There are reasons there are whole groups online dedicated to sharing the pitfalls and issues one can face when occupying a larger body. There’s a hesitancy in discussing it, as when we talk about weight and size, there’s not a lot of sympathy from people who don’t have to consider these things daily.
My weight has never been something I’ve liked to dictate my life around, but as somebody who travels Asia in search of the best music and experiences, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’ve become increasingly aware of the space I occupy.
Whether it’s having to squeeze into hostel beds or train seats, or being exposed to the blatant weight-loss-focused advertising that dominates the market here, it’s a lot – and I have to catch myself from slipping into disordered behaviours when it comes to food, exercise and self-worth.
Despite not being able to buy clothes at most places I shop, and despite being bombarded with a beauty standard I couldn’t adhere to even in my most unhinged, orthorexic mode of living, my weight has really only been a barrier from one thing:
Riding on the back of a scooter.
Throughout my time in Bangkok, I would gaze upon the sea of scooters and think, Wow – wouldn’t it be convenient and cheap to just jump on a GRAB bike.
Watching them weave in and out of stand-still traffic from the back of a car, I was envious — but could not bring myself to take the chance. I hid behind the constant outpouring of stories of Australians in scooter accidents. I made excuses like the heat, the rain and everything else I could think of.
At the end of the day though it was one thing.
Am I too fat to ride on the back of a scooter?
I was self-conscious that my weight was going to unbalance the vehicle. That my size, my heaviness, would cause an inconvenience to the rider. I was worried about their disgust towards my body.
I could not shake the image of someone rocking up to their booking, seeing me, then going through the motions of realising they had to ferry my oversized flesh suit around.
Admitting this to myself was not easy, and it was easier to just hide behind excuses.
Until I went to Vietnam.
Scooters are a way of life in Saigon. Every man and his dog has one (okay, the dogs don’t have them, but I saw that many sitting on scooters being ridden around – even a Samoyed).
Within hours of checking into my hostel, a friend was on my doorstep ready to take me to lunch. He had arrived on his scooter with his girlfriend, both of them with helmets under their arms.
We scrolled through photos of the local cuisine they wanted me to experience, and I assumed it was all in walking distance. We decided on a place, and then:
“Call a GRAB and they can follow us.”
My stomach dropped. Shaking, but trying to hide my trepidation, I pulled my phone and “accidentally” selected car over bike. Not realising my change in mood, my friend pointed out that I needed to order a bike instead.
He grabbed my phone, typed in the destination, and my motorised steed began its journey to collect me.
I was fucked. Whether I liked it or not, I was about to face my insecurity.
Within minutes, my driver arrived and handed me a helmet. As I fumbled the clasp, he reached over and buckled me up like a child.
Awkwardly, because unless I’m in the throes of sport I am generally very uncoordinated, I slung my leg over and positioned myself behind this stranger. He could sense my nervousness, but I’m assuming he put it down to my obvious foreignness.
With a kick to the side and a roar of an engine, we were off.
Let me get one thing straight. I was not anxious about the actual act of riding a scooter or a bike. I’ve ridden on the back before – but once was with my uncle, and the other was a soldier. Both those men were bigger, taller and stronger than I.
This man though? He was small. His bike was small. Everything was small – except for me.
With my heart beating out my chest and a hyperawareness of every fibre of my being, we took off.
The bike sank as I mounted, but I processed it quickly and settled into the rhythm of the ride. The soldier, a one-off Tinder date before he was deployed, had taught me how to be a good passenger. Lean with the driver, but not too much. Keep the body loose, the feet on the stirrups, the hands in a comfortable spot.
These instructions played over and over in my head as I tried to minimise my heaviness in every possible way. I did not want to be the reason this man decided to quit his job.
As we headed into a clusterfuck of traffic, the kind an untrained eye sees only as an unrelenting flurry of disorder, I found myself starting to relax. The driver skilfully navigated the chaos.
I realised that my life was in his hands, and I trusted him. He knew these streets. He knew his bike. He knew his limitations. With every metre, every twist and turn, I grew increasingly more confident.
This man did not care about me and why should he? To him, I was just a customer. I can’t be the first fat woman he has transported and let’s be real, I probably won’t be the last.
After what may have been the longest five minutes of my life, we pulled up at the lunch spot. The driver unbuckled my helmet and, within seconds of my dismount, he roared off down the road.
I was overwhelmed. The rush of the ride. The relief of facing my fears. The sleep deprivation. The newness of Vietnam.
But all that stress disappeared when I was stuffing my face with the best bún chả I’ve ever eaten.
When it came time to hit the next location – to give some salted coffee a whirl – I pulled out my phone and this time, without the shaking hands, this fat girl did not hesitate to book a bike.