November 13-18, 2016

There are entire chapters dedicated in the guidebook to Pokhara, Kathmandu, and the Annapurna Circuit. I’ve read them all, front to back, back to front. I’ve been there. I wanted to see the real Nepal. Bad roads. Small villages. Basic food. Simple life. That uncompromising spirit. Most importantly, no tourists…and so far I feel that is all that I have seen.  (Of course I realize all too well that I am a tourist.)  I’ve been told by far too many people, including the trusty guide book, that the road from Pokhara to Kathmandu is wrought with disaster. A constant parade of buses carrying rubber necking, porter and guide having adventure seeking trekkers from Kathmandu to Pokhara, and back again. Speeding, weaving, overtaking other buses with no place for the lonely cyclist to hide. Take the bus, I’m told. It’s a luxury bus, with A/C, wifi, and it stops at all the nice restaurants along the way. You’ll love it, they tell me. I’m sure it’s a wonderful experience, and it likely would not be the same bus experience that I had from Besisahar to Pokhara, however, at this point, I have finally gotten the pungent aroma of feet and vomit out of my memory and am in no hurry to get them back.

From Pokhara to Kathmandu, by the aforementioned bus, it is about 7 hours. If I cycled the main road, it is 125 miles and can be done in 2 long days. There is a 3^rd option: navigate my way back on secondary roads, which I’m told by locals are “bad roads”. Number of days? It depends on how many times I can lose myself. If I take the bus or cycle the main road, the outcome is known. If not, the path is unwritten…and maybe, just maybe I’ll get a glimpse into the Nepali world that I have been longing for.

Prior to leaving Pokhara, I stumbled upon the Seeing Hands Massage specialists (It was also in the guidebook.) It is a clinic employing only blind therapists. Because of their loss of sight, their other sensory detection is dramatically heightened. After nearly 2 months and 2,000 miles on my bike, including 10 arduous days on the Annapurna Circuit that tested every muscle in my body and bolt on my bike, a massage seemed appropriate. I walked in, immediately met my therapist, and booked a 90 minute massage for $26. He was a very chatty man with a lively sense of humor, of slight build, approximately 35 years old, and has been blind since birth. Don’t be mislead by his slight build. Despite his soft handshake, I would soon learn that after practicing for 8 years, his hands gripped with the power of a vice. His English was quite good so I was able to explain to him my journey over the past 2 months and hopefully give him some direction on where to focus. It turned out, he didn’t need it. He wasted no time finding the scar tissue from 2 prior shoulder injuries and spent the first 60 minutes with his elbows firmly implanted there. I feel that my pain threshold is beyond reproach, however, I went from trying to breathe into the discomfort to writhing and churning face down on the table, wishing I had a leather belt to bite down on…all while the “Pain Master” as he calls himself, chuckled diabolically with each ice pick he stuck in my muscles. “How your legs feel?” he inquired. “Pretty good, but you haven’t worked on them yet,” I replied, barely conscious. And like that, he put a knuckle in my IT band and with it a lightning bolt shot through my leg. “Pretty good?” he inquisically chucked in his sinister way. The Pain Master spent the next 45 minutes (yes that is more than 90 minutes total), digging into both legs and my gluts, turning this self proclaimed man of high pain threshold into a frothing, drooling, biting the pillow, 8 year old girl. “See you tomorrow? More work to be done.” “Huh? Sure…see you tomorrow,” I slurred.

After regaining my senses, I stumbled to the front desk and made an appointment for the next day. “Can we feel your cycle now?” he asked. He and 3 other of his peers jubilantly spent the next 20 minutes combing over every centimeter of my bike. The excitement of seeing them all analyzing my bicycle from the shifters, disc brakes, lights, bell, all by touch, filled me with sheer gratitude and humility. I came back the next day for another round of the same. I could have gone back every day for a week. It was the best massage experience of my life leaving my body feeling healthier and stronger than any time I can remember.

The following day, I rolled out of Pokhara at 6am, intent on getting myself lost. It was a crisp morning, and for the first time that I could remember, there were clouds, which gave me pause. “Will it rain today?” I cautiously asked the hotel owner prior to departure. I had spent a total of 8 nights here over 2 periods and had to gotten to know everyone very well. He assured me that it wouldn’t. Getting out of any city by bicycle is always the worst part, simply navigating traffic. Today it was actually a good thing…sorta. I was due for an idiot moment. They usually happen every month or 2 and thus far I’ve been pretty clean. My back tire was feeling a bit soft. Instead of taking out my hand pump (with a gauge), I opted to stop at a motorcycle repair shop (they’re on every corner) and just hit it quickly with their air compressor, with no gauge. Ten minutes and 2 miles after airing up my tire…BOOM!. It exploded, blowing the tire completely off the rim in mid pedal. Too much air, and I knew it…immediately. I knew it when I was airing it up and I still did it. I knew it before I stopped to add air and I still did it.   I looked down at my rear wheel and took a moment to compose myself (and to stop the voices cussing me out inside my head). Fortunately, because there is a motorcycle repair shop on every corner, I was able to walk it over. I needed the compressor to reset the tire with a quick burst of air, before I correctly inflated it the rest of the way with my hand pump. At least I didn’t put my entire arm in the front spokes while trying to adjust my cycle computer like in Madagascar. Fortunately I still have the scar to remind me of that genius moment.

I had plotted a turn off on the main road to Kathmandu where I would begin exploring but there was a necessary section of high speed bus interaction for the first 2 hours. The road wasn’t awful, but I knew I wanted off. I passed numerous road side cafes where the morning tourist buses had stopped, all of their seats occupied by trekkers heading back to Kathmandu. I made sure I passed them all and stopped where I saw only locals eating, in order to grab a few samosas and see if there was a closer junction to get off this dusty speedway. I found the road to Gorkha, the former capital of Nepal. It was on this road that I learned what “normal” road in Nepali meant. It was free of zooming buses for sure, and I spent the next 3 hours slowly churning pedals uphill into a canyon where Gorkha sat at the top of. Nepali flat is another term I learned today. Sinister locals.  Leveraging a recommendation from the same person who told me it was a normal road, I found a hotel, complete with panoramic views of the valley that I had just climbed. After a shower, I made my way down and had the best dal bhat that I’ve had since arriving in Nepal. Yes, it’s just beans, rice, and curried potatoes, right? I know, I know, but this was magic. The sights, the spices. Everything. Shortly thereafter, the combination of the day’s exertion and food coma united into a powerful sedative and I dragged myself up to my penthouse suite and collapsed…only to be awoken at 10pm by horns and drums from the street below. It stopped, for 5 minutes, as I drifted back to sleep, but then started up again. This went on until midnight when I finally got the energy and curiosity to go out onto the balcony to see what all the hype was about. To the best I could discern, it was a religious ceremony, perhaps tied to the super moon that was happening that night, but I’ll never know. This went on until 5 a.m. I could literally feel the drums reverberating inside my head (all the while hearing my dad talking me as a teenager with my rap music). At one point I actually walked around the hotel with my sleeping bag and air mattress, looking for any corner that was insulated from the noise, but I found no solace. When I awoke at 7 a.m. after 2 hours of restful sleep and 8 hours of suffering, I asked the hotel manager what was going on last night. “I don’t know. I don’t hear anything. Maybe praying to gods?” I have no idea how he, nor anyone else I talked to knew what I was referring to. Maybe growing up Nepali makes your body immune to such noises (in addition to barking dogs).

I prepared to roll out from Gorkha. There was a low cloud base, completely shrouding the valley below, reminiscent of a snow field. I hesitantly loaded up my gear, wondering if I would be better spending another night in Gorkha to make up for last night, but I was anxious to get moving. Like a little kid, everyday, curiosity always gets the best of me. The morning was too beautiful. I was told by a local guide over dinner the night before, that the road from Gorkha to Arughat is “very bad” and “not possible in 1 day on cycle.” It was less than 30 miles. How bad could it really be? Even after discovering what normal road was yesterday, I’ve learned to take all of these advisories with a grain of salt (or chalk as I would soon learn) because everyone thus far thinks I’m nuts even for cycling the country solo. Well, he was right. The road was dreadful and my prospects for completing it in 1 day were grim. It was easily the worst road I’ve seen either in India or Nepal. It was not fit for automobiles and luckily I didn’t see any. It was only me, the occasional motorcycle, and a dozen or so SUB’s (Sports Utility Buses). These were seemingly normal local buses, however they were anything but. In some places, the ankle deep, soul devouring, leg destroying sand was so fine that it was literally the consistency of chalk. Each time a SUB or moto passed by, in its wake was left a cloud of this fine chalk in the air that immediately bonded like paste to anything with a hint of moisture…which was my skin, my clothes, and the drive train on my bike. The road was either layered in this chalk, or slathered in 2 month old mud left over from the monsoon season that would never dry, depending on which side of the mountain the road was on. No matter how tough the road was to cycle, it had to be far more enjoyable than being tossed around like the inside of a popcorn popper in one of those buses. In many places, the road was just 2 troughs, carved out from the monsoon season, and made worse, bus after bus, year after year. Road maintenance is a word that is not known and definitely not funded here. To drive in the troughs would tear off any vehicle’s undercarriage completely, so the efforts were made to travel just to the side. As the buses approached, I could hear the suspension clanking, the axles twisting, and frames heaving under the stress as they rocked from side to side through and around the troughs, sometimes up on 3 wheels. Many times they would have a spotter jump out to instruct the driver where the best line was. The bus would then back up and get a running start at it. It was remarkable to watch and is further testament what is “normal” and how you just have to adapt. In fact, I took 2 videos.

After 4 hours, I reached the summit and proceeded down hill on the same quality of road to the small village of Arughat where I slept for the night. The past 2 days had definitely taken me to places where the guide book dropped off. I was happy. I was seeing smiles from people who looked like they had never seen a tourist and in turn I reflected those smiles back. “Namaste,” said the adult men and women, as I slowly rolled by, in search of a hotel. “Cycle, cycle, cycle!” yelled the small children chasing behind me. This is the Nepal that I wanted, that I yearned to see, void of any North Face back packs. Life slows down and is simple. Smiles are warm, welcoming, and seemingly everywhere. It is a place where a few bucks will get you a hot meal, a cold shower, and a place to lay your head.

The following day I set out for Dhading Besi, but nobody warned me of this short 26 mile stretch of road. After putting on another dal bhat eating display the night before, I was greeted by a crisp morning and leisurely roll out on a choppy, broken, dirt road along the river. Yesterday I had climbed for 3000 feet and descended all the way back down. If the squiggly lines on the map were any indication, today, I was going up, immediately. For 3 hours I labored up hill, on a pitch that I was barely able to sustain forward momentum. The front wheel would bounce while the rear would spin, kicking out rocks and sand behind me, causing my heart rate to spike out of my chest. Fortunately, I had been previously cycling at much higher altitude, so my legs still felt strong. My breath slowed.  I was back in the mountains and at peace.  I could have done this all day…and I very nearly did. It was another road that was so rough where only a bike could go, and an SUB.

“Namaste!!!”  “How are you?”  “Where are you going?” they shout out the window from the bus as it bounced and lumbered by, before they could even hear my reply. It is a limited and fleeting endeavor I realize, but like everyone, they just wanted to connect. The human experience. It makes them smile.  It makes me smile. This is where I want to be.

There are periods when I would cycle for hours and not see a person or village. However, just when I needed food, an oasis that wasn’t on the map would appear with samosas and dal bhat to rescue me. That happened again today. I stopped to refuel, wondering how much longer it was to the top.   A school bus churned by, packed so tightly that kids were literally pressed against the glass or hanging out the door. They were dressed in navy blue uniforms, crisp trousers and neck ties, that were seemingly impervious to the inherent chalk that clings to everything else.

Up here, people are insulated but not isolated from the noise and chaos of outside world.  While at the café, enjoying a samosa, there was a TV with soccer showing.  The men cheered when Lionel Messy scored a goal…and so did I. He is the Pele of this generation. High five. Connection.

After cresting the top of the ridge, it was all down hill to Dhading Besi. It is a proper town, but far removed from any tourist map. There were plenty of places to find food, lodging and stock up on other items, including chocolate cake.  It is surrounded by mountains but only at an altitude of 1,950 ft. The best part about being out of the mountains and in a valley? Fresh fruit! Pineapple, bananas, apples, oranges, and fresh yogurt (curd, doye). The worst part? Everything else. Sigh…

Each day thus far has been up and over countless ridges, down to the river, and over again.  Wash and repeat. A test of stamina, both physical and mental. This area was heavily affected by the earthquake in 2015, showing the scabs that are slowly healing into scars, of crumbled buildings and structures. The spirit of the people in this area is inspiring as they bond together as a community to construct temporary makeshift homes while they set about the long road to fully rebuild their villages.  It will surely take years. Even though I’m only a couple days from Kathmandu, it is more remote, more genuine, and in turn I am more calm, more clear in my thoughts, and more at peace.

It is easy to be in awe of the Annapurna area. It is a region with truly astonishing and utterly paralyzing beauty. But I find just as much happiness in the ordinary (however that is defined). Yesterday, while stopping for tea, I had a guy invite me to his home. He enthusiastically pointed at the chicken pecking around our feet and told me with a chopping motion of his hand that we would have dinner together that evening. Unfortunately, it was only 1030am and I was intent to keep moving. It may sound odd, but that was a true offer of kindness, an effort to connect, and it was humbling. It was also the first time that someone offered to “off” a chicken for me…but nonetheless not the first suggestion of this unsolicited kindness.

Thursday, my travels took me immediately, straight uphill from Dhading Besi, towards my final destination of the day in Trisuli. It was at this time that I got a good gauge on the different color codes of roads on the map. Red: Main highway. Bus and other vehicle traffic. Avoid if you can. The road from Pokhara to Kathmandu. Orange: Secondary road. Very light traffic. Paved or good dirt. Desirable road. Easier cycling with some distinct challenges. My route the prior 2 days. Yellow: Loosely defined as a road. Rutted, boulders the size of watermelons littering the way. Frequent stream crossings, some times knee deep. Occasionally the road fails to exist, but don’t despair. Take confidence that it is there and just keep pedaling (or pushing). Yellow roads go to most remote areas. Only embark on yellow roads if presented with no other choice or if feeling overly adventurous. Bring a horse if possible.  Today, I was on a yellow road. It was 7 hours of gratifying war, through remote hills and canyons, seeing villages that not many westerners have seen…and it was one of my favorite days.

The past 4 days, I have learned (jokingly) that not everyone in Nepal is a smiling Sherpa waiting to attend to your every need in order to help you climb one of these spellbinding mountains. Regular people actually live here, and they live far below what any American would deem as poverty. Yet there is beauty in the simplicity. A genuine smile. A random act of kindness. If you are ever feeling glum or down, simply say “Namaste” to any Nepali person. The smile that immediately ensues is the most genuine you’ve ever seen and is guaranteed to make you smile. I have employed this tactic during some of my darkest, most exhausted times and it has never failed to put some wind back in my sails.

The final day, Friday, I joined a single lane, nicely (mostly) paved road that grinded slowly and steeply to the top of a pass before descending into Kathmandu. There were switch backs, a few, but it was painfully apparent to me that I could have used a few more. The pitch was crushing and relentless.  At the top of the 4 hour slog, I arrived at the summit, which was a knife edge ridge line, the width of a 1 lane road that dropped 1000 feet to each side. I was crossing into a new valley where the city was waiting.  After a short descent back into Kathamandu, I arrived at the Thamel Eco Lodge and was immediately greeted with warm smiles and hand shakes by the same staff that had seen me off, nearly 2 months ago to the day. They were all eager to hear stories of my journey, even though two of the girls have been following my on Facebook. I was just as eager to share.