Vietnam by motorbike: Cynthia’s 3,385 km ride from Saigon to Sapa

Vietnam by motorbike stories often start with a plan. Cynthia’s began with a deadline: her Cambodia visa was expiring, and the next country north felt like a leap. Three days before leaving Phnom Penh, she applied for an online Vietnam visa, booked a flight, and decided she’d figure out the rest on arrival. What followed was a month on two wheels—part learning curve, part freedom rush—stretching from Ho Chi Minh City to Sapa, with Hanoi as the finish.

“So… am I going to Vietnam or not?”

That was the question running through my head when I realised time was up in Cambodia. A few minutes later, I’d decided: Vietnam. I applied for my e-visa in a hurry, booked my flight, and told myself I’d sort out the details once I landed.

On 30 June 2015, I flew from Phnom Penh to Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City). I already had one obsession: doing a Vietnam by motorbike journey. I’d always been drawn to two wheels, but until then I’d only rented scooters—never a manual motorbike, and I didn’t have a motorbike licence.

I started scanning listings for bikes for sale and tried to understand what budget made sense. Most options I saw were in the $250–$350 range. The more I looked, the more I thought: “This looks incredible… but how am I supposed to ride that?” I didn’t even know what to check before buying a bike.

I called my friend Max, who’d ridden in India and Nepal. His main advice was simple: trust your instincts. He was right.

The day I bought my bike in Vietnam

I set up two meetings with two backpackers selling their bikes—same day, back-to-back.

The first bike didn’t inspire confidence at all. It needed too much work. I already knew I wouldn’t buy it, but I still forced myself to test it, just to understand what riding a manual motorbike even felt like. After one loop as a passenger, I tried alone—right in the middle of Ho Chi Minh City traffic, with zero experience on a manual clutch.

It was chaos. My heart was pounding. I was trying to decode the bike while staying alive in the swirl of scooters, buses, and constant movement. I stalled. I couldn’t restart. I stalled again—right in the road. But I also knew: if I wanted the roadtrip, I had to start somewhere.

I told the seller honestly I had another appointment and would confirm within two hours.

Then I met Sergio, a Colombian travelling with his wife and brother. The second I saw his bike, I knew.

I tried to hide my excitement to negotiate—failed—but still managed to save $10. Sergio was genuinely kind (we’re still in touch). He explained what he’d repaired and replaced (most of it sounded like a foreign language to me), then took me on the back so I could focus on engine sound and feel, and coached me through the basics.

This time, everything changed: a bike in good condition makes you feel brave. Gears clicked in smoothly. The engine note felt steady. For the first time, I thought: “I can do this.”

After about 1.5 to 2 hours, I messaged the first seller to decline and closed the deal with Sergio. $270 later, I owned my first motorbike in Vietnam: a Honda Win 100. Many are replicas, but that’s part of the Win story—local mechanics know them, parts and fixes are common, and they’re a familiar sight when you travel Vietnam by motorbike.

At first I stressed at every red light: finding neutral, not stalling, pulling away smoothly. But repetition is a brutal teacher. I made mistakes, corrected them, and gradually the fear turned into muscle memory.

The day the ride really began

Departure came fast: the day after buying the bike.

With my backpack strapped to the rear rack, I stared at the short street outside my place like it was a technical stage. I stalled twice within the first 300 metres. Then came Saigon’s hyperactive centre—noise, motion, no gaps, no hesitation allowed. I struggled to find my way out, but when I finally hit the road that led away from the city, I shouted inside my helmet. Pure relief. Pure joy.

I didn’t realise it yet, but I’d just committed to a journey of at least 3,385 km, riding solo and free—from Ho Chi Minh City to Sapa, finishing in Hanoi.

Along the way, rain became a recurring opponent. I didn’t want to ride in torrential downpours, but during my month on the road, it rained often. At some point you stop negotiating with the weather: you ride slower, increase distance, and accept arriving soaked—even with a decent poncho.

And then there was the hardest truth: I saw road accidents (almost) daily. Vietnam’s roads can be dangerous in sun or rain. Even riding cautiously, I had scary moments. But that made it even more satisfying to realise I was managing—one careful day at a time.

I rode on all kinds of roads and in every scenario I could imagine. I wrote more details on my blog in this Vietnam-by-motorbike article.

I was fully alone for about four days. Then I met two other travellers on the road—one of them a German rider who stayed with me for the rest of the trip. I was comfortable solo, but sharing the ride made the magic bigger. I smiled under my helmet constantly. Sometimes I yelled with happiness—seriously. And when small problems happened, having someone nearby helped.

One thing I need to say clearly: the Vietnamese people were wonderful to me. I never understood the negative comments I’d heard. As a woman travelling, I didn’t run into major issues. Even without a shared language, someone was always ready to help when I looked stuck.

Planet Ride rider tip (fatigue & risk management)

If you’re new to manual bikes or to Vietnam traffic, plan your first two riding days as short exits: leave the city, stop early, and let your hands and brain adapt. It’s not about kilometres—it’s about building calm rhythm before you stack rain, navigation, and traffic on top.

The day I left Vietnam

Leaving was hard—harder than I expected. Saying goodbye to the bike (you get attached), to Vietnam (food, landscapes, people—everything), and to the German rider… it was too many separations at once.

That month was intense and deeply enriching. I left in tears, but I knew I’d come back. I even planned to return by the end of 2016 to ride north–south again and reach places I’d missed in July. I also had a concrete project forming there—if you want to follow along, you can stay in touch via my newsletter.

Final word: if you love motorbikes and freedom, do it. Skip the bus. Choose the bike—if adventure is what you’re after. I want to encourage anyone who doubts themselves: I had never ridden a manual motorbike before Vietnam. And I still rode the country. You learn by doing—carefully, humbly, and one gear change at a time.

À savoir aujourd’hui

This is Cynthia’s 2015 account, and the core emotion still holds: Vietnam is made for two wheels, and the learning curve can be part of the journey. What you should check before leaving in 2026: current visa rules, riding licence/insurance expectations, and local traffic enforcement—these can change quickly depending on entry point and province.

Mini-FAQ

Can you do Vietnam by motorbike without a motorbike licence?

Cynthia did—but rules and enforcement vary. In 2026, verify what’s required for rentals/insurance and what’s expected at checkpoints in the regions you plan to cross.

How long does it take to ride from Ho Chi Minh City to Hanoi with detours like Sapa?

Cynthia rode for about a month, including Sapa and plenty of stops. Your pace depends on weather, experience, and how much you want to explore between major highlights.

Is riding in Vietnam dangerous?

It can be—especially in rain and dense city traffic. Build up gradually, avoid pushing long days when you’re still adapting, and prioritise predictable riding over speed.

You want to ride Vietnam with a route that’s been designed and supported end-to-end? Planet Ride can match you with the right format—guided or self-guided—depending on your experience and the kind of roadtrip you want.