June 7, 2010
It's 11am. I've missed the sunrise by a mile for the sun now stands tall, beating down my eyes. Presumably Spiderweb caught its rise; I remember only shadows from the early morning.
Last night was memorable. But it would pale in comparison to what we were to experience today; or so I hope. I cannot predict the future. It is an art I have yet to master.
We learnt a lot more about the one I know only as the man-in-question, the bleeding liar who cheated death and us of the true story. It turns out that the man-in-question was hot on the trail of the cage drivers we chanced upon on our return. His haste to beat the sun and catch up with his comrades led to his collision with sandy rubble. It is a large group we are told. About 5 cages and 8 bikes. We never saw the bikes. But we did see the cages. The group took shelter in the same hotel as we; socializing with the Americans, ignoring us, for we were Indians. What good were we Indian males without our white skins and bra-less t-shirts and our non-existent stash of weed? We weren't offended. Just amused. To be fair, they did try to get to know us in the morning. But the night, aah, that was with the Americans.
Packed up, suited up, straddled up, we're ready to roll. We notice festive celebrations at the Gompa. We are told they will run for 4 days. Too bad we are gonna miss it. Motorbreath and Spiderweb go in for a few clicks while I stay out and guard the bags. We find two adolescent monks running around the place. We ask them if we can take pictures with them. They agree on the condition that we make a donation to the Gompa. We agree and they pose like pros.
One last attempt by the Goan to get us to travel with them, one last polite decline from us and we're off. We make a pit stop at the telephone booth. Motorbreath still worries about Aman and decides he would try his cell. If Aman is in Leh, he should have network. The attempt succeeds. Motorbreath finds out that Aman made it to Leh the night prior, booked us a hotel room and turned in assuming we would make it there later that night. With the stress of Aman's well-being off our heads, we commence the ride in peace.
The gravel is no kinder today but the promise of a long sunlit path nudges us on. I learn quickly that attempting to change gears on steep gravelly slopes, especially on bends is asking for trouble; for while the clutch is in action, the machine dives into a gravitational freefall, picking up dangerous speeds in seconds. You are then faced with the option of attempting to make the bend at a ridiculous pace - often going wide and kissing the edges of the cliff with a uncomfortably high possibility of going over - or attempting to hit the brakes sending the steed into a tailspin risking hurtful falls on pointed rocks that promise to rip through the armour and into your bone. The solution I find, is to stick to the second gear and on particularly tricky slopes, to stick to the first and to not change gears when curve hits rubber. As yesterday, the progress is slow, and we aren't surprised.
We notice heavy construction machinery stationed at many points. NH-1D will, someday connect Lamayuru to Leh with flawless tarmac, opening the majestic views to all and sundry. And while most would see that as a welcome change, I dread the day when family packs frequent these roads, encourage settlements, overpower the landscape and strip it of its virginity. I laugh at my cynicism, for it is admissible to believe that the locals believe the very same of us on this very day. We don't belong there. We encroach on their lands, run our machines through their fields, leave behind unwelcome residue, in a bid to find ourselves, to amuse ourselves, to gain a sense of adventure. I'm a hypocrite and an environmental whore. I cannot judge others before I judge myself; and I deem myself guilty, guilty of my love for biking, guilty of my negligent thoughts for all else.
The pathways are pure gravel in some places, kissable tar in others. The R-15 seems to be in a little bit of a jam. The dashboard is signaling a pale yellow. My inability to understand its relevance makes me more nervous. There isn't a mechanic for miles and the machine seems to be holding up so there's no reason to halt. The army has a very large presence the path we take. Several army trucks struggle to pass each other on the narrow pathways.
The R-15 struggles on rocky gravel. Its light-weight frame is not built to counter the push from the rocks below. Each bounce off stone hits us hard. I hold the bars tightly, my chest heaving with fatigue. The Pulsar and Karizma breeze through the terrain. They are doing close to 90. I presume I'm in the whereabouts of 70, but the broken speedometer displays an impotent 0. Pretty soon, I lose sight of the two as I struggle to breathe around the specs of sand that mercilessly rape my nasal cavity.
It will be close to an hour before I find the two waiting for me at a long stretch of tar. Spiderweb, from his vantage point, could see me in the distance. They figured it would make sense for them to wait there and monitor my progress. If I fell, they would see it and return.
We pass several narrow pathways, Spiderweb honks mercilessly as he attempts to pass the unending stream of army truckers. Some let us pass like gentlemen. Some toy with us for their own amusement before letting us pass.
Several hours into the ride and he Karizma overheats yet again. Motorbreath rants "Pulsar rocks. Now we'll have to overtake all these guys again.". It never gets old. I still laugh my head off. All Spiderweb can do is raise an eyebrow.
I don't recall how long we've been riding but the Karizma seems to be in trouble yet again. It slows down unceremoniously, with Spiderweb using every bit of torque to stay on course. We are still clueless as to the cause. This time Spiderweb theorizes that its bad fuel - which coincidentally we are all using. We, Motorbreath and I, theorize the cause to be otherwise without any idea to its exact nature. Time will prove us right.
We reach Magnetic Hill with plenty of time to spare. The extraordinary claim of Magnetic Hill is that it pulls vehicles uphill against gravity through a magnetic force. One has to place the vehicle in neutral in a white box painted on the tarmac, and, if you wait long enough, the hill should pull the vehicle closer into its embrace. The truth, which can be discovered by Googling references for "Gravity Hill", is that it is an optical illusion where a downward slope, due to an obstructed view of the horizon and a peculiar topology appears to be going uphill. Even an ordinary glass or plastic round bottle would roll similarly, negating the possibility of magnetism being the force in question. At present though, we are unaware of the dynamics of the phenomenon; except that it does not work for us i.e. our steeds refuse to roll. We are informed later that had we placed our steeds a few meters behind the box, instead of in it, we would have seen movement which negated the whole point of the box and pissed me off plenty.
All we do there is pose along with our steeds in a white box which promises to show us metaphysical magic and does nothing to make good its commitment. I'm disappointed.
We push further. The Karizma struggles while Motorbreath rides up and down the long stretch declaring his freedom to whomsoever it may concern requesting me to take his picture from every conceivable angle. A few bends later, the Karizma magically springs to life. Spiderweb urges us to push as hard as we can; to make good use of the Karizma's sudden burst of health and power. Just as we are revving up, a cage passes us from the rear, rattling Motorbreath. He revs harder. I see him lean into the wind, cut resistance and zip ahead. He chases the cage for many minutes, before finally overtaking it, making it bite his dust. With his superiority established and his ego cleansed, he drops speed to allow us to catch up. We trail at a comfortable speed of 110. We are running low on fuel. My tank is near empty. We fear we might not reach our destination.
As the NH-1D flatlines into a singular straight stretch, as the rockies fall back, as the skies above fly higher, you can almost hear the winds whisper...
"Ride motherfucking bitches. Ride like its your last."
We hear it, all at the same time. We twist our wrists like we've never twisted before. The engines scream in unison. The metal bursts through the ether once more. We flatline our bodies against the steeds. My heart pounds against my chest, threatening to explode with the surge of adrenaline. My steed rumbles under me, her body quivering with ecstasy. Together, our steeds and we, rip through the Universe. 3 bodies, one soul. 3 steeds, one gigantic piece of gleaming metal rumbling across the NH-1D.
The ride lasts several minutes. The experience will last forever.
I notice boards announcing the grand view of the Indus. We stop only briefly before revving up again. Leh is within limits. We'll be there within moments and I can barely breathe...
