On the Pedals
The Daily Grind
Over The Bars
Himalayan First-Ever Mt. Everest Bike Rally
Every
new ride fills me with a terror, one notch above a simple adrenaline rush, which
is not quelled until maybe a mile into the ride when I know that the trail is
within my ability. By then I’m
committed to finishing it.
Looking
up from the grounds of the Welcome Ceremony to the switchback trail that would
take us 5,000 feet and 23 miles up to Sandakphu, my heart stuttered. It looked incredibly steep!
The foot
racers gathered, a gun cracked, and they were off. We mountain bikers then lined up. The soft life of high tea and
pampering fell away as soon as the starting gun sounded and seven of us crawled
up the trail, followed by the “video jeep” containing our equipment. Marco planned to ride as far as the
jeep could go and capture Mark and me on video during this climb. Then he and the jeep would take
another route to meet us where the ride would end (at Sandakphu).
It was
late October, the dry season, which just so happens to be the most photogenic,
with the kind of blue skies many photographers use a camera filter to simulate. The sun rose, spreading warmth as we
rode. The track was tough, a
combination of hand-placed cobblestones and steep, hard-packed, rutted-dirt. As I fell into last position I knew
this was the toughest road I had ever been on.
Mark,
Marco and I stopped to get video shots of riding up the switchbacks then up on a
ridge with the Himalayas in the background.
Professional mountain bike racers, Julia Ingersoll and John Weissenrider
agreed to be in a few of the shots, then, when their patience reached its limit,
they raced on ahead.
I had
been weary in the beginning. Now I
was reaching a new plateau of pain.
But I knew I had to continue. We
stopped at a few more locations for footage, then as the day wore on, and the
ascent continued, we all began to wonder just how many miles we had covered, and
even more alarming, how many did we have left to go?! It was impossible to tell, since
nobody had a bike computer, and we had fallen hours behind both the main group
and all the guides.
The
higher we went, the colder it got. A frigid wind swept across sweaty Lycra. I kept wondering how much longer to
Sandakphu, the “top,” mentally calculating distance elapsed. Just when I had
reached a level of exhaustion that rivaled all others (ever), we reached a town.
“The”
town? No. Only a halfway point.
We
leaned our bikes against a wall and bent to enter a building where we sat down
on pillows and drank Darjeeling tea, with cream and sugar, and ate hot chapattis
– small hand-pressed flour and herb “tortillas” fresh out of the oven. I thought of this as a holy place,
where I could replenish the cells on my batteries.
Too soon
it was time to go. I put on my
tights and jacket. It was really
getting cold now. At this point our
jeep had to go back down the mountain with the equipment and Marco, to reach
Sandakphu by another, more passable road.
I really
felt sorry for Marco having to go back on the same trail that had just
brutalized us in a jeep. He would
not be rewarded for the dues he’d paid in climbing that day. A mountain biker lives for the
downhill run!
At this
point, Mark and I didn’t realize that we were only about a quarter of the way
up. From here on, clouds hemmed in
the sun, dispensing a fine mist. The
cobblestones fell away leaving crusty, thinly rutted jeep track. The fauna changed, too, from stark
yellow brush to forest-clad slopes.
We climbed all afternoon with infrequent downhill relief. We passed a few small villages with
their colorfully clad populace, but mostly we were “way out there,” far from
humanity.
It was
the best of rides; it was the worst of rides.
But this was natural, since we were in India, a land known for extremes. Before arriving I could only piece
together tales of India like a patchwork quilt smelling of patchouli. Now as I struggled uphill on my
mountain bike, surrounded by the uncommon beauty of Himalayan alpine terrain,
awake and alive, I smiled to think that I was one of the first ever to
mountain-bike this infinite, yak- and rain-rutted trail.
We
pressed on, over a series of deep, crusty yak ruts. The ground was the color of the
bikes, a muted gold. It turned
steep. At the bottom of the yak ruts
lay a desert-like singletrack across a field, then came a small town where I
rode past a woman brushing the hair of another woman. As soon as they saw me, their eyes
widened. We shared unspoken communication. Instead of displaying resentment
because I was not wearing a skirt or acting like a typical woman, they seemed to
admire me for my bicycle prowess. It
made me feel special.
Further
down the trail, Mark and I came upon a 4X jeep that had been picking up the
runner-stragglers. We strapped my
bike to the hood, stuck me inside the back on the spare tire, sandwiched between
exhausted striders. My mountain bike
and I took up every inch of remaining available space. There was no room for Mark.
“Well,
it can’t be much further from here,” I thought, as a veteran of many twenty and
thirty-mile rides. But I was wrong. The jeep sucked up many more miles
that I would have had to endure like a bed of nails, walking on coals, getting
bitten by a Cobra. Poor Mark. I clung to the framing of the jeep as
it clattered and skated up the treacherous track.
When the
jeep came to a rest, the dust settling around us, there was a pause, as though
for a sigh, then people began to clamber out.
Here we
were in Sandakphu, a Himalayan base camp with a community dining room, kitchen
and bunkhouse.
I knew
since I was here before Mark and Marco, that it would be my job to find us some
good bunks. I located three
together, the only three left, next to a broken window and six feet away from
the toilet. Mark wasn’t going to
like this. Who would? There would no doubt be people
heading to the bathroom like a parade of ghosts all night. Mark had also had some altitude
problems in Crested Butte the year before, which gave cause for concern here at
12,000 feet. Plus there was an
underlying scent of kerosene. Maybe
there were some cans outside the window with a breeze blowing the fumes in.
Mark
arrived sooner than I thought he would, on another 4X jeep that had made a run
for the last of the stragglers.
Marco made it to the base camp just in time for a lantern-lit dinner of curry,
rice and dahl.
Just as
I’d thought, neither Marco nor Mark were crazy about the sleeping arrangements,
but knew that the pickings had been slim since I’d been among the last arrival
to select cots. Both of them caught
the whiff of kerosene too but none of us could track down the source.
Later,
the cherry-colored sunset at the “top of the world” gave way to a full moon,
which was the last thing we saw before we collapsed into our allotted cots.
Poor
Mark was awakened every time someone crept over the creaky floorboards past our
cots to get to the bathroom. A wind
seemed to whip through the broken window, which was just as well, since the
kerosene smell seemed stronger than ever.
At about three in the morning, Mark woke up having difficulty breathing.
“I’m
going to try and sleep again. Will
you keep an eye on me and make sure I’m breathing?” he asked.
“For a
little while. But I’d like to
eventually get some sleep,” I said, having been privy to every occasion
something had awakened him.
It was a
relief when the sky turned light and it was time to greet the new day.
“What?”
“The
freakin’ kerosene cans were under the bed the whole time,” he said, dragging
them out.
They
looked like a pair of Molotov cocktails – two cans whose spouts were stuffed
with rags.
Unbelievable? Yup but as we would
soon continue to discover on our Indian journey, entirely typical.
Conversation With a Sherpa
After
breakfast, sitting on the steps of the bunkhouse, I had an interesting
conversation with Razu, our 23-year-old Sherpa guide.
“How
long have you been a Sherpa?” I asked.
“We
Sherpa are a tribe.”
“I guess
that’s like you asking me how long I’ve been a woman,” I said.
He
nodded, laughing. “The Sherpa migrated to India from Nepal. And we are all called ‘Sherpa.’ I am Razu Sherpa.”
We spoke
of tourism, ecology and his environment.
Razu
said, “Every day I get to know different people.
They learn of our culture and of us.
We learn different things about them.
Compared to other places, the environment here is good, but still
deforestation is going on. The
tourists encourage and teach us about conservation: For instance, tourists picking up
plastic from the road. When I was a
child, we used to throw things everywhere we liked. Tourism taught us not to.”
“Tell me
a little bit about Darjeeling,” I said.
“Darjeeling is famous for the three “T’s”:
Tourism, Timber and Tea.
Timber nowadays is more extinct because of overpopulation and
over-domestication. People here have
economic problems that affect the environment.
They must use wood to cook and stay warm.
I hope that people will come to realize the value of trees.” He paused. “In the future it will be good to
take the good points that the tourists bring but try not to forget our heritage
and culture. To get something we may
have to lose something.”
“What
about Sandakphu?”
“Sandakphu is a national park. You can find elephants, tigers,
bison, one-horned rhinos and leopards in the area. The Himalayan black bear and red
panda can still be seen but are becoming extinct.
They are protected by our Environmental Protection Act. If you kill a bear, you will go to
prison.
“Sandakphu forest has three regions:
On the lowest level, pine trees; on the next higher level, smaller trees. Then oak trees, silver fir, and
rhododendron, ranging in color: red, white, pink, yellow. When I am in town because of the
noise and pollution I like to come up here to get away. When I see the mountains I am very,
very happy.”
“What do you think about mountain bikes?”
He
grinned. “Excellent. I had a vague idea about them; I had
seen them on television. It’s a miracle! Seeing where you can go on these
mountain bikes, I now believe anything is possible!”
As a
gesture of my thanks, I presented Razu with my silver fleece Adventure 16 hat
with earflaps. In return, he handed
me his Russian mink hat. Then we
nodded and grinned at each other, each believing we had gotten the better end of
the bargain.
The
following day, we were off again on the next 20-mile leg of the Run, Trek and
Mountain-Bike Rally. The terrain at
this level was undulating and more conducive to enjoyable riding. One of the best viewpoints of four of
the world’s highest peaks – Everest, Kangchenjunga, Makalu and Lhotse – was
clear today. It was like being in a
postcard. We even spotted our first
set of yaks.
Our
belief that this ride would be a snap compared to the first day was crushed when
we reached the first of a series of deeply rutted downhill singletracks peppered
with loose rocks. It was Razu
Sherpa’s turn to show us a miracle as he passed on foot as though we cyclists
were standing still!
The ride
continued, strenuous and exciting, past waterfalls and cliff side views to
Rimbik, at a lower elevation and warmer than Sandakphu. We had rooms reserved at the
family-owned Sherpa Lodge boasting the best tomato soup, fried potatoes and hot
chocolate anywhere for miles! The
lodge was on a cliff overlooking a deep, emerald valley with other small homes,
which dotted the facing mountain.
Tomorrow we would descend to Darjeeling to conclude the 100-Mile Trek, Run and
Mountain Bike Rally. Meanwhile,
tonight, the ruby-orange sunset over the Himalayan “foothills” cast out the
memories of pain and reminded us of why we had chosen to be here.
Enchanting Sikkim
From
Darjeeling, it was four hours to Gangtok, Sikkim by jeep. Spaced alongside the road were
philosophical signs in English:
“Better to be five minutes late in this life than to be five minutes early in the next;” “Slow and steady wins the
race;” “Raw haste is a half sister to delay;” “Always alert will accidents
avert;” Life is a journey, complete it;” and
“Life is short, don’t make it shorter.”
We could
see why its inhabitants knew Sikkim as Paradise.
It had the kind of lush mountain beauty found in places like Alaska,
western Canada, Tahiti or New Zealand.
As we jostled along in the jeep, the terrain of Sikkim looked mystical as
clouds rested on the emerald hills with fields of lime-colored cardamom stirring
beside the mighty, winding, turquoise Teesta River.
Gangtok
was the capital of Sikkim with a population that since 1975 had ballooned from
15,000 to 50,000. The city was
cosmopolitan by eastern standards.
The roads were smoother than those of Darjeeling.
In places there were even lines separating opposing lanes. Electricity sparkled at night in the
windows of the homes compared to the blurred lights of fires and lanterns in
Darjeeling where only the wealthiest had sporadic electricity. Gangtok even had a distillery which
dispensed the meanest brandy you have ever tasted, including Honeybee, Fireball
and Cherry-flavored.
Sikkim,
formerly a kingdom, was sandwiched between West Bengal, India to the south,
Nepal to the west, Bhutan to the east, and Tibet/China to the north. Sikkim had always been vulnerable to
invaders because it had the best natural passes through the Himalayas, the
routes of choice for trade between India and Tibet. In 1975 Sikkim became the
twenty-second state of India and masses of Indian troops were now perpetually on
alert. In contrast to this military
presence were several monasteries and temples where peaceful people practiced
their religion.
Sikkim’s
population was divided into three distinct ethnic groups -- Lepchas, Bhutias and
Nepalese. Said to be Sikkim’s
earliest, original inhabitants, the Lepchas were now in the numerical minority.
They were lovers of nature and lived in
harmony with their environment, constructing their houses entirely of wood
without the use of nails. They were
expert weavers of cane, bamboo and fibers.
Originally out of eastern Tibet, the daily life of the Bhutias revolved around
Tibetan Buddhism, and nearly every Bhutia committed at least their second son to
becoming a monk. At five or six, the
boy was sent to a “gompa” for his training as a lama.
The
Nepalese comprised the majority of the Sikkimese population. They were excellent farmers and the
ones who cleared the forested hillsides, using primitive tools and bare hands to
create terraced rice fields.
On our
first night in Gangtok our tour group was invited to the town hall for an
exhibition of native dances featuring ornately costumed Lepcha, Bhutia and
Nepalese dancers. Highlights
included two dancers disguised as a high-stepping Snow Leopard and two others as
a frisky Yak.
Unfortunately the Gangtok Marathon scheduled for the following day (in which the
winnings are traditionally donated to the town) was cancelled. A political coup forced us to stay
inside our rooms at the Nor-Khill Hotel.
We were advised neither to cycle nor videotape. We learned that a police officer had
been stabbed to death the previous night by one of the townspeople. Fortunately the coup blew over as
quickly as its onset and next day we departed Gangtok heading north.
Heading
North
By now
the tour group had dwindled to a sixth of its original size. Ten of us arrived by chance on
Buddha’s birthday at the Phodong Monastery (about thirty miles north of Gangtok)
where the monks were in the main hall chanting and banging discordantly on a
variety of home-made instruments.
The monk’s wives were in another building seated on a packed-dirt floor spinning
prayer wheels between their hands and chanting.
Because
of its sensitive border location, no Western tourists had ever been allowed
north of Phodong, until now. The
Indian government had granted our group a special permit. It was a great feeling to be the
first Westerners – and Mark, Marco and I were the first mountain bicyclists ever
– in this stunning country. It was a
land of awesome views and happy faces, but it had its dangers. We could not drink any but bottled
mineral water. Showers were risky in
that if you were not careful you might swallow some water and entertain a nasty
bug or two. No fresh vegetables or
fruits with thin skins. Bananas were
okay. Our paperwork must be in
perfect order because soldiers at any of several checkpoints throughout Sikkim
could confiscate our equipment and/or bikes if they felt like it. So we smiled and said, “Hello, how
are you?” while quaking on the inside.
After a
fearsome encounter with the military, our hosts at the Yak & Yeti guest lodge
that afternoon set us at ease, providing hot, home-cooked traditional Sikkimese
food, and Darjeeling tea. Lunch and
dinner consisted of organically grown cooked vegetables, chicken, beef and yak
sausage, rice and dahl (lentil soup).
We did not fear getting fat on this fare and accepted seconds. At dinner there was also a fantastic
mushroom dish of which everyone wished there were seconds. These particular “shrooms” had been
handpicked high up in the local forested mountains, a rare treat. Indeed, later, some of us even felt a
psychedelic enhancement of our appreciation for this tropical setting. And that night I had a vivid erotic
dream about which I can only comment:
wow!
Dazzled
by a potpourri of spirituality, mysticism, religion and culture, we continued
north on a road that switchbacked up above the powerful Teesta River. We passed several villages and work
outposts where human labor was cheap and the need to industrialize not an
option. At assorted waterfalls we
observed Sikkimese busting large rocks into smaller ones for eventual use in
making concrete to re-build roads after every monsoon season. Men and women hauled half their
weight in wood, vegetables and cane, using canvas sacks with straps fixed across
their foreheads. Mules and small
horses shared a small portion of the labor.
Most
homes were perched on cliff sides with bloom-filled backyards that fell steeply
away, some that featured squawking chickens.
The Sikkimese people smiled and waved as we rode by on our
mountain-bikes, absorbing everything we saw.
We spent
two nights at Yumthang, a bustling little town with a large school, soccer field
and sprawling military outpost next to a dilapidated bridge like the one Indiana
Jones nearly plunges through in “Temple of Doom.”
Marco, cameraman extraordinaire, said, “We need a shot of you guys
crossing that bridge on your bicycles.”
This seemed impossible since our travel director had expressly warned us
not to take any shots of bridges and to stay away from the military. But you don’t know until you try...
Mark and
I rode our bikes over the bridge just to check it out. Yes, it was scary with railings
missing, and heady views of the boiling Teesta hundreds of feet below. As we crossed back over the bridge
past the outpost, a group of soldiers - eighteen and nineteen at most - waved us
over. “Take pictures of us!” they
begged, having spotted the 35mm still camera I had slung over my shoulder. We obliged them. In a moment three of them were riding
our bikes, giggling like small children and gaily ringing my bike bell. When we asked if we could shoot some
video of the bikes crossing the bridge, they nodded vigorously. “Yes, of course!” Still others crowded around forming a
line of happy soldiers waiting to test our bikes.
Marco
shot several scenes of Mark and me riding across the bridge but the scary
feeling did not diminish with each take.
It turned out to be some of the best footage we gathered in India.
Between
the soldiers and packs of small children who followed us everywhere we rode our
bikes, it was something of a relief to leave Yumthang bound for the northernmost
destination of our Sikkimese journey, Yakshey.
We
arrived at dusk with a cold mist rising from the hills. This was where various explorers and
mountaineers claim to have seen Yeti – an abominable snowman – but we felt
privileged to find a herd of hefty yak munching on short, sweet patches of
grass. Mark and Marco went for some
up-close-and-personal yak footage, while the driver and I watched from inside
the jeep, stamping our feet to stay warm.
Amazing how much cooler it got at altitude upon the sun’s descent. I could see already that Yakshey
rivaled Sandakphu in cold weather.
We spent
two nights at Yakshey at a place called the Dragon Lodge, which was actually the
home of the tour minister of Sikkim.
It was as rustic and well appointed as any number of lodges you might find in
Aspen or Breckenridge with stained glass windows, wood stove and even a modern
bathroom that boasted a roll of toilet paper!
A large
carved dragon stood watch out front, gazing beyond cloudy skies to the
Himalayas.
The next day we took a jeep ride to a spot well above Yakshey where we gathered intense footage of the snow-clad Himalayas before clouds obliterated the view. There was a bathhouse featuring sulfur hot springs in which a few of us – the brave ones – indulged. It was the most fantastic feeling to sink into a tub of hot, therapeutic water at the very top of the world and soak for fifteen minutes while the rest of the world revolved below us. I was the first American mountain-biking woman ever to scald her buns in this luxurious sulfur bath while gazing at the world’s highest peaks. How could I ever top this?
Patty’s
chronicle comes from the creation of the “World Odyssey” DVD available here:
http://newuniquevideos.com/DISTRIBUTION/mountain_bike_travel_video.html
