Honda ADV 160 Breakdown in Thailand — How Harley Davidson Saved Our Ride

How we shamelessly accepted the kindness of the Harley Davidson peeps in our desperation. 

For days, Smokey, our humble 160cc scooter had displayed symptoms of distress. I could have sworn I heard faint squeaky noises like never before. It sounded like a bird trapped inside the motorbike, crying for rescue. Not quite sure what’s wrong, and seeing no visible damage, we chose to ignore it. 

Big mistake. Riding North towards Thailand, I had been pushing Smokey at speeds like never before. Too hard. She had warned me with gentle chirps but I had feigned ignorance.

That is, until it started sputtering and choking, one minute after we set off from Bang Chak petrol station. It was mid-day and the sun was at full blast. 

When Smokey finally said enough

As we moved off, I could feel Smokey’s lethargy. The engine felt different. I revved her. The handlebar felt weightless and difficult to control. The bike almost stopped in the middle of the road, amidst cars, motorcycles and trucks that were raring to go after the lights turned green.

I willed Smokey to move to the left of the road, keeping an eye on oncoming traffic via my side mirrors. Eventually we made it to the sandy side road with overgrowing weeds. I was barely 200 metres away from the petrol station. 

Smokey used her last ounce of strength to leave me at a safe place as she bid her final adieu. Strangely upon arriving at the sidewalk, Smokey could move no more. 

“Damn, I never should have pushed you so hard!” I cursed and started blaming myself. 

True enough, the breaking point had arrived. I’m now stranded, alone, in the middle of dunno-where. 

Stranded, lost and completely alone

I panicked and turned off the engine. Images of explosions I see in Hollywood movies started replaying in my mind. I held my breath and tried to restart the engine. Dead. 

I took out my phone and called Mr A, my riding partner. He had already sped off in his 55 horsepower machine, leaving me with this sickly 15 horsepower automatic.

No answer. Mr A had turned off the mobile data to save the battery for our long ride. I was hoping he had noticed my absence and turned it back on. 

While on the phone, I kept my eyes on the traffic and scanned my surroundings.

Looking across the road, the orange-brown building looked like a workshop. However, I am blocked by a stretch of solid concrete barrier that possibly runs kilometres along this road. The bike will not be able to make a U-turn there.

The line went dead again. I gave up. 

The stranger who stopped

Just then, a fellow biker, in full gear, with an Insta360 mounted to his handlebar, stopped. 

“Do you need help?” He asked from behind his full-faced helmet. 

“The bike, it stopped… cannot move…” I fumbled for words, not even sure what happened exactly, struggling to describe my situation that I have yet to grapple with. 

He dismounted from his Forza, also a scooter, but a 350cc. Familiar with the buttons, he attempted to start Smokey. Miraculously, the engine groaned. However, it didn’t sound as smooth as usual. 

“Bike can start. Can ride now…”

I was surprised, seeing that the bike had died on me just minutes earlier. 

“I can’t…” Not sure how to fully explain my apprehension and veritable fear of being blown to pieces in a motorbike explosion.  

“Do you need a ride to a mechanic?” The kind soul counter offered, sensing my hesitance. 

For a moment, a dozen questions swirl around my head. Was I ready to hop on a stranger’s backseat in a country where I do not speak their language? Will the bike be safe while I sought help? I turned down his offer. And since the good Samaritan was no mechanic, he made a final offer to help.

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

Him stopping to check on me was more than enough for me. After he left, I relaunched the Google Map app. 

A motorcycle repair shop. Right across the road.

There it was on my smartphone screen, the words: “Motorcycle repair shop”. My bike had died just opposite a motorcycle repair shop. 

But how do I get myself or the bike across? The thick block of concrete blocked access to the workshop. Just then, I spotted an opening big enough for me to squeeze my legs in between.

By then, Mr A had arrived, flustered and equally clueless. I dashed across the road, avoiding the oncoming big trucks and cars, desperately seeking help. 

The last place I expected help

Entering the brownstone building, rock music drifted from somewhere inside. I was greeted with handsome looking motorcycles parked neatly in rows. Dark green, electric blue, burgundy red with chrome frame and leather trimming falling from the handlebars – very impressive-looking bikes. Possibly vintage.

Seeing so many motorcycles in the spacious workshop bolstered my hopes. As I rushed towards the first guy I saw, the distinctive eagle emblem grabbed my attention.

So this is a Harley Davidson workshop!

The guy was fiddling with a bike, face down, with tools beside him. He gestured for me to go to the counter in the next room. Behind a wooden counter top, a kindly man in his 50s was seated and chatting amiably with a youthful female colleague. 

“Hello, can you help me?” trying my best to sound polite. My 1kg helmet slung on one arm, the other clutching my thoroughly soaked balaclava. My hair was matted and perspiration continued to drip down my face, despite the air-conditioning. Even with my armoured jacket unzipped, I could feel my long-sleeve shirt stuck to my back. 

“Do you repair Honda ADVs?” I checked hopefully. Before replying, the man handed me a bottle of cold water. I grabbed at it like a float in the middle of the ocean. And then he answered,

“Honda? No, no… We are a Harley Davidson repair shop.”

I felt like my bubble burst right there and then. 

I thought of my 15 horsepower automatic scooter, waiting along the dusty roadside. So many luxury motorbikes poised perfectly, some costing more than a car, yet my 160cc bike has no place here. 

Surely a workshop that services Harleys can manage a 160cc scooter.

“Will your mechanic be able to help me please?” 

With this, he stood up, tall and calm. As he came out from behind the counter, I saw his kind eyes. He beckoned to a lanky younger chap who looked to be in his early 30s. They spoke in Thai.

Harley Davidson taking a broken Honda under its wing

Soon, I found myself leading the lanky young chap and the reliable-looking middle-aged man towards Smokey. Mr A still could not figure out what’s wrong with Smokey. The lanky man started the engine, bent down, putting his ear to the bike and listened intently. His brows knitted. We waited anxiously.

Eventually, in a smattering of English, he told us that the bike had a roller issue.

However, as it was a Sunday, all other repair shops they know of are closed. Using Google Translate, we asked if we could ride the bike slowly to find a mechanic but was advised against it. Too dangerous. 

We were reluctant to abandon Smokey along the roads, especially with the sky turning dark very soon. We sought their advice on where to park Smokey safely. 

Parking along the road is definitely not a wise option. Neither was parking at the Harley Davidson shop since they would be closed the following day, a Monday. 

The two men discussed amongst themselves in Thai. Another colleague joined soon after. We looked on, trying to decipher if they were able to help us. Mr A and I exchanged glances, resigned.

After what seemed like forever, they told us they had made a separate arrangement with the neighbouring shop. We will be able to collect our bike next door the following day.

Relieved, we thanked them profusely for their generosity and helpfulness. Still in our armoured gear, we manually pushed the bike and detoured around the concrete barrier. After a kilometre or so, we were drenched in sweat. 

A Harley Davidson staff presented us with three bottles of ice-cold water. He promptly took over and pushed our bike next door. 

After gulping the water, the cleaning lady with twinkling eyes and mop in hand, gestured us to the restroom.

Having downed all three bottles of water, I quietly slipped one of the empty water bottles in my bag. A keepsake of the good Samaritans who owed us nothing and gave us everything.