Traffic impossible, five o’clock shadow across the city. Noise, smog and the odour of the brain dead but there was the narrowest of conduits between the stalled coffins and I took it as fast as I dared. Go too slow, some other biker would back end me, brain too fried by excessive speed; motorcycling and amphetamine both. I squirmed in the seat, making minute, high speed changes in direction to navigate through the protuberances poking off the cages, although it was sometimes fun to leave a trail of mirrors, door handles and aerials in my wake.

Home a cold water flat just off Rama IV, not far from the Klong Toey market. A five storey edifice, only twenty years old but fast fading and cracking up, the foundations subsiding and the excessive heat of the day running so deep into the concrete that it changed its molecular structure for the worse.

A little room right up under the roof but with its own toilet and shower; only 3000 baht a month. The Yamaha sat in a bike bay conveniently opposite, secured with three locks and an extra loud alarm system… I kept a couple of bricks to hurl out of my window if I caught someone tampering with the machine.

I kept leering at my female neighbours, young and old alike, but it was difficult to overcome the language barrier even when they blew half my mind away with huge smiles. I think I pissed the community off the time I came home drunk out of my mind, spent the night screaming and being sick; the first I knew of it, when I staggered out of bed the next morning, a huge pile of vomit in the washbasin…

Sukhumvit a weird trip. I’d left the flat with a huge surge of optimism, skipped down the four flights of stairs with enough energy to charge the whole building with good vibes. I even got a grin out of the security guard, a surly youth who spent most of his time trying to seduce the mistresses of the aged, almost infirm, couple of foreigners who inhabited the apartment block.

The ride to Sukhumvit Soi 41 passed without much incident, traffic still heavy enough to have the city engulfed in a fog of pollutants and fury. Burning along the inside of some portly cop on a sluggardly Kawasaki KH125, the only moment of real amusement. The change in air pressure and my brief blast on the horn made him leap in the saddle. He went so far as to turn on his siren at this massive loss of face but he had no hope of matching my acceleration and little inclination to risk his skin by emulating my crazed riding style. The Yamaha TZM shot through the narrowest of gaps with amazing aplomb, that would leave the cop’s bulging waist firmly wedged between the cages.