This is it folks, From Manali, to Dharlamsala, to Delhi, to London, to San Francisco.

  Just making it to Manali was enough of an accomplishment that I wasn’t interested in more exploring. I wanted a hotel with hot water and internet and decent restaurants, with more than Chana Masala and Mo-mos.
  Manali met all these requirements, but just barely. The Vashisht area, near Anu’s shop is like a high altitude version of the Venice boardwalk. Fun to visit, but you wouldn’t want to stay there.
  After hanging with Anu, spending the night at a $15 hotel, and doing my best to dry out the boots I was ready for one last day of riding. The road from Manali to Mandi to Dharamsala is really spectacular. Not like the severe snow covered peaks that we had been riding, but like lush river valleys spotted with small Indian villages.  There were plenty of Yaks and goats in the road, and buses and trucks competing to drive the most erratically, and weird choke points where a road they consider a highway gets diverted through the downtown area of a small town. But all in all it was a nice and mellow 6 hour ride.

  Arriving in Dharamsala in the afternoon was a little difficult. I was unaware that the month of June is peak tourist season for the town, and that there was a Buddhism conference involving the 4 main groups of Indian Buddhism. Also it was the Dalai Lamas birthday. I was hoping for a nice quiet town, with nothing much happening and nothing going on after 7 pm. But it didn’t work out that way. It was basically Spring Break for Buddhists. They were everywhere. Luckily I had booked a room in advance at the Pema Thang hotel, in the center of town, and I was on a motorcycle, and by now was thoroughly accustomed to riding in India. The last 10 miles of road were bumper to bumper traffic, each car creeping along when the car in front would scoot up. Around each turn I was expecting to see an accident or road construction, but it just kept going and I just kept passing them all, up the center of the road.
  Dharamsala is actually an area of several different towns, but the main one, where the DL lives, is called Mcleod Ganj. It’s a tiny little town built on the peak of a mountain, the only room to expand is vertically, if youre ok with building on the side of a cliff. There is one road in and all those cars were going there. Every one of them was heading for a strip of town about the size of a large car dealership. But without parking.
  Once I had parked the bike around the back of the hotel it stayed there for the rest of my time in India. I could have taken it out to explore some amazing temples and villages, but the chaos in town was too overwhelming. I would generally head out early, before the crowds built up, and then get back to the hotel and hide for the rest of the day. Then I would venture out again at night to find dinner, but that rarely worked out well. The food was amazing, but all the restaurants were so overwhelmed that they were lucky just to keep up. It is pretty cool to join random folk at a table, because that is the only chair available, and have the other chairs rotate with monks, Sikhs, Indian tourists, European tourists and even a couple of Americans occasionally.

  The two highlights of Dharamsala were the Dalai Lamas 80th birthday and a lecture from a monk who’s name I couldn’t pronounce, in a language I didn’t understand.  The DL’s birthday was like a Van Halen show in a church built by Escher. There was the inner temple, a small temple in an upper courtyard, where the DL was hanging out listening to old monks, wearing silly hats,  scream stuff in Tibetan while an endless line of monks, diplomats and Bollywood stars waited to give him the gift and a high five for being so awesome. The prime seating was on the ground in the upper courtyard, and it was filled with monks that had clearly camped out overnight to get such a sweet spot. The outer, or lower courtyard was filled with the slacker monks and expats that were somehow involved with this Buddhism thing. There were thousands. All the other weird little extensions and inexplicable areas were also filled to the brim. There was basically a conga line of people that were all looking for a place to sit. We would make it past the metal detectors and the pat down, and then follow the line of folks making their way up the stairs to the courtyard. It was so crowded that you couldn’t see more than about 20 feet and had no idea where you were actually headed, but the line would keep on creeping along. I noticed another line of monks that seemed to be making more progress than the line of the lost, which I was in, so I jumped over there. I wasn’t wearing red robes, but I was rocking a similar hair style, and I don’t think anyone really cared anyway. That fast moving line bypassed all the confused masses and deposited me between the velvet ropes that were being used to create a little distance between the crowds and the DL in his inner temple. I suppose I looked like I knew what I was doing, so the military guards didn’t stop and arrest me. I managed to get all the way up to the entrance of the inner temple, and see the Dalai Lama sitting there in red and yellow, smiling like he hadn’t been doing this for 5 hours already. I could have tried jumping into the line of folks who were getting to see him up close, but that would really have been a dick move. Those folks were all there for a reason, and they had probably earned the right to be there, and they had gifts. I had none of that, and my dream of giving the DL a high five didn’t really justify me forcing my way in there. I suppose I had found a line I wouldn’t cross.
  Cameras and phones were not allowed in the Temple, so I downloaded photos from the interwebs so you could see part of the slacker section.

  The next day I was invited to a lecture. A friend of a friend has been living in Dharamsala for the last 10 years and studying Buddhism. I looked him up and he suggested I come check it out. It was by a monk who’s name I cant remember, and couldn’t pronounce. But it began with a soft G….. The topic was the Two Truths, and it was interpreted by the first official female monk, a woman named Kelsang. Her native language wasn’t English, but she did an amazing job of explaining to us what this guy was talking about. For two and a half hours he muttered in Tibetan in a manner that was similar to reciting scripture. He would mutter for a couple of minutes, then she would confirm that she understood what he was saying in Tibetan, and then she would break it down for us.
  He was reciting the writings that described the different ancient Buddhist schools and their different interpretations of the Two Truths, if I got it right it basically goes like this.
  Theres the Ultimate Truth, but that can only be found in Emptiness, which is the idea that nothing exists, except in relation to something, or anything else. Then there’s Relative Truth, which is what we think we see and experience. Within Relative Truth there are real and unreal truths. A table is an unreal Relative Truth, because when you deconstruct it, it ceases to be a table, it’s just smashed wood. Water is a real Relative Truth, because when you break it down its still water.
  But then Kelsang mentioned that this isn’t in fact true, if you break water down it is hydrogen and oxygen. So he changed his position and declared that water is now an unreal Relative Truth. Ive heard that the Dalia Lama is big on accepting that many ancient teachings don’t hold up against modern science and has been actively making adjustments or consolations to reduce conflicts. I think I just saw one of those happen.
  Then things started getting deep and I got totally lost. Within the realm of Relative Truth the mind can be aware of mistakes or misperceptions, and these are unreal Relative Truths, but the minds awareness of this situation is, and always will be, an Ultimate Truth.
  Two and a half hours of this and all I can confidently tell you is that the Ultimate Truth is to be aware that anything we perceive is just our perception of that thing, and the Relative Truth is what we think that thing actually is. And we’re probably wrong about that. Just as Im probably wrong about this.
  The lecture was held in a section of the temple that was used for schools and administrative offices and cut-throat ping pong games. The sounds of the game and the cheering of the spectators created a nice contrast to the seriousness of the lecture.

  I met some fun people, and I had some interesting experiences, and I didn’t ride the Bullet even one time. Then the morning came and I took a taxi to the small regional airport that serves Dharamsala and got on another propeller powered plane to Delhi. This time I went directly to my room in the Ibis Hotel, at the DEL airport and I stayed in there from 4 PM when I arrived, until 10 AM the next morning, when it was time to head for a flight to London.

  I had one night layover in London. Usually I go for East End, for the lesser class, more colorful neighborhoods. But the flight landed at 4 PM and the departure was midday the next day, so I booked a cheap hotel near Paddington station, (exactly ten times the price of my hotel room in Dharamsala), and jumped on the express Heathrow train which would take me directly there. I figured I could drop my carry-on bag, jump on the tube and go wherever I wanted.
  It looked good on paper, but halfway to Paddington the Express train stopped. For an hour. Then reversed and took me back to Heathrow. There had been a jumper at one of the stations on route and most of the London Tube system was in disarray. I didn’t get to the hotel until 9 PM and I was so beat that all I could do was walk down the street to a random steak house and have a pepper steak. It wasn’t great, but after 3 weeks in India, eating only vegetables, it hit the spot. I was so excited to get back to all the conveniences of civilization, but I had forgotten about all the little things that drive us all crazy in big cities.

  My amazing wife, Laura, picked me up at the airport in San Francisco and didn’t even have a hard time recognizing me. I had lost 15 pounds and was rocking a hipster beard, but she recognized me because I was the only guy at the curb that was jumping up and down and screaming ‘Baby Baby!!!’ when she was driving by.
  Being back in the Bay Area is pretty great after nearly a month in Northern India. We have it so good here. Restaurants that probably won’t make you sick, roads that are paved, with traffic that actually moves. The electricity at our house doesn’t get turned off during the daylight hours, and our internet access isn’t blocked when a politician comes to town. People seem to be happy with their lives, and seem to be looking forward to something.
  There are exceptions, but Im trying not to be one. We were driving on HWY 1 on Sunday and there was a guy losing his mind, honking his horn and hollering and waving his fist because someone had the nerve to change lanes in front of HIS car. I don’t want to be that guy. And I hope that my time on the Ladakh ride helps me remember that the next time some bastard decides to change lanes in front of MY car.
  Im not thinking much about adventures at the moment. I check the surf report and then go out anyway, try and get some work done. Look at the pile of motorcycle parts that Ive been intending to assemble into a running bike. Think about building a hot rod again.
  But sooner or later I know Im going to want to do it again. But where? Mexico, India, USA, and Western Europe are covered. Whats next?

  Do you have any suggestions?

  We made it back to Leh, from Pangong Lake, I was pretty wiped out from my high altitude issue. We spent the next day repairing the bikes, getting haircuts, and generally relaxing before we attempted to cross over the Khardung Pass.

  Naturally I was apprehensive, after my experience crossing the Changla pass. Dehydration is a major factor in AMS, so I drank 2 liters of water and some electrolyte supplement that Ian gave me. I bundled up super warm and made sure that all my gear was organized so I wouldn’t need to mess around while we were up over 17,000 feet. And it worked.
  We made it to the top of the pass with no issues, and even spent a few minutes taking photos and wondering why my GPS said we were only at 17,500 feet, but all the signs said it was 18,380… After researching this I have come to the conclusion that the sign is wrong. I suppose you can reach this height if you climb up the hill behind the sign, but it seems that the road itself is a mere 17,500 feet.
  The road after the top was a little stressful. Very steep hills, loaded with snow that looked really heavy and ready to come pouring down. There was a lot of evidence of previous avalanches, so it seemed pretty clear where the really dangerous areas were. Putt-putting along on a motorbike seemed like it had positives and negatives. The putt-putt of the exhaust might set off an avalanche, but the bike itself could hug the inside wall of the cliff and hopefully not get taken over the cliff with the snow if there was a small avalanche.  Obviously we didn’t get taken over the cliff by any avalanches or landslides, and who knows, maybe that is partially because we were all concerned about it and did whatever we could to keep a low profile and get out of there as quickly as possible.

  At the bottom of the pass, after the outpost of Khardung, the Nubra valley opened up like a land out of time. We were asked if we had Inner Line permits, but simply saying Yes was enough, they didn’t actually ask to see them. It was like we had just crossed a harsh and difficult pass to enter a secret valley that was warm and protected, beautiful and isolated. The first town was called Diskit and there is a large monastery with a huge Buddha statue. The monastery was founded 700 years ago and is still very active. The town itself was kind of beat, so we passed through pretty quickly. The next town is called Hundar and its known for sand dunes and double hump camels. It is unique because most places with large areas of sand dunes are generally really hot, but the dunes at Hundar are generally really nice. People can go hiking around the dunes, riding camels, and all without roasting themselves.
  We began looking for a camping spot in Hundar, but couldn’t really find much. The fact that an honest to god sand storm whipped up in the afternoon was partially responsible. It was really hard to find anything that would act as a shelter against the gigantic brown clouds of sand that were blowing down on us. Eventually we settled on an area of dried river bed that had a lot of really thorny and spiny brush that we could hide behind and a river nearby that we could use to wash our cooking pans. It actually worked out pretty well except for the thorn that popped a hole in my camping mattress.
  The next morning we had a decision to make, did we want to go ride camels and thrash around in the sand dunes, or ride to the end of the valley and see if we could get into Pakistan.

  I had heard interesting things about Turtuk, the last town in the valley. It had been so isolated for so long that they still spoke a language with no written alphabet. It has been closed to tourism from 1947 to 2010.
  The rest of the guys all wanted to hit the dunes and camels in the morning and then head back over the pass. They had flights booked from Leh to Delhi and if for some reason they didn’t make it back over the pass that day they would probably miss them.
  I had no such issues, so I took off and headed for Pakistan, intending to meet back up with them the next day. I made it as far as Turtuk, and the last Indian Army check point before Pakistan. I didn’t even bother trying to get past that check point. I stopped for a tea and a snack nearby and watched the check point, and it was clear that they were very serious and checking everyone for proper paper work. Which I did not have.
  Turtuk was beautiful, a small village with a lot of green farms and very friendly people. All the kids would come out and wave when they heard a motorcycle coming, none of the drivers tried to run me off the road, and I could see why people would want to spend time there. Very peaceful. But I couldn’t find an internet café, or any way to communicate while I was there, so I thought I might have time to make it back over the Khardung pass if I pushed it.
  I made it back to Diskit by about 3 PM, but that was getting a little bit late to try for the pass so I spent the rest of the afternoon riding around looking for a camping spot. I crossed over to the other side of the valley and rode through many small towns, but there really weren’t any good camping spots. I was hoping for sheltered, near water, and not next to a road. I found many with 2 out of 3, but none with all 3. So I wound up at a hotel in a town called Sumur. I rode up, and asked if they had electricity. Yes. Did they have internet. Yes. Did they have hot water. Yes.  How much was the room? Well… they tried for 3000 Rupees, about $50. After we settled on 1/3 of that price, as long as I had dinner in their restaurant,  I unpacked the bike and settled in. I was looking forward to taking a hot shower and relaxing, but the hot water that they did indeed have, came in a bucket, and only in the mornings… Then the sandstorm came up and took out the power and the internet.  I was the only guest in the restaurant for dinner and the helper boy stood at the wall and watched me the entire time, ready to bring me more rice, or chapatti, or pretty much anything that looked like it was running low. You might think that its nice to have a personal attendant, but I think Ill stick with the Western dining experience whenever possible.

  The next morning I did receive my bucket of hot water, but I was anxious to get over the pass as early as possible. I wanted to get ahead of the trucks and taxis. I was on the road by 6 am and was crossing over the pass way ahead of everyone else. It was really nice, I had the road to myself almost all the way to the top of the pass. By the time I was half way up there were a couple of cars oncoming, but I didn’t see a single vehicle going my way until I had crossed over the top and was coming down the backside. At the lower check point, the unmanned one where we had all stopped to take photos on our first attempt to cross the pass, there was a road block.
  A group of local motorcycle renters have decided that its not ok to ride a motorcycle over the Khardung pass unless you have rented it from them. Basically its like highway robbery. They are telling tourists that they need to park their vehicles and only ride bikes rented from locals while in the region.
  The guys at the blockade had already called Anu and told him they knew there were 5 foreigners riding his bikes in Leh, but they didn’t say anything to us when we were together. When there was just one of us, me, they had enough confidence to stop me and try to convince me that I should give them money. I had other ideas though and simply rode through them; I had kept the bike in gear, with the clutch in, and when the conversation got to the point where I was asked to get off the bike because it had out of state plates I just started moving. They managed to jump out of the way and not pull me off the bike, but I expected them to hop on their bikes and chase me down. They didn’t. They did call Anu and whine that someone on one if his bikes wouldn’t stop for them.
  I had known that this might happen, these guys have been doing this for years. I was hoping that one of them would hit me, or some sort of minor violence might occur, which I could escalate into a minor international incident. Because what they are doing is pure bullshit. Its not like we are paying an additional tax to a local government organization, it’s a bunch of guys cornering people and scaring them into paying up. I can only imagine that a lot of more civilized foreigners fall for it and don’t fight back. They are a bunch of bullies. Once I was back in Leh we all went walking along Changspa road, hoping to see some of the guys, or rather, hoping they would see us, but naturally they were nowhere to be found. Punks.


  The next day we sorted out the bikes, dropping them off at a safe location to be picked up by Anu once the Baralacha Pass, on the road to Manali, was opened. The rest of the guys all had a 5 am flight to Delhi, and I had set up my bike to head to Manali as soon as the pass was cleared of snow and opened to regular traffic.
  My Bullet’s starter had stopped working a week before and it was burning so much oil that no one would ride behind me, so I actually pulled the racks off and put them on Rex’s bike which had been the most reliable of all 5.
  I had news that the Baralacha Pass had opened on the 15th, the same day that the guys were flying out to Delhi, so about 3 hours after they headed to the airport I headed South, to make for Manali with the bike and complete the Ladakh circuit, the 3rd of my goals on this trip. First was crossing Khardung La. Check. Second was seeing Pangong Lake, check. And finally, completing the circuit.

Manali – Srinagar- Kargil- Leh- Baralacha la- Manali.

  The next morning we are ready to roll. It is approximately 40 Km to the top of the Khardung La pass, the (formerly) highest motorable road in the world. Technically there are 3 or 4 higher passes in the nearby area, but all of them either go into Tibet, or are in Tibet, making them difficult to use for pretty much anyone. That whole India/China/Tibet thing is still a touchy subject for many of the nearby military people. And Buddhists worldwide.

  Knowing that this was, technically, the highest motorable road that actually goes to a place that we can go, in the world, it was pretty much at the top of our To Do list. So we Did.

  About 10 Km out of town we passed a non operative check point that had signs about being on the highest motorable road in the world, so we all stopped and took photos. About 15 Km further on we came to an operative checkpoint with the gate down and a decent line of trucks and cars all parked and waiting for the gate to go back up. Of course we rode past all the cars and trucks to the front of the line, ducked our heads under the gate, and parked the bikes to see what the situation was. An avalanche had occurred on the backside of the pass and killed 2 women in their car. While that was being sorted out the whole road was shut down. With no estimated time of opening.

  It was about 10 Am, and another destination, Pangong Lake, was a half days ride South of Leh. Rather than sit around and hope that the Khardung pass opened we turned the bikes around and headed South.

  The road to Pangong was your average Indian highway for the first hour or so. A two lane road passing through small villages, with occasional temples and monasterys to keep things interesting. Trucks, cows, donkeys and tourists in hired taxis, all going as fast as possible and making random turns when you least expect them to. But once we turned off the highway, to cross over the Changla Pass, the roads became fun again. Less traffic, more turns, Himalayan peaks and high desert valleys. Similar amount of cows and donkeys in the road.

  I knew the Changla Pass was significant, but I didn’t know that its actually kind of a big deal. It is 17,500 feet and considered the second highest motorable road in the the world. Naturally we all stopped at the peak and climbed up the hill until we were out of breath. It didn’t take long for me at all. The air up there is really thin. The sun is so strong that it felt really good to sit in the snow and soak up the heat, but when you step into shadow it’s the same feeling as when you leave a heated room and step outside into a cold night. When you take a deep breath it’s a little disconcerting because you can feel your chest and lungs expanding, but the sensation of air moving in and out isn’t there.  We lasted about 15 minutes before we all jumped on the bikes and started down the road. Maybe 20 minutes.

  Further down the road we hit the valley of the Shyok river, which was unexpected, but amazing. It was a long valley, with lush green areas and sandy dune –like areas.  For about an hour we were following the river on its winding path down from the glacier where it originated, then around a bend, there was the lake.

  Pangong lake is a long and skinny lake that conceals the borders of India, Tibet and China. The Western end of the lake is clearly in India, and the Eastern , in China. But in the middle is a section of Tibet, and because of the whole Tibet/China thing, pretty much nobody is allowed to go there. The actual borders are also somewhat fluid, no one seems to agree where the lines actually are.

  Boats are not allowed on the water, and it’s effectively a dead end road once you get to the lake. This means that its still pretty undeveloped. There are no time shares or TGIFridays. No para-sailing boats or swimming with dolphins style activities. There are a few Dhabas and a few campgrounds. The Dhabas all have photocopied menus that look like they were pirated from restaurants in Leh, but don’t bother reading them. They don’t have most of the listed items. Just ask what they do have and choose the vegetarian option. The campgrounds are not the KOA style parking lots where you can pop up a tent and mingle with other wayward adventurers. They look like Bedouin camps with big communal tents surrounding the one bathroom. I hope you are a people person if you ever stay in one.

  The lake and the surrounding mountains are amazing. So severe and barren that it might be another planet. No plants or bushes, calm water and steep peaks, still covered with snow. No people, or sign of people as far as the eye could see. There was somewhat of a road along the lake, but it didn’t seem to get much traffic and we didn’t see any cars pass by while we were camped along the shore. Windy, and cold, but camping there was worth it. Waking up and looking at the sun rising over those peaks was epic. I did bring some swimming trunks, with the intention of taking a dip in the lake, but the reality of it was that water was really cold. And the air was too. I don’t know if I would have been able to warm up again if I had gone in.

  The ride back was eventful for me. I saw funny little cows, shorter than our motorcycles, with long shaggy fur, and I got AMS. Acute Mountain Sickness is a cute way of saying altitude sickness. Our initial run over the pass was so easy that it never occurred to me to even think about it, but this time we took a little break at the top. The typical condition of the road had thrashed Simons bike to the point that the frame had broken and the seat and rear fender were falling off, so we made a stop at the top while he used zip ties, hose clamps, and hope to try and hold it all together for the journey back to Leh. While I had more cold weather gear in my bags, I didn’t bother to put it on; I thought we would be on the top for a couple of minutes, and then moving along. After about 15 minutes I had lost feeling in my hands and feet and was breathing like I had just climbed ten flights of stairs. A few more minutes and I was getting a little nauseas, a little bit more time and I was becoming disoriented. Not dizzy and confused, but more like unconcerned with what was happening around me. And then I just wanted to go and lay down, maybe catch my breath and take a little nap. It was that type of exhaustion you get when you are really really cold and you don’t even feel the cold anymore. The kind of nap you don’t really wake up from. The rest of the guys noticed me shivering and acting stupid, so they sent me on my way, with Ian to keep an eye on me.  My GPS shows altitude, and I made notes that at 15,500 feet I got my breath back, and at 14,000 feet the feeling returned in my hands and feet, but I was exhausted and out of it for the rest of the day, and some might argue that the stupidity still hasn’t left.

  We made it back to Leh with no more issues, and spent the next day getting haircuts and fixing the bikes. Again.

Our arrival in Srinagar, the evening before, meant going straight to the hotel and collapsing.

The HiVay King group on Facebook, a group dedicated to sharing road conditions and itinerary tips in India, had steered us towards a semi shoddy hotel on Boulevard rd. In this case Semi shoddy was a step up. We had been expecting full shoddy.

  The first move the next morning was a trip to the Srinagar airport to become reunited with my baggage. Virgin Atlantic had finally found the bags, shipped them to Delhi, and the team in Delhi had forwarded them onto Srinagar, to await my arrival.
  Chris and I caught a cab to the airport and spent an hour standing around until they finally took me into the back so I could prove that I was me and the bags were me too. But, eventually, I had my bags, with my gear!

Boulevard rd is a stretch along an inlet of Lake Dal, in Srinagar, which is famous for the houseboats. The houseboats of Srinagar aren’t like the houseboats Ive seen in North America. They are more like gigantic mobile homes that might or might not be floating. While it is possible that they are in fact sitting on the muddy bottom of the lake, it is sure that they are indeed surrounded by water.

  Many are adorned with the intricate Hindi carvings that you see in ancient temples, and many are less detailed and look like giant floating hot dog carts, but it seems that all of them have rooms for rent.

  We were walking along the lakefront, checking out the shops selling shawls, dhabas selling fried food, and masked men carrying automatic weapons, when we decided to go for it, and take a Shikara ride.
  Shikaras are these banana shaped boats with colorful awnings and a dude with an oar paddling in the back. Rex and I took one boat, Ian, Chris and Simon in another.
  The nice thing about these boats is that once you leave the dock you become a magnet for all the hustlers selling the hand carved wooden things, the newly manufactured antique jewelry, and shawls you already looked at on the shore, as well as the houseboat owners that have a deal worked out with the driver. Its basically like a time share tour, but you’re on a boat and cannot escape.
 But, we did get approached by a boat selling chicken skewers, and another selling soft drinks and beer. That was allright.
  And we got to tour 2 mobile homes, I mean houseboats. A fancy one that had 3 bedrooms, each of which renting  for about $60 a night. It looked like a dumping ground for the shiny and glittery stuff that Liberace passed on. The second was much more simple, half the price, and came with an Indian family. It would have been much more fun than the first.
  We had found spare paddles on the boats and had a race back to the dock. Rex and I lost by half a length, but that’s probably because Chris stole the good paddle from our boat while we were touring the houseboats. Or was it Ian….?

  Once we were back on shore we wandered into the Srinagar Market area to see what sorts of controlled substances could be gotten at the local pharmacies. I was able to find Diamox, for altitude sickness, but nothing else of interest. The other guys scored some sleeping pills that facilitated a good nights rest while camping in the middle of a rocky mining road at high altitude, more on that later.
  We also managed to track down one of Srinagar’s two liquor stores. Being a primarily Muslim, and secondarily Hindi community, the whole alcohol thing is strongly discouraged. Very strongly.
  The liquor store was basically a combination of a malarial infested swamp, a meth lab, and fight club. Luckily our Tuk tuk drove through the swampy lagoon at the end of the unsigned alley, so we could get to the cages in the courtyard filled with trash and indigents. Chris was able to smoothly negotiate and hand off the money for the beer through the cage that was protecting the liquor from the locals, and the whole experience did not lead me to think that this would be a great time for me to start drinking again. Weird.

  The Tuk tuks are kind of fun too. They are not called Tuk tuks, and don’t seem to like it when you insist on calling them Tuk tuks. They are also set up somewhat like a rolling confessional, with security curtains to prevent the unwanted gaze of unbelievers, and the little flappy door to this confessional can only be opened from the outside. They are also not big enough for 3 men. See photos.
  After a fun day exploring the wonders of Srinagar, and not riding motorcycles, we packed up our gear and prepared for an early start, we wanted to get beyond Kargil and find a nice camping spot to spend the night on the way to Leh.

  After the beating we took on the road into Srinagar, the road to Leh was a cake walk. The Zoji La pass was maintained by the military, and even though there was plenty of snow they managed to keep most of it off the road. We stopped for Tea at a winter park with skiing and snowmobiles. Simon found a small river flowing beneath the snow and proved to us once and for all that Bullets do not float. Im sorry we doubted him. Once in Kargil we found a mechanic to weld up Ians brake pedal so he would have a rear brake and could ride recklessly in the mud and snow.

  The camping spot hunting was not as easy as Id hoped, we rode down back roads, through people’s yards, up long hills into remote villages, and alongside the river, but the best we were able to find was an abandoned mining road that probably wouldn’t have any traffic on it. So we lined the bikes up across the road and spread the tents out on the least lumpy of the rocks. Thanks to the exhaustion of a full days ride, and those sleeping pills I mentioned, we made it through the night and woke up ready to complete the ride to Leh.

  The next day was pretty great, we had lunch at an ancient monastery, found a section of road with new pavement and were able to reach and maintain speeds above 50 mph andwe didn’t have any mechanical issues.  The Lamayuru monastery was like a semi functional tourist attraction with full time residents. It is located on super steep bluffs overlooking a farming valley, has a decent restaurant and seems to specialize in No Photo signage. We were fortunate in our timing in that our full price tickets allowed us to experience the mid renovation stage of remodeling whereby local paid workers, all women, repainted the exterior walls by vigorously flinging buckets of paint at them and leaning out upper floor windows to pour the paint down the walls. I think the fling technology was much more effective.

We made it to Leh by late afternoon. Found a hotel downtown that met all of our standards of semi shoddiness, and even got to wander Leh a little before collapsing in exhaustion.
  By the way, one indicator of Semi-shoddy and below is that we would all sleep in our sleeping bags on top of the beds, rather than under the covers on the bed. I probably don’t need to explain why.

  Leh is an interesting town, the size of town doesn’t seem like it can possibly support that many knick knack shops and Guest Stay hotels. Its like a small town, population around 20,000, had converted every open space into a retail spot to unload manufactured things on tourists. Perhaps we were there so early in the season that we couldn’t see the source for all these customers, but how many trekkers and weekend Buddhists can there possibly be in this small town? Tourism and the local military base seem to be the only industries and the locals have become very organized. Well, except for the civic authorities. Someone with decision making authority had the brilliant idea of tearing up the streets in the downtown tourist area and replacing them with open sewers, unmarked pits, and piles of rusty detritus that might have been part of the infrastructure, or maybe would someday become this. Boards with nails sticking out, random lengths of rebar, household trash. The good stuff. It was like an obstacle course where the losers all get tetanus shots.

  In the morning we all had our assignments. Simon, Chris and Ian were to go find Mohan the mechanic and attempt to repair the general damage to their bikes, Rex was doing something important, and I was off to acquire the Inner Line Permits so we could get into the highly protected Nubra Valley.

  Nubra Valley is a protected region that occupies the border with China and Pakistan. The Northern end of the valley is the town of Turtuk which is interesting because it had been blocked to tourists from 1947 to 2010. It’s the village for the Balti tribe, they have their own language, which is only spoken, not written. And all foreign tourists need an Inner Line permit if they want to cross over the Khardung La pass into the Nubra Valley.
  The instructions I found for Inner Line permits were simply to bring a passport to the DC office in Leh. (District Commissioner?)
  The DC office was a small building amongst a government complex on the edge of downtown Leh. There were a dozen foreigners, a dozen locals, and a handful of people behind a counter, all looking equally confused.  Everyone seemed to be watching one specific person, a guy in no sort of uniform, who was on the outside of the counter and seemed slightly less confused than the folks behind the counter. I guess I asked the right question. Others were telling him that they needed passes, that they had clients that needed passes, but no one had asked how to actually get these passes. I interrupted everyone and simply asked ‘How can I get 5 passes to Nubra for myself and four friends?’
  This was something he could deal with, so he arranged all of us into something of an audience and began to explain to all of us how the new system worked.
  This was day two of a whole new system to apply for Inner Line permits. First, the tourist needed to go to a specific website that does not appear on any internet search, and is not linked to from any official, or non official website. Then they need to fill out a form that includes all their personal details, including their passport and visa numbers, current addresses and current occupations. Then they will select a Tour Guide from a list of about 50 available Guides on a drop down menu. Then click submit.
  There is no information on any of these guides. Who they are, what they specialize in, or how to contact them. There are no further instructions. Of the dozen locals, most of them were guides. I hollered out- ‘Who is a guide, and how much is a pass?’  Once of them spoke English and responded that they were in fact a guide, and it was 600 r per person, roughly $10.
  Then the supervisor sat me down at his computer where I used my group’s info to create 5 different applications, showing all the guides how to enter the info and how to make sure that their company was the one selected by each client. I needed to help them with several more before everyone seemed to have a solid grasp on the new system.
  Then we had to go to a different office across town, to print out the official passes, but their internet was down, so the guide wound up taking care of it on his own bringing the passes to our hotel later that day. It’s a good thing that we had written that day off as a down day and didn’t really plan to get any riding done.

  While the guys were at Mohan’s shop, waiting for the repairs to be complete, Simon found a print shop and used the manager’s computer to create a new design, now known as Happy Mountain. We all agree that it embodies 3 rounded mountain peaks with a happy face in the taller, central peak. Some skeptics may suggest that it also resembles male reproductive organs, but we assure you that this is entirely Freudian and advise counseling. He must have printed over one hundred of these bold yellow stickers, because they are basically everywhere in downtown Leh. All of our bikes and helmets, naturally. The display windows of our hotels and nearby shops, passing SUVs that we felt put too much energy into their horns, etc….

  All in all, a successful day. We got the Inner Line permits, the Happy Mountain stickers and the bikes were tuned and ready to go.

Once in Jammu and Kashmir (J&K), the military presence increased significantly. This area borders on Pakistan and has been the site of conflict between Hindi and Muslims for many many years. The Indian Army likes to know exactly who is passing through, and where they are going.

We had stopped at one of the Indian Army check points that keeps track of the comings and goings of various folks in order to slow down the terrorists. Five white guys on bullets, coming down the road from Killar was unusual enough that we were asked to go to the base commanders office.

I was nervous.

My experiences with American police have left me with a slight suspicion of people in positions of authority.

I could not have been more wrong in this case.

We had a long conversation discussing the various local regions and people with the Colonel, and I learned about the Sikhs, the Punjab, the Gujjars, and how many of the peoples have ancient affinities for one another that don’t conform to current political boundaries. It was fascinating. And overwhelming. I know that we only touched the surface of the complexities in this region.

We had a high tea style lunch with an amazing course of local Indian foods on the lawn overlooking the base.

  Then we had a military escort accompany us, front and rear, to the local hotel that the Colonel recommended in Kishtwar.

  The Senten pass was closed and the ride from Kishtwar to Srinagar was a full day on the other route.

  It was only mid afternoon so we decided to go walk around the market area in Kishtwar.  There was an enormous park, with thousands of people, some playing games like football or cricket, others just relaxing, we decided to walk through the park, rather than around it.

Having two Aussies in the group meant that we would finally get someone to explain Cricket, so we walked up to the larger Cricket game and the explainings began.

Basically, theres a group of guys on one team, like 8 or 9, and then 2 guys from the opposing team are up at bat. The pitcher guy throws the ball overhand. The guy with the Cricket bat tries to interfere with the balls flight. Then someone will run back and forth. There are places of importance within the circular Cricket pitch, but defining the circle with Razor wire seems to be specific to this region. Apparently the fans do not normally attack the players in Australia or the UK. Eventually a group of people will decide that one of the teams may have won the game. Or not. A Cricket game can last for days.

After overloading our simple minds with the details of this game we continued on to the market area; our goal was the police station where we hoped to get good news about the possible opening of the pass the next day.

  We made it about 3 blocks before a military jeep pulled up and politely asked us to get in. In the back. All 5 of us. It was cozy.

  We were driven to another military base, in town, a smaller outpost, but conveniently close to our hotel.
  We spent some time with the Major, learning about local issues, and the golden rule. Do not mess with the Indian Army, they will mess you up. 
  I believed him.
  We went back to the hotel for an hour or so, and then returned to have dinner with the Major on the base. He was a fascinating dude, and if I weren’t so exhausted I would have stayed later just to learn more about the Indian culture.
  By the way, an enlistment in the Indian army is generally for 20 years. Or more.

  The next morning we are ready to hit the road and make it to Srinagar no matter what.
  This side of the J&K region was not a very warm and friendly place. We didn’t get many smiles in return, and the stares we received made me feel like I had taken a wrong turn somewhere. And it was raining. All day.
  Not a pouring, dumping rain, but a misty drizzle that didn’t really let up.
  We got our first taste of real India traffic, thousands of trucks going each way on a two lane highway that had many spots where only one lane was flowing, so they would take turns based on whoever had the biggest and most thrashed truck.
  Being on Bullets we wove in and out of them pretty successfully, but it was still slow going.
  There was a long tunnel, Simon and Rex had become experts at making their Bullets backfire on command, so we all had fun.

  My chain popped off, so we popped it back on and tightened the rear wheel.

  Simons entire subframe had broken off, so we spent some time finding welders. We found a skilled welder with a MIG electric rig, but the power went out before he was able to get to the bike, but luckily there was a talented gas welder nearby.

  And eventually we made it to Srinagar, after about 12 hours of riding Indian roads in the rain. It was a brutal day, but we didn’t see any good reason to stop along the way, and we planned to have a down day in Srinagar to explore and recover.

Departing Udaipur in the early morning was exciting. I had driven these roads before, but from here on out it was all new to me.

We were headed for Killar first, which looked to be about 50 miles but we were told would take about 4 hours.
It took longer. The road was bad. Sure, there were stretches where we could get past 2nd gear, but not for long. It was like an old mining or power line road that had been poorly maintained.

  We had left early, by 7 am, and made Killar in the early afternoon, ready for a break.
  We found a random restaurant and made the mistake of not asking prices before ordering. The five of us did eat a lot, granted, but still 1200 rupees? That’s almost $20 USD.  I was outraged.
Luckily though, our Indian shadows had arrived just before we ordered. They might not have prevented the price adjustments, but they did help us order food that we would understand.
The Indian shadows were 4 young men on 2 Enfield Bullets following the same course we were. Being two-up on each bike slowed them down, but they managed to catch up to us on each stop. We lost track of them in Srinagar, but did see 2 of them at the Bullet Wallah in Leh a week later.

  From Killar the road became an obstacle course alternating between rocks, mud, rivers and cliffs. There was one stretch about 3 miles long where the road had actually been blasted out of the cliff face. Sheer drops on the side, no guardrails. But also no oncoming traffic. Apparently there weren’t too many people willing to drive that road.
  Lots of donkeys though.
  Once we crossed the border from Himachal Pradesh into Jammu and Kashmir (J&K) we got our first full check point. We were politely asked to step off the bikes and provide passports, visas, and paperwork for the bikes, all of which was checked in detail and written down in a gigantic ledger book.
  After that the road got worse.

  Our first stretch of road in J&K was a rock strewn hill climb with switch backs so tight the bikes nearly couldn’t make the turns without scooting back and forth. The road conditions got worse, the cliffs higher and at one point we came upon a little village that had men stationed on the road to warn people not to stop because of all the falling rocks (shooting stones in local speak).
This is where Ian chose to get a flat tire, but he limped it out of the danger zone before stopping to replace the inner tube.
We came upon a point in the road where a landslide had completely blocked it, but there was already a bulldozer there shoving all the rocks off the edge of the cliff.
We didn’t need to wait long. And it was great fun to watch the boulders go crashing down the cliff into the creek below.

My idea of making it to Srinagar that night was so far off the mark it was laughable. We didn’t even make it to Kishtwar.
By the time evening arrived we had just barely made it to a town called Gulubgarh, a decent sized town for the area, half Muslim and half Hindu. We stayed in the Hindu part, with a Chinese family that had converted 3 of their rooms into ‘home stay rooms’.
Their doorways were so small that we all wacked our heads, some of us multiple times.
The nearest restaurant was the Momo place, but it was also something of a social hangout for the locals. After sitting down, and then getting up to leave when the only answer we could get out of anyone there was ‘no, no, no’ Ian and I went for Chana masala and the other guys went back in. Somehow a local understood the problem. They were out of Momos at the moment, but were in the process of making more.
It all worked out in the end.

The next morning Chris and I went looking for a Bullet Wallah to replace the wheel bearings in his front wheel, and the rest of the gang found a mine entrance that had just been rigged with explosive charges. Simon, Rex and Ian got to wander into the mine and see how they had drilled and loaded the explosives.
I was rushing to the mine to see the boom but got caught in 3 different packs of Gujjar&Bakkarwal herds and didn’t make it in time. I sure heard it though.

Apparently there was some confusion as to who would actually get to press the detonator, Simon thought the guy was saying yes, that he could push it, but really he was saying yes, Im going to push it now. It all ended well though, there was a big boom and a giant cloud of rock dust came shooting out of the hole, we were all very excited.

These Gujjar&Bakkarwal folks that slowed me down are a regional people that migrate up into these hills every year to feed their sheep, goats and horses during the spring and summer months. After 3-4 months they head back down to the plains in J&K and the Punjab and then do whatever it is that nomadic people do when not traveling.
Gujjars are found all over India, Pakistan and Afghanistan, but the Bakkarwal tribe is specific to J&K.
You know that famous photo of the young Afghani woman with the green eyes? That’s what they look like. Incredible. Its like someone convinced a group of Parisian models that they would be better off wrapped in shawls and riding donkeys alongside a couple of hundred mountain goats.
They were not friendly. As soon as they would notice that we were foreign men the women would all wrap up in their shawls and the men would ignore us. Well, mostly. There were exceptions, but not many.

Now Chris has new wheel bearings, the mine is not setting any more charges for the day, and we are ready to roll, we are heading to Srinagar, and expect that we should be able to make it that evening if the Senten pass is open. If it is not we will need to take a roundabout route that will add about 4 hours to our journey.

Either way, we are back on the road and will get as far as we can, and do what we need to do to make it to Srinagar.
Unfortunately we only made it a couple of hours before we were escorted to the commanders office at the local Indian Army field base.

     

  The plane with the propeller thingys makes it to Kullu, the airport nearest Manali. The smaller plane didn’t bounce around too much, and no one vomited.
  Our contact for renting motorbikes is named Anu. Ive never met him but its not too hard for him to find us. We are the only white people exiting the plane, and there are 5 of us. He has a jeep and an SUV to drive us and our luggage up to his place in Vashisht, a small Buddhist town across the river from Manali.
  The contrasts are pretty intense; a lush river valley flowing through stony Himalayan peaks, cows and goats and dogs roaming freely. Trash piled up at seemingly random locations, but it seems that the locals have all agreed that these are the best locations for the trash. Road side Dhabas serving Indian fast food and chai tea, and locals eating and drinking chai tea. Dogs, goats and cows eating the trash.
  We arrive at Anu Motor Works (singular) and find he has cleared his workshop to present 5 gleaming Royal Enfield 500 cc Machismo Bullet motorbikes. All lined up and ready to go. All 5 bikes are fit with luggage racks to carry bags, tools and spare fuel canisters. Three of us decide they don’t want big racks, so Anu’s team spends some time making modifications and preparing the tool kit, complete with spares that we may need.
  3 inner tubes for the tires, 4 spark plugs, 2 sets of wheel bearings, various cables for throttle and clutch, and all the tools need to repair the bikes on the side of the road in India.
  By the time this is all said and done its too late to depart so we grab a couple of Guest Stay rooms above Anu’s shop and prepare to leave early in the morning. This entire time Ive been weebling back and forth about what to do. I have a patriotic open-faced helmet, an outfit a Russian gangster would be proud of, and a pair of gloves that were probably designed for paint ball.
  I'm still not sure where my bags are.
  Heading North into Ladakh without cold weather gear seems like a bad idea. So I decide to head SouthWest to Dharamsala and work on becoming one with my gear. The rest of the guys are going to take a back road over the Rohtang pass, through the Lahaul valley and end up in Srinagar, where we will attempt to reconnect.
  Riding to Leh from Manali is not an option as there is one really high pass in between, the Baralacha La. It is still closed on June 1st and is not expected to open for another week or so. The new plan is to ride across to Srinagar, into Kashmir, and then over the Zoji La pass, to arrive in Leh via a reverse route.
  Their ride sounds like much more fun than hanging out in Dharamsala, seeing all those enlightened people every day would probably make me depressed.
  So I borrow a jacket, riding pants and a sleeping bag from Anu, and go for it.
  The Rohtang Pass, in fact the whole area, had been hammered with snow during the winter, much more so than usual, and the opening of the pass was about 3 weeks late because they just couldn’t get the roads clear. We crossed over about a week after it had been opened and it was spectacular. The lower elevations were nice sweeping roads with forest on either side and gentle switch back turns taking you higher and higher. And traffic. The mid elevations were sharper turns, and tighter roads, with sharp spires of rock and amazing views of the valley below. And more traffic. Near the top we were passing between snow banks, sometimes 20 feet high, and all the melting snow was causing small rivers to run down the road.
  By this time the traffic had pretty much reached critical mass. The thousands upon thousands of Delhi’ites that had come on holiday to the top of Rohtang to see snow and possibly so some trekking were all reaching their destination. The same destination. It was a huge mess, but thanks to our overly loud horns and loud revving engines we were able to squeeeeze through and make it beyond the brutal log jam of psychotic suv drivers and their helpless victims.
  Once beyond the trekking cluster we had open roads as far as we could see. They might be goat tracks with rocks the size of basketballs poking up out of the rivers running down the center, but they were free of traffic.      
  We rode the rest of the day on roads that would alternate suddenly between clean smooth blacktop and beat up dirt roads that had never seen a plow. Ok, maybe they seen a plow, but it was strapped to a yak.
  We did see the back end of the Rohtang tunnel, a 5 mile long project, coordinated with an Austrian engineering firm. We were able to talk ourselves onto the grounds and go up to the tunnel, but not into it. We also were not allowed to take photos.
  Chris’s front wheel was making a clicking sound so it was diagnosed on the roadside. Bearings suspected. All in all it was a great start to the ride. We made it to our goal, Udaipur, got the same room in the same Guest Stay that Laura and I stayed in, and were able to find a new type of food, called Momos (veggie stuffed won tons). We ate them all and them moved on to the chana masala at the next Dhaba.
  When Laura and I crossed the Rohtang in 2013, we made it to Udaipur, and the roads were really rough. The Jeep/Taxi drivers assured us that they only got worse from there. Not good news for a old leaky motorbike with 2 riders and a bag lady’s assortment of luggage. We hightailed it back over the Rohtang and headed for Dharamsala.
  The group knew that we had completed the easy part. The road ahead was not actually considered a road. It was not maintained by the government and no one really knew if it was passable or not. We guesstimated the odds at 50/50 that we would actually be able to make it to Srinagar by this route. In fact, this path does not appear on most  maps or GPS, but weve been told by many truck drivers that it is there and it can be done on a Bullet. The towns that we saw on the map were Udaipur-Killar-Kishtwar, and we were hoping to make Kishtwar the next day, and maybe even part of the way to Srinagar. So we rested up, sore from a long days ride, but stoked, and excited about the ride ahead.

My concerns about things like Priority Boarding appear to be irrelevant on flights from London to Delhi. The various stages of the boarding process simply stuffed us all onto a bus where the first class passengers were forced to rub shoulders with the filthy masses.
The bus ride to the plane was long enough that we all became friends and were discussing the strengths of the Royal Enfield motorcycles and which mountain passes might or might not be open.
Luckily, after an overnight flight and a day exploring Shoreditch, I was totally wiped out, and slept the entire flight.
Then things took a turn for the worse.

I arrived safe and sound. My luggage did not.

Helmet, jacket, pants, tent, sleeping bag, camping food and equipment. Lost to the void.
The Virgin Atlantic staff handed me a form and then ignored me, leading me to the conclusion that they didn’t really care much if I found my bags or not. I cant honestly say Id care much if I were in their position either.
So I stood there. And stood there. And stood there. Refused to leave. I was eventually able to get their attention and explain that until I knew where my bags were I had no place to go. Without my gear the trip to the Himalayas was pointless, I should head south to Kerala. If my bags were expected to arrive within a couple of days I could piece together some temporary clothes and catch up with my buddies once the luggage and I are reunited.
Finally I get the baggage agents desk email and phone number as well as their personal email and phone number and head to the Ibis hotel which is within the Delhi airport complex.

Finding the airport shuttle was another adventure, but not a very interesting one.

During this process I have an idea. Maybe I can get to the Karol Bagh neighborhood I can piece together some cheap temporary gear for riding in the lower, warmer elevations.
Ibis hotel provides a car and driver that will drive me around the various shopping districts so I can hunt for the appropriate items.
The first stop was a small shop where I scored an open faced helmet painted like the fuel tank on the Easy Rider bike and a pair of gloves that look like part of an evil Halloween costume.
Stop two was one of those psychotic open street markets that go on and on. I was able to find some fake Adidas with four stripes and neon orange laces, a pair of dark blue sweat/track pants with red stripes down the sides, and a short sleeve collared shirt that somehow survived 1985.
Total cost $35.
OK, $50 including the car and driver.

6 PM, and Im back in the hotel getting in as much sleep as possible because Simon and Rex should be appearing around 10 PM, and then Ian and Chris around 2 AM.
The flight is at 6:30, so I know that there will be no sleeping once they all arrive.

5:00 AM, Sunday morning. We have been delivered to the Airport terminal and accidentally find the shortest line at the Air India check in counters.
  The plane is so small that we are only allowed to carry on bags no larger than a purse. So we are forced to check what bags we actually have with us.
   Through security with no problems, board plane, the propeller thingys spin up and off we go.

Manali, brace yourself.

The beginning of the Ladakh Ride

As a Platinum member of One World, and the American Airlines Advantage group you get s few special things. Priority boarding, free bags, and access to the airport lounges on international flights.

 So, being a Platinum member I booked a ticket on British Air. It was more expensive than the other major airlines, but I was ok with that.

Later, when checking the seating or something like that, I noticed my status was not Platinum, but the lowly Gold.

The customer services person notified me that I didn’t qualify because I didn’t fly the required 50,000 miles in 2014. I only flew 49,500.

Earlier I had received a notification that the first leg of my ticket was changing its departure time from 8:40 am to 8:35 so I called them up and notified them that this didn’t work for me and demanded a full refund of my ticket.

  When I say demanded I mean that I wouldn’t get off the phone until they agreed.

  Anyway, I then purchased a similar ticket on Virgin for $500 less. I also asked if they would match my Gold membership status but they firmly and politely told me no. Cant hurt to ask, right?

Bags packed, ticket in hand, my lovely wife Laura dropped me off at SFO on Thursday and off I went.

  I didnt get extra bags on Virgin, only the regular 2. I could pay for another for $85 though… I didn’t get early boarding, but that’s ok, I paid an extra $40 to be able to choose my own seat, and the upper deck seats put you on Group 1.

I also didn’t have access to the airport lounge, so for my ten hour layover at London’s Heathrow, I got an Underground pass and headed to the East end.

Some of Laura’s friends had told us about the Shoreditch neighborhood and a few nice cafes and restaurants a few years ago and it has become our favorite neighborhood in London, very similar to Brooklyn in a lot of ways.

  My personal favorite, All Press coffee chose to do a full demolition and was closed down so I wandered around the East End and Brick Lane until I was referred to Joe’s Kid, a great little café that does a proper Fill English.

Eventually the jet lag and exhaustion kicked in and I was getting strange looks from people as I wandered around Spitalfileds like a zombie. Im ok with that.

Then it was time to head back to LHR and board the flight to Delhi, where I would have an afternoon free before my buddies started arriving.

  We all had a 6:30 AM flight from Delhi to Kullu and the group was all converging on the Delhi airport that Saturday night.

Im beginning to consider the idea that riding old motorcycles on some of the worst roads in the world the first week they open after an especially rough winter….might be a little more difficult than I imagine.

Whatever. Here we go.