The monkeys come out in packs and forage along the road as we walk... [INTRODUCTION/ EDITOR'S NOTE: This was sent to us at the beginning of a 14-day motorcycle trip through the Indian Himalayas. On the final day, Dr. Shoe and his friends capped off their tour by riding their 500cc Enfields to the top of the highest motorable pass in the world - Khardung La, at 18,380 feet the highest place in the world accessible to motorized vehicles. Along the way, they encountered yaks, glaciers, military checkpoints, mud, snow, Buddhist monasteries, a series of hairpin loops considered the steepest motorable ascent in the world, and other remarkable adventures. Here is his story.] I can’t believe we are really in the Himalayas! We awoke today at about 6:00 am "mountain time," dressed quickly, and went for a quiet walk along the road. I just can’t believe we are really in the foothills of the Himalayas. We arrived here late yesterday afternoon after a harrowing all-day white-knuckle minibus adventure northward on the Indian Grand Trunk Highway from New Delhi. WHAT an experience - thank God we WEREN’T on the bikes yesterday! It took all day to go 245 km (about 110 miles), and we were on one of India’s newest and best roads! You just can’t be in a hurry anywhere in Asia. Speed kills. Really. We are at a cool hotel called the Timber Trail Resort in Kalka, truly in the foothills of the Himalayas themselves. Here, they are all covered with lush green jungle, with National Geographic-like views from our balcony down into the hot, steamy Indus River Valley we have now left behind. The monkeys come out in packs and forage along the road as we walk, way too nervous and excited to sleep in today. Fortunately, there is almost no traffic; the truck drivers seem to be asleep still, so walking is not too dangerous. Before long, the smelly orange Tata diesel trucks will be a constant presence, rolling along in an endless stream on this road, the lifeline of these mountains, carrying all manner of goods to the remote villages higher in the Himalayas. Their grillwork is typically decorated with garishly painted faces, as if the trucks themselves were gods or demons of some sort, and the ubiquitous old shoe or sandal dangles down from the bumper as a good-luck talisman. We pray silently that the shoe won’t be the last thing we see on this trip….
After breakfast we take a spectacular ride in a rickety little cable car to the top of the neighboring mountain, where the other half of this hotel is located (these are the really exclusive rooms; there is no road up here, the cable car is the only access). The view is a stomach-dropping one looking downward out the cable-car window; it is MANY MANY hundreds of feet to the bottom of the canyon, and these cables above us just DO NOT get the same maintenance schedule as back in the States, I know it, I just KNOW it……my other inner voice finally wins, saying shut UP, wimp, you are here for the biggest adventure of your life, after all; what do you expect? After a tour of the upper hotel, with incredible tropical flower gardens like you would not believe, and catching glimpses of the vast Indus River Valley out across the lower Himalayan foothills (between the cloud and fog banks), we descend again in the cable car. It is the moment we have all been waiting for---- meeting our motorcycles for the first time. So let’s step "outside the scene" for a moment to ask a question: if you were riding a bike across some of the toughest, highest, remotest country on earth to be crossed by a ‘road’ (if you want to call this a ROAD – ha! - but we will come back to that later), what machine would you choose? Would you pick a KLR or a TransAlp or a BMW GS, or something renowned for winning the ISDT or the Paris-Dakar Rally? A thoroughly modified Harley FX, like Dave Barr? A machine well-prepared and properly packed according to all the amassed wisdom of Helge Pedersen and Ted Simon? Or how about something a little different, more adventurous, more on the edge, something that might let you relive the wild, baling-wire, cranky Amal-carbureted, breakdown-filled, vibrating, rattling days of your (or your parents’) youth – in the middle of freaking nowhere at the ends of the earth, to boot? Something totally ancient. Something with a big British single cylinder, lousy drum brakes, metal fork boots, a low road-bike exhaust pipe, trials-universal tires straight from the late Sixties, an honest-to-God compression release, and marginal electrics (remember Joe Lucas – "The Man Who Invented Darkness"). And rubber kneepads on the gas tank, for cryin' out loud. Would that be adventure enough for you?
(HRR) now runs a fleet of them throughout the Himalayas in India, Nepal and Bhutan. With very little coercion, we soon found ourselves signed up for the next HRR adventure tour to Ladakh. And now, a row of 500cc Bullets gleamed before us in the parking lot of the hotel, with the HRR crew bustling around them with polishing rags wiping off the freshly-fallen monsoon drizzle, and rearranging luggage in the orange diesel chase truck to make room for our gear. As Rob, HRR’s captain, gave us our orientation briefing and introduced the staff, an Indian Army convoy lumbered past the hotel, headed up the road toward the high country, a sign of things to come in the days ahead. We would pass, and be passed by many such convoys on their way to the fighting along the disputed Indian-Pakistani border. Rob pointed out the Bullet’s features, including the right-side footshift and the kick-start. The starting ritual required absolutely artistic use of the compression release (something that should be familiar to those of you who’ve spent time on older Brit iron or early Sportsters): switch off, gas on, pull the release, gently push the kick starter through till you start to feel the compression come up. Watch the ammeter (the only instrument other than the speedo, which registered in km/hr) for the telltale dip and jump indicating you are nudging top-dead-center. Then let go the release, switch on, and kick down HARD. If you hit it just right, you were rewarded with the roar of the big thumper’s distinctive rumble as it roared to life, whether you were at 6,000 or 16,000 feet. If not, just like on the old Sporties, you would be stripping off clothing layers, kicking, and swearing. Many of us never quite got it down during the entire trip – always interesting if you are trying to start the reluctant Bullet on the edge of a not-quite-one-lane high-mountain road, with a thousand-foot drop-off to one side, and a Tata truck rumbling relentlessly toward you, no one nearby to help, and no roadside shoulder anywhere around… Would that be adventure enough for you? A bit more orientation, and everyone practiced starting the Enfields. Most of us had to be helped by the grinning Sherpas and the regal Sikh comprising the HRR staff. As the rains began anew, we all headed out on our first test drive up and down the harrowing mountain road just past the hotel gates. It is a brief - way too brief - test run, with most people stalling their machines at least once, or locking up the gears on the roadside. We go back inside to wait for the rains to stop. They don’t. We have lunch. It is raining harder. Finally, it slows to a drizzle and we cinch up our raingear and we are off, heading out on our first day’s ride to the mountain town of Shimla. Slowly our convoy of bikes putts out onto the main roadway, our chase vehicle lumbering along as rearguard. I am at the back of the pack in no time, my bike stalled out on the nearly-nonexistent shoulder as I miss the first of what are to be hundreds of missed shifts throughout the trip. Un-California-like extreme squalor, poverty, decay, and humidity was everywhere. Remember the first time you ever rode a motorcycle, or your first ride on a really intimidating machine you thought was way too big or fast for you? Picture this: you are pulling out on an unfamiliar bike onto a narrow, winding mountain road. The traffic is intense. You are in a foreign country where you have few clues about the rules of the road, beyond your previous day’s observations that (1) horns are used for normal communication, not anger; (2) the biggest and/or ugliest vehicle always has the right of way – and motorcycles NEVER do; (3) people pass each other on blind curves with no idea whether or not there is oncoming traffic; (4) the concept of lanes is meaningless; (5) almost no one speaks your language; and (6) you must remember to drive on the wrong side of the road, or die. Suddenly, a diesel truck is coming at you in your lane, horn blaring, and you forget all that. Instinctively, you grab the weak – very weak – hand brake and veer back over to the left side of the road where you belong. You stomp hard on the footbrake – or is it? No, you just downshifted. Finally, you grab both brakes, forcing yourself to brake with the WRONG foot. On top of it all, the roads are wet. Would that be adventure enough for you? After the first few miles, you find yourself singing "Born to be Wild" into the rain at the top of your lungs. This is SOOOO cool! How can it get any better than this? We dodged all manner of vehicles, people and animals in the rain. Everywhere troops of monkeys could be seen along the roadside, sometimes unexpectedly darting in front of an unprepared rider. I bounce over a road barrier in a construction area, and my battery cover flies off. I don’t discover it till we make our first rest stop at a roadside dhaba, the Indian equivalent of our truck stops. The mechanics went back to search for the lost cover while we waited and chatted amidst the constant blare of horns and the overwhelming presence of diesel smoke, the ubiquitous "signature" aroma of the roads of the Himalayas. We watched people driving herds of Brahma cattle through the village. Obviously, these were not the sacred ones that were left to wander all day where they pleased; we had seen those lolling about on the medians in downtown Delhi, ignored or tolerated by passers-by. They ALWAYS had the right of way.
squalor, poverty, decay, and humidity was everywhere. The road parallels the tracks of a narrow-gauge railway; later we are told the train passes through a hundred tunnels between here and Shimla. Finally the clouds part, and the sun breaks through as steamy mists rise from the damp roadways. The traffic gets more and more intense as we approach the mountain town of Shimla, formerly the summer capital during the days of the British Empire. They would move the entire government up here every summer to escape the heat and crushing humidity of the monsoons. After a wild ride through the back streets of Shimla, swerving around wildly honking taxis and tour buses, we zip through a narrow alley and into the parking lot of the East Bourne Hotel, a lovely European-style resort shaded by tall, 100-year-old deodar trees. Weary but exhilarated, we dismount our machines. The riders slap each others’ backs heartily to celebrate our success, loudly recounting the day’s escapades and near-misses. We’re bad, we’re nationwide! We have totally bonded with the Bullets by now, and every rider eagerly looks forward to the next day’s adventures. Ok, it’s after dinner now. I ‘ve polished off my third Kingfisher, and it is definitely beddy-bye time. Rob is promising a ride on the road toward Tibet tomorrow. I just hope they’ll shut off that eternal Julio Iglesias (!) music on the hotel sound system so we can get some sleep. Adios from the high roads of the Himalayas. Your road buddy, |
