The Motorbike Diaries: Renting A Motorbike in Vietnam

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There’s a motorbike in my living room. Don’t worry—I didn’t drive through a wall in some Evel Knievel stunt gone wrong. It’s just sitting there, paid for, staring at me as if it were a piece of furniture. Honestly, it’s like the baby raised by a pack of wild dogs: hang around long enough and you start taking on their traits. If I leave this motorbike here much longer, it might actually start thinking it’s a coffee table.

Weirdly, many people park their motorbikes in their homes overnight in Vietnam. There are no garages here, just one of the many cultural differences I’ve been getting used to. I was just fitting in as if I were a real motorbike driver.

But still—step one is complete. I rented a motorbike, it is in my living room. Cross it off the list. Woohoo! Victory dance! …Ok, great. Now what?

Taking Delivery

Mr. Linh, my rental guy, showed up with the bike and the easiest contract in the world. All he wanted was 1.2 million dong, a copy of my passport, and my signature on a document entirely in Vietnamese. Who knows—maybe I agreed to give him my firstborn. Not that I plan to have one, so honestly, that might be the best deal I’ve ever made.

He politely walked me through the features of my new roommate: how to start it, where to stash my groceries, and—most importantly—the horn. Forget the brakes; the horn is your lifeline in Vietnam. He never asked for a license, never asked if I had any idea what I was doing. He just handed me the keys with a smile. Either he’s wildly trusting, or that contract was a lot more serious than I thought.

The Plan (Sort Of)

Now the bike sits in my living room like a shiny, metallic dare. I figured staring at it every morning over yogurt and coffee would be motivation enough to eventually get my ass on it. Maybe I’ll even sit on it while I eat breakfast. Plenty of locals use their bikes as chairs or tables anyway.

And no, before you ask, my plan does not involve a bikini photoshoot draped across the seat in true calendar-girl fashion. If only I were 15 years younger and owned a vat of baby oil… sigh.

Instead, the plan was simple: sneak out on a Sunday afternoon, when the streets are calmer and the chaos dialed down a notch. Ho Chi Minh City is never truly quiet, but it does slow down on the weekends. That was going to be my practice window.

Obstacles, Everywhere – The Motorbike Gods are Against Me

But the universe had other ideas. When I finally worked up the courage to wheel my new ride outside, I found a wall of about 15 parked motorbikes clogging my little alleyway. Somehow, the two that are usually there had multiplied overnight. Great. The neighbors’ bikes are reproducing like rabbits, and meanwhile, I’m thanking my lucky stars my living-room bike isn’t part of the breeding cycle.

Technically, I could’ve asked the neighbors to move them via charades. But here’s the thing—I had this fantasy that I’d slip out unnoticed like a ninja. No audience, no witnesses to my shaky first attempt. Having to mime “please move your bikes” to a wedding party standing in my alley? Not exactly the stealthy escape I was imagining.

As a side note – I love living in my very local neighborhood/alley – but it does make it hard to talk to your neighbors.

So I waited. And while I waited, the skies opened up. Monsoon rain dumped for hours. My practice session? Officially rained out.

Plan B: The Late-Late Show

By evening, the rain had stopped, and I had no more excuses. It was 9:30 PM. Time to face my fear. I asked a neighbor to move his bike with my best charades impression (the international language of pointing and shrugging), wrestled my motorbike out of the living room, and wheeled it to a wider part of the alley.

Helmet on. Kickstand up. Key in ignition. Starter button pressed.

MMMMmmmmmMMMmmmmmMMMmmmMMMmm…

And then—nothing. No proud roar of the engine. No freedom waiting at the end of the block. Just sputters and silence.

I tried again. Nothing. Again. Still nothing.

And just like that, all my carefully built courage leaked out onto the pavement. I pushed the heavy beast back into my living room, tail between my legs, and texted Mr. Linh like a defeated child tattling on a broken toy. Then I sat down and opened my laptop. Because when all else fails? At least I can write about it.

Fear: 1, Sherry: 0

No practice. No first ride. Just a crap day full of obstacles, excuses, and sputtering. But here’s the thing—this is how the Motorbike Diaries begin. Not with a cinematic zoom onto the open road, but with a motorbike in my living room that refuses to start.

Tomorrow is another day. And that bike? It’s not going anywhere.