Himalayas 16 - Epilogue

I've tried writing this several times.

Whatever words end up on the page only catch some of the fleeting moments, the highlights, the stuff that's easier to describe, but they rarely catch the full force of the experience.

Epilogue

Quite simply, neither of us got on our bikes for more than a week. We were burnt out bikewise.

We drank less and kept forgetting to smoke for days at a time. I slept more than I had in years.

Even looking in the mirror was strange. The bags under my eyes had gone. Those constant companions of the last few years, reminders of age and mortality, had been massaged away by a head-bashing barber in Manali.

The duties that were waiting patiently when I got back were steadily sorted through, but in a daze. It was a hot early August and reality was not there to be dealt with but to be observed. In a rather casual manner. My ankle was really bad and my hip repaired slowly.

It took three months to write about the trip, despite the initial flurry of Facebook photos. And we remain friends, swapping bike stories and bad humour.

Returning soldiers have very few people to talk openly to. It's not as that people don't want to listen. it's not that they don't care, it's just that they weren't there. They cannot understand.

The memories bring back a flood of feelings. Not so much emotions but sensations.
Of the peace and the fear, the joy and the jumbled bundle of experiences of life on Himalayan roads. Big, big views, and holes and rocks and gravel bends. All with a biker's breeze brushing the cheeks. The chai and chat, superb food, beers and jossing. Tiredness and the satisfaction of a job done, each day.

3 Miles High is big. Big like one continent smashing into another, big like the Himalayas. Big like the sky at night filled with galaxies. Big like places you haven't seen.

There is no simple way to do joined up writing and fully describe the experience. It was a quest with no grail, where the journey is the destination.

I am not religious and only spiritual by mistake and this was a full on hard core adventure. It was probably the altitude, with its lack of oxygen and sabotaged roads, but there was an undercurrent of out-of-body experience. It doesn't all seem real.

It was mental, and physical, it was spiritual and blasphemous. It was fun and frightening, wondrous and wearying. Sometimes, looking back, I suffer Post Himalayan Reality Disorder.

I'd auctioned an old bottle of whisky which I was never going to drink and had cashed in a half-forgotten pension plan to ride some of the toughest roads in the world. 3 Miles High. Elation at elevation.

I may be too old to ever accomplish anything this big again. And if I'd tried it ten years ago it would be the same. But its there. A must. Something you never knew you had to do, till you've done it.

To do it on your own would be hard if not impossible. The sense of incredible achievement could easily be drowned by any mishap. The huge advantage of going with Nomadic Knights was not only the visible fun and knowledge shared and support team, including Doc, it was the stuff you don't see. The bike repairs, the bookings and passes, the routes tested, the paths smoothed. Just having such a friendly support team left the opportunity to see more and do more. 

No bike spares or repairs, no waiting for interviews with officials, no bargaining over rooms and food. No worries about medical attention. Just a team of people rightly proud of the land, the culture, the people and happy to share it all.

Like an adrenaline junkie, Adventure Biking, it won't go away. its a rat you have to feed.

Himalayas 15 - Coming Down

It's a daze, getting off the bikes for the last time.

I sort of remember the photos and the need for tea.
You can see from the postures just how tired everyone was.

I seem to remember a long struggle of getting bags sorted. Our room was in the old bit of the hotel, a long way from the bikes, but close to the tea.

We'd made it. A wearily, welcome shower, clean clothes and then wandering around for a while.
I donated my duct tape and reflective yellow waterproofs to Lovely who said his wife was a genius at sowing. If she could repair those she was doing very well.

I left Alex with the high visibility wind cheater top. It will be very interesting to see if there are any photos of him in it, but even if not, he will find it a good home.

I grabbed a welcome whisky in his room, which was as much a gathering spot as anything else. Martin had a massive bag and kindly offered to take back a helmet left by Nick Green, which had mysteriously found its way into the luggage of a mechanic who then left, on our first day. Alex runs a tight ship.

We had an evening of drinking and tired jollity, awards and memories and organising lifts for the next day.
Despite my best efforts on the adventure I was nominated for the Piss & Moan Club,. Cue gales of laughter...

I was going to miss them all

Andy, Keith and Martin were getting a taxi at half past nothing the next morning. For some reason I was the representative for Michael, Paul and I, making sure that our bags got in or on the taxi, to be taken to the Marriott in Chandigarh. Then us three could getup at a civilised hour and take the historic Shimla train down to the Indian plains. Much more appealing than an eight hour taxi ride. 

That was all to come, in the dead of night Paul and Alex were up and had everything organised, once the taxi driver had finally appeared from wherever he was sleeping.

I remember making a nuisance of myself, trying to organise how the taxi was packed. After the second gentle hint from Alex I stopped messing it up for everyone said goodbye to the leavers and went back to bed. Waking Michael in the process.

We had a sensible leisurely breakfast and hung out with Alex and Vidhya while waiting for our taxi to Shimla. We had big goodbyes and loaded ourselves into the team van.

The 'no nonsense' Pawanji was our driver and he set off into the mist and the rain. There was a worry about landslides, since we'd experienced them near Tethys twice so far.

Michael and Paul decided on taking back seats and got me to sit up front with Pawanji.

There followed an adrenaline filled few hours as he overtook on bends and accelerated through trouble, played chicken with oncoming lorries and elbowed his way down the mountain chain. He is a really good driver and understands the roads, the van and the culture. No wonder we never had to wait long for the van to catch up whenever the bikes stopped.

There was not a lot of time when we got to Shimla, the old summer capital of the British Raj. The station was improbably perched on the side of the mountain, in a space where you could fit a couple of tracks side by side and a turntable (remember them) for an ancient locomotive.

The van got stuck in the narrow approach to the station, which was a steep road and we squeezed out of the door abandoning  Pawanji to the interesting task of trying to extricate himself from the snarl-up traffic jam, without a turntable.

I think Alex had already organised tickets and we wandered around the station looking at the monkeys and arming ourselves with tea. When the train pulled out of the station it was not completely full so we could get some seats facing each other, rather than our allotted seats. There was going to be a small technical hitch in that this narrow gauge railway is fine for narrow gauge people, but we are big units, so getting two of us on one bench left one buttock dangling in the aisle. Still that tribulation would come later.

We took lots of photos. The train pulled into one tiny station after another improbably hacked into the mountain. And the train hugged the hillside, doubling back on itself and counted some of the hundred tunnels on the way.

One lady was sick out of the window and I think Paul got some splash back from that. He spent most of the rest of the journey hanging out of an open door with a big smile on his face. 
As the passengers shifted with the scenery we moved seats and belongings to cater for new arrivals. 

The train was full as we pulled in to Kalka, where the vivid semi jungle of the mountain gave way to more typical Indian railside life with rubbish dumps and grazing cows, blazing coloured washing and clusters of squatting onlookers. Poverty was highly visible in the people and the decayed buildings. People squatting with no doors or windows, but they had a roof and a great view of the railway, right outside.

We pulled into a what seemed a typical Indian station, clean but old, with as many strata of paint as a cross-channel ferry covering the rusty iron pillars. There were signs with strange wording, especially in English and open platforms teeming with people in the heat of the plains.

Outside we found the taxi broker, or boss, who allocated a taxi.We agreed a price and squashed into a rust bucket, low on fuel, untroubled by safety features, whose doors didn't seem to close.

Again I was volunteered for the front, where I managed to squash in with my hydration pack rucksack as air-bag and the joy of a front seat view of what was going to be an interesting ride. Coughing and juddering we made our way to Chandigarh where the taxi proceeded to get a bit lost. Michael and Paul spotted the hotel and found a way to get the taxi driver to drop us outside the gate.

The hustle and bustle of the converging roads outside was swiftly left behind as we were efficiently and courteously checked in.

After two weeks of smiley but fairly basic hotels we were now at the higher and more satisfying end of the hotel and food chain. 

As a bonus our bags were waiting for us and we were booked into luxurious rooms on the Executive Floor. Michael had wisely decided we needed a little luxury at the end of the trip.

My foot was swelling badly and I managed to get some ice, but not enough. The showers were glorious and it was easy to spend a long time in there, but I needed cold water on my ankle, not hot. We had arrived too late for a massage and would set off too early the next day. We talked about using the pool, though never got round to it. We got round to little but getting some grub but were too early for the main restaurant, though they had a 24 hour place which worked out well.

Of course the food was delicious with proper cold beer and wine and later ice cream. Back in the enormous room there was enough time to catch up on an icepack, emails and the Economist and fall into a deep sleep.

By the time I was up Paul had already gone.

Michael and I met for a huge breakfast, partially in the knowledge that the airline food would be bad but mainly because it was just so delicious. The restaurant manager and the chef came over to check how we enjoyed it. The fresh fruit, omelettes made to order and multitudes of multicultural dishes got our highest rating. It was very impressive and they were very happy to hear it.

We ended up with a hotel taxi to the airport and enjoyed the scrum like traffic on the way, narrowly missing a multitude of cyclists, motorists, mopeds, bipeds and grazing domesticated beasts.

Struggling through the airport we were whiling away the time when we came across a serene looking Alex and Vidyha. Of course we shattered that peace. That was fun, with the chance to swap opinions and stories. A Nomadic Knights offsite in Chandigarh airport.

The planes were what planes are. Michael tried to get me into Business for a beer, but they wouldn't serve cattle class hoi polloi, so we talked too loudly and kept the pilots-in-transit up. They were the only other occupants. The flat beds were good, though the electrics for the whole aircraft were turned off for the whole flight. There had been a fire somewhere the economy section but that had completely passed me by!

So I went back after a while and settled into my five seats which were almost enough to stretch out on and certainly enough to get some welcome sleep, or serial dozing. It was going to be a long drive back.
In Rome the valet parking answered after 20 minutes of increasingly frantic calling, which had me fearing insurance claims on a scam and hours of administration and getting back after a sleepless night. But the car arrived and we stayed awake somehow for the drive home, dropping Michael off and getting back before midnight. A three hour drive after some 10 hours in flight is never easy.

But home is home. And a mountain of work awaited.

x

Himalayas 14 - the last day of biking

Rain, just what you need.
The last day, a long way to go, narrow mountain roads, and just to ensure your full attention, rain.
So we dressed for the occasion and took photos. I was hoping my rain gear, conscientiously repaired by Michael with copious quantities of duct tape, would hold up. But anything was better than nothing.

Then a group photo in full gear.
And we were ready to go, leaving behind our simple hotel and setting off into the wet, steep slopes.
It was all very quiet and steady for the first part. The rain gave way to mist and this receded to just damp. But we pottered on through wooded countryside and more habitation and population than we'd seen for a while.
Alex and Paul had disappeared into the distance and the rest of us kept fairly close as a group, stopping every so often as we had no idea of the way and wanted to double check with Abhi who serenely rode up to guess along with us.
About an hour in Michael was leading the group and stopped at another dubious junction. As I pulled up to him my bike started sliding on the wet downhill slope. I did a rapid calculation of the options and rather than dropping the bike, an immediate stop option, the oncoming bus seemed to be slow enough to let me get to the other side of the road on the corner. So I fought my recalcitrant bike all the way to a standstill and took a deep breath.
Michael had enjoyed watching me sail past but thought I was in mortal danger from the bus and extremely lucky. I probably was, but dropping the bike had always been an option. Keith was impressed I'd held the bike up, which was a compliment. So I resolved to be a lot more careful in the wet, on the downhill and took up my normal position at the back.
This didn't last for very long. There were a few stretches where a little throttle left was the easier option in the increased traffic. Plus it meant I was keeping up a reasonable speed and not holding everyone up. It also meant I ended up at the front where I started having fun as the road dried and there was more tarmac.
Of course I felt in the zone and was smiling and greeting people all over the place. About half an hour after I wanted to stop for chai I was still sailing along, but thinking I should slow down when I came round a bend and serenely perched on a low wall was Paul.
I happily greeted him and decided to stop. Somehow this involved losing control of the bike and coming off, hard. I was furious with myself as I'd had four days with no spills and wanted to make it through the last day. It also hurt, a lot and I knew I'd damaged my right ankle again, which I'd done a couple of years before. The safety gear I had on was good, it was cracked and scratched but held up well. The post event analysis concluded that I just got off the bike before it stopped. It may have been pulling in the clutch, which is a good way to lose control, combined with too aggressive braking.
It is really good riding in a group as they rallied round, hauled the bike off me and helped me up.
Paul had stopped for a flat tyre and was quietly waiting when I sailed by with a cheery greeting and display of bad biking.
The support team arrived pretty quickly and Doc got another go at patching me up. Ashraf got to work immediately on getting the bike roadworthy. Doc had some magic spray and a good bandage which got wrapped tightly round the ankle. Vidhya was good at the psychological support, though his time there was no chai!
But I was not in a good state, so I happily gave Ashraf my helmet and gloves and the opportunity to ride the bike in his suit. Of course a mechanic needs a suit.
Vidhya told me off for being too 'bikery' about it all, which was absolutely correct, there was no point in trying to be macho with the support team. In fact there was no point in trying to be macho on the adventure at all, just being was so much simpler.
So we passed the time in the bus chatting and what started with a conversation about languages ended up with me teaching Vidhya awful phrases in foreign tongues. She may even remember that 'your sister' in Greek is 'adelfi sas'. I digress.

We reached the first chai stop, by which time the damp had returned. But the food was good and I was tired.
We hung around for a while. Alex wisely decided that I should stay in the support van for the next stage, which involved a crazy tunnel that went up and down and round, with no lights. He prepared Michael to make sure that I did not get shirty about that. I didn't. It was a very sensible and I was relieved to get the chance to get my head back on straight.
Besides the conversation in the van was fun and I got to know the team a lot better.
I knew my ankle was bad and took a couple of pain killers, which were more suppressors than killers, but a lot better than nothing.

The tunnel was more like something form Lord of the Rings with unfiltered fumes, but noone lost consciousness inside. After the tunnel we passed a big lake. The tunnel's escape route seemed to open right onto the lake and you could easily imagine a stream of vehicles escaping the tunnel only to plunge into the icy water. But there must have been another solution.
Doc and Vidhya told me of the large group of teenagers on a school trip that were swept away when they opened the sluice gates without

warning. That had been a big tragedy and must have been terrible for the parents and everyone involved.
A little way on we stopped again and I was ready to bike some more. The next stretch was going to be tough Alex said. Up a mountain track with loose rocks and rivers and mud and difficulty and danger. So it was time for me to start again.
Alex and Paul disappeared quite quickly again and we had the fun of the main following group keeping pretty close as we needed lots of collective decisions about the route. At one stage we got off the bikes to examine the mud for tyre tracks to see where Alex and Paul had gone.We seemed to be getting it right. Certainly we had the really hard biking bit. I had to keep the gear low and the revs up to have any control. The bike seemed to lose a lot of power as we got higher and there were quite a few occasions where I had my feet on the ground, helping to push the bike over one obstacle or another. It was hard work, but sort of satisfying. I came up one relatively straight stretch to find Michael helping Keith back up. He had come off on a steep, stone-strewn hairpin, which was going to be a bugger to do in one go.
I parked up at the edge comforted that someone else, and an experienced biker like Keith to boot, found it hard and eager for a rest. It was a very quiet spot with trees and streams and moss. A small group of people were waiting patiently just up the mountain, watching us in our body armour wrestling with Keith's bike that had no clutch lever any more.

Michael and I had a smoke. We realised that we could be on the wrong road, there was no phone signal and no one had arrived for ten minutes. So we decided he should set off up the mountain. Since we had been going for so long we expected a stop in about ten minutes time. I stayed with Keith. We chatted, he went for a wander down the road, which seemed a big use of energy to me, so I laid on a stone and tried to get a kip. Some time later Abhi rode up and said the van would be there soon. Knowing that I would be worse than useless if I stuck around I set off, hoping to get some chai in a few minutes, but happy I could go at my own pace.
About half an hour later it was getting tedious and hard work, I had negotiated lots of difficult stretches and a few junctions where I asked passers by which road I should take. There were another ten minutes of yaks and geese and people walking in the track before I reached a mist enshrouded shack with a burnt out bus and some Bullets outside, That was very, very welcome.
I needed a lot of food. there was no phone signal in the shack but at least we were out of the misty rain. After the calories took effect it was a lot easier to join in the conversation.
We were there for a while before Keith and Abhi rolled in, which was fine by me but Alex was a little edgy about time.
Apparently the advice was to go down quickly, but that did not register with me. The way down was really, really hard, for me anyway. Lots of feet down and revving to get through large rocks in a riverbed that used to be a road. No real chance to get any speed and difficult to balance. But that was as much a lack of confidence from the morning fall as anything.
As with most sports confidence is everything. So we battled and struggled down the mountain stream.
 There were slips and slides. Finally the patches of tarmac linked up and the scenery was awesome.
Then round a bend were the group, strangely stopped with no chai in sight. Alex's bike had a serious mechanical problem. So we hung around for the van. How that had got down the mountain was intriguing, but given the skill of the drivers, and Lovely is from this part of the Himalayas, they could get through almost anything, sometimes in second gear.
Alex's bike got repaired and he set off with Paul. Michael's bike lost all its electrics so we hung around a bit for that, though Keith, Martin and I set off before it was completely finished. There was a really hard river/landslide/rough rough patch where the road dipped into a gash in the mountain. I waited the far side for Michael to come through, which was a few minutes later. Then I pottered on and soon he was far ahead. I was going at my own pace, which was a lot slower than the others. Again it was Abhi and I and a long while later I stopped at a roadside shack, but they didn't have chai, just chemical waste being sold as carbonated drinks. Even I couldn't handle that so we carried on. I vowed to stop at the next place which we came to, which was in what seemed like only another half an hour. I was exhausted, a lot of it from the mental strain of trying not to fall off but at the same time trying to keep up some sort of speed.
Well I needed sustenance and it felt like at least a couple of hours since lunch.  Having got a bite to eat and a lot to drink the van caught up and they were all really hungry. They'd missed out on lunch at the top, so I happily stood them for it and pottered off again. They were in no hurry as they knew they'd see me soon enough.
About 15 minutes later there was a town, chock-a-block with traffic. Backed up and not moving. I just jostled and bustled forwards, being pretty aggressive, at 5 miles an hour.
Abhi caught up while I had the Bullet at 45 degrees trying to get past/under a lorry by tilting the bike to get under the back of it. We pushed through and somehow he overtook me in the jam. I swear he could go into a revolving door behind, on a bike, and come out in front.
After that we wound uphill, passing a queue of at least half a mile from the town, on a road that was single track for most of the way.
Soon enough in a semi-catatonic state we came across the boys who'd settled in for a while, having waited far too long in the last town.
At least there was a chance for more chai and a snack, which made me happy. They were all bored senseless by this time!
Alex said we would wait for the support team and I was ready to bet proper money that we would have to wait at least an hour. So about 15 minutes later they turned up.
It helps to have a doctor on board ready to flash his credentials. That and the local dialect had seen them through the logjam.
So we saddled up again ready for the last stretch to Tethys. I had parked up at the front of the row of bikes and there, a couple of yards in front, was a fresh, wet cowpat. Being a nice person I signalled the pat to Paul and made motions of revving the bike. He gave me a very stern look which was a clear message not to. Then the beggar whipped round in front of me and positioned his bike for the Hu Flung Dung competition. So I set off to go round him and the assembled group were shouting at me because the bike stand was down, which is dangerous. I did not care in the least, I was only getting ahead of the inevitable spattering. Once that exhibition was over we could all set off again.
My memory of the rest of the afternoon is misty. Partially because of the weather, partially from tiredness. Apparently the road was blocked by a landslide and they were trying to dynamite a way through. We had to take a major detour to get to the hotel. Apparently we passed the spot I had fallen off on the second day. Apparently I didn't fall again, or fall too far behind.
But it was a very weary set of bikers that reached the hotel. We had made it. And the one who was really happy was Alex!

Our sense of achievement would come later.

Himalayas 13 - A real rest day

Manali feels weird. There's an undercurrent of hippie traveller, or time traveller, since its a long time since we've seen anyone close to being a hippie. But whatever they are, there are lots of almost young people wandering semi-aimlessly up and down the road that passes the hotel. To describe this as the main road would be ambitious as it could just fit a car on it, if all the people were pushed into the storm drain at the side.
Multitudes of shops spill into the road, ready to harvest tourists. Bags and leather and t-shirts, bongs and restaurants and multitudes of Israelis.
We had arrived early afternoon so Michael and I asked about a massage and Alex kindly checked with the hotel. We had to hang around for a while as the team van drove off with Michael's bag.
But we gave up waiting and I found some clothes that sort of fit him so we could have a shower and a change. After a frustrating attempt at getting an internet signal and not getting Michael's bag we set off for our massage.
In a dimly lit basement just up from the hotel, they asked for a bit more than we were quoted at the hotel, but in European money it was very little, so we said nothing. Passing through what felt like someone's kitchen, we were shown into curtained cubicles and our young male masseurs set to work. Mine was wearing a wife beater (a tiny vest really) and stood a little closer to my prone almost naked body than was entirely comfortable. But he worked some insistently forceful magic kneading my tired and battered back muscles. The yoga music and dim lights made it feel like a 60's film, but luckily nothing weirder happened. We both tipped our masseurs as they were good.
A massage after a lot of bike battering brought floods of strange endomorphins into the bloodstream and I felt a bit stoned for the rest of the evening, not that eager for a beer, more a cup of tea. On the way back into the hotel I started chatting blindly away to some Israeli guests trying to understand why the whole area was full of them. It seemed that after compulsory military service, people wanted to get as far away as possible from deserts and hassle. This would be the place for that!
That evening we all met up at a restaurant very close to the hotel, officially called the Lazy Dog, nicknamed Blackie after a poor animal of Alex's acquaintance, but the story is for him to tell.
The view over the rushing river was really good, as was the food. We drank strange things like wine and Vidhya had a cocktail. Weird.
The menu was western and we indulged ourselves. Doc and Abhi arrived. Abhi had a curiously happy happy look, which led to suspicions of him meeting up again with the lady who had stayed with us in Kalpa. And the evening was a great chance to kick back and hang out as there was no riding the next day.
The place was filled with people happily smoking. Some of it was tobacco. So we relaxed in our own way!
A young guy started up some live music which was pretty good. It made conversation difficult so we spent time listening to that. The entertainment really started when a young woman got deeply into the music, or musician we weren't sure which. She was clapping at every opportunity and shouting encouragement. Her sense of rhythm did not match the singer's but her eagerness did. Short of taking off her clothes it was hard to see how much more involved she could get. People in the restaurant were nudging each other and tutting and having fun at her expense. After a while the singer told her she was ruining the enjoyment for everyone else and asked her to shut up or leave. She soon went to the loo and was not allowed back in again.
After that entertainment we went for a wander through the town. What we expected to find we had no idea, but the place was alive with lit up shops and lit up people.
Having failed to find anything inspiring after our trudge up the hill, except maybe somewhere we could probably visit for breakfast, we wandered back, only to see the enthusiastic young lady, unable to walk, being put on the back of a scooter by her escort, who was unable to lift her. It was a recipe for a disaster and we watched amazed as they set off into the night.
And we retired to bed. I don't even remember if we had any nightcaps, must have been the smoky atmosphere of the Lazy Dog but it is all a blur.

I was up with the dawn trying to get internet. The transmitter was in reception where the reception guy and the porter were sleeping on the floor. So I left them in peace and tried to get a signal sitting outside, which sort of worked, but looked strange, perched on a window sill humped over an iPhone.
There was no restaurant at the hotel so breakfast was a fend for yourself affair. When Michael was up we set off into town, meeting up with Paul and Andy as we left.

Alex was having something healthy at a place over the road from the hotel but we had spotted the English Coffee Shop the night before and were hoping for a cup of decent coffee and an English-ish breakfast.

The road is quite steep so by the time we had slogged the couple of hundred yards we were more than ready for coffee and toast. But coffee was the fine powdered stuff so I had tea. Most of the food was cakes and sweet things, which were absolutely fine. The boy who looked after us when we first got there had to go to school and was replaced by his slightly older brother.

Alex and Vidhya joined us a little later. I have no idea if we'd said this is where we were going, or they just heard us from the main road, or the Indian bush telegraph told them about a bunch of wayward English guys and they set off before we could cause any trouble.

Whichever way we could tell Vidhya about the millionaires shortbread (shortbread with caramel and chocolate topping). which put us in her good books.

Paul was always in her good books as he had brought her jelly beans from the UK, for Alex he'd brought a bottle of very good whisky. Michael and I had got no further than the whisky part.

We concocted a plan to go into the main part of town, the new part, to do important things. A phone top-up and some impulse shopping for Michael. I was on the lookout for underpants,  and completely unrelated to that Michael and I had some washing we wanted doing since we were running low on clean enough stuff.
So we set off, Andy was ready with his camera and Paul was probably thinking that if Michael and I were there then something strange and fun was likely to happen.
We had a definite plan to hire a tuc-tuc but decided to look at the shops near the hotel first. By the time we'd stopped and gazed and hummed and ha'ed we were out of the main part of the old town and decided to carry on walking and taking photos. At least it was all downhill.
We checked out shops selling pictures and scarves and knick-knacks and all sorts of stuff that was tempting but most of which would be absolutely useless to our lives back in reality.
There is definitely an Alpine feel to Manali, being high up and green.
Whether this house was built by a wandering Alpinist or was conjured up independently, who knows. But there it was between the old town and the new. Quietly nestling away amidst the hustle and bustle of rapidly growing India.

Deep down in the old town we quickly found a place that could do our washing by the afternoon,

We refused their kind offer of 'excellent quality Manali Cream' (dope) and set to work wandering the smaller alleys in search of the unexpected.
We found a phone shop and Michael and I impulsed odd items like a sports bag and a wicking shirt and I found more underpants. Then we went in search of some proper coffee. After asking a few random people we ended up in a respectable looking place on the main drag, where we met the guide from Vintage Rides, who invited us to the roof terrace where his guests were hanging out.
He pumped us for information and we pumped up Nomadic Knights as being mustard. It was interesting to see our adventure as a business, and a competitive one, but we were very happy with being Knights rather than Vintage.
The coffee was good reviver and we quickly found tuc-tucs to take us back, stopping on the way for Michael and Andy to get some Kasmiri scarves made from the best wool in the world. Paul quietly waited until the hullabaloo died down before impulsing elegant hand-embroidered cushion covers.
The tuc-tucs took us almost to the hotel but we were too big for their motors on the steep slope. So we stopped in the middle of the road, outside a fun looking restaurant.
That was too tempting, so in we went, which was an excellent decision. They did really good, fresh, mountain stream trout, even in the form of fish and chips. My grilled trout was excellent, as it should be, since it took about two beers to arrive! But we had the time and the beer so it didn't really matter.
You can see the type of place from the local advertising and the other diners!
After a siesta I wandered out looking for a possible second massage, but did not find anywhere appealing, though I did manage to get a couple of what felt like cool t-shirts for my boys and came across Andy with a snake on his head.
It all seemed perfectly normal!
Back at the hotel Alex refunded Michael and I the difference between what we'd been quoted for the massage and what we'd been charged. That was a very pleasant surprise. He is very conscious of the good name of places he recommends and will not tolerate dodgy dealing. It gives a really good sense of security.
I snuck off for a haircut. Although the idea was to finish as hairy bikers the opportunity was too good to miss. It was the best haircut of my life. The hair bit was fine but the barber asked if I wanted a neck massage afterwards. That was an immediate yes. The neck massage extended from slapping the top of my head to cracking my fingers. It was ridiculously good. Incredibly at the end the large bags under my eyes had gone as well. Miracle cure. For €5.
Nobody had plans for the evening so we ended up back in the restaurant where we'd had lunch.
That was a misty evening of good eating and jossing. The tables around us were happily lighting up non-tobacco products. A big table of Israelis were having fun, then they started providing the live music for the evening. It was all good, man.

Setting us up for the last day of biking tomorrow, dude.

Himalayas 12 - Bugger Bhaga, its time for Manali and the cream of the crop.

The next day was a late start since it was supposed to be an easy day. But I woke early as usual and realised we hadn't taken our altitude sickness pill the day before. A mild panic ensued as I dropped stuff on the floor trying to find it. I conscientiously left Michael's half of the pill by his bed, by which time he was very much awake. We could have slept for another hour or two, but here we were.

I couldnt stop laughing and giggling. He was trying to be angry, but failing because all the Anglo Saxon vernacular just made the giggles worse. He jumped on my bed, which luckily took the strain and then accepted that sharing with me had its disadvantages as well. So we read and he took the Micky, mumbling incoherent curses and odd moments.

We saw someone walking to the dining room at 6:30 and eagerly followed suit, looking for a cup of tea. While waiting we sat outside on the restaurant veranda facing the river, by a brook with cows just missing the low hanging electricity wires as they grazed away. It was a semi colonial experience, more for the peace and the quiet than anything else.

There was lots of breakfast as usual.

After breakfast, on the way back to get ready to ride we noticed the Vintage Ride bikes cleaned and set out in an orderly row, smart and well turned out, then we turned around and our Nomadic Knight steeds, our trusty Bullets were not only smart and lined up military style, they gleamed. The early sun sparkled off chrome we had not noticed before. The moving parts had a well-oiled shine. Used and battered, but these boys were well looked after.
At a guess Ashraf and Pawanji, and probably Lovely, had made sure the Knights had the best looking rides in the valley. Time for a smile.

........... and from here my notes on the trip run out.

It has been three months since we got back, which feels like a long, long time, but writing about the trip brings back so many of the feelings, and so many more good than bad that I write with a smile.

Not only did I not take notes it seems none of us took many pictures on the road for that day. Maybe it was similar riding conditions, but probably something more. I deliberately chose not to be a slave to writing notes. I wanted to enjoy the experience.
There is always that silly image of people at a mega concert with their phones and cameras recording the great experience, badly. So they miss out on the moment and fail to capture the whole event on their phone.
For some reason we could enjoy the day and the riding. The scenery remained stunning and the roads challenging, but the enjoyment was in the moment.
We were preparing for Rohtang Pass. The "bed, or pile, of corpses". That moniker came as a result of people trying to cross between the Spiti and the Kullu valleys in bad weather. It's a long way up and a long drop down.
Soon after we left Jispa we pulled up to a petrol station with a very long queue of cars and trucks and other assorted motor vehicles. Somehow we had faith Alex and the team would find a way to the front. There was a small challenge, the queue was there because there was no petrol at the petrol station. They were all waiting for a tanker delivery that was expected that morning.
We hung around while the team sorted out the options and while hanging Vidhya took one of the few photos of the day, but this remains a firm favourite

Alex admits to be mildly preoccupied with the idea of us having enough fuel to make it through the bed of corpses. Looks like the rest of us didn't know the options at this stage.
When we did we checked how much we had a promised to ride responsibly.

The way up from the Spiti side remained our standard mix of tarmac and gravel, river bed roads and landslide repairs. But it was more fun riding, especially with the big day under my belt.
The hillsides with short grass were speckled with lashing of rocks and reminded me at times of Scotland, but the people and the trucks and the shacks by the road did not let illusion carry very far. There were a couple of fairly mild water crossings that were fun and a lot more cars than we'd seen so far.
This was because the Rohtang Pass is a tourist destination. And in India, there is a rapidly increasing number of people who have the time and the money to visit places. That means the limited number of established tourist sites are getting filled with people. It is easy to imagine in a few years that the shacks will be restaurants, there will be many, many more buses, multitudes of cars and huge numbers of people enjoying the pass.
In my lifetime the population of the world has more than doubled, from 2.9 to 7.2 billion people. Beyond this, increased and more widespread wealth has far more than doubled the number of people visiting tourist sites.
I remember having a picnic on the stones at Stonehenge, I remember Harrods being a place of peace in a bustling city and of (allegedly) being able to drive at 120 mph on the M25. All of which seem far fetched fairy tales of a privileged few today.
So we were lucky to see the Rohtang Pass between the time the roads became relatively passable and them being filled with huge numbers of people.
And the pass is high. Its a long way up. 3,979 metres.
Close to the top and above the snowline I put on a fourth layer of clothing. Andy stopped as well but Michael sailed through and on into the mist. The mist got worse as we crossed over into the Kullu valley. So we did not get the apparently stunning views, just wet stuff seeping into exposed clothing, and snowmelt on the road which made us slow down.
On this side a glacier had reached the road only to find its extremities clipped like fingernails. And jumping into the snow in their rented ski clothing were parties of laughing tourists from the hot plains. On a bike you normally go slower downhill than uphill. It takes a lot longer to stop. Also on this side the wet roads made me very cautious, but there were stretches where the mud went and tarmac reappeared and I could get into third gear before another hairpin forced caution.
I was being harried by a car who I let overtake, but soon after there was a tailback as a queue of car negotiated a particularly treacherous muddy stretch. Abhi style I just puttered on up to the front, slipped into one of the ruts and pottered on through, feeling certain I would not see the frustrated young male in the car for a while.
Some 30 minutes after I really wanted a chai stop Andy and I came across the leaders sitting in a brief patch of sun, munching away. I was so hungry that - as the Australians say - I could eat the arse out of a low flying duck. So soup and chocolate and biscuits and anything else I could lay my grubby hands on disappeared faster than decent manners would allow.
It was a strange place with shacks that seemed temporary, made of wood and plastic, but filled with knick-knacks and snacks.

We ate and rested and let the adrenaline seep through the bloodstream. All around us lashings of tourists were hiring snow gear and milling around the shacks, while the road stayed wet and a bit muddy.
All this tourism felt strange.
We had to wait a long time as there had been a big problem with Keith's bike. The roads were taking their toll. However sturdy the bikes were they had to suffer a lot.

The ride down from there took us steadily into the valley, with trees and hairpins and sweeping curves and hairpins and fun riding. It was a joy and I was going a lot faster than a few days before. But somehow it felt different.
I didn't want to stop. The wooded hillsides were lovely and probably still are. The traffic was noticeable but not annoying, apart form another car that decided I should be hassled. I let him through, until he go stuck behind a lorry that I could easily overtake on a narrow stretch of straight road.
So we swooped and slowed and smoothly wound our way down to the outskirts of Manali where great gashes were being carved into the mountainsides, seemingly for new roads. Perhaps as part of a fabled tunnel under the Rohtang which will take a mere 4 hours off the journey for the military traffic.

But we gathered by the banks of the Kulli and rode together into Manali. It was raining and we took the narrow roads carefully.
Our hotel was in Old Manali and getting there was even more fun. The roads became filled with shops that were spilling onto the street, and storm drains and people and steep slopes. It was like a village in South India where people mill and bustle but on the side of a mountain.
They opened the hotel gates for us and we thankfully puttered in.
Manali, fabled hippy town of yore. Now back packers and itinerants were wandering around. Beige and green and long dresses and floppy hats.
And every restaurant seemed to specialise in some form of foreign cuisine, normally Israeli.
So we gathered for our chai while we waited ans watched our bags being lugged up the stairs for us. It is so good being able to kick back and not have to face heavy bags when tired after a days riding.
It was still early enough for us to get washed and changed and go for a wander into town. There was some plan about meeting at the Lazy Dog, which for some reason had been nicknamed Blackie, resulting in gales of laughter from the boys. But it was a story I had missed out on. Somehow it would resurface. A story that good cannot rest on a single telling.

Himalayas 11 - A big rest before another big day

So the longest day was successfully navigated. It felt good, no falls, lots of photos and that happy tiredness from honest toil.

Michael and I chose the closest room to where we were all sitting over a beer, which seemed smart as it involved very little energy to get there, but was a mistake on two counts. The first and most obvious was the smelly bathroom. And it was smelly even before we got there. But that was just mould and damp and fustiness. The creatures living under the sink seemed to enjoy it, however there was hot water and room to move around in the shower. So we could not only apply soap and shampoo to the bits we could reach, we could do so without the danger of bathroom fittings ending up in unwanted places. That can happen to us big fellas when we bend down to degunk between the toes.
Of course having completed the ablutions we find we've been locked in by our 'mates'. Though that was a minor inconvenience since the window opened onto the balcony.

Dressing for dinner was certainly not up to some Victorian, Downton Abbey image. Sandals and t-shirts being the order of the day. Dinner was served, no buffet stuff here, at a table we seemed to steadily steal from a civilised party. A couple of us sat down and then by some osmotic process the group steadily arrived, grabbed nearby tables and chairs and the group congregated, or congealed more likely. Well the other party had to spread over different tables. But the food was very good and very welcome.

After dinner I checked with Doc whether I could take sleeping tablets with all the other stuff and the altitude. He gave the OK. At the same time he checked the rash. I'd got bitten by some insect in Delhi and there was an auto immune overreaction. So what started as some small bites progressed into a dinner plate sized red patch that itched like crazy. I didn't scratch it, but it was impossible not to rub the affected area every so often, which of course made it worse.

Luckily my travelling biker drug kit included Hydrocortisone, which seemed to be the best treatment. Maybe the insect reaction was building on something else as I had a huge reaction to a sting just before leaving for India. That could have been a wasp sting, but it ended up as a big red patch on my forearm, about the size of a mug.

But it was another stay at altitude, we were still above 3,000 metres, so the whisky was barely touched and we dropped into a heavy sleep pretty quickly. Well I did, Michael started reading and jammed in his gel earplugs to give himself half a chance of peace.
Given Docs treatment and knowing that I could take a sleeping tablet if I needed too meant I slept better, so there was no need. Must be Docs placebo. Just the belief that it can do good means it does good.
One challenge with the tablet is that they knock you out for about four hours. Since I normally have to get up at six means the decision to take one should be made before 2 am. So if I wake at 3 fighting the monsters of the night, it is normally a bad night.
But this was not one of those and the next day started fresh, and early. Too early for breakfast but I managed to scrounge some tea before the buffet was set up.

From Keylong the day was due to be a relatively simple jaunt of some 130 km via the highest pass in this part of the Himalayas. A mere 4,950 metres. Some 16,500 feet, over 3 miles high. Where jets fly in some parts of the world, but not here.
The saddling up procedure was slightly complicated by eight bikes being jammed into a two car garage. But we started them up and inhaled the fumes. Got some fresh air while they warmed up, then went back to saddle up.
And an orderly procession made its way out of the small hotel parking lot and through the town.
The start of the ride was mostly tarmac, with the occasional repaired stretch of shaley, rocky, wet stuff to keep us on our toes. There were also more lorries and a lot of these were petrol tankers. A constant convoy still taking fuel up to the forward army bases closer to the Chinese border. These guys had a job to do and they were not forgiving on the roads. The roads were far closer to the aggressive bustle of South India than the peaceful 'live and let live' of the Himalayas.  But somewhere half an hour past my chai time we stopped. And there is the mountain steadily making its way towards the sea.

Sometimes in leaps and bounds, sometimes as a trickle.

A while later Alex and Paul had disappeared into the distance as proper bikers do and for some reason I was at the front of the middle group trying to keep up the pace.

A lorry was grinding its way uphill and would not slow down for us to overtake so I followed Abis advice and pushed as soon as I saw a space. The bikes were not so responsive at high altitude but there was enough room, just. I made it past the churning lorry with a couple of metres to spare but hit some bigger rocks in the road quite hard. Luckily I stayed on but the bike took a knock. We could relax a bit after that and I pottered at a gentle pace till the others found a way past the grumpy monster.
I was happily enjoying waving at other bikers coming the other way, downhill. One of them made a wavy sign so I guessed that meant there was a water crossing ahead. And a couple of km further on, so there was.

It was on a bend, definitely over a foot deep and an oncoming car was stuck in the main part. To our left, hugging the rockface and under an overhang, was a narrow path but a bike was coming slowly down this. Following Abhis advice I pushed on, going right of the car. The road was the river and occasionally that was sliding off into a waterfall on the right.

This was the deepest we'd been and the stones bounced around under the bike. I stayed where the compacted stuff should be and pushed on through. But as I got to the car the woman passenger opened the door. So I had to stop. I was furious but was not going to let that stop me. I revved the engine and she awoke from her self-centred daydream and closed the car door. It took a fair amount of revving and rocking the bike to and fro to get going again. But going again we did and got through to applause from Alex and the film crew of Vidyha and Paul.
That was incredibly satisfying feeling. Paul was filming and loved it. 'Rode it like a boss' he said. I'm still beaming at the compliment!
The others had the option of the high dry road as the oncoming bike had cleared the way. Everyone got through, which was a big achievement, and we all got congratulated by Alex before we moved off. Well they all did, my bike didn't start. The glory was soon forgotten. Abhi eventually did the bike whisperer on it, so off we chugged a couple of minutes behind the others.

The next couple of water crossings seemed a breeze, but were still to the top of my biker boots. Michael went first and filmed me on one, so I had to show off and put the boots out to make them look like water skis, getting very wet boots in the process. But they, and me, and the bike were wet already.
Then we cranked and sped and grinded our way up to the highest pass.
Above 4000 metres I got a bit light headed and was very aware of the possibility of altitude sickness. So I let a couple of people through and slowed down, then eventually stopped and put on another layer of clothing, a windbreaker, ate some biscuits, took a painkiller, drank the rehydration salts mix from the backpack and set off again.

I know I was getting slower towards the top because I was losing focus. It was like driving at 2 am, even without drinking, you're not completely there. On a bike in India that can easily be fatal. But with Abhi close by we made it, 4950 metres. Three miles high.

I sank forward with tiredness, then leant back for some deep breaths before getting off the bike to take the obligatory photo.

Then it was time to make another prima donna spectacle by draining the boots, wringing out the socks and drying my feet on my ever-present, bright yellow, miracle material, traveller towel.

Putting the damp socks back on was not as terrible as it could be and it was certainly better than sitting around in sloshy boots.

I planted some prayer flags that we'd got at the previous chai stop. Not too high up the hill as I didn't have the energy, but they would flap their blessings to world for a while.

And we celebrated with photos:

We snacked and drank and turned around for the return journey. Well most of us did. Later we found that Andy had waited while his bike was repaired and concentrated so much on that he didn't notice we had turned around. So he set off the way he was facing. Abhi caught him up quite quickly and signalled. But Andy misinterpreted Abhi's twirling of the hand above the head, not as a signal to turn around, but as a 'whoopee ride'em cowboy' gesture and sped up, ready for his Dr. Strangelove moment. Once Abhi finally got that sorted with lots of horn tooting and alternative hand signals, they both turned around and we saw them some time later.

The ride back down seemed a lot easier over the rough bits, a lot easier on the tarmac and blissful as we re-encountered oxygen flavoured air.

The water crossings even seemed easier, but we were not fighting gravity as well as boulders and there was no crowd.

There were still wet boots though. Michael hung back and we took it easy, cruising at the back. It was really good being able to share the experience. And the views.

Back down to a mere 3,200 metres, or 10,500 feet we stayed at Jispa, on the banks of the Bhaga river.
We set out wet stuff, like boots, to dry in the sun as we lounged around in plastic chairs around the remains of a campfire. Alex made sure we were staying in the older block which was close to the restaurant.
And after a chai and a lounge we wandered up a steel staircase to our rooms, with a fine view over the site, the river and the valley from the connecting balcony and had a beer.

Some time later another group of bikers came in. Also on Bullets. They did the same lounging around thing in the late afternoon sun, on the same chairs we had just vacated. And from the sounds that drifted up our balcony they were French. Regular melting pot up here in the Himalayas.
We were not certain whether to be friendly or pull the biker gang image and muscle up, but they had ladies in their group, which made us a bit jealous and a bit interested and a it bawdy, as expected.
It turned out they were with a company called Vintage Rides based in Manali. I got to practise my French with their guide, who had a big moustache to go with the brown second world war paintwork of their Bullets.

Andy, Martin and I went for a stroll, which felt like far more of an adventure than it probably was. Daring to go beyond the campsite, climb a wall and find a path through the marshy pastures by the river.
We came across some seemingly wild dogs and stoned cows and got to the wide, flat river to skim stones, take photos and look for a heart shaped stone that Andy could take back to his wife.

It was fun being off the beaten path. Wandering around looking at different stuff.

We got back to a good buffet supper and beers on the veranda three floors up.
Watching the rival bikers and planning for Manali, the hippy town, our next stop.
And quietly behind the scenes a little competition was going on...

Himalayas 10 - The big day

The big day.

Last time it took them 17 hours. Landslides and river crossings and deep river crossings, mud and rain, sun and storms, it all awaited us.

As did our bikes, maintained and cleaned and reset. And on parade, military fashion.

So we set off at 7 am, with a packed breakfast of boiled eggs and bananas. I tried to eat a lot, but boiled eggs and bananas are hard to shovel down. I was not expecting to make it on a bike to the end of the day. We had a long way to go and it would be tiring. Still the hydration pack was filled with 3 litres of water and hydration salts, those yummy minerals and vitamins and stuff that had kept altitude sickness at bay. We were some 3,650 metres up, that's 2 1/4 miles up in old money.
It was a simple enough start with tarmac roads for the first 30 km. Then we started up into the high country.

And the tough bit came. Pitted roads with landslide repairs.

Ruts and bumps, loose stone and gravel. But the scenery was somewhere between a western and a moonscape.
No houses, no grazing herds, an almost barren landscape with scraggly bits of green and the ever present rocks, patiently waiting for the winter snow. The snow would freeze water in small cracks, making them bigger and the rocks would move a mini millimetre. And continue their steady stately progression down the mountainside.

For the moment they were mostly resting under a summer sky.

Michael buddied up for the day, which was a massive boost to my confidence, and Abhi kept us moving, steady onward. 

Patiently stopping when we did to take a stream of photos.

And remarkably we sometimes found other riders who had stopped to load up on memories.

Like Andy.

 And Paul.

Then onwards and upwards, climbing that stairway.

And we came across everyone, but only because Alex had a flat tyre.
This was a chance for the team van to catch up.
We would have to wait for Ashraf the mechanic to work his magic. How he would repair the tyre in this remote spot, with no habitation in sight and any tyre repair shop some days closer to sea level. So we took a rest in a quiet, sunny, upland spot and enjoyed a spot of sunshine.

 It seemed strangely like an Alpine meadow, minus most of the green, but there was enough grass for a few hardy cows.

So we chilled with a smoke and a chat and a bit of ribbing for Alex about his riding style. Being too aggressive for the terrain, Alex? Too much breakfast Alex? No 'pot/kettle' syndrome from us of course.

Asfraf arrived, Lovely and Doc went for a quick sunbathe, out of the van, into the fresh air. Ashraf changed the wheel and put the flat in the back of the van so he could repair it while they drove along.
So up we mounted and off we set.

I was ready for a chai stop every thirty minutes, but in the end made it to the main stop with the group.

And after that quick elevenses break we started with the water crossings.
They proved a surmountable challenge because for some reason I had faith in the bike and enough faith in my sense of balance. Just following Alex's simple instructions - put it in first and just putter on through. When instructions are that simple even I can follow them, sometimes.

Michael had started the day with a pepped up positive attitude. So there was lots of friendly encouragement for all. That was a big help.

He also knew how much I dreaded the day and that I felt it was highly likely I would not finish it.

But we pottered on and went from one collection point and chai stop to another and had a rallying stop at a pilgrimage site between Kaza and Keylong.

I managed to putter in, last again, not full of energy, but pottering along, trying not to hold everyone up too much. And joined the others who were wandering around enjoying the views.

Kunzum La.
Another stunning place.
You can understand why it was a pilgrimage site.

Much like lay lines in the UK, there are places here where the force is strong.
And this was one. It was not at the top of a mountain, but it had a good feeling.

There was still snow, the prayer flags fluttered, ever beating hummingbird wings. And our contribution was..... selfies.

From there we descended and had a big lunch of noodle soup in a roadside shack which had a tarpaulin roof flapping in the ever present prayer laden wind.

Michael wants to franchise the business. The Himalayan Bikers Cafe.

There's basic seating that doubles as bedding for travellers trapped at night.
I reminded me of a terrible night from the army days, in a shepherds refuge in the Brecon Beacons where we tried to seal the drystone walls with plastic sheeting, and failed. When its snowing inside you know its going to be cold. I wouldn't fancy a night up here in the snow, but a lot better inside than out.

Here, today in the Himalayas, the sun shone outside. We felt like warriors, Nomadic Knights on a mission and it was tough.

Well for me anyway. The others seemed to be having a great time.
Somehow the tarpaulin filtered the sunlight into a dim battle line yellow and with our bikers gear we looked a lot more like troops than we should.

And as we paused in the quest we relished the fire, the dimmed light and hot noodle soup. All topped off with lashings of Dairy Milk. Andy generously treated us all to lunch and life felt good.

We seemed to be making good time. Alex was quietly anxious after the exhausting experience of a couple of weeks before. If those had been the conditions then doubtless Ashraf would be riding my bike in. But so far so good and after lunch we loaded up and set off again.

Part of the joy of the day was stopping simply because we could. For some reason Michael and I were not completely at the back and were admiring the strange localised biosystems. 

When we saw a pool it was unusual, especially since lots of animal tracks led down to it. So we stopped, because we could, and enjoyed a smoke on a rock. Which is the real explanation for this basking merman photo!

Then we took photos of the views up the valley and off we set again.  

The longest day was drawing on and it was time for the hard part. More aggressive roads with death on the left.

More water crossings.

Somewhere in the early afternoon we came across a tailback of traffic. Learning from Abhi that you keep pushing forward, we jostled our way to the front and went for it.

Micheal had his GoPro GoProing. So somewhere a video of this may surface.
A couple of guys were standing hauling people and machines out of the water. We waded in, Michael was in front and we were both on the downhill side, left hand rut. These guys suggested we try the right hand track.

Well, dear reader, in a water crossing the trucks and buses have compacted the landslide stones into ruts. Changing ruts means crossing the loose stuff, which is under a foot of water so is hard to see.
As we now know from our experience of the day before, the rocks and stones would slide away. So Michael was left with no secure base, he couldn't hold his bike up and gracefully toppled sideways. We await the film documentary evidence.

But the 'helpful' guys, laughing away, helped lift his bike. Michael was laughing and gave a victory hands in the air 'Y' (as in M.C.A.), got back on and cheerfully finished the crossing.
I had started changing tracks when the guys made the suggestion, but luckily remembered the words of the great Paul Smith "wunce yu maike yu choice yu hafta stick wi'it".

So I wrenched my badly balanced and recalcitrant bike back onto the left hand track and made it through.

And from there we tiredly descended to the valley. The check point to exit this restricted area was guarded by a piece of string hauled up and down by an unseen hand in a wooden pillbox. We pushed our way, Abhi style, to the front of the queue and Alex arranged the string to be lowered for us.
So we parked up while waiting for the team in the van and the relevant papers.

That is one thing on the trip we have not had to worry about, but which must take organisation, negotiating skills and presumably additional fees. We did not have to produce our passports or queue in front of a harried official at any stage. Nomadic Knights we may be, but not valiant without our organisers.

Gathered at this rope barrier were groups of tourists, Austrians, Delhi bikers, Israelis begging spare fuel. The wealthier end of the flotsam and jetsam of international travel were all there, passing the time. Talking to strangers, trying not to talk to strangers or, as we did, sitting down for a chai.

After the paperwork, or peoplework, had been completed we were ready to set off again. Alex said the road was mainly tarmacked but beware of culverts and people ambling into the street. He set off and, as usual, Paul followed immediately.

I abandoned my buddy Michael and set off after them, doing quite well keeping within a few minutes of their streaking pace. Expecting Michael to catch up at any moment.
This was for me glorious riding. Smooth roads, but remaining ready at any moment for danger and difficulty. So I had to bike the road I could see, which meant slowing down with any rise where the road ahead was not visible since a culvert or sandy rocky patch would be lying in wait for the unwary.

Ever aware.

I was racing along and the others did not overtake. It was great fun for me. Of course a few kilometres from our destination I was tired and hoping the race would end. No such luck.

Eventually Alex and Paul were waiting at a petrol station. Everyone arrived within a minute or so and we refuelled.

This fun fuelling process involves lining the bikes up and filling one after the other, keeping the tab open so there is only one bulk payment for the whole group.

After the thrills of the early part of the stage, followed by the fear of going too fast, I kept to the back, not needing any more adrenaline in the system.

So we arrived. Into Keylong, and followed our leader slowly down a side street into a small parking lot.

And celebrated. The longest day. No spills. Finished by late afternoon. Safely.
I was too tired to appreciate that we had done the longest day. And not even in the longest time.
We done good. We drunk beer.