Why we ride motorcycles – Part 1

“Guys, at some point we need to take a practical call.”

Delivered in P.’s characteristically nonchalant manner, this was the unwelcome yet eminently reasonable conclusion we had been dreading as we made our way towards the snow-clad Darma Valley, base camp of the hallowed Panchachuli mountain peaks. We had been warned of black ice on the road by road-workers at our last halt in Urthing just a few minutes ago; with only a couple of hours of daylight left, what had seemed a calculated risk was becoming folly. The sensible thing would be to take the safe option: turn our bikes around the way we came and stay the night in Urthing. We had even reserved a room in the exceedingly humble “homestay” we had stopped at in anticipation of this. To continue onwards on such treacherous terrain would be foolhardy, with nightfall heralding sub-zero temperatures and no visibility.

“Let’s see how it is a bit further. If it is like this, we turn back.”

Came the calm response from C., our trip captain. Once said, there was no questioning it. We had just negotiated our first steep ascent on the only path to the valley that had been cut in anticipation of a road that was yet to be paved. Studded with rocks, debris, mud, and slush, it was an off-roaders’ paradise – in the summer. In February, with snowfall that had only recently abated, sections of the rocks and puddles had frozen over to create a hard-packed icy surface. Without specialised tires the result was a complete loss of traction: no grip to push the bike uphill, and no friction to stop it gliding and gaining momentum coming downhill. I had experienced this once before on another ride with C. a year ago in the mountains of Himachal. The kind of panic that gripped me then, and which came back vividly to me now, is comparable to the vertigo you feel when you stray too close to the edge of a tall building.

For C. to turn back now would be to admit defeat and miss the entire point of the trip. Darma Valley was the Holy Grail, the big red cross on the map – without it, our adventure was just another run-of-the-mill mountain escapade. The Panchachuli mountains are a collection of five perennially snow-capped peaks that crown India’s western border with Nepal. The Valley, serving as its base camp for treks and expeditions, is remote from civilization due to the non-existent road and inhospitable conditions in the winters. We knew that our accommodation there – should we make it – had no running water or phone signal. It is the kind of destination adventure-minded motorcyclists dream about, both for its own experience and for bragging rights. To come so close and not make it would be more than a disappointment; it would knock us down a peg or two from our own estimation of our spot on the riding totem pole.

I had more to worry about than missed bragging rights. Once again I had brought my Frankenstein’s monster of a motorcycle to a journey it was entirely unsuited for; except this time, it was not going to end in fond memories and a mischievous sense of achievement. My Royal Enfield Continental GT 650 was a factory cafe racer that I had converted into a “scrambler” by replacing its street-oriented clip-ons with adventure handlebars. It was my first motorcycle; having totaled it in a bad accident, I refused to replace it with a more sensible adventure/off-road model out of an obsessive attachment to its gleaming chrome tank, beautiful air-cooled twin-cylinder engine, and dual exhausts. I called it “Mad Max” because it looked like it had been crudely repurposed for a post-apocalyptic wasteland. And I was all the more attached to it since I had done this crude repurposing all by my amateur mechanic self.

The other two were riding the Royal Enfield Himalayan, a lightweight and rugged adventure motorcycle that was purpose-built for such expeditions with long-travel suspension, an ergonomic stance, and gnarly off-road tires designed to gain maximum traction on unpaved surfaces. My bike, on the other hand, mimicked a sports-bike without the fairing, and had tires so slick you could barely see the tread on them when they were caked with mud. While they could ride over the worst patches without shifting in the saddle, I had to stand on the pegs and grip the bike awkwardly between my ankles to avoid being jolted out of the seat with every bump – which on this trip had come at a punishing speed and frequency.

So when Mad Max got stuck on that first rocky ascent, triggering P.’s call for a practical decision, I was all for it; if only to avoid the embarrassment of turning back later and the terrifying prospect of handling the bike on ice. And while C.’s calm directive to proceed relieved me of some of the responsibility for eventual failure, I complied with a sense of serious misgiving. I was only reassured by the presence of these two stalwarts and the knowledge that whatever we would suffer, we would suffer together – with no blame taken or fault allocated.

To be continued