Tim's Balkan Bike Blast 3

The horse and cart had long disappeared by the time breakfast was over. 

I packed up the remaining clothes that were hanging in the sunshine to dry. With any luck the rain and damp would stay away today. There was a lot of biking to do.

Just how much I had no idea. I just wanted to be somewhere in the Carpathian mountains and fairly close to the Transfagarasan Highway by the end of the day’s ride.

The bike had been carefully guarded by the rubbish bins at the back of the restaurant. It only took a minute to unlock the bike, then load up the rucksack and tank bag. Hardly time for the engine to warm up.

The route planner had 125 km to Novi Sad, which seemed a good point to aim for before refuelling and a morning coffee. The main highway was good. The countryside opened up as I headed north east and everything seemed to be more developed. Bigger settlements, the occasional factory, larger fields, more colourful clothes and more cars. Water melons obviously thrive in this area. Outside people’s houses and seemingly abandoned at road junctions, whole carts were piled high with dozens of water melons for sale. Presumably there was an honesty box, or the seller was somewhere hidden in the shade. A village would have maybe 20 carts, each cart with a few dozen melons, it was a major industry. I have no idea what percentage they sell, but it couldn’t be all of them since everyone seemed to have their own supply.

The route planner didn’t always hook up well with the headset and would go quiet for long periods, which was fine until faced with an either/or junction. So I stopped quite a few times to double check the direction and asked quite a few people, most of whom gave correct directions.

In one town a US Steel plant sat next to a Gazprom petrol station, which sort of summed up Serbian development. Not quite Wild West, but open to multiple influences.

There are no photos for the simple reason I chose not to stop. I was there for the ride, for the experience, not bound to keeping the world up to date. Anyway, they would get even more bored. 

It is depressing seeing people at major events, from pop concerts to sports matches, trying to film everything on their phones, in bad quality. They miss the fun. Let it go.

So I let it went and kept the throttle twisted. Somewhere near the river Sava the land morphed into marshes and wheeling overhead was a solitary stork. A fairly simple thought process led to remembering ... Hello stork, it’s my birthday. The stork took no notice. 

But the road called and it was time to eat up the miles.

Avoiding motorways meant the ride was pretty much in a straight line, so it would take about the same time, but would feel a lot more fun. The strange part about the roads was that base had not been well compacted before the asphalt arrived. So the first heavy loads had rutted the roads. That was a little disconcerting on occasion, but the Tiger wanted to stay upright and moving forward. So we did.

Some big signs advertised the Fruska Gora National Park and the road wound uphill, through thick woodland, with sharp bends and intermittent coaches. I had not seen a single one the day before, now the odd one lumbered past, seemingly heading the other way. I saw some half a dozen bikes on that stretch, maybe they had already migrated to the Carpathians.

I was getting tired by the time the roads into Novi Sad got confusing with multiple signs to the centre pointing in different directions.

Somehow I ended up on the right road which had a wonderful view of the beaches along the wide, wide Danube, which was more grey than blue. Strauss was presumably a pre-industrial composer.

The beaches had industrial rows of umbrellas, like docking stations for sun seekers.  It was a good day for them, close to 30C.

The town is large and not Sad, so choosing a coffee stop was easy and random. Somehow the random choices were working out well. The Baby Blue Café of course had wifi, and good coffee.

I caught up with the facebook birthday wishes and some emails while standing in the shade. Somehow sitting to take a rest didn’t seem so obvious. Different muscles needed a look in now and then.

The roads out of town were confusing and there were no signposts for my next major destination, Timisoara. That should not be so surprising as Timisoara (pronounced Timmy-shwara) is about 150km away and in a different country. So I filled up at a petrol station that was on the wrong road, but they put me right and it was time to cover distance.

The countryside was very similar. Open, few settlements, good roads and little traffic. Chomp, chomp, chomp. And the settlements got sparser, there were fewer water melons and the sun shone on.

I have no idea how they decided where to put the border at this point between Serbia and Romania, it seemed a pretty random location. No major landmark, just a few cabins plonked on the landscape. Leaving Serbia was pretty easy, but coming the other way were a couple of bikes which had Italian plates. A very good excuse for a chat.

‘Boun giorno, siete Italiani’. Good day, you’re Italian - more statement than question, but you never know. 

They were, from somewhere near Rome. Oh, I’m from Marche, (which is some 250 km the other side of the peninsular). They then admitted they were from Fermo, which is about 10 km from my house. Only close to Rome if your map is very small. 

They wanted to know about motorways, which I hadn’t used and anyway there didn’t seem to be any heading directly back to the Adriatic. I left them a business card just in case we could meet up back in Italy and swap stories of Romania, but haven’t heard anything since.

Just as I was about to set off across the no mans land, Michael called, I didn’t answer as Serbian calling charges would be expensive.

The Romanian border guard contingent all got involved in my documentation. Not only the passport, but drivers licence, insurance and bike ownership. They noticed I had a duplicate drivers licence and I confessed the previous one was lost a couple of years ago. They hadn’t noticed that it was my birthday. As the documentation came back Michael called again and I answered. He wished me happy birthday, it was good to catch up and we chatted for 15 minutes. As soon as we finished I got a text from Serbian telecom who had happily relieved me of Eur 15 for the call. Oh well, time to move on.

There were no houses or farms close to the border. It all seemed a bit strange. Still there were no cars either so the biking was easy.

About an hour later I was firmly embedded in a traffic jam in Timisoara. 

It seemed close to the town centre so I just went very slowly the wrong way down a one way street and parked the bike.

It was time for lunch but the big café on the edge of what was probably the main town square didn't take credit cards. Luckily the major banks were close-by. Time for cash. Time for Lei. Western Union would probably cost a fortune so I decided to try my luck (fortune/luck - geddit?) at Unicredit. A big Italian bank. That should help if something went wrong.

Something went wrong...

Tim's Balkan Bike Blast 2

Unloading was an excuse to connect with the bikers of the night before, wishing each other well and safe travels.

I sort of set the GPS, with little faith, then decided to change route before we left the port of Split and holistically headed down the Croatian coast.
After a while it seemed pretty similar, pretty but built up, similar to Italy. So I finally listened to the patient lady giving directions in my headset. I have no idea how she had not already lost her temper. Superhuman these GPS birds.

And the adventure started, winding up from the coast into the the face of a mountain. Curves ending in hairpins, on smooth, German-subsidised, wide tarmac roads.

Then the at top,it all changed.

The highlands of Bosnia seemed empty, with uplands reminiscent of Wales or Scotland, vast tracks of pasture littered with the wreckage of rocks, like debris on an ancient abandoned battlefield.

Rounding a big lake the view faded in and out of a typical Scottish mist, long winding curves to be taken at speed, at an angle. The road was good, there was very little traffic and a bunch of kilometres were eager to be eaten up. Suddenly the road turned into a long straight stretch and the Tiger could open up, but the mist persisted and any more than 160 kph seemed silly. 
The road wound into prefabricated dwellings close to abandoned older houses, the occasional handpainted sign offered the possibility of bikes and coffee, but it was no certainty, so on we roared.
Then at the crest of a hill a large wooden sign proclaimed something important, but I couldn't read the Cryllic script and anyway had to brake as the tarmac stopped abruptly. The rest of the road in this new land disintegrated into steep, downhill, windy, rain rutted gravel. So like the Himalayas, even the continuing persistence of humidity that collected in the folds of the raingear.

Edgy about the high balancing point of the Tiger, plus its weight, but comforted by its handling ability, we set off. And it got easier. The tyres gripped, the power got us over trouble, and sometimes a quick twist of the throttle rushed us through a tricky bit. I was rapidly falling in love with the bike.

Trees started appeared and we wound down the mountain. Perhaps the road was a deliberate barrier to stop invading armies, or tourists, or any form of contact between the communities on either side of the crest. But after a few kilometres the tarmac reappeared, along with a renovated mosque, gleaming new plaster white in the dark green gloom. 
From there the settlements and cemeteries multiplied, Muslim, Orthodox, possible even Catholic, they loomed in the mist with tombstones like tank traps jutting out of the pastures, surrounded by thin metal railings and run down buildings.
The occasional shack had signs of tyre manufacturers and sometimes groups of country clad men clustered, to talk, to look at some mechanical beast of burden, or to watch the strange tourist with his flourescent sleeved, postman flavoured riding gear. Fake tartan shirts, baggy trousers and gumboots the same across religions and countries all over the continent.

But there were no bars, no hotels or B&Bs, or petrol stations or friendly smiles, just the mixed scenery of mountain, forest and rain, interspersed with run down houses. Until we reached a sign that said in English 'Locality under video surveillance'. Was this a local police warning, or some UN sponsored peace initiative? Whichever way, it soon led to the rest of the town of Jablinca where, as I came to expect, every café and every petrol station had free wifi.

I was tired and the long local coffee was most welcome. I only had Euros, but a 5 Euro note got me a coffee and a bunch of local change. The young men in the bar all had shaven heads and were slumped, bear like, over their late morning beers. The barista looked the same, but had a smile and asked the usual question you pose to an alien. What on earth was I doing there? 
But the guys set me on the road to Sarajevo and smiled as I left, maybe because I left, but it never felt threatening. Just different.

The coffee break took a little longer than expected so I was happy to increase speed as the road got bigger and wider. But the traffic increased. So I needed to overtake a fair amount. Training in the Himalayas and a lot of experience on the Tiger gave me confidence about where, when and how to overtake. Sometimes this involved crossing the double white lines, but they are made for normal drivers, in slower cars, so I felt OK. In the zone.
On a gentle left hand open bend over a bridge I skipped a lorry, then a car, only to see the approaching traffic start flashing their lights. I slowed, but it was too late. The police car was hidden behind a hillock at the far end. I was flagged. Dismounting carefully on the far side of the road  I locked up and hopped over to where the policeman started speaking. I tried the litany of English, German, Italian and French. No good. We both smiled and he drew me a picture of illegal overtaking. I said sorry, both verbally and with a mixture of Italian and Indian supplicant gestures. 'Tourist?' - 'Yes, Si, Ja.'
The fine in the book he showed me was translated into Minimum €50 Maximum €150. So I said 'minimum', which seemed to be the same word in both our languages.
Since I did not ask for a receipt I got 'extra minimum' €20 cash. That worked well for me and was a cheap lesson in respecting the laws of the countries I was visiting, which you must always do, especially in front of policemen!

The roads got bigger and busier and by the time I got to Sarajevo it was a bustling multilane mass of motor cars. I stopped for fuel and was directed to a shopping centre which should have a lighter charger with a USB connection. I forgot to pack one and charging the phone while riding was going to be essential. 

Parking a bike is normally easier and traffic police seem to be a lot more lenient as long as you are not blocking anyone's way. So it was simple to park. But unloading the tankbag and carting that, with the helmet, through the shopping centre was a little inconvenient.
The good part was that the panniers had padlocks on and there was no other baggage to carry.

A double USB charger seemed a bargain at the equivalent of €5, until I tried it after lunch and it didn't work.

But lunch was more important and after struggling into the centre of town I took a bridge to almost nowhere and stopped outside a bar. They didn't do lunch but pointed me to a little restaurant a few yards away. Restoran Dalija did a perfect lunch. Spare seats for the bike gear, free wifi, a recharging point for the phone and an excellent local soup with homemade bread. A catch up to publish selfies and see if the world had changed while slurping soup *is there any other way?), a coffee then off we set again. 

As soon as the town of Sarajevo finished there was a sign proclaiming Republika Srbska. Two large red paint bombs had badly wounded the sign and showed what someone thought of that.

It was about 2 pm and I was hoping to make Srebrenica before nightfall.

After stopping voluntarily at a police checkpoint to get directions I was there for a late tea. The policemen had probably recovered from the shock of unusual behaviour by the time I got to Srebrenica though. 

Here was the borderland with Serbia. The cosmopolitan nature of Sarajevo peeled away rapidly after the wounded sign and by the time I got to Srebrenica horses and carts were a regular sight. One old guy even waved. I stopped thinking something was wrong, but this confused him and me enormously, so off we set again.

I had to stop in Bratunac to ask for directions again, signs were as intermittent as they are in Italy. After the town there were a few abandoned buildings with bullet damage, and soon after the Srebrenica memorial hove into view. 

There were four other people visiting, noone on the gate and a damp late afternoon added to the eeriness of the place.


It seems small but gets bigger as you go in. There are lots of Muslim tomb markers in neat rows like war cemeteries all over Europe. Then a big granite rock highlights 8,372.






And a huge semi-circle lists them all, by family name.

And you see generations jumbled up together, 

Mesanovic Arif 1941
Mesanovic Azem 1951
Mesanovic Azmir 1969
Mesanovic Bajro 1929
Mesanovic Benadil 1965    
Mesanovic Bekir 1972

and on, and on, and on... 8,732 times.

It is very powerful and very sad. 
I paid my respects but didn't want to stay there.

Back in Bratunac it looked just as bad with grey, streets draped with telephone wires and plastic backlit shop signs more reminiscent of the middle east than Europe. So I carried on and rather by accident arrived at a checkpoint for Serbia. I was not thinking too well when I asked the Bosnian border guard, who was checking me through, if this was the right road for Belgrade. He said he wouldn't know and let me through. I realised the error at the checkpoint on the far side of the wide Drina river.

The roads were fine on both sides, not great but fine, though on the Serbian side the main road quickly gave way to roadworks, with several kilometres of rough packed gravel holding up the hurtling, heavy-duty trucks. Not much fun on a bike, but the Tiger was superb and we stayed at a steady pace, in the same rut, only using the back brake lightly, and eventually it was over.

On the Bosnian side more renovated mosques mockingly shone through the damp. The wide river got wider. 
Some 20 kilometres further on it was time for a very late afternoon cup of tea.






Although there was a sign for a hotel it was next to the busy road and Kvornik did not seem too much fun. But the big burly guy at the bar was happy to set me up with some hot sweet tea and let me plan the next steps on his password free wifi. He resumed a familiar bear pose at a table with some other guys watching some football match, played on an impossibly bright green pitch. I paid with the Bosnian notes I had, however much that was, and even got some change, however much that was.


Refreshed I set off again, but was looking for accommodation. The next town did not seem to have anything, just large factories. I asked a lady walking along the road who told me in German the restaurants may have beds. 

The next place was a large lorry park, which did not seem the right place for me to try and a few kilometres further on I passed Restoran Basta. Right on the main road.

It was getting dark and I had been going for close to 12 hours, so it was definitely time to stop. 

I asked if they knew anywhere nearby with rooms. They had some. €10 for the night. The room had a double bed, with a newish mattress and a small shower in the room. Perfect. 

Two beers and a huge supper later I forked over €25 (wonderful how cash Euros were easily accepted) to secure what turned out to be a massive cooked breakfast of three fried eggs, half a loaf of bread and a chunk of fried pig slopping in gorgeous grease! Perfect biker brekky.

It was a good nights sleep and the free wifi got me up to date.

I even sent a selfie the next morning as the rush hour started and a lone horse and cart clopped down the main highway.

Tim's Balkan Bike Blast

Like so many people I know so little about the Balkans. Most of that limited knowledge is prejudiced and scarred by the war just before the turn of the century. 

It’s time to find out, in person, on a bike.

It also feels a little daring and certainly off the beaten track. 

I’ve been on two trips to India since learning to ride three years ago. Both of those trips were with Alex Pirie of Nomadic Knights, motto ‘Love Life, Live Adventure’. And adventure they both were. But I did not have enough holiday, or unexpected pension plans to cash in that would finance a return this year. The Balkans beckoned.

Two years ago the kids organised a trip to Montenegro and Albania. They were all three 14 (yes they’re triplets) and they did very well. We saw some wonderful scenery in Bosnia on a day’s drive through there, we had a few days in the Tara River canyon, in Montenegro, which was superb and a week at the seaside. So I knew enough to feel the riding would be good, easy to find petrol and wifi all over the place, what more do you need.

Talking about the trip ahead of time there were a few nerves from people, mainly concerned about whether it would be safe. The only answer was, probably. But hey, life is for living. And I had to do something, with the kids scattering across the globe. Hamish got a scholarship to spend his penultimate school year in Thailand. My daughter, Steedley, got the same for six months in Costa Rica and son George was booked in for three weeks with his mother in Frankfurt where she works.

A lot has been talked about the Transfagarasan highway across the Carpathian Mountains, in Transylvania, Romania, so that seemed a reasonable destination.

Given the vagaries of schedules at work there was no certainty how much time I could take off, or even when. Then stuff slotted into place.

My senior niece, Emily and a friend, Mandy, were happy to come out and dogsit. The dog is a huge Neapolitan mastiff, weighing in at 72 kilos. Soppy, slobbery and in need of company he didn’t deserve to be in a kennel for a couple of weeks.

With work, as usual in Italy, it seems disorganised and unplanned but there is a general idea of what is going to happen and with some flexibility it usually all gets sorted out. It did and I booked a ferry a week in advance.

In Italy most people are off in August and the 15^th is a sacrosanct national holiday for everyone except the restaurants, so holidays are based around that. The previous Wednesday I rode to Ancona and spent the day in the office with last minute mini panics to deliver proposals and reports ahead of the break.

By mid-afternoon torrential rain and thunderstorms set up the trip on a nervy note. I had packed a presumed minimum, hopefully everything would fit in one motorbike pannier, a tank bag and a hydration rucksack. I dehydrate easily, so a backpack with a three litre bag and long tube for a straw makes it easy to keep up the water and sporty mineral intake. The forecast was for temperatures between 30oC leaving Italy and 13oC in Transylvania.

The answer was layers. Riding gear and little else. A pair of bathing shorts, beach sandals, medical kit, travel towel, sleeping bag, just in case, and electronics for selfies.

I also had a small notebook from Cindy Moretti, who is a fellow teacher at ISTAO, a local business school. The notebook was really useful as it is easier than firing up an iPad to make a quick note. And if I tried to put notes on the smartphone I’d never find them again, or forget I’d made them.

Still the whole lot fit in a small rucksack and a tank bag, plus the sleeping bag. So one whole pannier was free for whatever happened on the journey.

Most excellent was the magnificent, trusty steed.
My 2010 Triumph Tiger 1050, No. M002951AN10.

The Tiger close to home, in Central Italy

Full compliments to everyone involved in building this wonderful beast. It starts when you want, stops when you want, has beautiful balance, excellent acceleration and after nine months of getting used to it, feels comfortable and friendly. I had new tyres and a new chain about a month ago, and just before setting off had the coolant completely changed and the oil checked. I even cleaned it! Filling it with petrol and the occasional clean are about the extent of by biking mechanical expertise.

The other excellent riding kit is the Nolan N44 helmet, with big open vision. Not only is that good for viewing the spectacular scenery, it also makes the life saver a little less effort. The lifesaver is a quick glance over the shoulder before moving left or right, in case you missed something in your mirrors and a bike or car is over-, or undertaking. It saves lives. It was a big point at the Advanced Riding Course I was on with my friend Michael when we went back to the UK in May for the Adventure Ashram Rally.

Slotting into special compartments in the helmet is a Nolan B5 communication system, linking with the smartphone for its GPS (which was used intermittently, but more on that later) and radio/music (which wasn’t used). It also connects with Bluetooth intercom for chatting with a pillion passenger (of which there were none) and with another B5 within 500 metres (which Michael wasn’t!).

Some Harley Davidson wrap around shades edged with foam were perfect for riding with the visor up, and no dust or insects got in. The other trick with the helmet was to lower the inbuilt sun visor halfway when the sun was low in the sky, like double shades. That helped visibility a lot.

Mandy had recommended downloading Maps.Me as a GPS app, which was good as it worked offline, which Google maps often does not. I had an on/off relationship with Maps.Me as it would not always connect with the GPS, the maps were good but not perfect and you have to download several. I ended up with four maps for the parts of Romania I went through. But you need wifi to download, which is not always available at every petrol station or café in the mountains. 

So setting off in central Italy, in the torrential rain the guys at work had given me a very good idea of where to go to check in for the overnight ferry across the Adriatic to Split. The ferry terminal was packed and although a bike can skip through a traffic jam the main problem was that there was a major police check of the incoming ferries so boarding was delayed by an hour, in the rain. At least it was a chance to meet fellow bikers.

I learnt from my mother the fun of starting conversations with complete strangers. At least bikes are a shared interest which makes it easy. The few bikers braving the rain were going for short trips down the Croatian coast. Once the kerfuffle had cleared, we set off skipping up the queue again. Of course in the rain with all the bits of paper and getting the passport and the bike documents I ended up dropping the bike at the police check. There was a kerfuffle, they were obviously on edge and I was plain embarrassed, but I’m well practiced at picking up the 250 kg bike as I’ve dropped it a few times, while parked.

Parking the wet bike on the wet steel floor of the boat I dropped it again. By this time, wet and sweaty I was ready for a shower, beers, supper and sleep.

There was no shower with my shared 4 bed couchette. So we had to do with a wash. I gambled on no one else sharing the room and wanting to steal my clothes so I took the passport and electronics to supper, which was very good and very cheap in the Jadrolinia ferry restaurant. A beer and a smoke on the afterdeck and bed was most welcome.

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.