yes yes...

OT:
btw, we are meeting this saturday for Thai Curry meet right?? Please try to bring Aman's cam picks

Actually judging from the fact that this thread has over 8050 views it was 7977 this morning), its being read for sure, albeit silently by many. I even post this on the Motoroids forums where it has 3000+ views so yeah, be rest assured people are reading our story And what thank you and all. I thought it was my job to do so. I was the official documentation in-charge remember? ;-)

Well, been quite busy these days *office office*, but being a silence reader here on forums and FB. Must say.. you haven't lost your touch, fantastic write-up so far.

P.S.: Guess, we 3 are the only people reading/posting on this page. But really thanks to Alankar for aptly putting each and every experience we 3 have been though.

P.S.2: Quite a long P.S. it^^ was...

Aaaaaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

DONE!!! Lets start planning.

Oops sorry, we dont plan, the other aliens do...

Spideeeyyyyyy! Ab Bhutan chalo!

FCUKIN AWESOME maan...

loved this part... FANTABULOUS!!! wotever that means

Section 3: The Journey > Chapter 26: Breathless...

June 7, 2010

It's 11am. I've missed the sunrise by a mile for the sun now stands tall, beating down my eyes. Presumably Spiderweb caught its rise; I remember only shadows from the early morning.

Last night was memorable. But it would pale in comparison to what we were to experience today; or so I hope. I cannot predict the future. It is an art I have yet to master.

We learnt a lot more about the one I know only as the man-in-question, the bleeding liar who cheated death and us of the true story. It turns out that the man-in-question was hot on the trail of the cage drivers we chanced upon on our return. His haste to beat the sun and catch up with his comrades led to his collision with sandy rubble. It is a large group we are told. About 5 cages and 8 bikes. We never saw the bikes. But we did see the cages. The group took shelter in the same hotel as we; socializing with the Americans, ignoring us, for we were Indians. What good were we Indian males without our white skins and bra-less t-shirts and our non-existent stash of weed? We weren't offended. Just amused. To be fair, they did try to get to know us in the morning. But the night, aah, that was with the Americans.

Packed up, suited up, straddled up, we're ready to roll. We notice festive celebrations at the Gompa. We are told they will run for 4 days. Too bad we are gonna miss it. Motorbreath and Spiderweb go in for a few clicks while I stay out and guard the bags. We find two adolescent monks running around the place. We ask them if we can take pictures with them. They agree on the condition that we make a donation to the Gompa. We agree and they pose like pros.








One last attempt by the Goan to get us to travel with them, one last polite decline from us and we're off. We make a pit stop at the telephone booth. Motorbreath still worries about Aman and decides he would try his cell. If Aman is in Leh, he should have network. The attempt succeeds. Motorbreath finds out that Aman made it to Leh the night prior, booked us a hotel room and turned in assuming we would make it there later that night. With the stress of Aman's well-being off our heads, we commence the ride in peace.

The gravel is no kinder today but the promise of a long sunlit path nudges us on. I learn quickly that attempting to change gears on steep gravelly slopes, especially on bends is asking for trouble; for while the clutch is in action, the machine dives into a gravitational freefall, picking up dangerous speeds in seconds. You are then faced with the option of attempting to make the bend at a ridiculous pace - often going wide and kissing the edges of the cliff with a uncomfortably high possibility of going over - or attempting to hit the brakes sending the steed into a tailspin risking hurtful falls on pointed rocks that promise to rip through the armour and into your bone. The solution I find, is to stick to the second gear and on particularly tricky slopes, to stick to the first and to not change gears when curve hits rubber. As yesterday, the progress is slow, and we aren't surprised.

We notice heavy construction machinery stationed at many points. NH-1D will, someday connect Lamayuru to Leh with flawless tarmac, opening the majestic views to all and sundry. And while most would see that as a welcome change, I dread the day when family packs frequent these roads, encourage settlements, overpower the landscape and strip it of its virginity. I laugh at my cynicism, for it is admissible to believe that the locals believe the very same of us on this very day. We don't belong there. We encroach on their lands, run our machines through their fields, leave behind unwelcome residue, in a bid to find ourselves, to amuse ourselves, to gain a sense of adventure. I'm a hypocrite and an environmental whore. I cannot judge others before I judge myself; and I deem myself guilty, guilty of my love for biking, guilty of my negligent thoughts for all else.








The pathways are pure gravel in some places, kissable tar in others. The R-15 seems to be in a little bit of a jam. The dashboard is signaling a pale yellow. My inability to understand its relevance makes me more nervous. There isn't a mechanic for miles and the machine seems to be holding up so there's no reason to halt. The army has a very large presence the path we take. Several army trucks struggle to pass each other on the narrow pathways.

The R-15 struggles on rocky gravel. Its light-weight frame is not built to counter the push from the rocks below. Each bounce off stone hits us hard. I hold the bars tightly, my chest heaving with fatigue. The Pulsar and Karizma breeze through the terrain. They are doing close to 90. I presume I'm in the whereabouts of 70, but the broken speedometer displays an impotent 0. Pretty soon, I lose sight of the two as I struggle to breathe around the specs of sand that mercilessly rape my nasal cavity.

It will be close to an hour before I find the two waiting for me at a long stretch of tar. Spiderweb, from his vantage point, could see me in the distance. They figured it would make sense for them to wait there and monitor my progress. If I fell, they would see it and return.

We pass several narrow pathways, Spiderweb honks mercilessly as he attempts to pass the unending stream of army truckers. Some let us pass like gentlemen. Some toy with us for their own amusement before letting us pass.

Several hours into the ride and he Karizma overheats yet again. Motorbreath rants "Pulsar rocks. Now we'll have to overtake all these guys again.". It never gets old. I still laugh my head off. All Spiderweb can do is raise an eyebrow.

I don't recall how long we've been riding but the Karizma seems to be in trouble yet again. It slows down unceremoniously, with Spiderweb using every bit of torque to stay on course. We are still clueless as to the cause. This time Spiderweb theorizes that its bad fuel - which coincidentally we are all using. We, Motorbreath and I, theorize the cause to be otherwise without any idea to its exact nature. Time will prove us right.

We reach Magnetic Hill with plenty of time to spare. The extraordinary claim of Magnetic Hill is that it pulls vehicles uphill against gravity through a magnetic force. One has to place the vehicle in neutral in a white box painted on the tarmac, and, if you wait long enough, the magnetic hill should pull you closer into its embrace. The truth, which can be discovered by Googling references for "Gravity Hill", is that it is an optical illusion where a downward slope, due to an obstructed view of the horizon and a peculiar topology appears to be going uphill. Even an ordinary glass or plastic round bottle would roll similarly, negating the possibility of magnetism being the force in question. At present though, we are unaware of the dynamics of the phenomenon; except that it does not work for us i.e. our steeds refuse to roll. We are informed later that had we placed our steeds a few meters behind the box, instead of in it, we would have seen movement which negated the whole point of the box and pissed me off plenty.










All we do there is pose along with our steeds in a white box which promises to show us metaphysical magic and does nothing to make good its commitment. I'm disappointed.

We push further. The Karizma struggles while Motorbreath rides up and down the long stretch declaring his freedom to whomsoever it may concern requesting me to take his picture from every conceivable angle. A few bends later, the Karizma magically springs to life. Spiderweb urges us to push as hard as we can; to make good use of the Karizma's sudden burst of health and power. Just as we are revving up, a cage passes us from the rear, rattling Motorbreath. He revs harder. I see him lean into the wind, cut resistance and zip ahead. He chases the cage for many minutes, before finally overtaking it, making it bite his dust. With his superiority established and his ego cleansed, he drops speed to allow us to catch up. We trail at a comfortable speed of 110. We are running low on fuel. My tank is near empty. We fear we might not reach our destination.

As the NH-1D flatlines into a singular straight stretch, as the rockies fall back, as the skies above fly higher, you can almost hear the winds whisper...

"Ride mother****ing *****es. Ride like its your last."

We hear it, all at the same time. We twist our wrists like we've never twisted before. The engines scream in unison. The metal bursts through the ether once more. We flatline our bodies against the steeds. My heart pounds against my chest, threatening to explode with the surge of adrenaline. My steed rumbles under me, her body quivering with ecstasy. Together, our steeds and we, rip through the Universe. 3 bodies, one soul. 3 steeds, one gigantic piece of gleaming metal rumbling across the NH-1D.

The ride lasts several minutes. The experience will last forever.

I notice boards announcing the grand view of the Indus. We stop only briefly before revving up again. Leh is within limits. We'll be there within moments and I can barely breathe...

Section 3: The Journey > Chapter 25: Going to the Gompa

June 6, 2010

42...0...56...0...120...
The numbers lie to me. The speedometer must be broken. My gut tells me I'm doing 50 kilometers an hour, perhaps a shade more. Our path snakes downward. As we run a bend, a collage of beaten and broken meets our eyes. I take that back. Broken perhaps, but certainly not beaten, for it exists. Ancient structures that have and will have seen more than I. Structures that tell a story, if only you care enough to listen.



We've hit Lamayuru. I glance only briefly at the rubble, pixellating anything that looks mildly interesting, to be submitted to consumption on a future, unspecified date. The visuals don't interest me in this present moment. It is the subject of Aman that plagues my mind. We have expected to see him here. We don't.

Could we then conclude that he has chosen to continue riding towards Leh? It seems to be a fair assessment. We cannot communicate with him though; for the cellular network does not follow us beyond Srinagar. It will wade into our beings only on our entry to Leh. We have since relied on traditional lines to reach out to those concerned.

We are now in a bind for we realize darkness will be onto us soon and we've been advised to break where we now stand, to tackle Leh the day hence. And yet, concern for he who now rides alone suggests we try to catch up with him for if misfortune were to chance upon him, he should not have to deal with it without us by his side.

Against advice, we decide to continue riding. We are quick to realize our mistake for in the meters to follow every semblance of a tar road evaporates from beneath us and gravel sends our steeds fish-tailing at every curve. We struggle to stay on course even as the course conspires against us with a deadly concoction of gravel, sand and stone. Our progress is uncomfortably slow; the sun is getting impatient.

Spiderweb, in the lead, has hit a particularly tricky curve. We watch as he slides down most of it, angling his body against the slide, using his foot to gain traction for the tyres seem disinterested in doing their job. He gestures us to stay put; wheels his steed around and returns to where we wait. What he says next is probably isn't surprising, for I know we are all thinking it. "Let's turn back. We don't know the condition of the roads ahead and these curves will get the better of us once the sun sets. It's way too dangerous."

And return we do; still wondering what became of Aman and still hoping that we might, through some stroke of cosmic luck, manage to find him wandering the streets of Lamayuru. As it turns out, we won't.



With no place to go, we pixelate more before the sun shines out.






























As we return, we are met with a group of cage drivers who head to Leh. They ask us about the conditions ahead. We tell them. They ask us about our plans. We tell them. They ask us about our journey thus far. We can only summarize. They surround us, listening in awe as we relate our experiences. We share stories, we wish each other luck, we head in opposite directions.

Spiderweb is keen on nestling in the hotel that juxtaposes the gompa up top. "The view from up above will be mind-blowing.", he says. And right he is. For no sooner do we ascend a narrow path up to the Gompa, the hills give way to a magnanimous landscape kissing the sun goodbye. The sun blushes a scarlet red; the winds sigh deeply. It will return tomorrow, and things will all be happy again. For now, we must make do with each other's company.




Spiderweb has found us a room. As always, we pay extra for we are three. A large crowd of monks has gathered outside. We are not vain enough to assume it is for us that they gather. They seem interested in the happenings down below, from whence we came. Something's amiss but we cannot be sure of its nature. As we unbuckle our bags, there is a sudden burst of activity as a male, bleeding from every conceivable pore is carried into our midst. Tourists, not unlike us, gather around. Someone asks for a med kit. A tattoo artist within the group predictably has antiseptics which are used to cleanse the wounds. One tourist tells me the story. It turns out that the man in question lost control of his four-wheeler over a bend, skidded off the road, the vehicle sumersaulting twice before it hit the sandy edge breaking its fall. There were 5 others with him in that vehicle and they all survived with minor injuries. The monks were down there trying to rescue them from the vehicle. The man in question claims his brakes had failed him. Somehow I do not believe him. I had noticed this bend even as we entered this landscape. It was a tricky one for it curved in quite briskly, an unpleasant surprise at our speeds, but a lethal one as greater speeds. I suspect the man in question did what everyone else does in the roads below, drive irresponsibly. But that's just my guess. I'm asked if I can help ferry a few monks from down below. I accept. Motorbreath and Spiderweb get our luggage into the rooms while I ferry a monk to the spot and ferry one back to the Gompa. The monk spends time with me, asking me about my origins, my history, my plans for the future. It's like having a conversation with a grandfather who doesn't judge you and offers nothing but peace, friendship and understanding.










As the day dawns to a close, I head on to our room finding the two boys resting their tired bodies. I join them as I allow the events of the day to sink in. Spiderweb suggests we go down and get something to drink, have dinner and sleep early so that we can wake up to marvel at the sunrise. I'm thinking "Yeah, like that's gonna happen."

The hotel has a rather large cafeteria. The tourists we met before, American it would seem, have nestled into one large table. They seem to be having a good time as one of them paints moustaches and fake eyebrows and patterns on their faces using a marker. I'm glad they are there for their presence brings life to an otherwise dull cafeteria.





We decide to call home before getting down to drinking and dining. I'm too tired to ride; Spiderweb takes control of the R-15 while Motorbreath brings his Pulsar along. I ride pillion. We find a telephone booth in the main market which comprises of two stores. Motorbreath makes unending calls while Spiderweb and I admire the scape and ogle at some local maidens. Many calls later, we return.

Motorbreath begs for a swig of Old Monk. But they don't have any. The best they have is a rum called Chinar. Retailed price Rs. 125/- Price offered to us Rs. 450/-. Spiderweb takes two (!) one for the night and one as part of our survival kit. The hotelier appeals to the Indian within us to not share the rates with the Americans. I presume they are being screwed for a much larger amount than we are. We agree.

An Indian amidst the Americans joins our table. He asks us where we come from. We tell him. He shares that he is from Goa. That he spends time running a restaurant there during peak season and spends some of the remainder in Lamayuru, with the rest being spent pretty much wherever he wants. The tourists, he says, he found them in Leh, convinced them that he could show them a good time, helped them hire Enfields and guided them down to Lamayuru. We are told they plan on heading back the next day towards Leh and we could join them if we so preferred. We politely decline claiming we must leave early. Truth be told, we firmly believe the Enfields and the riders on them would impede our progress.

As the night progresses and the rum takes effect, the discussions turn deep. We share stories of life, of death, of love, of love lost, of hate, of anger, of resentment, of disillusionment, of the futility of it all and of hope. We share thoughts on God and the Universe. We bond, we breathe, we *****. We drink some more. The cuisine is delicious. We run up quite a bill. But none are remorseful. For the first time, in a long time, we sit comfortably at a table together as one; no grudges, no complaints, no anger; just the pure excitement of being deliciously close to our destination... Leh.

Oye, you seem to have disappeared from the online world (not that I've been following FB much). Hope all is well. As for writing, yeah, guilty as charged. Too much has been happening on work which takes the shit out of me. All I can do at the end of the day is go to bed! Hopefully I'll get to late before the year ends ;-)

Now when can we expect the same from you??

Spideeeyyyyy! Write whenever you have time and energy. Will wait for it. In fact I would suggest you ride PRECISELY because of your miseries. Writing allows you to relive the moments. Its a good escape from the daily routine and a good escape from your existing reality (if that hurts you so much). Even a half hour of writing in a day can put you in a good mental zone which sort of lingers throughout the day. Try it, if it works, great! If it doesn't, nothing lost (and we get to read an additional chapter of your blog ;-) )!

Good to read my own memories in your words, same time regretting not writing it myself for Am stuck in my own miseries of this stupid life...

DONT STOP...

Hey Makky! Long time indeed! And yeah I was gloveless for a good part of the ride (not the best idea i know). And it wasn't really laziness per say, just that it took WAAAAAY too long to put the gloves back on and I was clicking photographs on practically every turn (it ALL looks so good!). Which is why I figured that if I wanted all the photos I wanted AND keep up with the guys, I would have to go gloveless. Again, I wouldn't recommend it, falling down on those rocks without gloves could easily kill my fingers but at the time it seemed like a good idea. :-P

Hey Alankar, how are doing? Long time!

Were you gloveless? Insanity!!
I guess that you are of those lazy asses who hates to take off and put on the gloves before and after 'clicks' respectively.