My left pinky finger is the last to go. The rest of my digits gave up and went numb hours ago. The cold makes quick work of my knock-off North Face jacket and laughs at our open-face helmets as it tickles our snotty noses.
We’re an hour and a half short of our intended destination in Ha Giang, but night has set and after riding for seven hours with no gloves in 5ºC, it’s time to stop. Alissa, cleverly, bought a pair just before we left Hanoi but I said I’d find some along the way. We passed a shop that looked like it might have sold them about four hours in, but by that point I was paradoxically too cold to stop and warm up my hands.
We spot a motel in a little town, park the bikes and ask the owner if the room has heating. He laughs. Shivering,
