Six Aussie mates, two MotoGPs and 5000km of Southeast Asian roads between them. What could possibly go wrong?
It all started as most bad ideas do, over a few beers. Six Aussie mates, a 5000km journey, and a plan to ride from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, to Buriram, Thailand, and back, hitting two MotoGPs along the way. It was ambitious, reckless and almost guaranteed to go off the rails.
The first stop was RC Big Bike Rentals in KL’s northeast, where the boys were keen to sort their bikes. Some checked tyre pressures, others fiddled with luggage straps – Mick, of course, was already talking about wheelie contests. One rider, though, had things dialled in: Shane, aka ‘Teacher’. He was well prepared, organised and a great asset to the group. If anyone was going to keep it from falling apart, it was him.
With the customs slips prepared earlier by Nash and some new rubber on two of the bikes, it was time to roll – Georgetown first, then Phuket, Prachaup Beach, Pattaya, Buriram and back. The delay in bike preparation had put us back two hours and we were now in the KL peak traffic crush.
We just didn’t know how sideways things would get.
Day 1 to Georgetown: Mick goes missing
Bikes sorted, bags strapped down, and with a final nod to Naz at RC Big Bike Rentals, we fired up our engines and rolled out of Kuala Lumpur.
The plan was simple – a straight shot to Georgetown, about 350km north. We would be sipping Tiger beers at the rooftop bar by 7pm. Malaysian highways were smooth, fast and as quick as you wanted them to be. Nash had given us the lowdown: bikes had free access to all toll roads. Just stay far left at the toll plaza and a side track bypasses the toll booths. Speed cameras? No worries – they use a countdown colour system, and standard fines apply no matter how fast you’re going.
We decided to make up some time after an impromptu visit to Genting Highlands, then Mick – our self-appointed lead rider – decided to make up some extra time while dicing with an Audi RS Q3, which is how he completely missed our turn-off.
We figured he’d realise sooner or later and loop back. He didn’t. So while the rest of us pushed on, Mick was off on his own little detour. We made it to Georgetown just as the sun dipped below the horizon – minus one rider. Mick was nowhere to be found. No calls, no messages, just radio silence. At first we weren’t too worried. Mick was fast but he wasn’t reckless; he’d probably overshot the turn, figured it out and was making his way back. Only he wasn’t. By morning, still no word. That’s when it sank in – we had actually lost Mick. With no other choice, I headed to the local police station and filed a missing person’s report. The officers didn’t seem too alarmed – just another farang who’d gone AWOL. But for us things were getting serious.
We decided to push on to the nearest border crossing, thinking Mick would wait for us there. (He also had Steve’s import papers, so without that Steve’s Ducati Monster wasn’t going to get across). What we didn’t know was that Mick had hit a pothole at 180km/h, launching his phone from its mount. He was stranded. No GPS, no contacts, just a long night ahead.
Mick had spent the night in a small village hotel, confident he would see us at the border – just not the right one. Finally, we caught up to him just before the Wang Keilan border crossing. Relief all around… until we hit another problem.
BORDER GAMES AT WANG KEILAN
Mick, in his rush to push ahead, had already crossed into Thailand, but hadn’t got stamped out of Malaysia. Cue another delay. With the border closing at 4pm, we were now chasing the clock, low on sleep and about to ride into the night.
At least the roads to Wang Keilan had been a blast: twisty, hilly, quiet and scenic. The kind of ride that reminds you why you do these trips in the first place.
But we still weren’t in the clear. We all got through the border clean except Mick. We had to wait it out while customs and immigration on both sides fought it out, blaming each other for the missing stamp in Mick’s passport… They wanted to send him back to the Himan Border 70km away, but finally we were all through and on our way, navigating night market after night market, flavourful aromas filling the air. We were hungry but, more importantly, we needed to make some time.
GROUNDHOG DAY
Well, the fatigue factor got real. Especially when the humidity was high and sleep lacking. We didn’t really want to do any night riding and were warned about plenty of roadworks since a recent spate of floods, as well as traffic lights in strange places. As we cruised through a more rural coastal area, it hit us – our group had turned to five!
Mark (aka ‘Bones’), our lagging tail rider, must have dozed off and missed our turn. Teacher kept an eye in his mirror for headlights, but somehow a local on one of a thousand scooters must have gotten in between us and we thought it was Bones. With only two working intercoms, communication was patchy at best. Bones wasn’t exactly tech-savvy and his roaming SIM wasn’t roaming. With no way to reach him, we made a call: divert to Hat Yai and figure it out.
Hat Yai is a vibrant, chaotic and popular visa-run spot for expats needing a passport stamp to extend their time in Malaysia, or Laos. We found a decent hotel for the night, grabbed a few Leo beers and tried to think.
Morning came. Still no Bones. So we did what we were getting good at: spent two hours riding around Hat Yai looking for a lost rider. No sign. Again, we had to make a call. The boys were confident that Bones was a competent rough camper, and with that we pushed on to Phuket, knowing full well that Bones had the itinerary.
THE GREAT PATONG BIKE HUNT: Bones’ breaking point
We made the long ride to Patong, Phuket, enjoying an impromptu stop at a Thai wedding where we were treated like family. It was late afternoon as we diced with tour bus after tour bus – hot, sweaty and ready for a swim. After a quick dip it was straight to Muay Thai fights, beers in hand, enjoying the chaos of the ring. Surprise, surprise… Bones found us in the lobby later that night. He had covered that entire distance solo, supported only by an itinerary with the Graceland hotel’s name on it.
Morning came, and so did the real challenge: finding Bones’ lost MT109! Turns out he’d run low on fuel, parked in a side street and grabbed a tuk-tuk to catch up to us at Graceland.
I got up early to shake Bones awake, and for the next two hours I rode around Patong with Bones as pillion, weaving through the maze of side streets that – according to him – looked nothing like the places he had seen the previous night.
With no other choice, we spent another couple of hours at the local police station, trying to get them interested. The officers weren’t exactly rushing to help until, finally, at 3am, a call came in: bike found!
A quick donation to the police retirement fund got us on our way. By this time Bones wasn’t just tired, he was questioning all his life choices. Why had he come on this trip? Why had he ever leave Australia? Why did he trust himself to remember anything after a night in Patong?
We never did get the answers to those questions. But at least after an exhausting night Bones had got his ride back.
REUNITED AND READY FOR THE NEXT LEG
With Bones back in the fold and some valuable rest, the group was back to full strength. After everything, we were just happy to be together again. No more missing riders or bikes; no more search parties.
But also no time to relax. Next stop: Prachaup Beach. The sleepy gulf-side village sounded like the perfect place to unwind, but there was a catch: it was 575km away. Another long day in the saddle! After the last few chaotic episodes, we decided it was time to be more vigilant, so Teacher and I took turns as lead and tail riders, making sure no one else got lost. The ride out of Phuket was a mix of bedlam and near misses. Thai roads weren’t like Malaysia’s: traffic lights appeared out of nowhere and the roads were full of hopped-up, overloaded D-MAX utes flying by like missiles.
As we rolled into the beauty spot that is Prachaup Beach, we stumbled upon a waterfront Greek taverna. Great food, friendly owners, and in a show of true Thai hospitality they handed us an Esky and told us we could lock up and turn out the lights when we were done. With full stomachs and a much-needed recharge, we were ready to tackle the next leg, skirting around Bangkok and heading for Pattaya en route to Buriram.
THE LONG WAY AROUND
The next day we hit the road early, knowing we had a navigation challenge ahead. To get past Bangkok, we had to skirt around the top of the gulf, a detour that meant extra distance and zero room for error. No bikes were allowed on the toll roads or the elevated sky roads, so we had to be sharp, weaving through local streets and dodging the kind of traffic that could make a monk lose his patience. One wrong turn and we’d be stuck in a maze of overpasses and dead ends.
Bangkok Baptism: Riders on the storm
Just as we hit Bangkok, the skies opened up. Rain came down like a monsoon, hammering the roads, blinding our visors and turning the streets into rivers. The sky roads above us also had open drains, which meant every drop of water from the elevated highways came shooting down like a hydrant on full blast. Visibility? Gone. Traction? Questionable. To make things worse, we were now riding blind through floodwaters, hoping the road was still beneath us. At this point we were drenched, dodging flooded potholes, barely able to see. But somehow we pushed through, finally making it to Pattaya for the night. A few beers later, the storm was just another story to laugh about.
BURIRAM: MOTOGP, street Parties, and the Legendary Bamboo bar
With Pattaya behind us, we were up early and rolling towards Buriram, the home of Chang International Circuit. This was a shorter run, just 500km, but the roads changed dramatically as we climbed onto a cooler plateau, with sweeping bends and open landscapes. A welcome change from the madness of Bangkok, this felt like a reward.
As we rolled into Buriram in the late afternoon, we knew we had hit a major milestone. Half the journey was behind us. Our next stop? Ron’s Furniture Factory/Motel. A place that sounded like a Craigslist fever dream t turned out to be just what we needed – a secure place to park the bikes, kick back and soak in the fact that we’d actually made it this far.
For the next three nights, Ron and his partner Sunta made us feel at home: breakfast sorted, beers flowing and transport to the track.
Sunta and her team welcomed us with typical Thai hospitality, making sure we were well fed and well hydrated. Ron wasn’t just the owner – he was one of us. At 74 he was still riding his Triumph, proving that once you’re a rider, you’re always a rider. Hearing his stories over a few beers, it was clear this bloke had seen it all. And yet he was still at it, carving up the roads of Thailand like a man half his age. If we needed a reminder that there is no age limit on adventure, Ron was it.
After nearly 2500km of chaos, lost riders and bikes, we finally had a chance to relax and focus on why we came here in the first place: MotoGP! For the next three nights we had a chance to really soak up the GP madness. Thousands of fans, the sound of roaring engines and the electric atmosphere of race day. But the real action wasn’t just at the track. The MotoGP street parties were next level: live music, endless food stalls and bars overflowing with race fans. One spot in particular was not to be missed: the famous Bamboo Bar.
Packed with riders, expats and locals all swapping stories over ice cold beers, it became our go-to post-race hangout. On our last morning, Ron escorted us for 100km on his Tiger before waving us off. The trip back to KL had begun.
THE RETURN RIDE: Mick’s Meltdown
With Buriram behind us, we retraced our route south, feeling the miles in our bones but still buzzing from the MotoGP and wild street parties. About 150km out of Pattaya, Mick’s Yamaha XSR900 started acting up. At first it was a flicker. Then a full electrical failure. Wheelie competition over. We limped the bike along, finally rolling into the Seaview carpark for inspection. After some digging we found the culprit: a broken battery terminal. A quick carpark fix and Mick’s bike was good to go. Crisis averted.
We pushed on, making good time towards Kuala Lumpur. This leg of the journey was uneventful for once. No lost riders, no breakdowns, just open roads and the final push to the finish line. Rolling back to RC Big Bike Rentals, the boys were greeted like heroes. Owner Nash couldn’t believe the distance we’d covered and how well we’d handled the journey. (I didn’t have the heart to tell him we almost lost one of his bikes.) The handover was smooth. Deposits refunded, handshakes all round.
PENTHOUSE paradise
To celebrate, we headed straight to the gigantic Penthouse KLCC overlooking the city skyline, beers in hand, to toast the ride, the madness and the fact that we all made it back in one piece.
The next morning we were off again, this time in a hired van driven by our trusty Muzz, making our way to the Sepang circuit for the second MotoGP in seven days. All that was left to do was enjoy the racing and Jalan Alor food markets. Little did we know that this would be the last time the Southeast Asian GPs were held back to back… Most importantly, everyone returned home safe with a great adventure in the books – and we are still talking about it. Although we did some kays, the adventure was rewarding and I’ll no doubt find my way back to Ron’s for more Thai MotoGP action someday.
By the way, every part of this story is factual. Only the names have been changed to protect the luddites.
