Getting into Adventure Green

as half a lettuce leaf, and a slightly
pernickety gearbox which needed to
be seduced into action rather than
told what to do, and which even after
several days was still spurning my
attempts to introduce it to the joys of
neutral.
Chandigarh, the city of graceful
buildings and wide boulevards
designed by the French modernist
Le Corbusier in the Fifties and our
first stop, is famous for architecture
and buttered chicken, the regional
speciality.
We hopped into a tuk-tuk for a
tour, admired the former as tasteful,
then stopped at a family restaurant
packed with locals, and admired
the latter as much more tasty than
modernism.
After the heat, dust and drudgery
of the plains, the next day was a
symphony of curves with the road
rising and the mercury falling, a
peg-scraping blast through forested
foothills and splashing rivers to
Manali, the pleasant alpine town
where the good citizens of Delhi
come in summer to escape the
heat, and in winter to marvel at the
wonder of snow.
I ate delicious river trout at Johnson’s
Café, founded by the progeny of a
player in the Great Game who had
retired here aged 70 and married a
local 19-year-old, as you do.
Over the next few days, the road
played with us, coyly offering us
stretches of perfect tarmac then
whisking its veil away to reveal
miles of ugly roadworks, but at least
standing on the pegs gave me a break
from the seat, which I was now
beginning to dislike more than an
ex-girlfriend who kept popping into
my head uninvited.
Other non-Indian riders felt the same,
so if and when Royal Enfield does
introduce the Himalayan to Europe,
I suggest it comes up with a saddle
suited to more substantial buns.
All around as we rode, rested and
stopped for photos, the mountains
fisted to the sky, either yearning
for heaven or angry that no matter
how much they yearned, they would
remain forever earthbound. Unlike
the eagles who soared above their
peaks, mocking us all with their
effortless grace.
At Sarchu, we camped in a beautiful
deserted valley at 13,000ft, and since
there was nothing to do but drink
rum and watch the sun go down,
French rider François Barrois taught
me useful phrases such as: “Pissing
in a violin”, which is what French
people do when they piss in the wind,
and: “Do you take my bladder for a
lantern?” (Do you take me for a fool?)
Thus educated, I wrapped myself up in
thermals and blankets, tried to sleep in
the thin air, and failed. I was not alone,
as I gathered from the groggy faces of
other riders over breakfast of omelettes
and tea at dawn.
Still, getting on a motorbike and
setting off makes us all feel better,
and we saddled up and rode on, over
passes as high as 17,480ft and past
the cheesy safety signs of the Border
Roads Organisation, with slogans
such as “Hug my curves, but not too
tightly”, “Driving after whisky is always
risky”, and the splendidly antediluvian
“Don’t gossip. Let him drive”.
The many trucks we passed bore
their own slogans: Blow Horn,
Use Dipper at Night, Keep Your
Distance, and once, the bittersweet
Alone but Happy.
Which was more than could be
said for the unluckiest man on the
trip: one of the Indian riders who
soaked his boots at a water crossing,
changed into his shoes and tied the
boots on the back of his bike to dry.
At lunch, discovering one had fallen
off, he threw the other one way as
useless and rode on. Only to find at the
end of the day that the support truck
had picked up the first one.
By now, although the
Himalayan was coughing
and spluttering because
of the altitude, its chassis
and suspension was in its
element, dancing through
mud, gravel, sand, snow and
water crossings as lightly as
a ballerina.
At Leh, I patted its tank sadly
as I said farewell to it, and
took a taxi to the airport.
“What were you doing in the
mountains, sir?” said the driver.
“Riding the new Royal Enfield,” I said.
“Ah, Royal Enfield,” he grinned into
the mirror. “Great motorcycles. Very
powerful.”
I didn’t disillusion him, since given
the choice between the Himalayan
and a Multistrada on the roads I’d
ridden over the past week, I know
which I’d choose, and it’s not Italian.
Or red.
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