June 20th, 2010
My last memory of RomeoMike is of him turning back. I had hoped he would, although my reasons remained selfish. I did not want to be anxious over him.
We begin the ascend, Spiderweb, Motorbreath and I, in that order. We will ascend without incidence for many minutes. Through freshly scraped pathways through snow, through camps where trucks rise up in a thunderous roar, across snow and scum. If only RomeMike could have made it till here, I think aloud. The Universe teases us with bursts of snow. It won't throw up much of a challenge. Not yet anyway.
We arrive at what looks like a pathway composed entirely of snow. A gentle stream flows from within its crevices. A few locals, presumably hired hands of BRO, are busy at work shoveling snow off a nearby patch. Motorbreath hits the snowy pathway first. I follow close behind. Wrong call. This is no pathway. Merely a pond of sludge. Our steeds sink instantly, as liquid crystal begins its rise, shimmering dangerously close to my exhaust. I cannot move. The sludge grabs at my ankles and won't let go. Motorbreath, it would appear, hasn't much luck either as he pulls at the throttle in vain.
We turn around, ask Spiderweb to help us out. Spiderweb will do nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing. He will sit there, a few feet away from us in the clear, and watch us struggle against the might of nature. All requests to him to help us out will go completely unheard. We then turn to the locals and beg them to help us. They seem unwilling at first saying they do not want to get their feet wet for they intend to work through the day. They haven't the means to dry themselves. There's not a shard of wood in sight. The warm embrace of fire would be fantasy at best. They tell us that the foreigners that came before us, presumably the Poles, managed to help each other out of the sludge. I point to our only hope, Spiderweb, who sits there looking disinterested and ask the locals if they forsee us getting out of there with THAT help. They see my point and jump into the sludge, dragging us along with our steeds out onto a safer patch.
We will thank them and one by one, make our way through a long slippery pathway onto the other side, fish tailing through for the most part. As I stop to catch my breath, I run into an elderly couple enjoying the view sitting atop a Tavera. They seem American from their accents. They reveal they are originally from Poland but have lived in the United States since their teens. I tell them of the Poles that preceded us. They seems pleasantly surprised and amused for they had a conversation with the Poles as well but had no idea of their origin. They go on to tell us that the pathways on the other side of Baralacha La are completely devoid of snow. We only have a few kilometers to cover. We thank them for the information. They wish us luck. We wave and just like that, we're three revolutions closer to our destination.
We hit what seems like a gentle slope at first but are quick to realize that a stream flows through it. With zero traction, navigating against gravity will require our collective strength. This time round, we gang up. We first push Motorbreath uphill, Spiderweb comes next. I will follow close behind. But an oncoming steed, not one of our own, will slide into my pathway, fish tailing uncontrollably. I slide my machine out of the way to allow him to pass. By this time, Spiderweb and Motorbreath have hit a bend and are out of my sight. I throttle back up, with a slight sense of urgency. Wrong call. The rear slides, taking the R-15 down. It happens too quickly. I find myself buried under snow and metal.
Fortunately the engine cuts off.
I try to push the bike away, but its firmly seated on my right leg. Every push sends a seething pain across my foot which is slowly beginning to grow numb under the icy command of nature. A sense of acute claustrophobia envelopes me. I hasten to unstrap my helmet and pull it off. I breathe. I breathe long and hard. Something's not right. I hear loud thumbs just 2 feet from me. I crane to look, only to realize that the stream now grips my helmet and carries it with it down-slope as it bounces across boulder and stone.
With no traction to help me get on my feet and the might of metal pushing me against stone, I scream for help, hoping that either Spiderweb or Motorbreath is within an earshot. I hear nothing, except ripples in the stream, a sound that, to my exhausted mind, sounds more like ticking...
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Section 3: The Journey > Chapter 51: Excuse me Mr Baralacha La
June 20th, 2010
Perhaps I am in need for an excuse to commit the crime. For the Universe hands me one. There comes a vehicle from within the underbelly of the hilly embrace with denizens who advise us to go no further. The stubbornness of snow shall make our journey an impossible one, they prophesize. We convince them that we are determined to press on for want of choice. "The army has assured us of safe passage", we lie. They nod in grudging agreement. They tell us of their favourite spot at Baralacha-la, one that is invisible now for snow envelopes it all - keeping its vistas all to itself. "We could not find it, despite the fact that I come here every year!", one exclaims in a final bid to discourage us - a discouragement rooted in elderly concern I presume. We thank them for their concern and promise to ride safe.
They will offer to carry RomeoMike's saddle bags back to Sarchu to ease his burden. They will convince him of the futility to press further. In a moment of desperation, RomeoMike will turn adamant and exclaim that the best bet for him will be to stay put, and to wait for a vehicle to arrive. It sounded bizarre to me. Given that our trail had been closed for over a month, it would be a while before heavy vehicles started pouring in. A day, a few days, a week - I did not know. What I did know for sure was that if RomeoMike did not get to the safety of Sarchu by nightfall, he would freeze to death at the foothills of Baralacha-La. The terrain was unforgiving. The chill, lethal.
But perhaps he fantasized about catching up with us. Perhaps he felt he would ride with us, if only for a few moments. Perhaps he felt he could ride under the influence... under the influence of gravity, downhill on the other side of Baralacha La. All he wanted to do, all he needed to do, was ride. Just for a bit. Just to accomplish what all of us, each one of us had set out to accomplish.
But the fact was this... with dwindling fuel reserves and a few hundred rupees to support us, miles away from civilization, there was nothing any of us could do to make it happen. It tore me apart, ripped every ounce of my dignity, made me feel impotent.
And it dawned on me, that perhaps I did need an excuse. So that I may know of its futility.
I will judge myself on my actions alone. For in excuses lies no respite. Merely more self-loathing.
As I ride further, I look back one last time. I'm sorry my brother. The Universe will make me pay for this I'm sure. But I must leave you now, for I have to go find someone I lost to the Universe.
Me.
Perhaps I am in need for an excuse to commit the crime. For the Universe hands me one. There comes a vehicle from within the underbelly of the hilly embrace with denizens who advise us to go no further. The stubbornness of snow shall make our journey an impossible one, they prophesize. We convince them that we are determined to press on for want of choice. "The army has assured us of safe passage", we lie. They nod in grudging agreement. They tell us of their favourite spot at Baralacha-la, one that is invisible now for snow envelopes it all - keeping its vistas all to itself. "We could not find it, despite the fact that I come here every year!", one exclaims in a final bid to discourage us - a discouragement rooted in elderly concern I presume. We thank them for their concern and promise to ride safe.
They will offer to carry RomeoMike's saddle bags back to Sarchu to ease his burden. They will convince him of the futility to press further. In a moment of desperation, RomeoMike will turn adamant and exclaim that the best bet for him will be to stay put, and to wait for a vehicle to arrive. It sounded bizarre to me. Given that our trail had been closed for over a month, it would be a while before heavy vehicles started pouring in. A day, a few days, a week - I did not know. What I did know for sure was that if RomeoMike did not get to the safety of Sarchu by nightfall, he would freeze to death at the foothills of Baralacha-La. The terrain was unforgiving. The chill, lethal.
But perhaps he fantasized about catching up with us. Perhaps he felt he would ride with us, if only for a few moments. Perhaps he felt he could ride under the influence... under the influence of gravity, downhill on the other side of Baralacha La. All he wanted to do, all he needed to do, was ride. Just for a bit. Just to accomplish what all of us, each one of us had set out to accomplish.
But the fact was this... with dwindling fuel reserves and a few hundred rupees to support us, miles away from civilization, there was nothing any of us could do to make it happen. It tore me apart, ripped every ounce of my dignity, made me feel impotent.
And it dawned on me, that perhaps I did need an excuse. So that I may know of its futility.
I will judge myself on my actions alone. For in excuses lies no respite. Merely more self-loathing.
As I ride further, I look back one last time. I'm sorry my brother. The Universe will make me pay for this I'm sure. But I must leave you now, for I have to go find someone I lost to the Universe.
Me.
Section 3: The Journey > Chapter 50: Breaking the biker code
June 20th, 2010
An engine roars in the distance - a sound that makes me uneasy for reasons that will elude me for many moments to come. All I know now is that its 4am. I have half an hour of dreaming within reach and I intend to make good of it; although I will confess, one inherits idle dreams when one is living one. Thoughts give way to action, dreams give way to reality, hopes give way to facts, fears give way to freedom. But at 4am, philosophy eludes me as I make love to the ecstasy of thoughtlessness.
8am: I'm conscious again, just barely. The Poles have awaited our awakening patiently. We suit up lazily only to realize two things:
RomeoMike remains adamant. He will ride with us. He will push his steed through slant and slopes, but he will not be left behind. Not now, not this close to triumph. We agree to give it a try, but we must let the Poles nudge on for our progress will be slow. And so we push, for a while, through slants and slopes to conquer Baralacha-La.
As the morn turns to noon, it is becoming increasingly apparent that RomeoMike's broken steed will hinder our progress beyond all reasonable assumptions. RomeoMike's suggestion to anchor his steed to one of ours with rope is met with Spiderweb's admittance that the aging Karizma was an unwilling candidate - an admittance that amused me for by now my ears tire of hearing falsehoods of the Karizma's infinite potential. Motorbreath will give in too, a denial I find justifiable for his Pulsar runs on broken fork seals, low fuel, a minor puncture, a questionable exhaust and bald tyres. I offer the R-15 to the rescue. Unfortunately, our experiments reveal what is self-evident, the R-15 is no bull. It's anchored panels display tell tale stress signs as its 150cc engine desperately tries to pull the Pulsar up the gentlest slope. Neither will last the journey at this rate.
Spiderweb and Motorbreath seem to be ill at ease. Spiderweb will whisper - we can't go further with him, the trail ahead is exponentially tenacious - we will not last if we do not move quickly. I agree. We've only just reached the foot of the hills and it's well past noon. We have much ground to cover. What's worse, our low fuel reserves have made it impossible for us to return to Sarchu alongside RomeoMike. He will have to make the return journey alone and await help from either military vehicles or goods carriers. I'll admit, we do have an option none of us are willing to admit to - return with RomeoMike and transport every steed in a military truck. But we've come so far, so close. Our desperation to consummate the dream will seduce us to override the most fundamental biker code:
Leave no man behind.
Today, June 20th, 2010, I will fail my biking brotherhood. In a quest for personal accomplishments, I will leave this man behind...
An engine roars in the distance - a sound that makes me uneasy for reasons that will elude me for many moments to come. All I know now is that its 4am. I have half an hour of dreaming within reach and I intend to make good of it; although I will confess, one inherits idle dreams when one is living one. Thoughts give way to action, dreams give way to reality, hopes give way to facts, fears give way to freedom. But at 4am, philosophy eludes me as I make love to the ecstasy of thoughtlessness.
8am: I'm conscious again, just barely. The Poles have awaited our awakening patiently. We suit up lazily only to realize two things:
- RomeoMike's ride to Manali, a tempo, proceeded to its destination over 4 hours ago a fact that seemed all too intimate to my sleepy subconscious.
- We're fucked for, without clutch plates, neither RomeoMike nor his machine will progress beyond the first slant of the terrain.
RomeoMike remains adamant. He will ride with us. He will push his steed through slant and slopes, but he will not be left behind. Not now, not this close to triumph. We agree to give it a try, but we must let the Poles nudge on for our progress will be slow. And so we push, for a while, through slants and slopes to conquer Baralacha-La.
As the morn turns to noon, it is becoming increasingly apparent that RomeoMike's broken steed will hinder our progress beyond all reasonable assumptions. RomeoMike's suggestion to anchor his steed to one of ours with rope is met with Spiderweb's admittance that the aging Karizma was an unwilling candidate - an admittance that amused me for by now my ears tire of hearing falsehoods of the Karizma's infinite potential. Motorbreath will give in too, a denial I find justifiable for his Pulsar runs on broken fork seals, low fuel, a minor puncture, a questionable exhaust and bald tyres. I offer the R-15 to the rescue. Unfortunately, our experiments reveal what is self-evident, the R-15 is no bull. It's anchored panels display tell tale stress signs as its 150cc engine desperately tries to pull the Pulsar up the gentlest slope. Neither will last the journey at this rate.
Spiderweb and Motorbreath seem to be ill at ease. Spiderweb will whisper - we can't go further with him, the trail ahead is exponentially tenacious - we will not last if we do not move quickly. I agree. We've only just reached the foot of the hills and it's well past noon. We have much ground to cover. What's worse, our low fuel reserves have made it impossible for us to return to Sarchu alongside RomeoMike. He will have to make the return journey alone and await help from either military vehicles or goods carriers. I'll admit, we do have an option none of us are willing to admit to - return with RomeoMike and transport every steed in a military truck. But we've come so far, so close. Our desperation to consummate the dream will seduce us to override the most fundamental biker code:
Leave no man behind.
Today, June 20th, 2010, I will fail my biking brotherhood. In a quest for personal accomplishments, I will leave this man behind...
Section 3: The Journey > Chapter 49: The bright night
June 19th, 2010
There's a little morsel of happy every where. Those that come bring dreams of departure to we who wait. "Your dream will soon be a reality", I am told. I lap up stories of their travails; secretly smiling for I know now what they will soon know - their journey has just begun. The Universe has much to share, an infinite to teach.
There is an eager mix of cages and two wheels - some equipped with Go Pros to document their travels. I'm told they intend to capture everything worthwhile within the confines of High Definition. I'm told what I already know - that it is impossible to do so. For every rock tells a story, every turn brings forth the possibility of great adventure and every gust of wind mocks the impotence of our equipment reminding us, we may never capture its essence, merely document snippets of its omnipresence.
Some point fingers and make demands from the locals like masters from slaves. The locals sneer, giving us knowing smiles - 'It's ok', they seem to say - we live lives they will never have. That, for them, is punishment enough. I laugh. Yes, I think to myself, that, most certainly is, punishment enough.
A helper, a mechanic, I learn, lies in agony - a splitting headache. I share my last tablet of aspirin. "Shukriya". My eyes turn to a Sardarji who entertains a back massage from an accompanying American of the fairer sex. His ecstasy is palpable.
I head out, leaving the din of arrival behind and walk straight into the thekedar screaming at another American, asking her not to pee close to his store. Frightened, and justifiably embarrassed she disappears into the nothingness. His amusement stands in sharp contrast against my revulsion. I say nothing and walk back to my tin roof. I'm told the Poles wish to leave by 4:30am so we may make it to Manali in good time. I nod in disinterested agreement. I'm done for the day.
There's a little morsel of happy every where. Those that come bring dreams of departure to we who wait. "Your dream will soon be a reality", I am told. I lap up stories of their travails; secretly smiling for I know now what they will soon know - their journey has just begun. The Universe has much to share, an infinite to teach.
There is an eager mix of cages and two wheels - some equipped with Go Pros to document their travels. I'm told they intend to capture everything worthwhile within the confines of High Definition. I'm told what I already know - that it is impossible to do so. For every rock tells a story, every turn brings forth the possibility of great adventure and every gust of wind mocks the impotence of our equipment reminding us, we may never capture its essence, merely document snippets of its omnipresence.
Some point fingers and make demands from the locals like masters from slaves. The locals sneer, giving us knowing smiles - 'It's ok', they seem to say - we live lives they will never have. That, for them, is punishment enough. I laugh. Yes, I think to myself, that, most certainly is, punishment enough.
A helper, a mechanic, I learn, lies in agony - a splitting headache. I share my last tablet of aspirin. "Shukriya". My eyes turn to a Sardarji who entertains a back massage from an accompanying American of the fairer sex. His ecstasy is palpable.
I head out, leaving the din of arrival behind and walk straight into the thekedar screaming at another American, asking her not to pee close to his store. Frightened, and justifiably embarrassed she disappears into the nothingness. His amusement stands in sharp contrast against my revulsion. I say nothing and walk back to my tin roof. I'm told the Poles wish to leave by 4:30am so we may make it to Manali in good time. I nod in disinterested agreement. I'm done for the day.
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