September 25, 2016

Yesterday’s battle laid the ground work for today’s war. While there was some confusion over how much climbing one can expect while paralleling a river, there is no way to misinterpret a road on the map that looks like an perfectly cooked spaghetti noodle. I awoke well rested and asked my host how far it was to Karu. “Too far”, he replied nonchalantly as he brought me some morning tea. “By cycle? 2 days. Maybe 90-100km. Very remote. Steep road. No homestay invitation.” I was actually prepared for that answer and had plenty of supplies to go 2 days out. (Side note: today was the first day I used the bathroom with no paper or hose, just a bucket with some water over the squat toilet. I’m quite used to the squat toilet, however the bucket…well, let’s just say my technique is a little sloppy…no pun intended.) Karu was where I needed to get to in order to rejoin the Leh Manali highway and continue south after this little detour route I concocted out of Leh. There is always a balance between carrying too much and thus going slower or carrying less and going faster. I erred on the side of caution. I took 2x as much water as I would normally. The river was still paralleling the road, however half way through it split off. Little did I know that the spaghetti on my map was another 17,500 ft pass.

The road picked up exactly where it left off the day prior. Loose rock, dirt, sand, some broken pavement. Not horrible but it was immediately evident that I would be getting more use from my granny gear. I didn’t realize that would translate into a 6 hour war where I literally never shifted out of it. The physics of cycling were narrowly holding up. Even when the road became paved for about 10km, it was still so steep that it was all I could do to keep the bike moving forward. I stopped numerous times to eat and drink during the first 4 hours, and of course look at the map. Still not close to the spaghetti. The higher I climbed, the more I slogged, the colder it got. The seasonal stream coming down from the top had ice on it.   This mountain range is so high, so cold, so barren, that nothing can live here. Several times the pitch of the road was so steep and loose that I actually found it easier to get off and push my now, over loaded 90lb bike, up the pass. This was my 3^rd day in a row riding at over 15,000 feet and over 5 hours in duration, and it was starting to show. I tried every trick I knew to get more from my legs and my lungs.   I pressed on, higher, steeper, colder, less oxygen. I could see the top, and it wasn’t close. I looked at the map and confirmed it. I had yet to approach the spaghetti part of the road. At one point I simply sat down started laughing at the absurdity of my undertaking. There was no one around to hear me. There were no people driving by with thumbs up or words of encouragement. Just me in my head. I saw only 2 cars the entire time, both momentarily before my laughter outburst. One zoomed by with hardly a hesitation. The other slowed down and asked if I was ok. I guess with the speed I was traveling, the cold in the air, and the look of utter defeat on my face, it was a fair question. I very nearly said, “no”…nearly. I was fading. Clouds were rolling in. The temperature dropped below 30F. It was still only 2pm so I had plenty of daylight. I just didn’t have any more legs or lower gears. I started thinking of options. Camping at this altitude would have seriously tested my 20F sleeping bag but would have been ok, assuming I could find a flat space (which their weren’t any). I had been climbing for 6 hours straight. To go back down would just be a complete do-over of today. The only option was up. I needed to get out of my head. I decided to put on a Fresh Air podcast interview with Gene Wilder. It made me laugh and distracted me from the imposing spaghetti part of the road that I reckoned was still 2 hours a way at my defeated pace. I dragged my bike around another loose, steep, and broken switchback, hunched over to catch my breath…then noticed prayer flags a little way up the road. I have learned that prayer flags on a mountain are typically AT THE TOP! With renewed enthusiasm, I chugged along at a slightly less defeated pace, and arrived at the summit 30 minutes later. By this time, it was about 28 degrees and the wind was howling. I quickly dug into my “oh shit” bag and layered up. (My “oh shit” bag is just a backpack that I keep bungeed to the top of my panniers. I keep emergency clothes–down vest, gore-tex jacket, beanie, warm gloves, etc, in there in case a storm rolls in quickly so I don’t have to dig into the stuff sacks in my panniers where the rest of my clothes are.) Once I was layered up, I checked the map to make sure I didn’t somehow miss a turn. The spaghetti was on the back side!

The road down the back side from the summit looked as if a back hoe had just come through and tore everything up and left piles of loose rocks where a road once was. I did a quick bolt check to make sure everything on my bike and racks were secure, then smashed through the quarry with vigor. Already, the past 6 hours were vacated from my brain (the exact opposite the day before). Ten minutes into my off road descent, the sun came out, the road turned to a newly paved, single lane black top which extended the next 40 km down in a spaghetti noodle flow through the valley and into the small town of Karu. I quickly found a hotel with hot water, had a hair cut and shave, did some laundry and sat down on the bed and smiled at the beauty of the past 3 days.

The summit.  Sorta anti-climactic

My kinda road

Blue?

Always