Seven Million Motorbikes.

As I sit in a taxi trying to make my way across town in Ho Chi Minh, I realize this isn’t traffic. It’s anatomy.

The cars are clogged arteries, jammed with exhaust and ego, all inching forward like they’ve got somewhere more important to be.

Meanwhile, the motorbikes, the real lifeblood of this city, flow like red blood cells, darting through every narrow space, weaving between side mirrors and sidewalk fruit vendors. Helmets strapped, faces blank, instincts dialed to eleven. They’re not driving. They’re surviving. Performing surgery on a city that never stops pulsing.

Seven million of them. Each one part of the rhythm, the pulse, the barely-controlled heart attack that keeps this city alive.

It’s not gridlock. It’s a cardiovascular event.
And somehow… no one flatlines.

And now someone has a plan:
Make them all electric by 2030.
Seven. Million. Motorbikes.

No fucking way.

You don’t just swap out gasoline for batteries and call it progress.
This city runs on instinct, on combustion, on organized madness.
You can’t plug that into a charger.