October 7, 2016

His words are haunting me. Suffocating me. He warned me. “Tomorrow, road very steep,” he said with his hand pointing up at a 70 degree angle. I’m beside myself. Actually I’m beside my bike, because I literally cannot pedal it. I’ve never seen a road this steep before. Not Vietnam. Not through the Andes in Bolivia and Peru. Not in the Ladakh region where I just was. This was absurd. How did I get here?

The road through Banjar was already steep, too steep to pedal. Upon leaving town it did level off, a bit. It was 8 a.m. and all the children, dressed in their uniforms, giggled at me as they said “good morning” on their way to school. It was the perfect start to my morning. Up into the lush canopy of trees that filled the canyon, the road climbed, first kindly, then gradually, then unforgivingly, finally mockingly. Over the next 20km, the single lane, pleasantly paved road gave way to a busted, eroded by water, death march. Four hours in, I simply sat down on the side of the road, knowing that I still had 4km remaining. A family coming the other direction saw the dejection in my face, the salt ring on my jersey and trucker hat, and the sweat pouring profusely down my temples. “Hello! Lassi?” the nice man called to me and offered a drink. “Never see cyclist on this road. Need help?” I could barely hear him over the flow of blood drumming through my ears. “How far to the top?” I inquired rhetorically, already knowing the answer. “Close. Maybe 4 km.” he said in an encouraging manner. By my math, that was at least another hour, 2 if I’m walking. All I could do was laugh. I dusted myself off and pressed on. At some points when pedaling, I would hit a bump and my front wheel would lift off the ground due to the pitch of the road. At other times, all I could do was walk. Just after 2 pm, I reached the summit and continued over the top. Almost like a dry erase board, the cool air at the 8500 ft pass dried my sweat and wiped away the agony of the past 5 hours. I was left with a 2 hour decent mirroring the road in every way that I just came up, until I reached the truck stop town of Luhri at the banks of the river. The statistics for the day were daunting: 6000ft gain. 8000 ft lost. 2,500 current altitude of Luhri (the lowest I’ve been since I was in Africa and considerably lower than my house in Colorado.) It is a very conservative estimate that I walked 5km of the 20km climb up Jalori Pass because parts were just not rideable.

Luhri was another small town at the confluence of 3 roads along the river. This was the first town that I’ve been to in India where language has been a problem and the signs were all written in Hindi. After wandering around I was able for find a room for the night. It was Rs500. It wasn’t cleaned. The Dora the Explorer sheets, while whimsical and reassuring, seemed to have been changed. However, there was laundry hanging in the bathroom (that wasn’t mine) along with a used toothbrush and razor. “Does someone live here?” I wondered to myself as the man was showing me the room. There were no other choices and if there were, I didn’t have it in me to try. No sooner did I give him my money, he vanished.

There was hot water and for some reason, even after a long hot day, a hot shower always seems to bring me back. I quickly cleaned up and ventured out for food. The main bridge in town spanning the river was lined with people. There was a buzz in the air. Even the local police were out in force. I must see what all the hubbub is. From the bridge, I glanced over the edge only to see that a baby cow had somehow made its way down to a ledge, still 20 feet above the river. There was a group trying to climb down and rope her, for her own safety. I turned my head for a second and heard a splash, then saw everyone scurry to the other side of the bridge to see the calf swimming with the current down the river. I guess I didn’t know cows could swim? Well, this one could. Fortunately, she was able to make her way to the rocky shore prior to entering the rapids. That was about enough excitement for me for the day. I grabbed another bottomless plate of rice, dahl, chapati and retired to my room. I laid there, shirtless, on top of the Dora the Explorer sheets, under the rickety ceiling fan, ear plugs wedged in, dreaming of cooler weather nestled in my down sleeping bag. If you’re wondering if the owner of the room would come back? The answer was yes, at about 930pm as I was drifting off to sleep. I heard a knock on my door but declined to answer. He then made a call, likely to the person who had sublet his room. I’m sure he was not too happy, but at this point, I was content to sleep, grateful to make it through the day, and anxious to get back to the high country tomorrow. To get there of course, up another massive climb…but hopefully not as steep.