Goes like a tractor…

was the mantra for the bike while climbing up long winding roads with the single-piston engine popping between my legs. I haven’t ridden all that many bikes in my life – I don’t even have a license – so the deeply primal satisfaction of having this machine thrust me through time and space while revving on par with my heartbeat… was unprecedented. These moments of joy – pure unadulterated exhilaration at being alive – easily compensated for the frustrating hours when she wouldn’t run at all. The combination of (mostly) sealed roads, 6000m sacred peaks, deeply cut ravines channelling ferocious waters, and the bike loaded and purring like a huge cat out on a leisurely prowl… This is Life! She may be “made like a gun”, but when she “goes like a tractor”, I’m a happy camper. Her distinctive tone was imitated often in various towns where I might stop for a chai. An old man wheeling his barrow of fruit across the street, seeing me pull up, would strike a pose, arms outstretched holding imaginary handlebars and suddenly he WAS a Bullet… “Gada gada gada…”

Bullets have an air of authority here, particularly in the remote areas where they are rarely seen. One could feel like a Raja on his elephant striding through tiger laden jungles, while actually putt-putting self-consciously through main streets in remote towns. Everyone stops, everyone looks. I try not to feel too James Deanish, as I roar out of town, sunglasses often the only protection on my sunburnt head.

After three landslides and two mechanics in Kinnaur, I found myself riding a road with a sheer drop of 500 to 1000m; and the accompanying thrill of knowing that a mistake on a sharp bend here is a quick lesson in the finer points of free-fall. I imagine I’d have time to say “Oh Fuck!” at least a dozen times, while admiring the view on the way down. Fortunately, I managed to keep both wheels on the tarmac, until I got to Mulling Nulla that is… but more about that in a minute.

It was at the town before Mulling, YangThang (honest… that’s what its called, and not a Shiva-ling in sight) where I was relaxing with a hot sweet chai, when I saw Neil stride up. We had met the day before, waiting for a landslide to be cleared at Puh. He was part of a group of cyclists – mostly Poms – who were doing Kinnuar/ Spiti/ Ladakh on their treadlies. They had a bus and jeep as back-up for their 13 strong pedal crew, and over a chai at the road block (its a sad day if you can’t find someone in India to make you a chai!) he told me about their mis-adventures thus far. All good stuff, as a travel story isn’t a story without some drama. We laughed at the vicissitudes of life on the road, and waved each other off as the road was finally cleared at 7 in the evening. I went straight to Puh, where I knew I should be able to stay with Shamsher Negi, an old acquaintance and a local of considerable means. He put me up, fed me, and poured fine Scotch whisky into my glass ’til late. Neil and co had ridden off in search of a campsite, some seven hours behind schedule.

So here he was the next day. Striding up, he sat down and ordered chai (of course) and proceeded to tell me about his night. They had ridden 10 kms in the dark before deciding to put the bikes on top of the bus and make for the next town, Nako. Neil had stacked them himself like a set of toppled dominoes, putting his on last. Some hours later, they were roused to the sound of metal grinding into rock… as the bus tried to negotiate a rock overhang at some speed. About this time they also realised they were on the wrong road and were now also lost. Eventually they made their way to Nako and inspected the damage… 5 bikes badly mangled, Neil’s the worst. Oh well, what to do… they managed to salvage four of the bikes by cannibalizing Neil’s. He decided he was just about over cycling anyway… I could easily have sold him a Bullet right then and there if I’d had one to sell. (The next time I saw him, he’d also succeeded in spraining his ankle, while stepping off the “Span”)

The Span: a particular highlight for me, as this was the one time I got to see the bike fly through the air without disastrous consequence. Just near Yangthang, at the place called Mulling Nulla, the Himalayas did to the road what the Chinese have been trying to do to the Tibetan people; removed it without a trace. And just to make sure that it would stay that way, the mountains kept a continual parade of boulder and rock the size of buses rumbling down every few minutes. T’was quite a spectacular place to sit and contemplate the nature of impermanence, which I did for about 4 or 5 hours. My reasons were less than enlightened, however; I was simply determined to get to the other side of the gorge… today. I was dependent on a strand of steel cable that stretched across the void and disappeared into the distance – and the obnoxious operator of the bucket that made the three-minute journey, whenever he would allow it. He was most keen for me to spend the night at back at Nako, (I later found he owed a guesthouse) and I was most keen to continue my journey and get to Tabo as soon as possible. Controlling the only means of traversing this part of the national highway, the Span-operator seemed to have developed a sense of self-importance disproportionate to his shoe size…. so I resolved to sit, wait and stare him down.

As I’ve already said, it was an interesting place, and to partake of the flow of human commerce over this tenuous link was most fascinating. Watching the “bucket”, a five by three foot steel cage suspended by two pulleys, send the post, bring back mother and babies, send some luggage, return with an Australian tourist… all to the sound of rolling stones… had me enthralled. Eventually, about 5 p.m., he relented and begrudgingly let me and my luggage into the bucket, promising to send the bike over next. We then proceeded to have a huge argument about the price… I was genuinely low on rupees, having not been able to change any money in Kinnaur, and he was trying his best to extort as much money out of me as he could. We settled for all the rupees that I had, bar 50 paise (about 2 cents). This was exactly enough to buy exactly nothing, even in India, but it took on symbolic value as the last of my money. I figured if I could get to Tabo finally with only 50 paise in my pocket, then I had succeeded on that leg of the journey. (It’s small challenges like these that keep small minds like mine entertained.)

The ride across wasn’t as terrifying as I thought it might be. The view was spectacular, and I could look straight down through my legs and the 6-inch gaps between the bars at the chaos several hundred meters below. The ride actually finished too quickly and I had to clamber out and wait for the bike to (hopefully) follow. Soon enough I saw her sailing through the air. I couldn’t see until she was already half way, the distance being so far, but she had kept her poise and floated across with dignity… as if Bullets were meant to fly!

Now, an hour of daylight left and two hours of road, I quickly loaded up again and we were off. Not being able to afford the three rupees to stop and have chai provided further incentive to ride “hammer and tongs”. I rode her like a noisy fart into the wind to reach my favourite place in all the Himalayas… Tabo, with its 1000 year old monastery and monks I had known for eleven years. Like a grand homecoming, (it had been a month since I had left, promising to be back within a week) I was made very welcome and given my old room back. I borrowed 50 rupees from one of the monks so I could go and have dinner, put the cover over the bike, and settled happily back into life in my 2nd home.