June 11, 2010
We awaken earlier than the norm. Perhaps the frequent visits from the family three to nudge us into consciousness have some consequence. Or perhaps the sight of a warm sun seduces us into the outdoors. Either way, within moments of parting ways with the sheets, I find myself basking in a tepid embrace. A young one, no more than 3, strolls casually across the veranda, sampling delicacies from the ground beneath. He has not a shard of cloth on him and yet his constitution does not admit a shiver. As for my own, it displays a lifetime of weakness.
RomeoMike tinkers with his steed. With tools borrowed from our host he indulges in twisting screws and pushing frames, in a bid to undo the foot-peg impairment. He only partially succeeds. A large solar contraption heats water not far from him. A simple, yet marvelously efficient device harnessing energy the Universe carelessly circulates. I attempt to capture images of the contraption but in vain for sun beams reflecting off the glistening surface blow out the image. All I get is flashes of white.
Needless to mention, we forgo bathing once more. After a lazy breakfast, we remount our steeds. The engines roar in synchronicity ripping through the silence. On any other day, I'd discern guilt over destroying the sanctity. But the deadly silence that ensued the night prior, the fear that it instilled and its threat to strangle our very being has left me mindlessly defiant. The roar of my engine is my respite, my revenge. "Fuck you!", the revs bellow. "I live, I ride."
Our path leads us to the banks of Pangong Tso. Spiderweb allows the family three to ride at the fore. He is callous today, desiring only to ride free. We, me and my two, will fall back in time making vain attempts at photography along the way. A trained eye with the right tools could make magic with these spectacles. We can only grasp a fraction, pixellate much less.
What we do see is a board proclaiming that we now stand at a point that gives us the first view of Pangong Tso. I'm unimpressed, for to my cynical eye, it looks exceedingly ordinary - a spec of blue amidst mounds of mud.
How compelling can a water body really be? Have I not seen enough?
It would transpire that I have seen nothing. For Pangong Tso will reduce my sanity to bits, recomposing the pieces into a sculpture of peace I knew not to have existed. It will implode my ego, crush it gently and toss it into its depths - reminding me that the Universe, the uber artist, possesses a skill far beyond the clutches of my cynicism, a depth I cannot comprehend and a compendium that spans distances I shall not live to see.
Pangong Tso (or Pangong Lake; Tso: Ladakhi for lake) is an endorheic lake in the Himalayas situated at a height of about 4,350 m (14,270 ft). It is 134 km (83 mi) long and extends from India to Tibet. 60% of the length of the lake lies in Tibet, which is today underChina's rule. The lake is 5 km (3.1 mi) wide at its broadest point. During winter the lake freezes completely, despite being saline water.The lake is in the process of being identified under the Ramsar Convention as a wetland of international importance. This will be the first trans-boundary wetland in South Asia under the convention. ~ Wikipedia
Reunited with those that rode before us, we will spend countless moments pixellating, re-pixellating, co-pixellating and trans-pixellating. Spiderweb and RomeoMike will risk limb and bone to ride our steeds into the depths of clear blue liquid so we might condense our memories into the confines of our limited tools.
We will ride along the banks, through rocks, sand and stone, find our way to a conglomerate of tents that serve maggie, soup and chilled beer along with the express permission to ignite a bornfire should we choose to spend the night. Our 60kph mates seem to have beaten us to this destination for they have spent the night prior in this very location and experienced the pleasure of skinny dipping in the frigid clutches of the Pangong Tso. They strongly recommend we experience the same. But we are at the mercy of time today. We need to head back for we must make it to Diskit before dusk.
And so, with hopeful promises to ourselves to someday return, we recommence our journey. But not before we off-road along the banks once more. Vishal will decide give it a go, with Drifter volunteering to ride ahead with him leaving Spiderweb, Motorbreath, RomeoMike and I with the gratifying task of pixellating Pangong Tso some more, drinking its saline water, off-roading along its banks and catching up with the two that rode ahead.
As we return, Spiderweb and Motorbreath decide to sample the offerings of an army gift shop at the exit. We linger around some more, unwilling to leave the sight of the noble Pangong Tso. In time, we will be approached by a retired army general who will express his wonderment at the extent of our journey. He will express pride in our accomplishments, an expression that will perhaps exaggerate our own sense of fulfillment. We will be introduced to his son, an active army major. We will be requested to accompany him for pictures for he wishes to commit this extra-ordinary meeting to posterity. We will be made to feel like heroes, even though the facts dictate that a turning of tables is in order. But for their love and inspiration, I am forever grateful.
We charge out of Pangong Tso. We must catch up with the lone two. I tail for a bit, but the tarmac beckons me. I signal to RomeoMike, asking him if he will tail. He nods. I crack open the throttle, pass him and Motorbreath fairly quicky. Spiderweb sees me revving up in his rear view. He powers up too. What follows is a high throttle chase as we cut mercilessly through the corners, our metal gleaming. Spiderweb and I gain on Motorbreath and RomeoMike. As we burst through several curves, our rear views lose sight of them occasionally revealing faint dots on shallow bends.
On occasion, the tarmac bulges inwards causing us to be drawn into its center and then spat out inches into the air as we exit its diameter. Our suspension takes a splendid beating but Spiderweb and I seem to wear a reckless robe today. Each time Spiderweb hits a bulge and emerges in flight, he will raise an arm. I can only assume he does it to warn me but from my vantage point it looks like a victory punch. Furthermore, my proximity to him does not permit me to slow down in time so I just hit slopes as hard as he does and punch the air as well putting up my own show of false bravado.
After several long minutes and an adrenalin rush to live for, Spiderweb and I halt to reconnect with the trailing two. As Motorbreath rides in, he exclaims that as hard as he tried to keep up, my R-15's superior handling allowed for my gain on him. To his surprise, and mine, I quip, "Admit it, I'm better than you.". Motorbreath has no further comment.
We pixellate several more shots, this time using a timer. Motorbreath sets the timer, runs towards us and then runs out of breath almost immediately. We get our shots though. Motorbreath and RomeoMike share cigarettes, Spiderweb re-iterates his hatred for smokers on journeys since he is of the firm belief that they spend more time inhaling and philosophizing than they do travelling - a view I now share.
As we throttle up towards Tangtse once more, en route to Diskit, we decide to take the bypass - a decision that is made despite my protests for I'm convinced that the lone two would have gone no further than Tangtse without us. The absence of a cellular network further mystifies their whereabouts. Despite zero visual on our comrades, we keep riding - much to my agony for riding into Tangtse would add no more than 5 minutes to our progress. I'm told that we will return if we do not find them at the next tea stall a few kilometers out - a suggestion that antagonizes me even further for it is illogical to its very core.
Another storm seems to be brewing in the distance. We pick up pace. A group of bikers, presumably heading towards Pangong Tso pass us. They wave, we wave back; they wave more emphatically, we wave back more emphatically. Unexpectedly, Spiderweb halts, turns his steed around and screams over the windy din, "It's Biru! That's Biru's group." As I turn my steed around, sure enough I see Biru aka Beruoist aka Rohit Upadhyay, with his helmet now resting on his steed, waving out to us violently. He is in the company of Shadowboy and a few others I do not know. We rush up to them and what follows is a bout of screams, embraces and the sheer joy of uniting with other members of the biking brotherhood.We exchange stories, compare plans and decide to catch up at Diskit the day hence for they have yet to sample Pangong Tso and propose to spend the night along its banks.
Biru will let us in on the details of a nasty spill that threatened to cut short his journey - a skid across gravel while attempting a particularly tricky corner at high speed. Fortunately both his steed and he escaped with bruising that did not obstruct their respective functions - her's to rumble, his, to breathe. What amuses me is that two other R-15s in the said group seem to have lost one rear-view each presumably due to spills on the way, making us a total of 3 one rear-viewed R-15s in the mix.
As the wind picks up, we bid adieu to our mates in haste, with promises to reconnect the day hence. As we rev up and ride into the distance, much to our relief, the wind dies down with the storm focussing its attention elsewhere on the horizon. We stop for a few more clicks and fortunately we do, for it is precisely then that Drifter and Vishal catch up to us. They were, as I suspected, holed up in Tangtse. I do a round of finger pointing and I-told-you-so's much to my satisfaction.
As we nudge on, we stop for directions to Diskit. A local promises us to show the way, provided we drop him to a village that is en route. We agree. He climbs on to Spiderweb's steed and begins with a "take-a-right" direction. We are to discover in the moments to come that we've been had once again, for once again, the road ahead is a singular path that requires no directions. Spiderweb continues his reckless wrath as he cuts through the corners ignoring gravel and grime. We choose to keep up. At a particular juncture, Spiderweb brakes hard to ease into a pot hole. Motorbreath, without options, brakes hard and careens into a spill as his tyres give in to dust and gravel. Close at his heels, I brake in time to avoid running over Motorbreath who now lies under his steed, the steed leaking petrol by the gallon. I rush to his rescue. He seems more disappointed than shaken - perhaps of a secret wish to have a zero spill journey. He pacifies himself, reasoning that it had to happen.
The ride is more tempered now, with burly winds lashing mercilessly against our weaker frames. We finally arrive at the local's destination, perhaps in record time, given Spiderweb's angry thrusts on the throttle. I presume the local will tell tales of men in masks riding thunderous birds at speeds that mimic the wind. Or perhaps these locals have witnessed more biking than I; swindling two-wheeling junkies out for an adventure into free rides under the pretext of offering directions. It is now revealed to us what I already knew. That the pathway is singular and stretches out to our destination without any forks or cause for concern.
We throttle up once again as I slip into a callous reverie...
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