your plans.

7. Thinking You’ll “Understand” Japan on One Trip

You won’t. And that’s not a problem.

Japan reveals itself slowly, across repeated visits and changing contexts. The goal of a first trip isn’t mastery—it’s orientation.

For travelers interested in moving through Japan at a human pace, with all its contrasts intact, I explore these themes in Cycling the Old Roads of Japan, tracing a full journey from Tokyo through Kyoto and back.

The biggest mistake isn’t getting something wrong. It’s rushing past what Japan quietly offers when you give it time.

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Kyoto Crowds and Timing: How to Experience the City Without Losing Your Mind

adminFTG — Wed, 04 Feb 2026 00:23:01 +0000

Few cities reward patience as much as Kyoto—and few punish poor timing more ruthlessly.

For many first-time visitors, Kyoto is imagined as a place of quiet temple courtyards, moss gardens, and contemplative walks. That version of Kyoto still exists. But it exists at specific times, in specific places, and often only briefly before the crowds arrive.

The reality is that Kyoto has become one of the most heavily visited cultural destinations in the world. Buses unload in waves. Narrow streets clog. Temple approaches turn into slow-moving rivers of people. Nowhere is this more apparent than around Kiyomizu-dera, Gion (featured image), and the Arashiyama bamboo grove.

Timing Is Everything

The single most important rule in Kyoto is simple: arrive early.

Temples that feel serene at 8:00 a.m. can feel unbearable by 10:30. By noon, many sites are no longer about contemplation at all, but crowd management. Early mornings—especially on weekdays—are when Kyoto still feels like itself.

Late afternoons can also work, particularly in winter or on rainy days, when tour groups thin out. Rain, inconvenient as it may be, is often an ally in Kyoto. Wet stone, subdued colors, and fewer visitors can transform an experience entirely.

Choose Areas, Not Checklists

Trying to “see everything” in Kyoto is a guaranteed way to exhaust yourself. Instead, choose one area per day and move through it slowly. Walk between temples rather than hopping between them by bus or taxi. The transitions—the canals, residential lanes, and small shrines—often linger longer in memory than the headline sites.

Some days, that may mean seeing only one or two temples. That’s not failure. That’s how Kyoto works.

Accept That Some Places Are Better Passed By

Not every famous site needs to be lingered over. Sometimes the most rational decision is to arrive, observe the crowd, take in the context, and move on. This isn’t cynicism—it’s discernment.

During my own time in Kyoto, I deliberately left certain major temples for different days, skipped others entirely, and returned to a few areas more than once. Kyoto is not meant to be consumed in a single sweep.

If you’re interested in how Kyoto fits into a longer journey across Japan—historically and practically—I explore this in depth in my book Cycling the Old Roads of Japan, which places the city in context along the Nakasendō and Tōkaidō routes.

Kyoto rewards those who slow down, arrive early, and accept that timing—not ambition—is what shapes the experience.

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