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.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Section 3: The Journey > Chapter 48: Idle-ology
June 19th, 2010
The night was brutal. I haven't slept a wink. The combined effect of the frigid cold and the constant rattle of our tin roof has made me nauseous. I will stay in bed long after the rest have exited. Several hours later, I will emerge from the enclosure only to find Motorbreath, RomoeMike, Spiderweb, in that order, sitting in the middle of the lone road leading out of Sarchu, doodling on the tar. Amused I ask them of their intent. The intent, I'm told, is none. The motivation, I'm told, is boredom and lack of options. I laugh and join them. I have a headache. I hold a deadly mix of Rum and Royal Stag to be the culprit. "You shouldn't be mixing your drinks", says one amused Pole. I thank him for his timely suggestion as I splash my face with icy water only to regret it.
The remainder of the day will bring forth no event of note. We'll only have a semblance of excitement when RomeoMike will disappear for several hours leaving us wondering as to his whereabouts. He will return claiming he was at the army base camp trying to determine options to transport his steed to Leh or Manali. Then there is the incident of Motorbreath finally deciding that he could hold it in no longer, walking uphill for 15 minutes to find a suitable and secluded spot, eventually resting behind a big boulder and returning refreshed, rejuvenated but without a hint of water on his hand. He will drink from my bottle of water and when asked if he washed after wiping, he will grunt, walk to a nearby tap and unwillingly wet his hands with a few drops. I will not touch the bottle of drinking water from that point on. But I will grin at the thought how far the bed-begging, wont-sleep-in-the-mud Motorbreath had come in the course of this journey. Perhaps too far in my opinion.
RomeMike goes on to inform me that the army expects to have trucks crossing Baralacha-La over the next few days. However, the timing is uncertain. I rejoice at the thought of our finally being able to cross-over. But as day turns to dusk, information starts pouring in that we might have to hold on for a few more days. With money running out and no ATM for miles, we were beginning to feel the pinch. We'd last a couple of days more at best. And the next time we try, we better make it through for we were on our last few drops of fuel.
The Poles have invited us to a game of cards in their tent and perhaps a round of drinks. Spiderweb, Motorbreath and RomeoMike will head in their direction. I will prefer to give it a go for I am intrigued by the stories of he who runs the theka. He starts a fire using horse dung as fuel. He speaks of his experiences in Ludhiana. He advices me to bask in the sun more often - for it will, he says, make my bones stronger. He asks of my martial status and advices me to find me a bride. I ask him of his family - he tells me of his wife and child back in Ludhiana. He comments on my mates. Remarks that while RomeoMike seemed quite and sensible, Motorbreath should perhaps smoke less, and Spiderweb, he says, talks too much, boasts too much, but is, in his opinion, isn't capable of much. I laugh but say nothing.
Time flies in the company of his stories, his trysts, his hopes and his dreams. I smile a smile I have not smiled in years. A smile of peace and happiness. Here I am, with no place to go, no desire to go, in the company of one I've just met, and yet come to trust as my own.
It's past midnight. I am about to call it a night, but suddenly I see shadows scurrying in the distance. I hear someone scream. We're caught off guard. I cannot see what the source of interest is. We move closer to the fire wondering if it is a carnivore they see. It is then I hear my companion scream "Oh teri! Oh teri!". He points towards the mountains in the distance. What I see dumbfounds me. I see it! I see it! As clear as day! The unmistakable view of beams of light moving through the mountains towards us. It's happening!! It's happening!!
Baralacha-la is open!
The night was brutal. I haven't slept a wink. The combined effect of the frigid cold and the constant rattle of our tin roof has made me nauseous. I will stay in bed long after the rest have exited. Several hours later, I will emerge from the enclosure only to find Motorbreath, RomoeMike, Spiderweb, in that order, sitting in the middle of the lone road leading out of Sarchu, doodling on the tar. Amused I ask them of their intent. The intent, I'm told, is none. The motivation, I'm told, is boredom and lack of options. I laugh and join them. I have a headache. I hold a deadly mix of Rum and Royal Stag to be the culprit. "You shouldn't be mixing your drinks", says one amused Pole. I thank him for his timely suggestion as I splash my face with icy water only to regret it.
The remainder of the day will bring forth no event of note. We'll only have a semblance of excitement when RomeoMike will disappear for several hours leaving us wondering as to his whereabouts. He will return claiming he was at the army base camp trying to determine options to transport his steed to Leh or Manali. Then there is the incident of Motorbreath finally deciding that he could hold it in no longer, walking uphill for 15 minutes to find a suitable and secluded spot, eventually resting behind a big boulder and returning refreshed, rejuvenated but without a hint of water on his hand. He will drink from my bottle of water and when asked if he washed after wiping, he will grunt, walk to a nearby tap and unwillingly wet his hands with a few drops. I will not touch the bottle of drinking water from that point on. But I will grin at the thought how far the bed-begging, wont-sleep-in-the-mud Motorbreath had come in the course of this journey. Perhaps too far in my opinion.
RomeMike goes on to inform me that the army expects to have trucks crossing Baralacha-La over the next few days. However, the timing is uncertain. I rejoice at the thought of our finally being able to cross-over. But as day turns to dusk, information starts pouring in that we might have to hold on for a few more days. With money running out and no ATM for miles, we were beginning to feel the pinch. We'd last a couple of days more at best. And the next time we try, we better make it through for we were on our last few drops of fuel.
The Poles have invited us to a game of cards in their tent and perhaps a round of drinks. Spiderweb, Motorbreath and RomeoMike will head in their direction. I will prefer to give it a go for I am intrigued by the stories of he who runs the theka. He starts a fire using horse dung as fuel. He speaks of his experiences in Ludhiana. He advices me to bask in the sun more often - for it will, he says, make my bones stronger. He asks of my martial status and advices me to find me a bride. I ask him of his family - he tells me of his wife and child back in Ludhiana. He comments on my mates. Remarks that while RomeoMike seemed quite and sensible, Motorbreath should perhaps smoke less, and Spiderweb, he says, talks too much, boasts too much, but is, in his opinion, isn't capable of much. I laugh but say nothing.
Time flies in the company of his stories, his trysts, his hopes and his dreams. I smile a smile I have not smiled in years. A smile of peace and happiness. Here I am, with no place to go, no desire to go, in the company of one I've just met, and yet come to trust as my own.
It's past midnight. I am about to call it a night, but suddenly I see shadows scurrying in the distance. I hear someone scream. We're caught off guard. I cannot see what the source of interest is. We move closer to the fire wondering if it is a carnivore they see. It is then I hear my companion scream "Oh teri! Oh teri!". He points towards the mountains in the distance. What I see dumbfounds me. I see it! I see it! As clear as day! The unmistakable view of beams of light moving through the mountains towards us. It's happening!! It's happening!!
Baralacha-la is open!
Section 3: The Journey > Chapter 47: A big setback
June 18th, 2010
3 pm: The clouds are already encircling us. I don't like the way they beleaguer us. We've re-saddled and re-commenced on our course. We won't move but two inches though, for just round this bend, where we previously did not see, lies another sheet of ice. This time round though, Spiderweb suggests we power through adding that I should perhaps try first cause the R-15 is the lightest of the lot the consequence of which is uncertain to my logic. Nevertheless I decide to power through. With a little help, I make it to the middle, but I'm not going to make it out. My rear wheel badgers snow into slush; my steed sinks deep. Throttling, predictably, worsens the situation. RomeoMike suggests we create a rocky path across the snowy bed to give us traction. We find a few flat stones, but not enough to level the snow. The oxygen remains thin, we tire quickly. We can push no more. We can go no further. We realize that even if we did manage to pull through this sheet of snow, there's no telling how many more we will find further along. The Universe is turning hostile on us, the winds meaner. We have neither strength, nor support to push against it. There's is not a soul within our site. We will not survive the night in this terrain. Return we will.
There's a more immediate problem to solve though. My steed stands immobile, clutched within the sweaty palms of a deviant slush. With our throats parched, our chests heaving, we have neither courage, nor strength to rescue it. We idly stroll along a narrow path and find a pond - its surface rich with scum. So thirsty am I, that I push away the scum and take deep sips of the foul water. Spiderweb follows suit. Motorbreath and RomeoMike though will play it safe. On return, RomeoMike will manage to pull my steed out of the snowy rubble by grabbing on the wheel and yanking it across the sheet in a surge of adrenalin rush.
We make our way downstream. Motorbreath complains of a chest pain. I can see why for I can barely breathe as well. We must head back to Sarchu.
As we continue on our way, I notice RomeoMike is trailing. I let him catch up and ask him, "What's wrong? Why are you riding so slow?".
"I think I burnt out my clutch pads. My steed won't roll."
This last piece of news will break everybody down. Motorbreath will suggest we return to Mumbai via Srinagar. Spiderweb will remain silent, but I can see he contemplates the option. RomeoMike says nothing, reveals nothing. I'm no better. Eventually I will find myself saying, unwillingly, that perhaps we should differ making rash judgements, spend another day in Sarchu and then take a call.
The ride back is cumbersome, for RomeoMike's steed will need support to keep rolling. Eventually we will reach Sarchu, find our way to our hosts tent and get back under the sheets. From the looks of it, we have company. The Poles have made it to Sarchu. Three of them find their way into the tent as well. Pretty soon we are engaged in a conversation with them.
While Spiderweb, Motorbreath and RomeoMike discuss India/Pakistan relations with two of the Poles, I find out more about their journey so far from one other. He tells me they've been travelling for six months in those six months they have visited every corner of North India. They did not all begin the journey together and they will not end it together. They do not share the same destination. Some will depart tomorrow for a mountaineering expedition deep into the Himalayas while the remainder will continue riding to Chandigarh from whence they will board a train, transporting their steeds - Enfields purchased in Delhi a few weeks ago - as cargo to Mumbai. They will eventually, I am told, ferry their bikes into Dubai and then find their way into Poland through whatever channels necessary, biking wherever possible.
Our conversation moves to alcohol and he shares that whilst in Poland it is common for him to begin the day with a drink. He clarifies that the alcohol only gives one the illusion of warmth and in fact causes the body to lose heat. However, the illusion is sufficient to allow him to get out of bed. It is the physicality of the everyday routine and a large portion of meat that gives him the necessary warmth through the day. He adds that he usually avoids alcohol in the night for the very same reason - a motionless ie sleeping body which is also losing heat on account of alcohol is a recipe for disaster - a leading cause of death amongst the homeless in his country.
Eventually as is expected, the conversation converges to women which is always a fun topic of discussion.
Two more Poles join us and ask me if I can help them get a store-house for 4 days to keep their luggage whilst they are away mountaineering. I speak with a local and she says she has space in her shed. When I ask her of the rate, she says "Anything you find OK.". I communicate the same to the Poles and they agree to pay her Rs 400 for 4 days. She accepts it gladly.
The mountaineering duo will thank us with Rum and cigarettes. Spiderweb, in a drunken stupor will ask us to settle the amount for the Rum stating that he will eventually foot the entire bill and that we (the Poles and us) should consider this his treat. He never will foot the bill.
As night falls, we retire to our shed. Once again, our lights go out to the din of a shuddering shed...
3 pm: The clouds are already encircling us. I don't like the way they beleaguer us. We've re-saddled and re-commenced on our course. We won't move but two inches though, for just round this bend, where we previously did not see, lies another sheet of ice. This time round though, Spiderweb suggests we power through adding that I should perhaps try first cause the R-15 is the lightest of the lot the consequence of which is uncertain to my logic. Nevertheless I decide to power through. With a little help, I make it to the middle, but I'm not going to make it out. My rear wheel badgers snow into slush; my steed sinks deep. Throttling, predictably, worsens the situation. RomeoMike suggests we create a rocky path across the snowy bed to give us traction. We find a few flat stones, but not enough to level the snow. The oxygen remains thin, we tire quickly. We can push no more. We can go no further. We realize that even if we did manage to pull through this sheet of snow, there's no telling how many more we will find further along. The Universe is turning hostile on us, the winds meaner. We have neither strength, nor support to push against it. There's is not a soul within our site. We will not survive the night in this terrain. Return we will.
There's a more immediate problem to solve though. My steed stands immobile, clutched within the sweaty palms of a deviant slush. With our throats parched, our chests heaving, we have neither courage, nor strength to rescue it. We idly stroll along a narrow path and find a pond - its surface rich with scum. So thirsty am I, that I push away the scum and take deep sips of the foul water. Spiderweb follows suit. Motorbreath and RomeoMike though will play it safe. On return, RomeoMike will manage to pull my steed out of the snowy rubble by grabbing on the wheel and yanking it across the sheet in a surge of adrenalin rush.
We make our way downstream. Motorbreath complains of a chest pain. I can see why for I can barely breathe as well. We must head back to Sarchu.
As we continue on our way, I notice RomeoMike is trailing. I let him catch up and ask him, "What's wrong? Why are you riding so slow?".
"I think I burnt out my clutch pads. My steed won't roll."
This last piece of news will break everybody down. Motorbreath will suggest we return to Mumbai via Srinagar. Spiderweb will remain silent, but I can see he contemplates the option. RomeoMike says nothing, reveals nothing. I'm no better. Eventually I will find myself saying, unwillingly, that perhaps we should differ making rash judgements, spend another day in Sarchu and then take a call.
The ride back is cumbersome, for RomeoMike's steed will need support to keep rolling. Eventually we will reach Sarchu, find our way to our hosts tent and get back under the sheets. From the looks of it, we have company. The Poles have made it to Sarchu. Three of them find their way into the tent as well. Pretty soon we are engaged in a conversation with them.
While Spiderweb, Motorbreath and RomeoMike discuss India/Pakistan relations with two of the Poles, I find out more about their journey so far from one other. He tells me they've been travelling for six months in those six months they have visited every corner of North India. They did not all begin the journey together and they will not end it together. They do not share the same destination. Some will depart tomorrow for a mountaineering expedition deep into the Himalayas while the remainder will continue riding to Chandigarh from whence they will board a train, transporting their steeds - Enfields purchased in Delhi a few weeks ago - as cargo to Mumbai. They will eventually, I am told, ferry their bikes into Dubai and then find their way into Poland through whatever channels necessary, biking wherever possible.
Our conversation moves to alcohol and he shares that whilst in Poland it is common for him to begin the day with a drink. He clarifies that the alcohol only gives one the illusion of warmth and in fact causes the body to lose heat. However, the illusion is sufficient to allow him to get out of bed. It is the physicality of the everyday routine and a large portion of meat that gives him the necessary warmth through the day. He adds that he usually avoids alcohol in the night for the very same reason - a motionless ie sleeping body which is also losing heat on account of alcohol is a recipe for disaster - a leading cause of death amongst the homeless in his country.
Eventually as is expected, the conversation converges to women which is always a fun topic of discussion.
Two more Poles join us and ask me if I can help them get a store-house for 4 days to keep their luggage whilst they are away mountaineering. I speak with a local and she says she has space in her shed. When I ask her of the rate, she says "Anything you find OK.". I communicate the same to the Poles and they agree to pay her Rs 400 for 4 days. She accepts it gladly.
The mountaineering duo will thank us with Rum and cigarettes. Spiderweb, in a drunken stupor will ask us to settle the amount for the Rum stating that he will eventually foot the entire bill and that we (the Poles and us) should consider this his treat. He never will foot the bill.
As night falls, we retire to our shed. Once again, our lights go out to the din of a shuddering shed...
Section 3: The Journey > Chapter 46: A small start
June 18th, 2010
"Motor tu puri raat hawaa gandi kar raha tha! (Motor, you were stinking up the air all night!)", exclaims RomeoMike. To be fair, we were all guilty. The excruciating cold, the alcohol, the semi cooked meals - had all taken their toll on us.
We jump out of bed, and take turns visiting the john. Motor has yet to excrete. Its been two days and he still won't go. I presume his constant worry about the hygiene conditions and his shyness to just "go anywhere" have put him in a perpetually constipated state. All this will change by the day next, but let me not get ahead of the story.
We scurry through the sparse population in a bid to determine if Baralacha-la was open to scaling. We are informed that while some snow has been cleared its still improbable that we might make it through. Most, if not all reports are discouraging as are our hosts. Most will tell us stories of those that came before us, waited for as many as 20 days and returned from whence they came. One army cadet will respond to our overconfident, "We are going to make it through Baralacha-la today", with an equally cocky, "Sure, take a round and come. I'll see you later in the day."
I notice my fuel indicator is way below the half-way mark. I won't last long. But then again, I assume, naively, we don't have much to ride. "We will certainly find fuel once we reach Manali and I have about enough to get there.", I assure myself.
Bidding farewell to our host, we blaze on. A few minutes out, we are pulled over at an army checkpost. The guard suggests we turn back. The road is not open to the public, he says. I ask him to let us pass - pointing out that we are short on fuel and and cash. We cannot afford to spend another day in Sarchu. We have no choice but to pass. Of course I exaggerate. But the guard takes our word for it, smiles, nods and lets us pass.
Realizing this is probably the last of our adventures, we take things slow - we take many breaks, pose some, chit chat some and ride some. We cross a brook on the way. Gentle in its demeanor, confrontational in its embrace - for it throws our steeds around on its slipper bed making it apparent that our presence in its path was unwelcome.
We have not ridden long, perhaps a little over 6 kilometers, mostly flat terrain. But no sooner do we begin our ascend, we are stopped short. For on a narrow path, our only way up, lies a thick sheet of snow - promising to engulf our engines should we attempt to pass. We try to move the snow with our bare hands, but realize quickly that we fight a losing battle. The altitude has us parched for oxygen. Our chests heave with a few pulls on puffs.
I sit steadfast on my steed as we consider alternatives. In the plateau below, I now notice an alternate pathway that I did not notice before owing to a motored cage blocking its view. The cage had since rolled back towards Sarchu and the pathway lay bare before us. The path seemed to connect to our current path, ahead of the snow and into the clear. We decide we'll take it.
As we approach the path though, we double back in horror for what appears to be a path from where we once stood is a gentle stream flowing down the curves. With a now shy sun, the clear liquid reflects none; its dark wetness the only visible evidence of its presence. As we close in on it though, the liquid is revealed. Nature, the magician, takes a bow as we stand dumbfounded at its feet. Not willing to give up, we decide to push our steeds upstream and get back on the road. I estimate it would take us no more than 5 minutes.
45 minutes into the ticks, the last of us makes it to the top - breathless, beaten. It takes an extreme combination of engine power, muscle and pure adrenalin to push our steeds against gravity, against the slickness of melted snow, against the treachery of rolling rock. But we make it nonetheless. RomeoMike begs Motorbreath to go downslope and fetch his bag - unsaddled to reduce weight. Motorbreath delegates the task to me. I remind him, I'm 33 years old, he's all of 23 or perhaps a shade more. Perhaps he should reconsider his proposition, I suggest. He is, however, unable to move. Our oxygen starved bodies have sent our heart rates spiraling. The surprising lack of oxygen (we have only begun to ascend), keeps the heart beating loudly, endlessly, dysfunctionally, uselessly. I grin and agree to do the needful, if and only if Motorbreath puts an end to his wisecracks on the subject of my age (he has made many, whilst in the company of Aman). He agrees.
Walking downslope that day, I say to myself, "You're a long way from growing old. Look at you, you walk lock-step with those a decade younger." I bring RomeoMike his bag, one painful step at a time. We are all drained. Each of us maxed out, though glad we made it. Little do we realize, our problems have only just begun...
"Motor tu puri raat hawaa gandi kar raha tha! (Motor, you were stinking up the air all night!)", exclaims RomeoMike. To be fair, we were all guilty. The excruciating cold, the alcohol, the semi cooked meals - had all taken their toll on us.
We jump out of bed, and take turns visiting the john. Motor has yet to excrete. Its been two days and he still won't go. I presume his constant worry about the hygiene conditions and his shyness to just "go anywhere" have put him in a perpetually constipated state. All this will change by the day next, but let me not get ahead of the story.
We scurry through the sparse population in a bid to determine if Baralacha-la was open to scaling. We are informed that while some snow has been cleared its still improbable that we might make it through. Most, if not all reports are discouraging as are our hosts. Most will tell us stories of those that came before us, waited for as many as 20 days and returned from whence they came. One army cadet will respond to our overconfident, "We are going to make it through Baralacha-la today", with an equally cocky, "Sure, take a round and come. I'll see you later in the day."
I notice my fuel indicator is way below the half-way mark. I won't last long. But then again, I assume, naively, we don't have much to ride. "We will certainly find fuel once we reach Manali and I have about enough to get there.", I assure myself.
Bidding farewell to our host, we blaze on. A few minutes out, we are pulled over at an army checkpost. The guard suggests we turn back. The road is not open to the public, he says. I ask him to let us pass - pointing out that we are short on fuel and and cash. We cannot afford to spend another day in Sarchu. We have no choice but to pass. Of course I exaggerate. But the guard takes our word for it, smiles, nods and lets us pass.
Realizing this is probably the last of our adventures, we take things slow - we take many breaks, pose some, chit chat some and ride some. We cross a brook on the way. Gentle in its demeanor, confrontational in its embrace - for it throws our steeds around on its slipper bed making it apparent that our presence in its path was unwelcome.
We have not ridden long, perhaps a little over 6 kilometers, mostly flat terrain. But no sooner do we begin our ascend, we are stopped short. For on a narrow path, our only way up, lies a thick sheet of snow - promising to engulf our engines should we attempt to pass. We try to move the snow with our bare hands, but realize quickly that we fight a losing battle. The altitude has us parched for oxygen. Our chests heave with a few pulls on puffs.
I sit steadfast on my steed as we consider alternatives. In the plateau below, I now notice an alternate pathway that I did not notice before owing to a motored cage blocking its view. The cage had since rolled back towards Sarchu and the pathway lay bare before us. The path seemed to connect to our current path, ahead of the snow and into the clear. We decide we'll take it.
As we approach the path though, we double back in horror for what appears to be a path from where we once stood is a gentle stream flowing down the curves. With a now shy sun, the clear liquid reflects none; its dark wetness the only visible evidence of its presence. As we close in on it though, the liquid is revealed. Nature, the magician, takes a bow as we stand dumbfounded at its feet. Not willing to give up, we decide to push our steeds upstream and get back on the road. I estimate it would take us no more than 5 minutes.
45 minutes into the ticks, the last of us makes it to the top - breathless, beaten. It takes an extreme combination of engine power, muscle and pure adrenalin to push our steeds against gravity, against the slickness of melted snow, against the treachery of rolling rock. But we make it nonetheless. RomeoMike begs Motorbreath to go downslope and fetch his bag - unsaddled to reduce weight. Motorbreath delegates the task to me. I remind him, I'm 33 years old, he's all of 23 or perhaps a shade more. Perhaps he should reconsider his proposition, I suggest. He is, however, unable to move. Our oxygen starved bodies have sent our heart rates spiraling. The surprising lack of oxygen (we have only begun to ascend), keeps the heart beating loudly, endlessly, dysfunctionally, uselessly. I grin and agree to do the needful, if and only if Motorbreath puts an end to his wisecracks on the subject of my age (he has made many, whilst in the company of Aman). He agrees.
Walking downslope that day, I say to myself, "You're a long way from growing old. Look at you, you walk lock-step with those a decade younger." I bring RomeoMike his bag, one painful step at a time. We are all drained. Each of us maxed out, though glad we made it. Little do we realize, our problems have only just begun...
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