Not-so-famous not-so-last words

I feel lucky to be here. It’s hard to say how much luck was involved but I’ve just used up another two of my nine lives so I’m having an unhealthily large whiskey. And enjoying every drop. 

I know that motorbiking is a dangerous way to get about and, believe me, I ride pretty cautiously these days, always trying to anticipate the unexpected and always very conscious of the fragility of the human body.  With biking as with life, you either believe that many years of something not happening makes it more likely or less likely to happen: it’s a kind of ‘glass half empty’ thing. I’m probably a ‘half full’ type of person but that doesn’t mean I don’t ride carefully. 

Coming back from Cornwall this afternoon, with a head full of life’s problems, I was keeping a close eye on my air temperature gauge since my sister had warned me that there was some snow here in the Cotswolds which could well freeze if the sky remained clear. I took the shorter route back at the M5 junction, a calculated gamble because  the gauge suggested it was a balmy 3.5ºC. I climbed up a couple of hundred feet towards the top of the hills where the temperature was, as I’d guessed,  a degree or two less but still not freezing.

So I was taking it carefully. About 40mph. The higher I got, the more I met patches of snow in the middle of the carriageway. I know the form with snow:  ride straight over it - ie don’t turn - and, of course, don’t even think of using your front brakes. It was dark and there was little traffic, though I was occasionally dazzled by the lights from the odd oncoming car. 

It was during one of these moments of blinding brightness that disaster struck - I rode over one of the snow patches. Except it wasn’t snow; it was ice. Instantly the bike lost its grip on the road and I knew I was about to go down. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck - I think I managed to exclaim my not-so-famous last words five times as I wrestled with the handlebars and stuck a boot down to try and keep the floundering bike upright. At the same time, I could see there was a car coming towards me - about 30-40m away - and I had a strong premonition of going under its radiator grille. Plainly I was going to fall but would it be on the my side of the road or under the car?

And then, magically, the car had passed, the bike got a grip on the road again and righted itself. And I was alive. Amazingly, somehow, I had managed to avoid what clearly would have been a fatal fall. I, literally, could not believe it. How had we got through? The bike had been all over the place and suddenly it was riding in a straight line! Adrenaline is a wonderful drug and I laughed out loud at how, more by luck than skill, I had just cheated death. I was a moment away from oblivion and I had got away with it!   

It was a great feeling: to have been no more than a fraction of a second away from falling in the path of the oncoming car, a chance away from the whole sorry saga of blue lights, hospitals, late night phone calls and all that crap. Life felt good indeed. 

Did I mention losing two of my nine lives? It’s true. While on the way down to Cornwall just before Christmas, I was passing a lorry at about 80mph when it shed its front tyre. Other than a small piece of something hitting my leg, the first I knew about a possible problem was when I noticed a large black shape rolling along the carriageway in the gloom just a few metres ahead and to one side of where I was riding.  I had no time to think. Aware that the tyre was moving towards the middle lane, ie across my path, I instinctively moved to my right. At the same moment, the tyre decided to roll over to the left, so I’ll never know whether it would have bounced off me or I would have bounced, painfully, off it. 

For some reason, this incident didn’t produce the same adrenaline rush as my encounter with a patch of ice. “It was all over so quickly that I didn’t have time to react,” is the comment that one hears in these circumstances. Except, of course, from those who have used up their nine lives, for whom, sadly, it is all over so quickly. 

I am writing this not to elicit OMG or ‘get off yer bike’ responses but as another reminder that we’re all incredibly lucky to be here, living affluent, healthy lives. Reader, make 2018 the year you seize the moments as they fly. 

India 2: Of gluttony and punishment

In June 2017 I went back to India for two weeks' trekking close to the south-west border of Jammu-Kashmir followed by two weeks' motorbiking in the eastern part of the state, up to the area known as Ladakh. Here's a map. 

The short orange line is what we covered in two weeks' walking.
The longer blue one represents three days' of tough biking.
Red splurges are where the road was worst!

The walking bit was great but you petrolheads don't want to know about that. You want to hear about the infamous Leh - Manali highway. Why is it one of the most notorious roads in the world? And what on earth possessed me to try and conquer it? Check out any number of YouTube videos if you want to see some wild riding and OTT commentary in which the words 'awesome' 'bro', 'wicked' and 'om mani padme hum' feature often.

Why? Well it does take you over some of the world's highest road passes. Tanglangla is about 5300m, Baralachala is 4890m and Lachulungla is 4927m. Only Khardungla, near Leh, is said to be higher at 5350m. As you'll see in the two next blogs, the highway also has some very challenging riding. 

To hire a Royal Enflield 500 costs about £15 day in India. It's not pretty but it's rock solid, comes with a big luggage rack, and can be repaired anywhere. You'd be daft to use anything else.

But I wouldn't want to give the impression that it's all like that. Perhaps only 50km of the total 500km is 'rough', by which I mean un-made road, covered with mud or water, stretches that are under repair (a constant task in some areas) or otherwise damaged by the harsh  elements in this remote and high-altitude area, where deep snow regularly makes many roads impassable for months on end. 

Before going to India, I had read that, whenever the Leh-Manali highway was washed away by flood waters, the military would be there to re-open it, since this is one of only two routes into north-eastern Kashmir. And there were certainly plenty of military vehicles about, especially in Leh which has some very large military camps around it.

But the army don't seem to do much in the way of road mending. This is all done on their behalf by the BRO, the  Border Roads Organisation, aka Himank. And they are much in evidence, with hundreds of groups of (mainly women) workers, breaking rocks, filling holes, building culverts and laying tarmac. They are also renowned for the cautionary roadside reminders. 

According to Wikipedia, Himank is responsible for the construction and maintenance of roads and related infrastructure including the world's highest motorable roads across the Khardung La, Tanglang La and Chang La passes. Himank's work ensures access to sensitive military areas including the world's highest battle-ground at the Siachen Glacier and Pangong Tso Lake (at 14500 ft) whose waters span the de facto India-China border. Nicknamed “The Mountain Tamers”, Himank's personnel battle tough terrain and extreme climatic conditions and are constrained in most areas to work within a short working season of four months as roads get blocked by heavy snow and extreme cold temperatures. Most of the manual labourers are from Bihar, not from Ladakh.

It took me three days to ride up to Leh. The first major hurdle is the Rohtang Pass which is being extensively rebuilt and which feels like one long off-road diversion though, in reality, is probably only three hours of first-gear misery. If you want to get a bit of a picture of what it's like, check out the next two posts, Water, water everywhere and Mud glorious mud. 

India 2: Mud glorious mud

The Russell steed: a 500 Bullet

I got going around 7.00 and we had a pleasant enough ride through Keylong and stopped for a cup of tea at Tandi Bridge - me with wet feet again after an unforeseen river event/crossing that went higher than my Sealskinz! Then through the check at Koksar and on to the Rohtang. Most of it was simply awful! Going uphill and with added weight on board, in a couple of places Jane had to get off so I could even move. We slid backwards several times on wet rocks, with the front brake locked up. It's not a natural thing to do on a motorbike - you have no control and just have to hang on until you stop. Or come off.

We came off twice, unrecorded by any camera

And then there was the mud. Not encountered on the way up, this was deep and horrible. There was a tyre-width track of perhaps 30-40m long and axle-deep mud. It was almost impossible to follow. And, as soon as my 'stabiliser' feet went out, the stability got worse! At least twice I got stuck and once the bike started to fall over - to be saved by a cheerful road mender who pushed me out of the immediate trouble. But I was sweating, gasping for breath, lacking confidence and genuinely unable to see how I could get out of this - almost certainly the hardest riding I have ever had to do. 

Again, not me but it could so easily have been...

It seemed to go on for hours! There were at least two areas of deep mud on the ascent, as well as countless puddles, streams and rock pools. I need training in how to handle these conditions. I tried to force myself to hold on to the accelerator and not to touch the front brake. Also not to feather the clutch but to select a gear (usually first) and trust the bike would not stall, however slowly the road forced us to go. Usually this worked ok - especially with lots of muttered swearing, exhortations to 'keep going in a straight line' and fighting the handlebars. 

However it wasn't fun in any sense. And I didn't even feel any sense of achievement in getting to the top; just exhausted, angry and cold footed. The road seemed to improve as we went over the top and into the every-present cloud that was lurking when I went the other way. 

But the Rohtang had one final trick to play on us: the cloud did not thin and the drizzle did not lift because we had come into the aftermath of monsoon rains. Unable to see clearly (poor sunglasses, hopeless visor) and stupidly not having put on my wet weather clothes, down we went, getting wetter and colder, ie precisely the wrong condition to tackle the Rohtang's final challenge: washed away roads. In less than two weeks since I had climbed the Manali side of the pass, the roadscape had been completely transformed. It was more like a battle zone, with rivers of mud carving their way through the tarmac like it was made of sand, great chunks of road having slipped away, oceans of pebbles and rocks spilling out on to the highway - horrendous!

And what does the average Indian car or lorry driver do in such conditions? Switches on his headlights, puts his hand on the horn and roars through puddles regardless of who is coming the other way. I'm sorry to record that my formerly critical opinion of Indian drivers has been reinforced, reached new levels of grumpiness as one after another failed to slow down and pushed us out of the way. I even told a couple of drivers off for lack of consideration but was met with smiling incomprehension and cheerful waves, a combination that is extraordinarily hard to face down!

India 2: Water, water everywhere

At about 10.30 this morning I was standing astride my rented Royal Enfield 500 - the Bullet - in the middle of a fast-flowing river. The icy water filled my walking boots instantly. And the bike had stopped. There followed a minute - perhaps less - of frantic pushing and shoving on my part which resulted in my top half getting very hot and bothered. But the bike was firmly stuck between invisible rocks on the riverbed, which had been washed downstream when the river overflowed on to the road. It's a common occurrence at this time of year, when the rivers are fed by the fast-melting snows further upstream. 

I had encountered the blockage about ten minutes earlier on the road near Darcha, as I turned a corner in the road to see a small queue of lorries and cars, their drivers all taking pictures of the leading car which had also become stuck in the river. With unusual efficiency, a tanker driver found a length of metal cable and hauled the offending car back across the surging waters - from where it took another 'run' at the crossing and got across safely. 

Not your humble scribe but you get the idea...

I waited while the queuing vehicles each took their turn and only then went forward to see how best a mere two wheeler could negotiate the torrent. There was no way back: the Manali to Leh Highway is the only way to cross this particular stretch of mountains, so forward it had to be.

Soon afterwards I was stuck in the middle. Since I was obviously not going to get out on my own, I got a helpful shove back on to dry land from one of the many spectators, where I regained my composure and tried to start the bike again. First time! What a workhorse is the RE.

That was the worst of five or six such river crossings during the day. Annoyingly it was followed by a long and arduous climb to Baralarcha La, one of the day's two high passes about an hour later. By that time my tiny feet were seriously cold as the icy river water sloshed around inside my boots. A roadside stop in the sunlight was required to dry off my feet, change socks and grab a coffee. 

When I left the café some time later, I blush to admit that I had donned waterproof socks and my walking sandals which, once again, proved to be ideal footwear for just about every activity! 

Tanglang La - at 5328m, literally and figuratively the high point of my Indian ride

India 1: Self, self, self

By and large we bikers are a friendly lot. Whether your mount is a mighty multivalve or a more modest commuter scooter, you can pretty much guarantee a friendly nod at the traffic lights from the other biker who pulls up next to you. And no party is complete without a bikers’ corner where young and old can swop tall tales of broken camshafts or dodgy dealers. 

In the UK, we go out of our way to include the outsiders with modest claims of our own incompetence, self deprecating jokes about our preferred manufacturer and tales of how we broke down on the Hatfield bypass…all intended to make the other guy feel part of the club. Out on the road too, there are plenty of fraternal nods of acknowledgement, waves of the foot, flashing of headlights and so on as we all try to help our fellow bikers survive against the common enemy: those bastards behind the wheel. 

All it takes to join this club is possession of two motorised wheels (for some reason our warmth rarely extends to include cyclists who, of course, have their own equally exclusive fraternity).

Not in India. There’s an estimated 40million riders here, the highest number in the world and only just behind the number of car drivers. So, for much of the time, bikers outnumber cars and lorries. Hurrah! At last we get to rule the world. Up to a point Lord Copper. Because, for reasons that continue to elude me, there appears to be no fraternal feeling among bikers in India. I have seen virtually none of the usual signals of acknowledgement that are commonplace when riding in Europe. No little nods of hello, no waving through, no raised finger of thanks. 

Instead, I have to report, everyone is out for himself (and it is almost universally men in the saddle here). If there’s a space, they dive into it, even if it means cutting someone else up. In the UK I try to leave at least a two second gap in front of me for braking. Here every inch counts so that little safety zone can be and is filled very quickly. Nature abhors a vacuum and so do the road users in this overcrowded country. 

Is this a case of just looking after number 1? The nearest equivalent I’ve seen is in Paris, where scooters are also de rigeur for the would-be commuter and where every little corner is jam packed. However I’m sure that there are rules there which even the most individualist frenchman will obey in the end. Here, I have yet to work out what the ‘rules’ are. There appears to be a ‘priorité a gauche’ as well as ‘a droite’, i.e. drivers join a main road from either side without bothering to see what’s already on it. Similarly those coming on to a roundabout or junction seem to feel that they can do so without regard for those already there. And bus drivers just head down the middle with their hands on the horn…

Whatever the rules, it’s worth noting that all this happens without any of the shouting, raised blood pressure or general aggro that would flare in seconds elsewhere. The Indians are amazingly laid back and short on the ego that seems to drive so many road rage incidents in the west. I have mentioned elsewhere how they use the horn more as a means of communication than as an extension of their personality.  

Just for a laugh here’s some pics of what happens on the small ferry in Port Cochin. The bikers ride on last so they have to load facing the back. But when the ferry gets to the other side, instead of waiting to ride round the  loop at the end, as soon as there’s a hint of any space, they all start manoeuvring their bikes to save a couple of seconds, even if that means blocking the remaining cars from unloading. There’s lots of hooting but, actually, very few displays of frustration or annoyance - it’s just the way things are done here. 

Try that next time you’re on P&O and see what the other drivers think of you!

India 1: hitting a ton on Route 66

  

How better to mark the 100th post in the boyzbigbiketours blog than to record yet another epic ride, perhaps THE best known and most challenging motorbike journey in the world: Route 66. Yes, dear reader, this morning I was up before the sun and knocked off Route 66 before breakfast. 

I don’t quite know what all the fuss is about. I mean it was a very nice road and particularly scenic where it ran between the sea and the lakes. 

But, nice though it was, I’m sure any one of my reader could think of a dozen roads in Europe that are more exciting.

Nevertheless it was good to have one’s efforts recognised and I appreciated how much effort the locals put into decorating the streets and generally welcoming me. 

Two small criticisms if I may. The road surface isn’t all it’s cracked up to be…

And I wonder if they need to think a bit more about building up their sea defences…

Onward to the next greasy spoon!

India 1: initiation day for the Bullet

^{If the journey from Mysore to Ooty was Christening Day for the Bullet, with a gentle run up those 36 snaking Nilgiri  bends, the ride from Ooty to Palakkad was more like our initiation, with a longer, harder run over the back of the Nilgiri Hills and eventually down to what I think of as The Plain (Hot).} 

This is a rubbish photo of what was a lovely view, through the heat haze.

^{The first section was a dream, with lots of gently sweeping bends through lovely scenery and on good quality roads. It was so good that I went back up to do some of it again. I took some great little videos with my phone dangling round my neck but managed to film only my teeshirt. Five times.} 

^{Slightly further on I encountered a sign warning me that there were 43 hairpin bends ahead. It was a deserted back road, so I took off my helmet and coasted down with the engine off…just the buzz of the disk brake sounding quite like a cricket.  It was lovely but, almost inevitably, as as I crossed over into Kerala (just by the Canada hydroelectric station), there was a police block in the middle of nowhere. I should have expected this. It happened before in north Wales and again on Bodmin moor: whenever I take off my helmet in some utterly remote spot, a policeman appears as if by magic and ticks me off!! To be honest, they were pleasant enough and just wanted to write down my driving licence details and to chat about life (memories of Montenegro), although in theory they were there to check I wasn’t a Maoist terrorist…really! They had a poster of maoist mugshots, none of which I closely resembled.  Oh, and put the helmet back on sonny.} 

^{The descent to that point had taken at least three hours in blazing sun and I still had the bulk of the journey ahead of me. Unfortunately the roads deteriorated as soon as I hit Kerala which slowed me down even more as I followed a river for an hour or so, passing through dozens of little villages where coconuts seem to be the main crop. Eventually I hauled into Palakkad about 5.00pm and was too tired to search further for a bed than the soul-less shiny Book Inn outside which was a fully-laden touring Royal Enfield, sporting flags, spare petrol tanks, bungees etc etc that put mine to shame. I had barely travelled more than 150km but it felt much more!}

Palakkad had a lot of jewellery adverts, even where, let's face it, potential buyers would not be too thick on the ground.  

^{The journey next day to Fort Cochin was about five hours of dual carriageway riding at a steady running-in speed of 60kph, though much of the road was still being created and there were plenty of interesting opportunities to swerve round steamrollers and trucks, practise my off-road technique and marvel at the nerve of other riders who were going down the other side of the dual carriageway against the flow of traffic!} 

^{Unfortunately Kochi is a big and busy city with a long approach hinterland where the driving was terrible. I made contact with the locals at last, or, at least, one of them made contact with me as he cut across me and scraped something off the side of his, already dented, car against my crash bar. He then stopped, got out and was profusely apologetic and humble - the complete opposite of the way he was driving! Then a few km down the road I saw another incident of car cutting up bike but this time at much higher speed, i.e. much more dangerous!}

^{I was trying to hold to the centre of the carriageway but several times found a car right up against my back wheel, trying to force me to move over. After an hour or so of this I was pretty anxious about my chances of getting another sideswipe, so I stopped for a quick juice and cool down.} 

After 500km, it was time for a first service at a dealership in Kochi which has an unusually positive view of Redditch. 

^{Eventually I started crossing some of the many backwaters and rivers that characterise this area and found myself on ‘the island’ where I battled up to the Fort Cochin area and stopped at the first cafe I found. It was a good choice, partly because a met a young English couple who were staying in a boutique ecovillage for only 4000 R a night (which made my current cost of 800R much more bearable) and partly because they didn’t have any change for a 2000 bill so I have an excuse to go back and settle up later.}

The biker's reward!