Hugging Leh on two wheels

The relationship between mountains, motorcycles and motorcyclists is an interesting love triangle. One where each respects, conquers, and is humbled by the others.

In the late 1990s the idea of riding a motorcycle from Delhi to Leh was considered clinically insane.

And with good reason too. One, there was hardly any road, and whatever did exist was treacherous enough to rip out suspensions and entire engine blocks. Two, support (medical, technical, or any kind for that matter) was out of the question. And three, it was simply unheard of.

Fast forward to 2013, and the roads in Himachal Pradesh and Jammu & Kashmir are slightly better. Only slightly, because you can spot a few flawless patches of tarmac along entire lengths of un-tarred (or worn away) roads. Police and Army personnel camp out at the major stopover points and they have medical facilities; and thanks to communication technology, help is not too far away (most of the time).

But even now the idea of riding up to Leh is considered a bit insane. The downhill traffic includes speeding cars and SUVs packed with tourists, who litter the place liberally. State transport buses zoom past like they have the right to knock anyone off the cliffs.

If it’s raining, you encounter landslides, waist-deep slush, streams criss-crossing patches of broken road, slippery tarmac from melting snow and a host of other perils.

But in spite of all the deterrents, motorcyclists have taken this route. From Delhi to Leh, and right up to Khardung La — the highest motorable road in the world. At times from other cities like Bangalore, Baroda or Mumbai as well. And many of them are Bullet riders. They own the mountains, and will continue to do so until the BMW GS, Aprilia Dorsuduro or Triumph Tiger motorcycles become accessible to enthusiasts in India.

In 1997, a handful of riders participated in the first edition of the Royal Enfield Himalayan Odyssey. The Bullet manufacturer enjoys a cult following, and in the following years the Odyssey became one of the most coveted rides among Royal Enfield loyalists.

The Bullet is the first ever bike I rode and I have been a fan, although not a hardcore one. This year, I hopped on one and joined 99 other riders on the 10th edition of the Himalayan Odyssey.

The riders have to necessarily be physically fit — 50 push-ups and a 5-km jog daily are the norm. The hostile terrain also calls for protective jackets, elbow and knee caps, spine protection, and riding gloves, boots and helmet. The motorcycles have to be in good nick too. Sure, there was a support vehicle and a doctor tagging along but, undoubtedly, it was best to be well-geared in the first place.

We were flagged off from New Delhi’s India Gate and, feeling rather like warriors setting out for battle on iron steeds, it was a goosebump moment as we rode out in formation.

Over the next ten days, we rode on every kind of terrain one could possibly think of and did not stop even in the face of hostile weather — after all, that was part of the challenge and fun.

After the smooth highway on day one, we encountered some of the steepest mountain curves and heavy traffic en route to Narkanda. But we didn’t complain — because we knew the worst was yet to come.

From Narkanda to Manali the roads were slippery due to rain and progress was slow. The fog reduced visibility just when we had to cross the Jalori mountain pass.

The rest day in Manali was eagerly welcomed, by rider and bike. Over steaming cups of tea, the riders got chatting. For Murtaza Bawahir, Abhijit Kantak and Kinshuk Mishra this backbreaking odyssey was their much-needed ‘me-time’ — a break from everyday affairs in the company of their beloved Royal Enfield. Adventure junkies Kaizad Gandhi and Pawanjeet Singh Judge, both aged 21, just wanted a taste of the mountains. Others like Shakti Manyal and Mani Verma wanted an excuse to get back on the motorcycle.

We travelled from Manali over Rohtang Pass to reach Keylong. It took us half a day to complete the 130-km journey. The bad roads tested our bikes’ endurance (by this time, we had stopped caring about our own endurance) and the fog moved in and out erratically as we slowly climbed uphill. But what really slowed us was the tourist traffic. From kilometres away we could see the looping roads dotted with white cabs and SUVs.

Every time a motorcycle in our group had a puncture or a breakdown, we took the opportunity to gather around teacups and laugh at life’s little cares.

Our tryst with high-altitude sickness began on the way to Sarchu. By the time we climbed to Baralacha La (16,000 ft), some of us had headaches and nausea from the lack of oxygen. Some engines, too, struggled to breathe. In places we had to cross icy streams — those who accidentally touched the water with their boots experienced mind-numbing pain. We laughed away this too, over a glass of Old Monk, which for some reason was everyone’s favourite drink on the trip.

At Sarchu, we brushed the ice off our Bullets, warmed up the engines and set out for our favourite part of the odyssey — Leh. A first-time visit for most of us, we were happily oblivious to the splitting headaches that the Lachulung La pass gave us. Nor did the poor road condition and the speeding tankers on the tight hairpin bends at Gata Loops deter us.

Entering More Plains, we encountered pure bliss. Wherever one looked, it was vast plains, gigantic snow-capped mountains, and skies so blue they seemed surreal.

Riding over Tanglang La, at 17,500 ft, we knew we were almost there. Climbing down to Upashi, we fortified ourselves with tea and momos for the last 50 km to Leh. On this stretch many of us experienced pure ecstasy… some had tears in their eyes, while some were simply at peace.

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