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I'VE never seen two trains coming together at great speed but I wouldn't be able to take my eyes off them. You neither? It's the awful fascination of impending disaster, isn't it?

I'll tell you why that came to mind today...

There are two ways to Dalat from where two porters wheeled our bikes off the train. It's a mountain town, an airy place of French colonial architecture 1 500m up in the sky. There are two ways up from where we started and they both start at sea level.

One is a dogleg, longer than the other and less steep but less beautiful. The other goes straight up to the hilly plateau at close to 2 000m and then a little down again into town. It's a 100km climb, steeper and more up and down as it goes. The road gains height at much expense and then loses some before starting again. It is inducive of great suffering.

There is nowhere to eat or sleep beyond the first couple of hours. And that is why we took a bus.

We were an hour into the ride when we passed a lad wearing shorts and the dark jersey of a club in Glasgow. He had a loaded bike, straight handlebars, and he was pedalling gaily.

There was little traffic. Gorgeous white waterfalls crashed determinedly down grey stone walls. Land to the right rose viciously and teetered straight into the valley to the left. Even our scarlet bus with its huge motor and bed-like seats struggled on bends.

All went well until about 700m. Then the cloud came down. Icy rain splattered the windows and bounced on the road. It got darker and we could see less and less. The wind rose. Frozen motorcyclists beat their arms and rubbed their legs beside the road.

And our man was still out in it.

He had no option but to pedal on. If he had a tent, there was nowhere to plant it. We looked. There was no relenting in the valley to the left and the small clearances to the right were scattered rocks and stones. Roadmenders had makeshift cabins now and then and our map said there was a refuge near the peak of the mountain. But we never saw it, nor signs to it.

I couldn't help thinking of our poor Scotsman, hoping he had found shelter or turned back. I doubt I'll hear how things turned out but, if I do, I'll pass it on.