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.
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.
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