Finding My Own Pace on the Hà Giang Loop in Vietnam

There I was, just days from my 50th birthday, clinging to the back of a motorbike on the Hà Giang Loop as it carved around hairpin turns on the edge of northern Vietnam’s most dramatic mountains.

The sheer cliff drops beside us were dizzying, and my knuckles were white from gripping on for dear life. If you’d asked me 12 months earlier how I planned to celebrate this milestone birthday, I would have painted you a very different picture—one involving Chianti and a sun-drenched Italian villa. Instead, I found myself on a heart-racing adventure, surrounded by backpackers half my age, learning a vital lesson about living in the moment.

The wind whipped my helmet as we wound higher into the mountains. Water buffalo wandered along the roadside and goats lounged precariously close to sharp drop-offs. My body ached from gripping the bike (well, truthfully, I was bear-hugging my driver most of the time), my head throbbed, and yet I felt more alive than I had in years. One question kept running through my brain: How exactly did I end up here?

As I’m sure many can relate, it all starts with late-night scrolling on social media, travel blogs, and websites. Although Italy had been my original dream destination, November’s weather wasn’t exactly ideal, so I was on the hunt for sunnier alternatives. Vietnam kept popping onto my radar—renowned for its mouthwatering cuisine, dramatic landscapes, and just enough adventure to distract me from my impending big 5-0.

Turns out, it was the (not exactly slow) holiday I didn’t even know I’d been craving.

After a gentle introduction to Vietnam – a few luxurious days in Hanoi, followed by a stunning Ha Long Bay cruise – we’d been thoroughly spoiled with private transfers (one mini-bus even had massage chairs), so it came as quite a shock when we found ourselves at the meeting place for our Hà Giang motorbike tour: a tiny hostel foyer, filled with excited twenty-somethings exchanging tales of their latest backpacking pursuits.

As I attempted to make conversation, I became hyper-aware of my age. Then our young guide bounced into the lobby with a big smile, asking if everyone was ready for “three days of epic partying!” The kids whooped, and I stood there, wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into.

Before I could voice my doubts to my husband (I was silently crafting increasingly elaborate excuses to back out without losing face), we were hustled onto a minibus bound for the Hanoi Bus Terminal. This was uncharted territory for me. Having become a mum at 19, I missed the whole backpacking-in-my-20s era. Now here I was, perched on a top bunk in a sleeper bus, clutching a clean pillowcase I’d brought from home (a tip I’d read in a blog), bracing for whatever came next.

Around 3 a.m. we tumbled off at a hostel in Hà Giang—a remote province nestled about 300 km northeast of Hanoi, known for its towering peaks that stretch dramatically into the horizon. We were told to grab a few hours’ rest in a group dorm room before the actual biking commenced at 7:30 am.

Before my sleep-deprived brain had time to process any of it, we were outside meeting our “easy riders”—local guides astride their motorbikes. I was so relieved to find that mine happened to be the only older Vietnamese man in the group, with a warm gentle smile that instantly eased some of my anxiety. Every other driver was under 30 and looked like they were auditioning for Crusty Demons of Dirt.

That first morning started gently enough with a river cruise stop. I remember thinking, ‘This is really pretty, but not quite the incredible bucket-list scenery I’d read about.’ Then, after we hopped back on our bikes, out of nowhere, the road climbed higher, the cliffs towered, and the valleys spread out below in all their dramatic glory. In the space of a heartbeat, it went from ‘this is pleasant’ to ‘THIS IS ABSOLUTELY MIND-BLOWING’.

Day Two was even more intense. Narrow roads twisted through mountains so steep that even a brief glance over the side would send my stomach flipping. Towering limestone cliffs draped in lush greenery loomed on either side, while waterfalls plunged down the rugged terrain. Villages clung precariously to the high-altitude slopes, their homes seamlessly blending with the unforgiving landscape.

It felt like being on a rollercoaster—if rollercoasters had no harnesses and darted through landscapes where women quietly tended terraced fields and small children wandered along the roadside waving to the passers-by. One minute, I’d be shouting inside my head, ‘I love this’! The next, I’d be thinking, ‘I hate this’! The relentless pace was both exhausting and exhilarating.

Across those three days, I ricocheted between adoration and panic. Age was just part of the story—I also felt the thrill of truly letting go, trusting my guide, and absorbing an environment far beyond my comfort zone. Somewhere along those winding roads, I realised that big adventures don’t come from a heated seat or guaranteed rest breaks. Facing fears at 50 had a certain poetic justice—each steep turn reminded me that age was more about spirit than a number. This journey wasn’t just about conquering mountains; it was about rediscovering my own resilience and capacity for wonder, proving that adventure knows no age limit.