Himalayas 6 - The last village before the border.

Its hard to call it China. That covers too much, like the USA, or Europe.
But this border is still 80 km from the village at the end of the road. All in good time best beloved.

Our tented camp in Sangla was perfect for our needs. Good food, stunning location, peace and quiet, beds and washing facilities. 
Michael and I were very conscientious about taking our Diamox, anti-altitude sickness pills. We split a pill each morning and evening. Michael mixed his morning half with a cocktail of vitamins and minerals and pro-biotics. He's a health conscious kinda guy. 
Mine would have tea when available.
Continuing my slapdash approach to life I'd generally turn up to check the Enfield I was riding (it wasn't mine, you know, I was just allowed to ride it!) was there. Put my tank bag on and helmet somewhere, then hang around jossing.
I think Michael learnt from Paul all about stuff that was and wasn't important, which is probably why he is so much better at riding than I am. If you're going to learn this is a great setting.

The day was long enough at 95 km, because the roads were mostly repaired landslides. This is my first experience of endurance biking and it was a slog.

It started well with a trip up the valley on fairly tarmaced roads, with the inevitable holes, sand, gravel, cows and incoming traffic to keep you on your pegs.


But with the sun shining the scenery was glorious. We joked about all the effort to get out here and this was so similar to the Alps, almost on our doorstep!

At the end of the road I eventually caught up with the group, who had been waiting patiently (again!). 

We stopped for chai at the last village before China, a mere 80 kms away. Seriously there were no roads for the 80 kms to the border!

Exactly what you would expect, a bunch of middle aged Brits, armed with an experienced guide and full support, coming across some heavily laden touring bikes with Israelis who had taken time off after their military service to see a bit of the world. A mildly different 'gap yah' to UK students filling time before Uni starts.

The village was tiny, but it was there and the chai was good.
The lady that ran the chai stop (with basic beds for bikers who've reached the end of the road) was charming. Alex suggested a contribution to help her as she has a child with cerebral palsy. Michael started the whip and it closed immediately, he was so generous.

On the way up it had been a little fun with the occasional small stream in the road, for which I was well prepared and puttered through in first gear at walking pace, feeling very proud of myself.

On the way back the pace picked up. Being the least experienced biker I am often at the very back holding up Abhi who is there to sweep up the laggards. Well that’s been me.

The way back was also mainly downhill. I much prefer uphill.

But we got to Sangla and although it was too early for lunch it was still momo time!

Despite rolling into town last, as usual, I knew exactly what was needed and with Andy headed straight for the shops below our privileged balcony view. We only had to ask one person in halting hand signal English and there we were, below street level in a shabbily constructed concrete shop below the level of the road in a well laid out shop purchasing our

own Kennaur Topis.

Elegant, well made, fun and half the price of a plastic baseball cap at the local market.

Michael immediately went out to join our suave and debonnaire set!  

However none of us could match Keith who fitted in like a native!

But note the labour flexibility from the shop behind which covers electronics and lamination, obviously.

The constant gear changing and grinding and bumping and sliding and fear of certain death if you go off the road, had me on edge. And the scenery although solid and spectacular with massive cliffs ahead above and below, it was almost all rock. Or stone. Or sand. There were no plants.

The advice from Abi has been to relax. But with death to the left and danger to the right the whole relaxation thing has passed me by. 

But every day it has got better.

So we stopped for a while and notched the adrenaline down. Then climbed and climbed and that was fun. 

Feeling good we reached Reckong Peo and the main Kennaur district police headquarters. The groupie photo was with the phone and not good enough quality

to see the sign clearly enough. So the instant Facebook post about "Celebrating our release" fell flat! 

We were here to collect our special permits for the Spiti valley. 

That was a lengthy and presumably for Alex a touchy procedure filled with uncertainty. You can never be certain how much hassle you'll encounter with bureaucracy, even in India! But with Vidhya there to bring the best out in people in several languages the chances are high.

We filled in confusing forms and waited. Then Alex led us to what seemed like a converted cattle pen with ersatz benches made from piles of bricks topped with reinforced concrete. We knew this because artfully some of the reinforcing bars were exposed at intervals presumably in an artistic manner. Brutal art.

Well we were called one by one for our photo. I was last so it was obviously in reverse order of beauty.

Whatever the Nomadic Knights team had done it had smoothed the path of officialdom and we were out pretty quickly.

Since hotels do not serve alcohol, we were in a town and the support team van had space, there was a whip round for booze, which most gave to. Andy and Martin went in search of whisky and I tagged along with the whip for beer. We clambered up steps past bemused schoolkids hanging out on benches to the main street. That had a riot of shops on both sides but nothing resembling a booze shop. We tried asking and got various directions. Some way up, back from the road and unsignposted was an iron sided shop that had a tiny window with prison bars. A hole in the wall, obviously what we were looking for.

They only had Kingfisher, which seems to have too many chemicals in to avoid a hangover, but Andy and Martin got some local whisky, which is very drinkable and we turned back for the bikes. 

Lovely was there with the van and orders to hurry up, so we left him with the money for the beer and precise directions on where we had failed so far to forage for the troops' stable dietary requirements.

Back on the bikes we were soon weaving up the mountains. As we bumped and burbled along the roads got narrower. Suddenly there was a sharp bend in a cliff face with serious injury to the left and solid rock to the right. Its seemed to be always like that, stunning scenery that you can only admire if you stop as the road ahead will smack you in the face with danger.

We descended to the edge of the violent Sutlej river, past hydro electric power stations and along shale and slate covered roads. All of these seemed ready to slide the wheels out from under you. There were long sections of firmer sand studded by rocks that stuck up enough to be tank trap, ready to smash the underside of the bike.

Even more cleverly these rocks are carefully camouflaged to be the same colour as the sand. So in the middle of the day they are even better concealed as the sun is high and there is no tell-tale shadow.

I had to take it slowly, not wishing to rip out the underside of the bike and worried about falling off.

Most of the others seemed to be revelling in this but I hacked my way through this plantless, unforgiving route buzzed by the occasional truck and army vehicle, but luckily very few buses.

Then we climbed, up into pine woods and greenery and for brief stretches you could open the throttle and change up a gear. 

These breaks sometimes lasted for a couple of hundred metres. Take it while you can get it. Then you change down again, for a sharp bend or bad road. In my semi-paranoid state I biking for the road I could see, which was sometimes only a few yards ahead. Knowing that over every rise, round every bend was a pothole waiting for me, with a sleeping cow and an oncoming bus. 

We wended our way up to the wonderful Kinner Villa. Well it was wonderful once I finally got my bike up there.

I keep miscalculating the gear I am in, being in second rather than first. 

On our trip in south India last October, Alex had given me a lesson on the marvels of the Royal Enfield Bullet. I had spent days revving it too high in the belief the machine needed it and it gave me slightly more than zero control. So one hot morning on the edge of the Arabian Sea he put me on the back and was quickly in third gear with no revs and we pottered along quite happily. That was an eye opener. The Bullet will just keep going.

So up here I was changing up as quickly as I could and ended up one gear higher than I thought I was in. There is of course no indicator and the old bikes cannot be relied on to change gear when you press down on the pedal. 

There is not always a solid click to tell you if your gentle press or your raging stomp has worked.

So of course on the steep slope I stalled and had to reverse back to a more level part to finally find Neutral start the process again. In first the slope was easy enough.

One of the fun quirks of the bike is that when you start off you are in Neutral with a nice green light telling you that.

So you press down and the light goes out, slowly release the clutch and slip into neutral. Magic.

On bumpy bits it felt like the bike was also putting itself into neutral. Confidently I explained this to Alex, who patiently explained that was my badly positioned boot was accidentally knocking the gear change pedal. He pretended he did this all the time, to spare my crestfallen feelings about being a novice, yet again.

Paul solved the boot issue by showing me how to put the boot as far forward as possible.

Unintentional neutral still happens occasionally but not nearly so often, which makes the riding a lot more fun.

Kinner Villa is in a magical location at some 3150 metres above a very distant sea level. But there are lots of fruit trees and greenery. And a spectacular view of Shivaling.

We were lucky to arrive when it was about to rain. Because it seems up there it is either raining or about to rain. We got some chai and blustered and clomped around in our biker gear.

The view across the valley was very good but upstream clouds were covering some of the larger mountains. 

Still in the distance there seemed some fun rock formations. In this picture the downslope to the right of the big tree. One was like a hanging rock. So I eagerly used this as an excuse to get out the binoculars. There was a strange rock on a lower peak. In Europe you would assume it was a cross labouriously and arrogantly erected on the orders of a pious overlord.

Luckily Michael has a very powerful camera.

It turns out this is the Shivaling.

It is on Kailash, which is in Tibet. Source of the Indus and Ganges rivers (and they're really, really big). its holy in four religions.
In Hinduism it is the home of Lord Shiva, the destroyer of ignorance and illusion. From where we were it was a tiny, barely visible, upright column. It is apparently 60 metres high and is named after Shiva's willy. He must be a big boy.

Well we had a shower, half a Diamox and the beers opened up. We sat around with Alex's choice of music hitting the mood perfectly. Inspirational female vocals.
Alex and Vidyha were talking to a brahmin who was staying at the Villa. I wanted to see what wonderful music Alex had chosen. Well the iPod was sitting in some speakers and I got the instructions wrong about which button to press so the music just got louder. All my manic efforts just made it worse.

Alex had to run over and rescue the situation, ruining his conversation. Typical children never give the grown-ups a moments peace!

Supper was, as usual delicious, and I ate for England. 
Afterwards in that easy going way we sat around a bonfire on the roof terrace finding stars and solving the worlds main issues.
Apparently these aren't what people think they are, but are far more personal. Well it seemed so at the time and they were for us anyway.
I have no idea if the perfume of unsmoked wild cannabis had pervaded the air, or it was because we were over 3000 metres (which is almost 2 miles) but we were high!

It was a good night, but Michael and I snuck off and were in bed by 10:30. The days are tiring and there is less oxygen up here.

Rest and sleep are even more tempting than bonhomie by the bonfire, plus we have separate beds and magic gel earplugs. On top of the world.

Himalayas 5 - Riding intense, resting in tents

A single room in Sarahan was a good idea of Michael's. It was a rough night.
The paracetamol was interspersed with ibuprofen, and I ended up taking more painkillers in a night than I've taken in a year (3). 
I was restless and missing a chunk of hip flesh meant I couldn’t sleep on my side, which is my preference. 
In the morning my bum didn't look smaller in the biker jeans, but bikers don’t need that and my bum’s perfect anyway. At least that’s what they say after cadging another favour, ‘perfect bum’.

We had another good breakfast, our shiny wooden dining room with a wonderful view to the mystic mountain range was a great setting for overdosing on marsala omelette.

At Alex’s morning briefing as we were kitted up, but ex-helmets, and standing near the bikes there was the occasional ting as stone hit metal. We thought it was bits falling off the building works on either side of our tiny front garden where the bikes were parked. So we looked nervously at the open cement skeletons of future buildings, with piles of builders’ rubble, washing hanging out to dry and iron bars that sprang from set concrete like the alien birth of an egg whisk.

Then I got a bang on the back of the head, so we understood it was kids chucking stones over the wall.

We were about to go so some shouting at our unseen assailant stopped it for long enough to leave with no further damage.

I guess we were lucky to not be struck in the face, but you only think about that in retrospect, there was biking to be done.

It was a long ride. In my memory it seems as if the repaired landslides were interspersed occasionally with tarmac sections. But there were some lovely sections through pine woods.

The road conditions vary so much. The challenge is that every time you change up a gear the road turns into repaired landslide with sand or stones, or a sharp bend with sand sprinkled over the tarmac, like oil on the road.

The roads are cut ever sharper into the mountains so the drops to the ever present rivers are steep and deep.

That’s fine if they are on the right, since we are driving on the left. There’s half a road to play with.

On the left they are scary, especially with a downhill right hand bend with the road made of loose rutted sand or sand on tarmac.

The Sutlej is a big and fast river and if you go in you won’t come out alive.

I was tired by the middle of the afternoon and ready for a chai break half an hour before we got one.

We stopped at a bridge where the team could not follow in their traveller van. So of course on the first sandy bit I was at the front. The deep sand was rutted with tyre tracks. Thinking I was going to be clever the left hand track looked better than the one we were in. Being inexperienced and stupid I tried to change tracks and fell over, again.

This time the sand was soft and the only damage was a bent gear changer.

Two spills in two days, this was not boding well. So the pack kindly helped me and the bike back up. Alex turned back to collect them all up and I waited for the van that came over the bridge and through the bit that block any passage for cars and vans.

Ashraf repaired the damage with a hollow steel tube by bending all my unintentional artwork back into place.

I followed the route the van had to take over on the other side of the river, which was passable to trucks and a motorbike ridden by me!

We started into the spectacular scenery. Occasionally looking up from the intense concentration of watching out for impending treachery in the ever changing road conditions the scenery was staggering. All around were great big mountains, rugged rock faces slashed by waterfalls and violent valleys, more like crevasses in the rocks, with surging water at the bottom.

Getting to Sangla in mid-afternoon we were introduced to momos. They look like a dim sum until they're fried when they turn into minipackets of yum. Around half a dozen seem to be ample so we did double or treble that. 

By the time I turned up several plates had already been ordered, cooked and served. Alex and Michael seemed to be competing for the first to hit 20. Which was very understandable, they are momo moreish.

While people watching from our privileged balcony table overlooking the main street we noticed most of the local people were wearing a particular hat. Grey or brown box hats with a green half headband. The Kennaur topi. But more about that tomorrow.

The night’s camp was down a difficult path with ruts and mud and hairpin bends. After a hard ride for me, with integrated spill, I was not looking forward to this. But I made it without falling or even needing to put my feet down for balance.

The campsite was welcoming and smiley and still full of warm afternoon sunshine. They greeted us with a traditional white scarf and very refreshing drink.

The tents were big and lined with cloth to make them look more luxurious.

Michael and I opened all the flaps on the tent to increase ventilation for obvious reasons. With our new scarves, we kicked off the boots and sat back for a smoke.

A wise move.

At the back of the tents was a separate room with the loo and an Asian wash bucket. A quick washdown and change into civilian gear got us ready for an early evening trip stroll to the river for a quiet beer.

That is a complete lie. The stroll was a schlep down a cliff, with no path and through whippy, clingy, undergrowth. Time to keep a distance from the person in front. 

The river was a raging, violent, angry, unforgiving torrent.

So we carefully opened our beers that were shaken by the descent.

And we chilled to warm beer.

Of course the yomp back up the cliff was not easy, especially after a beer. But we made it with only one major stop to catch our breath.

You could definitely feel the high altitude we were acclimatising at over 2000 metres. Over a mile high. 

Supper was accompanied by my contribution of a ‘Jura whisky with a touch of berries’. So luckily found in Delhi and so delicious it did not survive the night.

We sat around a camp fire listening to 80's music and talking, a lot. We learnt a lot about Paul and painting trucks and flying helicopters.

He is also a very good biker, as he says with the pins and plates to show the effort he put into that. He told me I’d fallen on the sand because I tried to change ruts. Once you make a choice however hard it is you have to stick with it until the road gets better. He also told me never to use the clutch except to change gear and never use the front brake.

That advice has been invaluable.

Michael and I shared a bed for the first time on the trip. Somehow we managed to get a reasonable night’s sleep with no spooning!

The major secret of that could be Michael’s prescient purchase of gel earplugs form the UK. These magic little numbers mould into your ear and block out all sound so neither of us had to worry about snoring – and that lack of worry helps get a good night’s sleep.

Himalayas 4 - From holy mess to holiness

Nomadic Knights.

It’s probably Saturday. We’ve been biking for about four days and have now reached the only example of a Tibetan village in India, where at least and at last there is some peace and a few moments to write.

The first days biking, in anger, was long and hard and made longer and harder by a landslide. I didn’t see that bit.

In the dense mist I was at the head of the group and following Alex, but had lost sight of him and had followed a car on what seemed the main road. It was all paved and going downhill. The other was signposted in Hindi and the car wasn’t going that way. Most signposts on anything more than local roads are in English.

Anyway I didn’t think twice and followed the car downhill. The car stopped and I pottered on downhill at a gentle pace, out of the mist and along a gentle wooded road with occasional bits of tarmac. It was all rather pleasant.

Ten minutes later no sight or sound of anyone else so I stopped at the next habitation, a small shack with a lorry outside.

With no Hindi I tried to ask if any bike had passed. With lots of gestures and smiles passing between us the guy seemed to say no. So I sent an SMS to Michael and Alex (useful the Indian SIM and wonderful there was a signal!) that I was somewhere near habitation and if they called the people could explain where I was.

I waited for another ten minutes for the rest but no one came so I concluded I was on the wrong road. So I sent another text saying i was going back to where I last saw Alex.

Halfway back was a junction that I had not seen on the way down, obviously where I’d followed the car. So I stopped and within a couple of minutes heard the unmistakable putter of a Royal Enfield coming out of the mist and rain.

Alex was so happy to see me, but was obviously concerned.

There had been a landslide further down which had completely removed the road. They all thought i had gone over the edge. Of course to me this idea seemed silly as I would have to pass Alex (which I never do) and been driving far too fast to stop in time (which was possible but not probable in the bad conditions).

Of course I was happy to find everyone again and they’d had a difficult time negotiating the appalling conditions only to be faced with coming through them again on the way back up the hill.

My joy did not go down well!

It was a long ride back. Up a rough road with loose stones and mud and bumps and water and turns and narrow and just rough. At the end I was tired and we were back to where we started that morning.

The front suspension felt hard with every tiny stone and bump transmitted through the bike up my rigidly stressed grip and arms. But of course I am known for whingeing about the bike so I said nothing.

Coming downhill, out of the worst of the mist, but it was still damp, a very young girl comes into the road, looking for a high five.

I veered, rather than swerved, to avoid her and suddenly the front of the bike seems to drift. I couldn’t hold it and down we go.

Quite hard. The front forks are destroyed and the headlight smashed.

My new hi-vis wet weather gear is ripped, as is my hip. I wasn’t going fast so there was no helmet bashing. But it was all very strange.

Michael, Keith and Martin saw it all, stopped and dragged me and the bike off the road. Keith thought the front forks had broken, which seemed logical enough for me to leap on as an excuse.

The van arrived with the support team. The wonderful Doc treated me for shock, which in my adrenaline fueled state was logical, but felt completely unnecessary. He also patched up the missing portion of hip flesh.

Vidhya superbly got chai for everyone, it was well past time for a chai stop, and Ashraf rapidly repaired the destroyed front section of the bike!

I think the girl’s family owned the small shack that made chai.

It was really good having a full back-up team, mechanical, medical and spiritual.

Even better they didn’t make me feel as though it was my fault (however much it may, or may not, have been!).

A spill wrecks my confidence for a while and as with most sports confidence is what improves performance. Overconfidence can be a killer, but without confidence all sorts of extra effort brings mediocre results.

So for the rest of the day I was slow and wobbly and not good company, but Michael as always knew the fine line between providing support and letting me wallow in my own self-incrimination.

We made through increasingly stunning countryside to Sarahan. We stopped in the centre as Alex and Vidhya went on to find the hotel. This was the first time they’d stayed there.

It was up a back alley and we had to squeeze the bikes over the pavement and through a small opening into a front garden.

The hotel looked like a rapidly fabricated concrete construction, similar to a 1960’s Eastern European rush job. But painted pink.

Michael organised separate rooms for us with a connecting balcony. Very sociable. I was edgy about taking a shower, which was cold, but more for the possible germs on the coffee saucer sized hole on my hip.

Stupidly I sprayed Savlon on it, which spiced the evening up. Then saw Doc for a new dressing and his antiseptic was far more gentle.

We all grabbed a warm beer from the freshly bought case (hotels don’t sell booze) and looked at the view.

Then Vidhya took us off to see the famous Bhimakali temple, which is some thousand years old.

It was interesting to see the temple, which had incredibly intricate woodwork outside, which you may be able to see past the beaming smiles! 

The temple itself was guarded by an armed soldier who watched as we left all cameras and phones in little lockers and donned hats. 

The temple was almost entirely made of wood and inside every 5 yards on the ancient wooden walls were hung unmistakably incongruous red fire extinguishers. The narrow wooden stairs led to an overhanging balcony with staggering views. The shrine was obviously very sacred, we did not go in and even tried to keep quiet in respect of those that did.

We got back our gear and took lots of photos from outside the holy area, some of which I stole for this blog.

The ancient holy monument outside had some interesting artwork. The red symbolizes blood and they used to have human sacrifices here. The image on the right seems a lot more fun!

Back at the hotel, supper was good solid north Indian food, not all of it spicy, in a big wooden dining room with no fire extinguishers. Of course leading to lots of Everard (the Burning Chair Man) based speculation.

I slept really badly with the aches from the spill and even took two paracetamol and tomorrow would be a big day.

Himalayas 3 - Breaking in the riders

So the run out day was a breeze. Well a gusty breeze anyway.

First test the gear.
Alex had greeted us with gifts and goodies. We were logo'ed up with new Nomadic Knights stickers for our helmets, a Nomadic Knights neck protector (Made in Italy!) that is stretchy and can be a hood and a hat and just about anything else for the shoulders up. Plus we had a superb guide book with the routes and destinations for each day.


Michael prompted me into getting one of the two electric start bikes which was such a good idea after the challenges of the kick start last year. In southern India my bike had been a challenge. I was inexperienced, had ended up with the lemon and was totally incapable of handling its’ idiosyncrasies. After a week of frustration and salty language, Abi had diagnosed the battery needed replacing. So an electric start was the answer, if the battery was the problem it wouldn’t start in the first place!
The Bullet Boys t-shirt is hidden under the body armour. It was on because two of us were riding.


The armour and shin pads all looked too Teutonic, especially when Alex found Abhi's tin hat completed the image!

Alex gave the morning briefing. An essential part of the day he pointed out how riding in India is completely different. Everyone uses the horn to signal that they are on the road. It’s not aggressive it’s just a signal.
Indicators are occasionally used. Driving on the left in India is not a challenge, especially for Brits. But when a car is happy for you to overtake they put on the right hand blinker. Then you can pass. Of course the car could also be preparing to turn right, which means overtaking would be injurious to your health. The right hand indicator is blinking. You decide.
Buses believe they rule the road. The drivers are paid by passenger kilometre and like to be paid a lot. Since they are bigger than most other vehicles, and especially much bigger than bikes, they overtake when they want, on corners, on blind corners, in villages and on gravel. They can also overtake a car that is overtaking a cow. This leaves you with the strip at the side of the road, if there is one.
So Alex walks us through ways to stay safe. Maximise the line of sight. Always be ready for on-coming traffic, know that anyone can do anything and since you cannot change any of this, go with it.

We mounted up and revved and checked the horns and the lights, the indicators and the brakes. The mechanics had done really well. Presumably they completely stripped and rebuilt the bikes after each tour, but after the massive adventure there must have been some serious work. Ashraf certainly seemed to strip some of the bikes each night while on tour. Luckily we got on as he is part of the Indian multi-cultural melting pot and is very happy being greeted with 'Salaam Aleykum'.

So the ride went really well till the end of the hotel drive when my bike stalled and wouldn't restart.

Ashraf took out a fuse and hot-wired it, which was fine. Of course the group had stopped on the far side of the road, turning left. But they had gone by the time the bike was repaired, so I crossed the road and carried on. This seemed normal for a continental, but in India you drive on the left. So the oncoming car driven by an elderly gentleman was confused and we both slowed to walking pace. I signalled him on, trying to indicate that I was not going to do anything any more dangerous than merely bumbling up the verge on the wrong side of the road, which he seemed to accept. Once past him I switched to the left side and off we went. Of course Abi the Guardian Angel was there sweeping me up into the mainstream, again.

With those errors out of the way it took half an hour or so to get more of a feel for the bike.
It is quirky and was kicked into neutral by every pothole, which made the acceleration interesting. But we got the hang of that fairly soon.
An hour or so later the horn started sounding strange and a few minutes later the bike stalled and wouldn’t restart.

That was another wait with the wonderful Abi until Ashraf the bike mechanic, i.e. a mechanic on a bike, rode up and inserted a new fuse so off we could go again.

Michael had waited for me, being a buddy and we steadily caught up with the rest. Since he wasn’t wearing coattails I had to get used to the bike!
Soon it was fun. I made an error of judgement overtaking a lorry that slowed really suddenly only to be faced with a hairpin, but I had space and nothing was coming the other way so no emergency panic and no harm done. Just a lesson learnt.
Lunch was a Sprite and an ice cream, well plus a cheroot, and we wended our way back up the valley road.

We had started of wondering about fleeces and wet weather gear, but in the valley bottom it was 31^oC.

 We climbed back up the mountain a different way and stopped to take photos of blobs on the hillside which looked like childish paintings of sheep in completely the wrong proportion but which turned out to be netting covering several square km of apple trees, to protect them from monsoon hailstones.
You can imagine the scene in the local shop; I need netting for my apple trees please -
Certainly how much would you like - Oh about 4 square km should do....

Near the top Alex missed a turning, probably deliberately since we were all riding well, so we came a long but interesting way back.
It was fun riding faster than I had in south India and more within my comfort zone. Michael felt the same. Despite the rough roads and tricky bits with sand and wet and rocks and things we felt OK.
Finally back at the hotel where we stayed last night a whip round ensured beer would be available for the evening.
Everyone was tired and dirty and smelly, so I volunteered to pillion with Abi to get it.
Of course it was two cases of beer. One sat on the fuel tank and other I held in front of me trying not to bump Abi with it every time we braked, accelerated or hit some rough ground.
But Abi is such a good rider, he could even cope with me as pillion bashing him on the head with a case of beer for several kilometres of bumpy road.
So we got back with both cases intact.

A shower and a cup of tea later and we were ready to find the hotel wi-fi. That was a forlorn hope. The good part was that we met up with Paul and shared a beer and some life stories.
It is so interesting seeing where people have come from, to get here, biking the Himalayas. It really is an adventure.
Andy wandered up and we all gave up on the wifi and set up a campfire zone, stealing wood and one of the hotel employee’s job for the evening. Still they weren't there and we wanted a fire.
Once the fire was going we carried on the discovery process.

A gang of bikers from Bangalore were also staying the night, so there was some crossover biker talk, cylinder cam piston speed, or something, which all went straight over my head.
Supper was again superb and as an afterthought Alex ordered spicy chicken but the rest of us were too full. So he doggie bagged it.

We found a broken chair near the pile of wood and knew how to make Chris Everard happy. In memory of his sterling furniture burning effort in south India, on it went!

Well after a lot more chat, the bottle of Jura that Michael had bought for Alex as a present, failed to survive the night.
Whether Alex will be allowed to eat his spicy chicken in the room will remain to be seen.

Himalayas 2 - Punjab to Shimla and Narkanda

There seems to be an extra boost from a hotel breakfast. Probably because you don’t make it yourself and it has different ingredients. But you are in a room with strangers. The Holiday Inn proposed a huge selection. I could merely manage exotic fruit and spicy omelette, with a few side forays dipping into pastries and jams. And tea, lots of tea.
The service was always attentive sometimes highly attentive. I wanted to seem polite and ask the waiter about the food, but after doing the same last night you knew it would involve the chef coming out and long involved conversations, which is not what breakfast is about. So for once, and briefly, I remained silent. Of course Michael was not allowed to eat in peace.

We left the air conditioned cleanliness of the Holiday Inn for the air conditioned airport, with two steps in the monsoon as we got into the courtesy car.
Two chaps rescued us from a lengthy queue at Economy check in. They’d tagged Michael for a superior type of traveller and guided us to the unsignposted and discrete Executive desk. I hung on to Michaels coattails as usual to snag an Executive class ticket. The chaps then fussed us through baggage control where I lost a lighter to the ever vigilant and ever present army.
One challenge for us in India is having enough small denomination notes for tips. A quick detour to a Boots the Chemist lookalike solved that with a couple of bottles of water plus some chewing gum to relieve the ever present onion coating on the tongue. This one from the masala omelette at breakfast.
The chaps left us happily with the equivalent of two days wages for a labourer in the poorer parts of the country. We then proceeded to give all our bank details to a machine that did not give us cash. We could only hope it was because the machine was a real one, without cash rather than an elaborate scam. Only time would tell. There were no appropriate error messages. Just a lack of cash.
The executive class boarding passes got us economy class seats near the front of the
plane. More than I deserved but a lot less than the premium Michael had paid for. The business class looking seats at the front were apparently first class., which is unusual for a commuter jet
Michael declined the plastic sandwich and carton of mango juice, but I'm hardwired to eat when it’s available and not leave food on the plate. The sandwich was only half eaten. Breakfast had been good, this wasn’t. Italy does raise your food standards.
The plane was delayed for take-off and landing. Take off because a couple of flights queue jumped, as you do in an airport, and landing because the monsoon had limited the pilots’ visibility.
But we got to Chandigarh and phoned Alex who had not replied to the text about who was picking us up. His phone was out of order.
So we waited till our ‘priority’ bags were close to last off the carousel and found Lovely waiting for us in the main hall. How he does it I have no idea.
Lovely is the COO and Mr Fix-it of Nomadic Knights. He seems to handle logistics and HR, herding bikers and kits to where they’re supposed to be, as well as organising the ‘crew’, our support team.
You can only get into an airport with a ticket and ID and lots of head shaking and stamps.
Lovely is also lovely. And he was there in the arrivals terminal. We greeted him like a friend of long standing and followed him through the fresh puddles to cross to the parking lot.
On the far side of the road were a hundred signs greeting passengers were on the far side of the road. They were obviously not Lovely, who settled us at the mini bus. There we met Paul who had been vagabonding at the airport since 7 that morning, so 4 1/2 hours of sleeping on concrete with his bags for pillows. But seemed remarkably cheery for it.
Paul had a cup of tea which we thought was coffee so we set off for the coffee shop. Michael hadn’t made the necessary stop before a long journey but wasn't allowed back into the airport at all as he didn’t have a boarding card. He can’t be Lovely then.
The coffee shop lady seemed to completely reprogramme the cash till to take the order of one black coffee and one white coffee. We got two cappucinos.
Lovely gathered the other riders from the airport, probably breezing past Michael on the way in.
Keith and Martin were shagged and quiet after a long journey. Andy was more cheery. Paul and Andy were easy to get on with. A lot of boys talk to establish they were good bikers and Paul had been on a Nomadic Knights trip to Rajasthan. Andy was an experienced biker who hadn’t been to India. There were lots of comments and getting to know each other banter on the way.
We left Chandigarh and its huge freshly painted poster adverts. Lovely negotiated the police shakedown, getting our co-driver, Pawanji, to proffer some rupees and just not stopping in the slow moving chaotic traffic.
The drive to Narkanda was long.

It was probably even longer for Paul who had to suffer my seat continually reclining of its own accord, but he didn't seem to worry about it.
We saw villages on steep hillsides, monkeys, guys riding in top of trucks and a pillion holding a plastic sheet above his head like a celebrating revolutionary or victorious football supporter. But this was to protect himself and the bike rider from the rain. We saw some English Wine and Beer Shops, which we guessed didn't do what it said on the label and a Loreto Convent which Michael and I found funny. We live very close to Loreto in Italy which is a very important holy site for Roman Catholics, though almost unknown to the rest of the world.
It is home to the Virgin Mary’s house, which may seem unusual being in Italy, but there is a long and convoluted story behind its miraculous transportation by angels to Le Marche sometime at the end of one of the crusades.

We saw the chaotic driving and rubbish beside the road, the crumbling edges and the precipitous thousand foot drops, the ever present railway snaking and winding an impossible route from Chandigarh to Shimla. Twisting around and through the steep, steep sides of the Himalayas.

And here we are at Narkanda, a mere 2700 metres up, 7 hours and 7000 gear changes later.
In the clouds after a scrumptious Indian dinner with a couple of beers and a couple of drams, the gel earplugs are in while writing these notes, so I can't even hear myself fart, let alone Michael’s moonlight sonatas.

After a stop at the Indian McDonalds (no beefburgers), but a slow introduction for us guests and a chai stop near Shimla we gratefully bumped down the rocky drive to Tethys Ski Resort in Narkanda.

More greetings of old friends, Alex the fearless leader of Nomadic Knights, with big smiles and manly hugs and his wonderful wife Vidyha, whose smile just brightens the heart. Abhi was his usual serene self. Abhi sweeps up the laggards and the wayward. The shepherd, he gives you confidence knowing that he’s there when your bike breaks down, or you don’t know the way, or you just want to rest.

We also met the other members of our support team, in addition to the amazing Lovely and our co-pilot for the drive, Pawanji, there was Doc, who loves taking time from his full time job as a highly qualified doctor to hang around with crazy guys biking the Himalayas. We also met our magic mechanic, Ashraf, who could strip, recondition and reassemble an Enfield in the dark, with his eyes closed, in a clean business suit.

They had just finished a hard two week trip with lots of challenges, but with very experienced riders. We felt a bit like the B Team as we would do a lot less miles but hopefully we'd get to enjoy more of the mountains. So we jossed and smiled and lugged our stuff to the new section of the hotel.

Our rooms were still being finished but were spacious and comfortable. We got a hot shower despite the tap being in a precarious position for guys over 6ft tall, unless you turned sideways. But the shower made everything good and there was a kettle in the room for well-earned tea.

Over supper and a campfire we heard of water crossings and wet, landslides and brake control. Of 17 hour days and being ready to sleep rough. There was a lot of talk of blood, sweat and toil, but luckily no tears.

Maybe in my sleep I’ll ponder the life philosophies imparted as the evening went on. But in the end we are here because we want to experience life in its fullest and funnest.
However the build up for the riding is that it is going to be a challenge.

So I’m looking forward to seeing if the last few months riding have improved my abilities enough to be able to enjoy this to the full.