By Myself But Not Alone

"There's a Hole in the Bucket, Dear Liza, Dear Liza"
Do you know that song? The one where all the solutions are circular and there is no resolution. Well, my troubles were similar, and the problem was literally circular. Or not, as the case of a cracked rim would prove.

So we went over the Rohtang Pass to Manali and got the wheel rebuilt. We came back over the pass, and one flat tire later we picked up the trail to Keylong, Patseo, Zingzing Bar, Sarchu, Whisky Nullah, Pang, Debring, Rumste and Leh, as I had sketched out the stages to allow for acclimitization to the altitude, and early morning climbs on the switchbacks up the 4 passes en route. Well, 15 km into the ride on my newly built rear wheel, I noticed that it was shifting and it had begun to rub on the rear chain stays. Checing things further under a shady tree, I discovered that the spokes were as loose as a slinky and the wheel was performing as such. I ended up hitching the remaining kms to Keylong, taking enough time that Amy was never far behind. 7 kms shy, the truck I was in turned a corner and I animatedly shoutd, "Stop!" Panniers. Bicycles. Leaning together in front of a little lunch spot. I didn't know whose but I could only think there would be help or at least comraderie. As I neared them, I recognized Bavo's black Ortliebs bags and I found him inside the cafe with the two Austrians I'd met in Kaza- Barbara and Walter. Reunion, lunch and a few minutes later, Amy pulled in. I was able to catch a ride quite quickly and the other three cycled together and got rooms at a hotel. I spent several hours with the wizard of Yogesh Cycle Repair (motorcycles, that is.) he recognized that the spokes had been haphazardly laced, randomly tightened and he set to work remedying all. It took effort with no common language, but he finally understood that the roiginal rear rim had an off-set pattern of spoke holes, and when the hub and spokes were rebuilt onto the front rim, the different length spokes were causing the wheel to be off-center. He did some magic with the axle and a spoke wrench. The thing was perfect. As far as I could tell.

I returned to the hotel and immediately recognized a shift in the social dynamic. So I was not surprised when Amy said she wanted to remain in Keylong one more day because the other three Euroeans wanted a rest day. Having had aout a week of "rest" (if you can call chasing after mechanics and inner tubes and doing laundry and logistics a rest,) I was keen to continue on the way, and save the day for better use once reaching Ladakh. To my mind, we had never been on a shared journey, Amy and I. We were just company to each other, each on our own trip, and not always that pleasant a trip either. We each made our position clear. I had no interest in staying another day, and much less interest in merging into a group of five. Three was already enough for me. So I set off alone, having silently pated ways with Amy. 7:20 am and I was cycling away from Keylong on my own.

It was a delightful morning, not yet hot. The ride climbed along one side of the gorge, presenting the opposite side- a wall of Himalaya. Swirled clouds mingled with the domed glacial cap one the first peak, wisps partially obscured others. A long, flat, serrated silhouette slipped past and finally the morning sun hoisted itself above the facing vertical massifs on the other side of the thunderous gorge. The road surface was unpprepared, all loose stone, deep sand and sharp cobble. The grade was pushing my limits and with the sun's rise, the heat was adding to the taks. But to the challenge of riding on my own, I felt a sense of tentative confidence, not afraid of aything at that point. Knowing full well how easy it would be to hitch with a disabled cycle, real or if need be, feigned. Riding slowly uphill in this heat, and resting in the occassional shade, I was in sight of the turning point- the flat top from whence a respite of descent would ensue when I saw that my rear tire had yet another flat. Only 10 kms on. This Indian tube I had been outfitted with was too fat for my narrow American rim, and the valve stem succumbed to the force of being jammed in. Pssshhhsshh. Flat. The remaining spare- with its valve stem layered with three rounds of seam sealer after the Manali mechanic had ripped it when he removed it- also failed, and with it, my plans to cycle to Leh.

After a ten minute wait, first attempt to hitch was fruitful. A Toyota tourist vehichle with two men and a driver stopped. I'd seen it approaching up the switchbacks from a distance, and when I'd dtermined that indeed it had a roof rack, I hailed it. Later, the backseat passenger, Raja, told me that normally they would never stop for someone. "We're bastards, really. But in the middle of nowhere, like this, we had to stop." Initially they were taking me to the next village, just at the bottom of my unridden descent. But we quickly fell into an enlarged group, and after all I joined them as they took a 150 km road trip to the top of Baralacha Pass and back. With my altimeter in hand, I had the chance to scope out an appropriate camp spot for the night, and that's where I got out on the return leg.

My first impression of the thin man in the backseat was that of a rich prince, with his dark Ray Bans and super stillness. He said he was from Bombay and I immediately associated him with a character from Shantaram (although that book is set in Kolkata,) a drug lord perhaps, with his driver and his presumed personal assistant. We enjoyed company that day and I was touched deeply by this remarkable man, Raja and his helpful younger brother. They were no doubt taking a final trip together, as Raja thinness and inertness were not due to some sort of super-coolness, but to a wasting disease. "He has about three months left," said Lakshman, the intelligent and understated driver. Constant diarrhea, debilitating weakness and a skeletal form even under several layers of clothing, he was prone to hypothermis. Unable to leave the car, except when he matter-fo-factly had the car stop so he could "take a dump," he was pleasant, positive and not once complained of his pain, discomfort, or pending demise. He smiled gently and chatted, and played the music of my teen years on a clear stereo, It was unreal, Credence Clearwater, the Allman Brothers and Led Zeppelin full volume, with a dying man on the road to Leh. Although I still don't understand it, I cried for him the whole time during Stairway to heaven.

That night I camped alone. This is one of my biggest fear points regarding solo travel. The camp was perfect. The mountain stream clear. The moon rose full.

For want of a tube, I was not able to cycle. And so I hitched. This second day I rode in an oil truck, my Trek safely nestled in a spare tire in a recessed space above the cab. A Ladakhi man, it was fascinating to watch him negotiate the necessary road-sharing when two-way traffic passes on a one-lane road. From the cycle it always reminded me of two horses meeting and nuzzling each other, as the opposing drivers pause with their heads at their side windows, adjacent, communicating, negotiating, maneuvering; inching past with barely a millimeter's width clearance. Now I saw it up close and personal. "No Tension." "Relax." These are slogans painted on their sun visors. Too bad some of them use local hooch to accomplish this. At the lunch stop, when the bottle came out,I got out, prudently choosing safety. Not only did I want to avoid drinking drivers, I was still attached to increasing my altitude in steps, and this village- if you can call the strip of parachute tent "truck stops" a village- was already 400 meters higher than my previous night, at 4350 meters. I slept in the dhaba on a blanket covered mud platform under the tent that could easily sleep a dozen with two Israelis, and four Brits, and two French. The next morning I rode with students from the International School of Milan on a summer travel program. Several of them were vomitting with headaches, as they increased their sleeping altitudes 1000 meters per night. I could only imagine the liability! I traveled only a couple hours in their caravan, truly heartbroken at missing two passes and one fabulous descent. I got out at Pang and was delighted to find there, Tony and Tim.

Tony had just celebrated his 69th birthday, while Tim, at 57 , was still a youngster. They were cycling superlight and Tony was absolutely generous with his mechanical skill s and... a spare tube. Back in the game! Really glad I had kept to an altitude regime, and thrilled at the next day's prospect: reaching the base of the Tagalang La, the highest pass on this route, and the second highest motorable pass in the world, according to some. 5260 meters. We agreed to camp together for safety and support: they were bivvying, Tim was feverish and coughing, and I had the stove for cooking. In the morning we climbed up to the Moray Plains and passed the sandy dusty flat stretch which ended with a headwind. Two flats, but by know I could fix them with my eyes closed. Tony had gotten ahead when we passed a road workers' officers base. Although I was well-equipped and keen to camp, Tim clearly needed to avail himself of the apparent resources, and with a little sweet-talking and pleady sort of femal eyes, he was able to get in a bed and sleep sleep sleep. They fed us a hot dinner and everything seemed great. But in the morning, my tire was flat again, the previous day's punctures having joined together into a tear. A short reprive. Tim rode off in the cool early morning and I had a breakfast of canned mackerel in tomato sauce with fresh chapati.

What had taken so long to recognize, dear Liza, was that the Manali mechanic not only botched the wheel building royally, he sliced the inner part of the tire in three places when he removed it, leaving just enough of a shard of metal ply exposed, causing puncture after puncture, from within. The things I learned about bike fixing: Never let anyone do anything you can do yourself. If someone does something, watch every move and question it if need be. Whatever they do for you, check it, check it and check it again. So now I know and so do you.

Next truck and I was sitting in the cab for my last ride before Leh. The driver let me out to take pictures at the top of this fourth and highest pass that I didn't ride over, and stopped in the beautiful village of Rumtse while he and his helper scrubbed and polished the truck under the gushing pipe that seemed installed so high for just that purpose. I was transfices by the scenery. Stripes of burgundy and stone at juxtaposed angles comprised the rising mountains. Below, a turqoise river bounced along next to emeral fields with canary blooms. All under the electric, day-blue, altitude sky. You'd be a clown to dress like that, and even in nature, it made me smile. This truck spent several hours at the weights and customs station while I ate the best mutton fried rice with cilantro, carrots and onions ever. He then passed me off to another driver as he was ot going all the way to Leh. He was the only person to ask for payment and I willingly handed him a 100 rupee note- about $2.50. The next truck stopped just 14 kms short of Leh to was his truck oposite the sign "Please Do Not Wash Vehicles or Clothes." Having been through that already, i hitched from the wrong side of the narrow road, crowded with truck wshers, next to the throngs doing their laundry.

As good fortune unfolded, three local boys took me in their pickup and after doing an errand, they helped me find a room in Leh. i paid them handsomely after shanghaing them for an hour as every single place we checked, from the first to the nearly the last was booked, full, no room. I ended up in the most delightful corner room with the sound of the prayer wheel bell and the lcal stream filling my soul as I rested in leh. I reached it by myself. But as you see, not alone.