June 14, 2025 to June 15, 2025
Day B10-11: Dog and Swamp Hell
I thought I had escaped the chaos. After island-hopping and surviving ferry transfers, I believed the most chaotic part was behind me. Koh Phangan, for all its party lights and scooter noise, now felt like a forgotten paradise. I told myself that mainland Thailand would be easy-breezy. But I had no idea what I was heading into.
It started easy enough. A chilled-out ride, about 35 km, into downtown Chumphon. I thought I knew the place as I had stayed here before. But when I tried to find the same hotel from a past trip, nothing looked familiar. Still, the streets felt alive, and I rolled through them slowly, scanning for landmarks.
That’s when I met a guy named Guy. Yes, literally, his name was Guy. He waved me down, curious about the folding bike. He wanted to know everything: where I was coming from, where I was going. I told him I’d done rides between Bangkok and the south before, maybe a bit too casually. He looked at me like I had superpowers.
“You have a YouTube channel with thousands of followers?” he asked.
“Nah,” I laughed. “Just 15 people on a website.”
His disbelief was almost flattering. We tried to exchange WhatsApp contacts, and I sent him my blog link, but for some reason, the message didn’t go through. Still, he gave me a tip. He was staying at a nearby hotel that included breakfast. Said it was a good one. I was tired, hungry, and figured, why not?
He wasn’t wrong. The place was solid. Clean room, hot shower, good bed, and yes—breakfast included. After everything I’d been through, a soft landing in Chumphon was the best I could hope for. But I had no clue what was waiting beyond this moment of peace.
Thankfully, I saw Guy again the next morning at breakfast. This time the WhatsApp connection worked, and I sent him the blog link properly. He read through it and gave some solid feedback. He said the writing was strong but needed more photos. I agreed completely. The problem was everything on my phone was saved as HEIC files, which makes uploading them a hassle. Still, I promised to fix it soon.
He even said he’d help promote the site. We chatted a bit more, laughed about the surreal road conditions, and then parted ways. He went his direction, and I fueled up on eggs, rice, toast, coffee, the works. I knew I'd need every calorie.
I set off out of town. From Chumphon to the airport was manageable with quiet roads, light traffic, and even a small roadside massage shack in the middle of nowhere. The woman running it waved me in excitedly, completely shocked when I said I was biking long-distance. She assumed I was just headed to the airport. We took a few photos together, smiled, and then I rolled out feeling recharged.
After that pleasant stop? Chaos. Absolute noodle-map chaos. Hills, forks, dead-end roads, confusing signage. It was like someone had spilled spaghetti on a blueprint and told Google Maps to make a highway out of it. I was suddenly inside the Bermuda Triangle of Thai cycling.
Google offered five routes. None made sense. None were clearly marked. My phone battery was draining faster than my patience. I had to stop constantly to squint at the screen, pick a random road, then pedal in hope. Apparently I’m not alone. Many other cyclists have reported this exact patch near Chumphon Airport as being a clusterfuck. It lives up to the reputation.
No matter which road I took, I somehow ended up off course and on a way towards Highway 4. It was like a magnetic pull. I kept shouting internally, "I don't want to take the main road!" But the landscape didn’t care. It funneled me like a river.
Rain. Stop. Rain again. Stop. Torrential third act. My gear was soaked. My clothes clung to me like despair. And still, I pedaled on.
The further I got, the worse the roads became. I kept veering off course no matter what I tried. If I turned on navigation, it drained battery. If I tried following the map manually, I got lost anyway. At one point I saw a sign for "Bang Boet"—which I thought might be where I was going, or maybe it was just a variant of "Bang Burd." Either way, the sign led me south when I needed to go north. None of it made sense.
Eventually, I spotted a lit concrete road that scooters were using. It seemed to be heading in the general direction I wanted, so I followed it.
Big mistake.
Two kilometers in, the lights cut out. Completely. I was swallowed by darkness. Tree cover closed in, and I could barely see five meters ahead. I feathered the brakes downhill, inching along so I didn’t hit any hidden bumps or branches.
I reached a crossroads. My battery was down to 2%. I opened the map for the hundredth time, barely able to make out where I was. The road split again—dirt paths, looping tracks. Nothing was familiar.
Then came the pickup truck. It rolled up beside me in the pitch-black jungle.
"Where are you going?" the driver asked.
My blood turned cold.
"To the beach," I lied.
He smiled. "Let's go."
That was my cue. I bolted. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew I wasn’t going with him.
Not knowing what to do, I had to outsmart him. I ducked off onto a muddy dirt trail. This was one that Google Maps, in its infinite wisdom, told me to follow. In the pitch dark, I trusted it. That was the mistake.
It took me into a corridor of bush and swamp. No moonlight. No visibility. At first there were puddles—rocky and shallow—and I rolled through them slowly. But then the ground turned to thick mud. My feet got soaked. The white Tern folding bike I was riding wasn’t built for this. It barely rolled through the slop. I pushed when I couldn’t ride. Then I missed another turn. And another.
I saw Google tell me: “1 km more to the beach.” That was the lie that kept me going.
But the so-called “road” was now just a grass path, thick with twigs and actual cobwebs. I couldn’t ride. Only walk. I pushed through, step by step.
Then I hit the end—literally.
A wall of mangroves and swamp stared me down. There was no road. Just lies and water.
I turned off the phone to save the last 1% of battery and said, "Time to go analog." I parked the bike in the grass and scouted right on foot. Nothing. Left. Nothing. I knew I had to backtrack. Through the mud, through the grass trail, back to that cursed junction with the pickup truck.
And as I slogged back through the darkness with a mud-caked folding bike and wet feet, I started questioning everything. My life choices. My sanity. The whole point of this Midnight Run. I kept thinking, "What am I doing with my life? What is this Midnight Run? Why am I in Thailand instead of China?"
The terrain wasn’t the enemy—my entire existence was under interrogation.
I had walked away from a job, a contract, a marriage, a life with central air and certainty. I had rejected comfort—deliberately—and now here I was, alone in the jungle, holding the handlebars of a bike meant for city cafes while getting stalked by swamp mosquitoes and existential dread.
This was rock bottom. And I had pedaled straight into it.
Eventually, I arrived back at that earlier junction. I found a different road now that looped around and finally merged onto the coastal road. I was soaked, filthy, exhausted, but back on asphalt. Until I met my final nemesis.
There were still 10 km to go, and the entire stretch of asphalt was ruled by packs of feral dogs. I would barely shake one gang of howling monsters before the next set materialized out of the roadside darkness.
I had no energy left, no water, no reserve. There was just adrenaline and the instinctive fight‑or‑flight burst which honestly surprises you when survival is on the line. Every sprint felt like the last watts my quads could give, but stopping meant fangs at my ankles.
So I did the only thing that worked: dropped to the small chainring, cranked like a rabid Tour de France escapee, and screamed back at them. The beasts chased, snarled, then finally peeled off, confused by the madness on two wheels.
One kilometre of reprieve, new pack. Another kilometre, more barking shadows. Ten kilometres of repeat terror, until finally the road lights of Bang Burd glimmered ahead like a mirage and the canine kingdom ceded the asphalt.
When I finally got there, Bang Burd was absolute bliss—but dead quiet. It was 9:30 pm, and everything was shuttered. The locals gave me indifferent shrugs. “Finished already,” they said.
There was, however, one restaurant across the street from a resort. It was lit up and buzzing. I walked in and asked about a room. “1000 baht per night.” I didn’t blink. I was done haggling with fate.
The problem? I had no Thai baht on me. I asked where the nearest ATM was. The owner stared at me like I was delusional. “ATM? Here?” she laughed, folding her arms.
Desperate, I tried Thai Scan. My phone was below 1% but I powered it on one last time. Miraculously, it worked. Payment processed.
She said, “Follow the scooter,” and a young guy led me by motorbike to the bungalow resort.
It was bliss.
I collapsed onto the bed and just lay there for half an hour, mud still on my calves, shoes abandoned at the door. The bike was also full of twigs, leaves, and mud had caked its way into the bearings on the pedals. Damnit!! When I finally rallied the strength, I pedaled back to the restaurant for a proper meal.
That Pad Kapow and Chang beer? Nothing—absolutely nothing—had ever tasted so earned.
The owner was full of questions about my bike trip. I had a few of my own about life choices.
But for that one moment, all was right in the world.
Today's ride: 135 km (84 miles)
Total: 1,029 km (639 miles)
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