‘Stay here,’ my friendly taxi driver ordered. ‘When they see you they don’t sell.’ Soon he came back from around a corner with six litres. In a way, he was probably right — except that we were now at a gas station! Although I paid twice the going rate, I was relieved I could at last get on my way. The delays were driving me nuts.
Back at the hotel, the bill for the night had my eyebrows raised. ‘I’m giving it to you cheaper because you’re old,’ declared the manager, pointing to the ledger’s list of names and prices paid. I thanked him and shook his hand. With hindsight, I should have checked the tariff first. Ah well, another lesson learned.
Before leaving Kathmandu, I needed to clarify the way to Pokhara. It was impossible to read maps on the iPhone, so I resorted to asking locals for directions. I figured I’d be right when two people pointed the same way.
Even with the luggage strapped on firmly, riding was difficult. Pedestrians and motorcycles darted in and out. I’d move a metre or two, then stop, move again, then stop … This didn’t sit well with the FN, and I hadn’t yet twigged the benefit of saving the clutch by turning off the engine and push-starting. I was about to learn the hard way.
Amid the mayhem — and with my nerves strung out — I felt the clutch slip. I pulled over to adjust it. That was when I discovered that the substitute fibre plates I was using were not up to the job. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I asked people gathering around if I could take the bike apart on the footpath. Everyone agreed, ‘Yes, yes, no problem.’
Of course, it was a problem for the owner of the shop in front of which I was doing my repairs. When he turned up, he basically told me to remove all the crap off his step and bugger off!
The parts were snatched up and spread on newspaper on the dusty road, no longer in any semblence of order. Thankfully, Yogendra and Hari, two local mechanics who had helped me remove the motor, took the clutch plates away. They ground them on a piece of concrete until the steel was clear of fibre. The FN normally uses 15 steel clutch plates, and I had replaced six of these with fibre plates to create a softer clutch. Fortunately, I carried the original steel plates with me as spares, so all was not lost. But I did break an engine mount in the process.
I was back on the road within three hours. The two young men who had helped refused payment and waved me on my way. For the rest of the day, I rode on extremely steep, potholed roads. One seriously precipitous section took half an hour to negotiate. I shuddered at the thought of riding in the opposite direction.
By now, the traffic was thinning. I passed two buses embracing each other after a head-on collision. I would soon become used to sights like this. Gripping the handlebars even more tightly, and trying to balance a spare fuel-can on the tank, I focused on keeping the bike upright.
As I rounded a bend on one sharp descent, the fuel can tottered and slid on to the road. By the time I had propped the bike against a post and scurried back, a car had run over the funnel of the plastic container, thus rendering it useless. Bugger!
Seventy-three kilometres from Kathmandu, I began searching for a place to spend the night. With great relief, I came across the Pokhara Guesthouse. Crowds of onlookers quickly gathered, eager to pose beside the FN and have their pictures taken with mobile phones. The name of the guesthouse proved a misnomer: I still had to travel nearly twice as far to get to Pokhara.
The English-speaking hosts were welcoming, and I was served a satisfying meal of chicken stew, rice and potatoes. It was just what I needed after such an exhausting day.
Ohading, a local schoolteacher, brought his class along to inspect the bike. Most of the children spoke English, and they were curious.
‘Where are you from?’
‘How old are you?’
‘Where are you going?’
‘How old is the bike?’
‘Where is your wife?’
I wondered how many times in the months ahead I’d be subjected to such interrogations.
When Lynne Skyped me that evening, and heard of the day’s hassles, she suggested I chalk it up as my initiation. She said that having survived the trials of the previous two days the rest of the journey would be a breeze. She knew I just needed to vent.
I told her the highway congestion was much like Bali’s, but then admitted that a conversation I’d had with a chap who’d ridden across the subcontinent had put the wind up me a little. ‘Nepal is a piece of cake,’ he’d boasted. ‘Wait until you reach India. It’s fucking insane.’
I decided, that if that were true, then I’d better stop complaining and enjoy the easy going while it lasted! Better to focus on tackling one day at a time — and remember to breathe deeply. There’s a level of comfort in going to bed believing tomorrow will be a better day, but things rarely turn out the way we expect.
Dark clouds gathered overnight, and when I set out for Pokhara early next morning, the storm hit with a vengeance. The FN started well initially, but when the motor became saturated it died. I tried rolling it downhill, but it refused to start again until I took shelter and dried the spark plugs and distributor. I don’t mind riding in rain, but this was over the top, especially with the electrics constantly dying on me.
My Huskie gear stood up to the elements for nearly four hours, which was remarkable considering the deluge. Eventually though, moisture began to seep through the seams, and my fancy waterproof boots also gave up the ghost. I refused to give in. Hunched down low over the tank, I was barely able to see a thing through the pissing rain.
The road had broken up so badly on one stretch that I could only travel at 15 kmh. I counted the wreckage of about a score of vehicles along the way. At 3.00 pm, after eight hours of torture, I crawled into Pokhara, chilled and bone weary.
Ten minutes under a scalding hot shower had me rejuvenated. From the hotel roof, I took in the view. For the first time, I began to appreciate my surroundings. The weather had cleared, revealing neatly cultivated valleys backed by majestic snow-capped ranges. It began to sink in: I was in the Himalayas, at the top of the world. Elated, I knew that life doesn’t get much more spectacular than this.
5
The Long Way Down
Fuel continued to be a problem. I spent hours trudging around Pokhara in a vain search, until an almond-eyed girl offered to help. Together, Pumam and I visited several outlets on her scooter. Eventually, one invited us to come back at 6.00 pm, when a delivery was due. We returned, and got to fill the tank plus 10 more litres.
The winding, mountainous road to the Indian border town of Palpa was in good condition — well, it was good for this part of the world. Even with light traffic, it still took me nine hours to travel 160 kilometres. Over the worst sections, I pedalled and pushed up more than 20 hills. My head pounded in the thin mountain air, and my legs trembled with relief as we reached each summit. The FN valiantly took them all, bar one, in her stride. On that occasion, I paid a passerby to help push the final 20 metres. It was money well spent.
With some of the world’s highest mountains as a backdrop, and a steely grey river snaking far below, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the stunning beauty around me. Pastel-coloured houses and neatly tended vegetable plots dotted the hillsides. As tempting as it was to take lots of photos, it was difficult to stop because there was rarely anywhere to park safely.
Once, when negotiating my way through a convoy of trucks, one driver decided to reverse, missing the bike by centimetres. My shouts fell on deaf ears. Only when his passenger jumped down from the cab to give directions was I noticed jammed between the truck and cliff face. His incredulous stare attested to my narrow escape. I leant against the bank and waited for my