Tapering..

1 week to go before the MTB Himalaya event and things aren’t quite going to plan. A broken shifter, confusion over what tapering means, a new diet and a freshly discovered appetite for post training rum and coke has me struggling a bit. If I tackle each issue one by one like some sort of confession to you all it might get me back on track.

 

Singalila Ridge Darjeeling

Broken shifter.  50k through the 120km training and the arse fell out of it so reduced to two gears not ideal on 1000m climbs. So either spin like a deranged hamster or grind it out like the kids overtaking me on the single speed clunkers.

 Tapering. Must be too late to get any fitter now and when I do wind things down I tend to get increasingly knackered so no fan of the day off.  Trying to put a bit of effort in to make each ride worthwhile but not drain myself too much. Leaves my neither here or there but in a limbo land of tapering-shapering. (To use the Hindi linguistical tick of adding a nonsense rhyming word to everything)

Appetite. I have not had meat, onion or garlic for 7 days now and I am shrunken man (kamzor in Hindi) Have been staying at my work mate and best pal Pankaj Danu’s house where his mum makes us all an excellent 3 meals a day. I thought everything tasted as usual of onions and was only into day 7 that we started talking about the eternal Indian election winner/loser “onion prices” which have soared due to rapacious hoarding and the secret was revealed. Sadly for the Danu household, onions have been off the ingredients list for the last 4 months due to a death in the family. So no meat, onions or Garlic for a year. I have lost weight=onions make you fat.

Singalila Ridge, Darjeeling.

Rum and Coke. For the past 5 days I have been riding from Khausani a small village on a ridge populated by a few hotels and even fewer guests. Everyday involves a descent down to somewhere and then a big 14km road climb back. The only beer shops in the area are in the village at the bottom of the climb so it means if I want to enjoy my evening tipple I have got to ride back the 50 minutes and near 1000m climb back up the hill with a couple of 660ml glass bottles of the “not above 8% by vol” beer stuffed in Osprey pack. So some days, reaching peaks of previously unknown self-denial I ride back beerless.

 On one such day while reflecting on the folly of my actions a man walked into the hotel with a bottle of rum. An ex-military man with a rum ration selling off his massively discounted supplies to the hoteliers in town at a handy profit. So here I am typing away with lovely rum and coke in the sunshine, while a warm glow flickers over the mighty peaks of the Himalaya in the distance…

Wallet Wallah

We are back in India and it’s the blogging season again so we hope to keep you, my faithful blog readers, updated with the fun stuff that no one else gets to know about.

Tracy Moseley on Pindari Trail

 A week in Delhi is just about enough for me put the time to full uncreative use and pick up were we were last April, in the pursuit of pocket sized rubber happiness, which to those who don’t know, that’s inner tube wallets. We have decimated 50% of Delhi’s sewing capacity with these infernal things which have stuck, twisted and bunged up sewing machines all over the capital. Our wallets have gone to the cobblers, literally and metaphorically, and the street side wallahs should have the market stitched up in no time.

  Back in Nainital and life is good. 4 hour ride today to test the bike and the trails and survey the monsoon damage, so far looks good though we know the trails up to Pindari Glacier have been damaged badly. Uttarakhand had disastrous floods in June and is still recovering from the loss of life and damage so we have no trips planned on the high altitude trails this September/October but hope to run a few guests through the lower level trails which are seriously good fun.

Guess whose appalling white socks these are

 A few pics here from last year which we missed. Tracy Moseley getting a bit of air just in time for Pankaj to click his camera. Pankaj is seen testing out his new Danny Macaskill Five Tens and looks a happy chappy in em.

 Looking forward to the MTB Himalaya race this 28th September I think we have a spot  for that so need to get the miles in for that. October its Darjeeling revisited so can’t wait for that and the trails on the Singalila Ridge.. Kerala in Feb for more singletrack tours and we are doing the coast to coast in February which will be cracking. Anyone keen???????

Poets and Donkeys

We are back down in Delhi after our 1^st taste of Uttarakhand singletrack of 2013. 7 days of great riding in the lower level Himalaya riding up to 2800 meters with magical views of the Himalaya.

So inspiring was the riding that one lady who we met on our travels was compelled to write a poem about our adventures. We met her pre ride on the balcony of our hotel in Khausanhi. She introduced herself as a writer and a poet from West Bengal and with two books published so far. Here are her words below.

21 days now for exploring some new trails and hopefully a dedicated DH/Enduro trail centre featuring the latest in donkey uplift technology. So will report back on the progress of Moti and Burra our trainee donkey uplift team and let you know how they get on with the bag of Delhi carrots and advice on how to correctly carry DH/Enduro Bikes.

A couple of pics here by Dan Milner, watch out for MBUK on Uttarakhand coming soon.

We are still looking at teaming up Trek as our official bike provider for 2013/2014 so expect us to be plugging their bikes all over the place if that comes through.

The Bikers By Shreya

Cycle wheels

The gushing winds

Thoughts of the trail

Rolling over the

pages of our

open book.

Memories of 

loved and sweet

souls shores apart

Our hearts thunder

At the call of the

Misty mountains.

World Records

  “Nothing can be done. Batchelors”. Its 4 a.m, the batchelors are partying for the second night in a row. Squeezed 6 to a room, adjacent to ours, they bang, shout, and scream their way through the night. Brandy is their chosen late night fuel, glugged in quadruple measures topped up with water, and helped down with cigarettes they party, bottles, empty packets, plates are thrown with pleasure, strewn across the garden. Two interventions only get me an invite to join them.

  Its not every day you meet a World Record Holder but here in this mountainous district of Kerala it’s a weekly occurrence. We have been on friendly terms with the man who wrote the world’s longest letter for years now. He regularly ambushes us as we ride into Vandiperiyar armed with a newspaper article that records his mammoth task. A letter on world peace addressed to the Pope and the U.S presidency it started under Jimmy Carter’s reign and finished sometime during President Clinton’s 2^nd term.

 Yesterday at Peermade post office the counter clerk kindly asked me where I was from and then told me he was a World Record Holder. He produced a certificate from under his desk, which stated his achievements. The Worlds longest continuous speech 30 hours and 6 minutes, world peace and environmental issues were his topics. I asked him if he knew of the other World Record Holder in the neighboring town of Vandiperyar. “ He has no certificate” he said pointing proudly at his own replete with the Guinness label. 

 8 days riding here and we are in Munnar on what will be the last tour of the season here in Kerala so savouring every bit of singltetrack, relishing every Rava Dosa and cooling down the Kingfishers for post ride energy drink.

Cobra Trail

 We have a few rest days now between the groups and its time to sit out in the sunshine outside our abode in the Queen’s Pantry. Misty Mountain, Kuttikanam and enjoy a bit with the MTB Kerala family.

 Outside we have Sheffield Mike running around in his Katcha’s (underpants) sweating away the pounds to make way for a few Kingfisher’s tonight. Pankaj the facebook kid is absorbed in his phone, chuckling away as usual as events unfold in facebook world. Kerala’s best and richest mountain biker (£1250 for 2^nd prize in a 4-cross event) Jibin Joy is out on the bike with Rakesh (a name familiar to all loyal readers of this blog) working out a few new trails to link together for our next tour.  All will be back tonight for a game of cricket on the tennis courts so it is indeed happy times for all here.

 For me its time to put down a few highlights of the past month or so.

 Wildlife. We have had Tigers, Macaques, Elephants, Cobra’s, Malabar Hornbills and barking deer in abundance this year. The tiger on the Singalila Ridge tour was the probably the most exciting spot followed by a never to be forgotten frantic adrenalin fuelled pedal for your life 5 minute section of trail with Pankaj a bit too far out off the back for comfort.

 Loads of elephants in December which is always a humbling and mesmerizing experience. We were witness to a family of elephants on the banks of Maddupatty Dam followed by a sighting of an solitary elephant near Aryanakkal Dam which was more than likely the same elephant that was responsible for trampling to death  of a tea worker the previous month. Local newspapers also reported sightings of a rogue Tiger which seemed to be on a sight seeing trip of Munnar district leaving a trail of dead dogs and mauled goats in its wake.

 The strange incident of the Cobra that sprung out of  the wall is about as close as we would ever like to be to “nature” on our tours we managed to catch it on video so have a look at the link below.

 Misty Mountain life is as good as ever. The manager Sumesh has been on great form recently. For the past week every meal time has featured a tomato on my plate. When I take my meal Sumesh comes in to chat and watch and ensure that I eat the tomato. I questioned him on the new meal with tomato policy and he said the reason was that he really enjoyed watching me eat tomatos.

 Yesterday whilst engrossed in computer work in the Misty Mountain office I found myself subjected to a barrage of assaults by paper. Sumesh stuffed bits of paper down the back of my t-shirt whilst tickling my neck. I was also made a dunces hat, which was crowned upon my head as I sat in the office chair trying to maintain a business minded composure.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLpQSKpwG8Y&list=UUrJK-uF14ZAJq88g1DHfgOQ&index=1

King Of The Good Times

  3 days into the 1st Kerala tour of the year and it has been a cracker. Just completed a crossing of the western ghats mountains on the bikes. A route pioneered by myself and Sheffield Mike with help from Rakesh of Nepal and Lord Welington who it is claimed was the 1st to cross the mountains here on foot. Views and riding incredible. 2000m descent, 3
hours down with  about 30 minutes of unrideable stuff in there which is too overgrown or too tech. Pankaj riding well today, he has a look of a Erryl Flynn about him at present with his dashing moustache. He thinks he looks better without it but its immovashavable at this stage as it is covering up a nasty cut and a puffed split lip the result of a head 1st over the bars into a tea bush. Didn't/couldn't speak for two days and looked decidedly miserable. More astute observers of
this blog willl notice there is no mention of beer in it so won't mention it then which will upset the official sponsors of Mountain Bike Kerala, the worlds premium not above 5% beer;  Kingfisher the King of Good Times...

Rush Job

It always amazes me how little I can do in a day here but always feel busy.  I always wake up with grandiose ideas for the day, usually a ride which will find the new ultimate trail, a website refurb, massive push on marketing and learning another 10 words of Malayalam. Reality reads somewhat different, a quick ride, wash a few clothes forget my lines in Malayalam and then its time for a beer and to take a few notes on what needs to be done. A trip to the bank is a months work in itself, the bank trip today involved a 8 hour round trip  The bank trip  was suppposed to have been done in Delhi but got  2000km delayed to Calcutta were the banks were happily having a bank holiday. The trip then got extended another 3000km to Kerala and a week later I am at the bank. When the groups come out it is a different story. Ride all day then a beer, nothing else.  Too busy...

Staff Trip

 4.30 a.m. The sun is an hour away from lighting the sky and in this country of early risers we are surprised to be the first on the road. We cycle in silence, three mountain bikers climbing gently in the cool pre dawn air to the village of Song and the trails to Kaphne and Pindari Glacier. With work commitments and late snowfalls delaying the start date we are full of enthusiasm (even at 4.30 a.m) hoping that recent sunshine will clear the trails and let us make the first ever descent from Kaphne Glacier.

With two of India’s best young riders with me, one from the Hindi speaking north and one from the Malayalam speaking southern state of Kerala we speak in the only language we all understand, English, about what lies ahead. Climbing. Kaphne and its neighbour Pindari Glacier lie in the remote Indian Himalayan state of Uttaranchal over 400km northeast of the capital Delhi. The state is the home of India’s highest mountains the near 8000m giants peaks of Nanda Devi, Trishul and Maktoli. We need to reach half that height.

The trail starts in Song with a tough 6 km climb gaining over 600 meters in height to the trekking huts in Loharkhet. From here the path becomes narrow, steep and rocky as we ascend through forests of Rhodedendrum. The carry is a tough, sweaty and breathless affair punctuated by a few tea shops that serve the donkey caravans that come this way.  Everyone in the tea shops and on the trail are more used to trekkers carrying backpacks than mountain bikers carrying mountain bikes. Everyone including the seen it all before donkeys think we are mad.

  We climb and climb until we reach a stone carved memorial to a trekker who died on this spot of a heart attack. We pause, reflect on our own mortality and conclude that if you had to die anywhere it’s a good spot to breathe your last.  One km on and we reach the Dhakuri Pass at 3000 meters, an 1800 meter height gain for the day. In the distance we can see the snow capped peaks whilst below us the path winds its way down through the forests. It is steep and super tech with rock after rock and super tight switchbacks. It is brutal. We batter our way down the near 1000m drop descent   to the almost indescribably beautiful village of Khatti. Bodies and minds numb but elated after nine hours on the bikes.

In Khatti we settle round the fire. The talk is about our failure to bring some booze to make a night of it and the record snow falls over the winter, which will make for some testing riding conditions on the trails above 3400m. The few trekkers who have made it so far this year have found things eventful. We meet an American trekker who had slipped off the path catching his head on a rock resulting in a nasty gash. Another walker appears with an iodine smeared broken nose, a result of a fall in an earthquake the previous day.  No one else sat round the fire had felt the tremor and a conflicting account emerges, the man, they say, smashed his nose after demolishing 3 bottles of rum the previous night. Another man we encountered was covered in dirt and mud which he said was a result of coming face to face with a Himalayan black bear on the trail, a tale, I would not have believed had I not seen one myself a few months before and almost fallen off my bike in a manic escape effort.

From Khatti we ride high above the Pindari river along a path straight out of Tolkien novel. Branches of huge towering trees overhang the thin ribbon of trail that hugs the side of the valley. The Himalayan peaks appear then disappear as the track drops down to the glacial water and then up and up through to the tiny settlement of Malyador and on to Dwali at 2700 meters in height.

 From Dwali the trail splits. The right track climbs 14 km to Kaphne Glacier whilst the well worn trail to the left leads to Pindari. With the Kaphne valley being more exposed to the sunshine we head right hoping that the extra day would be enough to melt a bit more of the snow that remained on the Pindari trail. We climb towards Kaphne, riding the smoother sections and pushing up the tech bits which gives us a chance to weigh up the lines for the return ride. 4 hours of stunning scenery follow and we reach a ridge of rocks that give us a view of the glacier and the huge snowbound peaks.  We pause for a while to watch a small avalanche then ready ourselves for what promises to be an hour of magical descending.  The top section is all flowing singletrack carving through the grassy meadows with the odd patch of recalcitrant snow keeping us hovering over the brakes. We start to descend more steeply and the switchbacks, tech sections and rock gardens build up as we drop over 1200 and 14km of breathless trail to Dwali. Riding trail amongst massive peaks at near 4000-meter altitude is a surreal experience. Your oxygen starved brain makes you feel fluid and loose like having had a couple of pints, great, but your lungs feel like its had the accompanying 20 cigarettes, you are breathless, pushing your bodies limits, another part of your mind is politely asking you to stop and just take in the view.

 To make sure we had great fun on the descents we traveled light with just a small day bag each. Our luggage was transfered by donkeys and porters, which were in short supply as most of the areas men folk had headed to the Bugyals, the high altitude meadows, some near 5000m in height to collect Lawa a caterpillar fungus worth some  £6000 a kilo. The month long Lawa season is a dangerous and painstakingly slow work, involving crawling on the ground for hours on end hoping to sight the dirt encrusted little finger sized fungus. Each one, worth near £3 is collected and then  sold on to middle men on the Indo-Chinese border before making its way to Tibet and on to China were it is used as an aphrodisiac. Not only do the pickers risk their lives on the remote and exposed slopes but the trade is more lucrative if government officials are by passed but in doing this arrests are common with pickers facing prison sentences and massive fines. The absence of porters was a boon for government employed trail builders, tea boys and anyone else who was heading in our direction. Each day our bags where packed early, men came and men went, weighing the bags in their hands before deciding it was worth the effort and cash reward to cart them to the next village.

From Dwali it is 7km to Phukiya at around 3200m and a further 6 km to Pindari making it the best place to overnight for an early start to reach the Glacier. The climb up is quite gentle but demanding on legs and lungs as the altitude kicks in. The trail is breathtaking, the peaks of Maktoli, Trishul and Nainda Devi are all visible. Waterfalls cascade down into the valley as the sun melts the snow that sits like a blanket on the higher ground. Phukiya itself is best described as an ice-cold hut in the shadow of a 7200-meter peak. We move to the soot-black walled kitchen a result of the smoke of countless wood fires. The caretaker screws up his eyes up as he rolls out mountains of chapattis before toasting them on the fire in preparation for an evening meal of vegetable curry.

From Phukiya the 6 km early morning ride is beautiful, patches of snow and ice pack the gullies and riverbeds.  We crest ridge after ridge before the valley opens up onto a vast Bugyal with the trail leading to a stone temple that houses both a cave and the holy man Pindari Baba who is famed for his hospitality. With the holy man away on a pilgrimage we ride the last km of the trail up to Zero Point without the benefit of a cup of tea inside us.   We take a few pics then descend what could be 25km of the best trail on earth. 1600 meters of vert and seemingly endless singletrack to play with. An hour of continuous descent and we are back in Dwali insanely giggly and euphoric from endorphins and oxygenated air and a simply cracking trail.

  In Dwali we meet some lawa pickers who are on their way back to their village after a month away in the high meadows they are both carrying infections and fevers and ask us if we have any medicines. Another foreigner is here so we ask him for a second opinion and to pool our 1^st aid kits. The imposing 6-foot plus trekker looks studious and grave as we show him our medicines and the ill man. The crowd swells as we wait on the prognosis of the white haired trekker, a man who appears to hold the gravitas of a learned doctor more and more. After a pregnant pause he speaks, he has not traveled with a 1^st aid kit for 15 years he says and furthermore he is against all conventional medicine claiming they are “cancer pills”. He recommends month long detox programmes as the way to avoid getting ill which seems a perfectly legitimate view point to hold if you had a month to spare and no pre-existing illnesses. We dish out our pills and thank him for his advice without bothering to translate his ideas to the “patient”.

  We wind our way down through the forests and meet a small party of government trail builders escorting a black goat to what looks like inevitable death. We are invited to breakfast. We arrive at a newly constructed wooden bridge where it is explained to that it is auspicious to slaughter a goat to bring fortune and good luck for the bridge and those who built it. We are presented with goats testicles for starters then plates of mutton curry which provide for an unusual but tasty mountain bikers breakfast that sets us up for the stunning 12km of trail through the valley to Khatti. From Khatti we head away from the mountains into warmer, richer air past a village where the donkey caravans start and the road finishes. It gets busier here a jeep, and then a sign by the road that reads “impatient on road, patient in hospital”, we all laugh and peddle on slowly and patiently reflecting on the past weeks riding.

Trails From Uttarakhand

Welcome back reader. It has been a long time so I am going to warm up gently. 

 We are still in India which is probably no surprise to you. We left Kerala and the comforts of the Queen’s Pantry in Misery Mountains Plantation. which serves as he headquarters of Mountain Bike Kerala’s winter operations.  We are now 3500km north in Nainital in the foothills of the Himalaya on the trails leading to  the Pindari Glacier. 

Its been lunatic busy here since last September riding in great company on trails panning across the Indian Himalaya from the north east to  the north west, to Kerala in the tropical south and a few excursions into India’s rural, timeless state of Tamil Nadu. We have crossed the biggest mountains in  the Indian peninsular; the western ghats; by bike and by foot. Sheffield Mike  and I walked 7 hours through the highest tea plantation in the world climbing1200 metres and descending 2000 meters on a path that no on has ever done before (we made the path up as we went) just to get a few super strong beers down  in the famous Tamil Tapas bars of Thenni. (It was a dry day in Kerala) We have suffered all sorts of mechanical failures, come face to face with bears, been leaped over by deer, brutally assaulted by bar managers, ridden the most dangerous ride in “the world the death trail”; doors have been opened when all looked lost and doors closed when all look to be going great. In short a thousand stories to tell so will get on to it these next few days. In the meantime have a look at the new short MTB film we have put together. Some have complained about the camera work being a bit shaky, that’s the least of its failings, me thinks.  Let us know what you think.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=733X7FuK3fg

Fast Until Death

Kerala is in a panic at present over fears that the Mulliperiyar Dam, built in the high ranges might collapse. The dam, situated in Kerala is over 100 years old and holds water for the neighbouring state of Tamil Nadu and comes under their jurisdiction. If the dam fails its water will spill down through Kerala with varied apocalyptic predictions of how much damage that might cause. Tamil Nadu stands to loose its water only.

The debate has raged for years but has come to a head recently after a series of earthquakes up to 3.4 of the Richter scale that some say have weakened the Dam’s structure. Kerala wish to build a new dam whilst lowering the water in the existing structure to make it safer until a new dam is built. Tamil Nadu believe the water level is already too low and the dam can take more water and is sufficiently strong to withhold whatever forces of nature throw at it. Lowering the level further would compromise their agricultural heartlands. Protests have come in the form of strikes, human chains and hunger strikes and fasts until death. At this stage little progress appears to be being made to come to some form of compromise between the two states that, until recently, have had excellent relations. A small point here on the nature of hunger strikes and fast until death and a few other terms.

Words. In India there are a few words that stretch the very definition to make them almost meaningless.

Hunger strike. A tactic used by many politicians and those with a cause. Used properly it can be an effective tool to attract attention to an issue and mobilise public opinion. A hunger strike suggests not eating for a sufficient amount of time to threaten ones health. In many cases in India it means a fast from breakfast to dinner or in some cases a chain hunger strike were people swap round to pop out for something to eat. A fast until death might mean skipping an evening meal as well.

The word pint commonly used as a measure of about 550ml. Many bars in Delhi for example have a drinks card with the word pint written on it. You order a pint and you get a 330ml bottle of beer. In the Kerala liquor shops the same redefinition is in place with all and sundry lined up asking for the mandatory “brandy pint” and walking away happily with their 330ml bottle wrapped up in newspaper or secreted inside a lungi to be demolished in two swigs at the first opportunity.

Before running a marathon in India it is best to ask how long the race is. Marathons come in all distances here 5km, 10km, 20km, two laps round a paddy field, half marathon sized marathons and occasionally even marathon distance marathons.

Resort. A resort suggests a beautiful beach or a secluded 5 star luxury retreat. A quick look round the hill tea-towns of Kerala and every run down, shambolic, half demolished, half built 3^rd rate hotel claims to be a resort (hotel itself is a food establishment, walk into a place with the word hotel asking for a room and you are likely to be asked to sit down and be served a milky tea and an egg curry) Usually taking ludicrous names like Whispering Pine Woods, Mist Filled Farm House Resorts, Lovedale Cottages etc etc.

Deluxe The word deluxe has lost all meaning, anything can be deluxe usually a byword for rubbish. Hence luxury-bus usually means a death trap on wheels. A super-deluxe bus is now synonymous with a bus made by Volvo. So Volvo bus can mean a you have actually booked a ticket on a Volvo bus but more likely any old bus with a Volvo sticker on the front sometimes spelt Volva or Vulvo or worse.

Yesterday I then ran a marathon then drunk a pint of brandy. In the evening I fasted until death before taking a luxury bus to my resort. Discuss…

Compensation For Camels

Another magic mountain bike tour up to the Pindari Glacier is over now its back down to the heat of Delhi and the most difficult job shifting all the bikes on to the next destination for the Himalaya Singalila Ridge Tour.

Delhi railway station and its time to book the bikes on to the train. We have 4 bikes to transfer the near 2000km to Darjeeling. There are two of us here, so with the help of a porter we manage to relay the bikes through the Diwali season festival rush, by-pass the airport style security set up with a friendly wave and make it on to platform 16 and the luggage booking compound. Boxes, motorbikes, cartons, crate of ever size and descriptions are piled high seemingly at random to be dispatched to all corners of India. I stand patiently at the back of the paper waving, shouting scrummage that is the booking window and I am rewarded with my papers being snatched away by an official who carries them through to the office. I am ushered forward through the crowd who appear quite content for me to be given preferential treatment. Smiles greet me from all sides. I pay up at the counter managing to get past the previously unheard of “one cycle one man” Indian Railways Rule by informing them that the bikes are in bags and we have 4 bags rather than 4 cycles. “That will be fine sir” I then pass back through the cheerful parting crowd that waits till I am at a safe distance then resumes its well-rehearsed scrummage.

Intrigued by the one man one cycle rule I read the small print on the back of the luggage receipt and come across some other little known rules. For example the maximum compensation claimable for damage or loss is limited to 150Rs per kilo so that values the bikes at less then £40 each. Furthermore loss of donkeys, mules and horses are valued at 1500Rs, if the Indian Railways manage to loose your Camel in transit then their liability is limited to a paltry 3500Rs. If your Elephant disappears from the luggage van of the Malabar Express then expect the railways to pay out no more than 7000 Rupees. All there in black and white on the back of the ticket.

The train arrives in New Jailpugari 5 hours late on what must be the worst, filthiest rolling stock belonging to Indian Railways. Second Class Sleeper. (NOTE TO POTENTIAL CUSTOMER. I promise we won’t put you though this it’s 1st Class only for you). I arrive on the neon light lit platform looking and feeling like a miner who has just escaped from a month long entombment in a pit. Bikes are here, papers are signed, more papers are signed, and we are off into the sweltering dark and our hotel for a beer or two and a good scrub up.

Bones

A bit new to this blogging while I am not in India but with a bust collarbone stopping me from doing anything much of interest I can share my ennui with you all.

Ten things that a broken collarbone has taught me.

It can make you obsessive. Seem to spend most of the day feeling the broken part in fear that it might come apart again at anytime.

I am obsessive, obsessive enough to make lists about 10 things that a broken collarbone has taught me.

Bonegunge. In the first week of broken misery, be careful not to accelerate your heart beat (so stay off the exercise) otherwise the precious healing material that medics called bonegunge will be washed away from the broken bit of your bones and you won’t ever stick back together again. Now they tell me.

Stay of the ale. Ale stops bonegunge and general healing. Late to learn this one. 4 weeks in and just learnt that and now it’s too late.

Erecting a cycle turbo trainer with only one arm is very difficult. As most users of turbo trainers presumably can only use one arm (no one would use them if they did not have a broken collarbone) manufacturers should take this into consideration.

Use of a turbo trainer for more than 1 hour a day 7 days in succession could be seen as signs of obsessive behavioural patterns.

Having a day off the turbo trainer turns you to drink and list making.

Joke of the week. When joining a broken collarbone online help group I was asked for a password of 8 characters so I went for Snow white and the 7 dwarfs.

Bradley Wiggins is in storming form in the Vuelta and he broke his collarbone about 8 weeks ago.

I am not Bradley Wiggins.

In the shadow of a 3-foot drop off

Dust rose up in mini plumes from the wheels of the bike in front. sweat dripped down from our helmets clinging onto our chins for a brief pause before being deposited onto the top tube as we crested the climb. The view from the saddle had never looked more promising. Clear blue skies, dry trails, a whole summer of riding possibilities opened up before us as did a long singletrack descent packed full of tight corners, rocks and a little bit of air. We descend. A techi drop in then a fast carving left then oops got this wrong. Thud. And so the summer stopped in the shadow of a three-foot drop off.
I gingerly pull myself up causing an unsettling grinding sensation somewhere under my chin. I quickly lay back down again on the sloping stony surface. My riding comrades John and Scott hover over me, running through the 1st aid drills whilst I lay prone. John calls an ambulance, which puts paid to any thoughts of walking down the mile or so off the moor to the local pub and working out a plan over a pint.
There is nothing else to do but stare at the sky, take in the warm sunshine, berate myself for stacking, field questions on how do you feel and wait for help. Which I guess is plenty to keep me occupied. Being in a remote spot it is the mountain rescue who comes to my aid. They are led by a calm, assured, cheerful fell running doctor, who quickly assesses the scene and runs through exactly what I’ve done to get in to this spot. The rest of the team arrive, huffing and puffing a little but they have the excuse of carrying a stretcher. After 10 minutes of pinching, prodding and probing questions like “what’s your age?” aimed at establishing signs of mental clarity; a rare psychological state at the best of times for me; we all concur that I am probably of low IQ and that it is nothing worse than a broken collarbone and bashed ribs. Given the option of being carried off the moor on a stretcher doesn’t appeal. The mountain rescue team are more concerned with my health than my humiliation but I can’t live this down; being carried off; unless both legs are broken. Talk of a stretcher has a galvanizing effect though ,and with a fair bit of help I am up off the floor, a bit shaky and dizzy, but good enough to walk. My left arm is slinged and more checks are done to make sure I am o.k. and good to make it off the moor on two legs. I begin to plod slowly at the head of a slightly comical looking procession comprised of a slinged up man, a sprightly, sure footed doctor, a stretcher team carrying an empty stretcher, two mountain bikers pushing bikes and a helpful young walker who had attached himself to my bike in the hope of riding it back down into the valley. The plod accelerates into a faux-jaunty walk that fools no one but myself before returning back to a more appropriate sedate plod as we approach the ambulance. I can’t be looking too good for the ambulance. I already feel like a fraud almost wishing the injuries were worse to justify all this help.
30 minutes in the ambulance and the fraud feelings are eased away by a combination of pain caused by the rough road and an understanding mountain bike enthusiast ambulance crew.
Arriving at accident and emergency in an ambulance appears to have the effect of an upgrade and I am whisked straight through to a nurse who also mountain bikes and then x-ray. I barely getting a chance to view the casualties in casualty watching Casualty on T.V. An episode featuring a small boy cycling towards an enormous truck doesn’t look promising.
In the x-ray room a burly man approaches “mountain bike?” “mountain bike”..,“wrist”..., “collarbone”..., “suchandsuch woods...” ‘Hebden...” “roots...” “drop off." Two broken monosyllabic mountain bikers commiserate.
I am out of X-RAY and its time to wait a while for the results and a doctor. Its busy now in the casualty waiting room, a man walks in dressed in his cricket whites looking frantic maybe looking for somebody, the mountain biker sits still as if in a trance, I am sat down still unchanged from my days ride complete with knee pads. A burly man with a decided whiff of ale on his breath sits next to me and leans in conspiratorially “been playing football lad?” I am rescued by my name being called out and I am through to a doctor who quickly tells me my collarbone is indeed broken. Another nurse puts on a new sling and says he will be riding tomorrow after his shift which makes me think of a made up statistic that should be true. 76% of NHS staff are keen mountain bikers.
I step outside the hospital and wrestle the phone from my pocket with my one free hand hoping to get a lift back home. By some appalling twist of fate a fly is waiting, literally in the wings, to play his part in the story. Here he comes zooming in to sight and into the back of a hospital-dried throat. Ribs and collarbone creak in unison, an agonizing half-cough is all I can muster. I can’t speak and can’t cough the fly up. I am back inside the hospital desperate for some water anything to stop me making the effort of another cough. The receptionist thinks something is seriously wrong before realizing I just need water. The obstruction is shifted but the voice doesn’t come back for days. Making me sound ridiculously weak.
And now a week on the blue skies have gone, the bike sits in the garage looking forlorn with a scuffed seat. It usually sits in the garage looking neglected with a scuffed seat so nothing new here. Bones heal as I sit about reading mountain bike magazines with my effected weak voice accepting and turning down offers of coffee and tea. In my case falling off the bike resulted in nothing too serious but as ever the Mountain Rescue, Ambulance staff, and doctors do a 1st class job, getting me out of a bad spot, from the shadow of a three-foot drop off and on to the road to recovery. As for hospital nursing staff 64% say they prefer treating mountain bikers to any other casualties.

Freezer Box

3500 km. That is the distance between Kuttikanam and Nainital. Replacing tropical mountains, cast of half mad characters, easy nights with a few beers and the cracking bike trails of the south with the Himalayan foothills, cast of madder characters, easy nights with a beer….same, same but different.
For a once a in a lifetime experience (3rd time now) I took the 1st class train mainly to secure the safe passage of the double bike bagged cycles rather than risking booking them in the brake van under a pallet load of mangoes. With a 1st class ticket you can do as you want. So the bikes, tool box, bag of bike parts and a rucksack full of clothes were all squeezed on board.
Everthing in 1st class is on a grander scale, there is more space, beds are bigger, food comes in three courses, fellow passengers are bigger and fatter, there are more attendants and their demands for bribes are equally on a grander scale. 3000Rs was demanded for the “heavy luggage” a 1st class fee, for what? I asked. “Booking fee”. 100 Rs in lower classes normally secures a full berth for an enormous bag. I just ignored the demands and dragged the bag into the carriage resisting any offers of paid or unpaid help. This act of lower class rebellion coupled with my decidedly 2nd class dress and quite possibly 3rd class unreserved, feverish, every man for himself mad eyed look seemed to quell the ambitions of the attendants until 2000Rs? A voice rose up, an attendant appeared from behind the bag who must have attached himself limpet like and unnoticed to the baggage and as a consequence been dragged into the carriage alongside my belongings. .
For the 36 hours in the 4 bed a.c freezer box carriage I had few companions. The 1st night had one more passenger who left early morning, late for his stop. The driver whose job it seems was to enter the train, wake him up, pack his clothes and carry the cases off the train was late. There was some shouting and banging on doors, phones ringing, a man entered the room in the dark. Swearing, screaming, volleys of abuse the two men swept out of the carriage in a bundle it was too late the train was moving, more shouting, a cord pulled, the train grinds to halt, passengers scramble down on to the track watched by a seemingly unperturbed ticket inspector, perhaps this is common in 1st class.
For the rest of the journey its pleasant, the carriage shakes along at around 70k an hour heading for Delhi, I am fed, previously recalcitrant attendants switch track from the get rich quick scheme to ingratiating smiles, bows and supplicant hand gestures the battle for tips has now beguin.

Bare Footing

Pondicherry is synonymous with beer. Had a few last night after meeting a fellow cyclist from the U.K called Gerry who had cycled overland from the UK, somewhat dwarfing my 370km cycling re-recce trip from Madurai. We pedalled the last 40km to Pondicherry in atrocious conditions, rains had swamped the roads with paddy fields turning into one vast lake. Cows, goats and herders had taken to the roads in their masses heading for dry land. We pedaled on, not sure what was road or what was swamp, with thoughts in mind of yesterdays T.V footage of a crocodile in a ditch being poked with a stick by bemused looking farmers.

Today looks difficult. I have hotels to check in Pondicherry then its 100km to Mahhaballapuram for more hotel checks but this times the bike will go on the bus. I plan to leave the bike in a hotel in Mahab in readiness for the 1000 km coast to coast ride in January. In the evening I plan to take the overnight train back from Madras to Kerala to get back for the final route checks for the mountain bike tours.

The bus stand and buses look quite enough but nobody will let me take the bike on the bus so I seek out an important looking man barking out orders over the public address system. A willing bus driver and conductor are found but the bike still has to go on top which makes it awkward as there is no bus stand where I wish to get off, rather passengers just fling themselves off the speeding bus whilst others leap on hoping to grab hold of something secure. Either way I have to get the bike there 1st so I clamber on the roof of the bus loosing my flip flops in the process. I lash the bike to the rack with inner tubes and climb back down the steps. My flip flops have gone. Some bare footed Tamil has scampered off with them. I remonstrate with the conductor who watched the scene and presumably the flip flops disappear but he just shrugs. I flap about a bit and board the bus muttering. I have the bike shoes in the bag so I can use them. It starts to rain, heavy.

100 km on the bus stops for the 1st time on the journey. Passengers start murmuring. This has never happened before. The conductor rings his bell and I assume this is it. I clamber out bare footed into the rain dragging my wheels, bag and bits of debris down from the bus into a puddle on the road. I launch myself up on the roof of the bus, it could go any second, I shoulder the bike down the steps. The rain lashes down the bus roars off. I stand on the road drenched, with belongings in a pile. Sodden goats, escapee's from the floods eye my bag curiously hoping for a nibble. A man sloshes through the waters towards me and with what must be the campest voice in all of India " Hiiieee come and join me under my umbrella."

I am in Mahabballapuram with new flip flops I am wet, tired, out of sorts and look shambolic. Trying to present myslelf at 3* hotels (yes,ohh yes this is a posh tour) as a tour operator on the up will take some convincing to both myself and the hotels.

Ek sau das.

Its that time of year. The migration of the mountain biker, bikes and bags full of nuts, bolts and rusty spanners from the Himalaya to the tropical south, from Darjeeling to Kuttikanam. Many it seems are making a similar journey; judging by the overflowing Kerala bound trains; drawn by the better wages in Kerala over West Bengal, an exodus or ek sau das if you like it which means 110 in Hindi.

I am three hours away from Trivandrum 14 hours into the train journey. Most of the passengers have departed for destinations near India’s Southern Cape leaving nothing more than a few empty plastic bottles and a pool of piss a foot deep in the toilet which is sloshing its way out of the door and into the corridor as I type.

My journey started in Darjeeling almost a week ago in a jeep packed with 9 bikes most of which belonged to our friends from Singapore. 12 sleepless hours overnight in a jeep took me the 600 km Calcutta. 2 days in Calcutta to rest up ( run around like a mad man trying to post forks to U.K (unsuccessful), find an open Indian coffee house (unsuccessful) and get on top of the office work (never successful) left me little time to knock back a few beers and cram down loads of greasy Calcutta style kebabs called rolls.

Now the agonies of real travel. With about 100kg of bikes and parts to be dragged round the subcontinent it presents a logistical nightmare requiring Himalayan mountaineering style numbers of porters. Due to a design fault and an over ordering of materials in Khatmandu 3 years ago one of the bike bags is colossal a car could fit in it, two bikes barely touch the sides. Porters scream in agony as the black bag is hoisted on to their head, cursing the accursed foreigner, for every flip flopped footstep taken monetary demands go up and up, more porters flock to the scene. Just to lay a hand on the bag is deemed sufficient to make a request for rupees. Years of self –(harm)-carrying have laid physical and mental scars so deep that I can watch the scene now with a detached air. Remembering carting 80kg single handedly through a sea of people in 100 degree heat on the steps of death (platform 1 “paharaganj side” to platform 16) remains enough to keep me happy handing out the rupees.

I am back now in Kuttikanam a 5 hour car ride took me the last 220km through roads flooded by rust coloured waters formed by a combination of the late monsoon rains and the clay soils. As we drive it is apparent that everything is under water paddy feels have turned into swamps, palm trees stand above the waters like light houses in the sea, black clad pilgrims wade shin high through the waters on their way to the jungle temple complex of Sabrimalla.

According to the papers 39 people died last year of heart attacks on the trekking path to Sabrimalla out of a pilgrimage number of over 2 million, it doesn’t sound too high but it further claimed that cases of altitude related edema where also diagnosed which seems impossible at an altitude of 480 meters. On this scale Blackstone Edge would be in the death zone.

In At The Deep End.

Hello everyone. I am back on the blog trying to catch up a bit. A thousand stories to tell but the narrator is lazy so persevere with him if you can.

At present I am in Darjeeling on my 27th cup of tea of the day which is the habit here. We are three tours into the season already, god alone knows what has happened with the time. We have another group arriving this Friday in Calcutta so in between preparing for that and doing innumerable tasks in between (eating momo's, drinking a few beers) I will work on the recent history and let you decide if my time has been well spent. So dive in with me. (Excuse the pic and the pun.)

1 hour in Kurseong

I am in Kurseong near Darjeeling waiting in the bank to make a deposit into an unknown account. It is nearing 2.pm the bank is eerily quiet. I stand at counter number 4 as instructed. The bank clerk taps his glasses as he sees me, he looks up then looks down, folds away his stationery and quietly shuffles out of his booth. He is the last one to go. It is lunch hour.

An hour to kill in Kurseong. Everything is either a vertical walk up or down here so decide on a steep climb in search of more food. I enter the 1st eating house I see in search of Momo's (kind of mini steamed steak puddings and healthy) its rice only in here though served with meat. I ask for Pork which is only served in India's mountainous areas. The lumps of pork fat arrive in a watery gravy. For reasons best known to India's pigs there is no such thing as meat in a subcontinental pig, just pure fat. The pigs I have seen look like most normal pigs but underneath there is nothing but a flimsy skeleton held together by 100% fat. I would like to have said that an India pig has the same fat content as , say, a famous English celebrity but I can't think of any famous fat knackers any more. In the past we had 1930's goalkeeper Fatty Foulkes then Cyril Smith and then Rick Waller, famous fat git celebrity folk, famous for being fat. Now we have nobody, no fat knacker that is seared into the nations consciousness as a fat blob to which we can compare things now we have only a infinite number of mediocre obese lumps of lard. If any inflated blimps are reading this there is vacancy somewhere in the nations psyche for you. Your country needs you or at least I do.

30 minutes later I have finished the meal and I head back down the slope to the bank I sight a barbers shop a shave would be perfect. I settle back into the barbers and scan the pictures on the wall as the tiny man sets to work with his soap and brush. The walls are adorned with unsettling pictures of modern day body builders along with a black and white montage of a considerably less bulked up individual. I enquire. It is the barber himself I am being shaved by a shrunken though still ramrod straight Mr Kurseong 1976. My eyes avert from the walls and look at my face being rapidly unveiled of soap suds in the mirror. Someone once said you get the face you deserve at 50, not sure what I will have done to deserve mine at 37 even. The light is harsh, the mirror no friend to the customer here, but my falling chops and vertically challenged face looks like it needs scaffolding to support itself. Grim times lie ahead.

I return to the bank. The staff are quietly returning to the booths. Queues form quickly. An hour has passed.

Buy This Man A Drink

I am back in Delhi and ready for a short mid season break back in the U.K. The last 24 hours have been a whirlwind so I will finish the blog for a bit with a day in the life of a Indian Mountain Bike guide aged 37 and a bit.

05.30 a.m wake up to the sound of the temple bells in a very cold lakeside room in the hill station of Naini Tal. Feel a bit groggy after 4 bottles of beer last night. Last days ride today so pull out the last remnants of my festering, crumbling patched up cycle clothes. Carry the patched up, crumbling Specialized Enduro down the steep steps and I am on the bike creaking up the 40-minute 400-meter climb to Snow View.

08.30 I am at Snow view a bit breathless as its 2300m up here. Slurp down three cups of tea and a packet of milk cream biscuits. The bike looks quite good in the crisp; cool morning light leaned up against a wall. A few craggy faced locals gather round the bike squatted down on their haunches, smoking, looking wiser than time itself. “motorbike” ventures one. I drop down the seat hurtle down the top of the track before slamming on the brakes as first a donkey mooches across the trail followed by a non-plussed horseman waving a big stick either in anger or showing me the way.

09.00 I am at the bottom of the trail it is brilliant. Its wide, fast with loads of rock features to launch off all through thick forest. The trail now traverses above a side valley; narrow singletrack with a huge exposed drop one the right hand side; incredible; its 2km of this then the trail drops down trough the villages crosses a stream innumerable times and then it’s a superfast trail with loads of rocks. About 9 km of pure downhill and traversing.

10.30 I am back I NainiTal after a 1-hour road ride back. Gobble down super oily allu parothas the breakfast of champions. Head back to the hotel for an hour or so on the rooftop packing up and wading trough a black bag of broken bike parts, god alone knows why these have been brought the 3500km from Kerala, on trains, on my back, up hotel stairs, where is all the good stuff?? Massive shopping list on my return.

14.00 Invited round to Pankaj’s house for lunch. Pankaj a genial, enthusiastic if at times slightly manic young man feeds me from his mothers kitchen for a non stop eating fest, chicken piece upon chicken piece, rice upon rice, daal poured upon daal. I am full so now its time to start eating proper more dishes come out I fear this could be my last meal.

16.00 After dragging my puffed up stomach back up the super steep climb towards Nainital’s Zoo I make a quick visit to the legendary colonel’s house where I spent a month or so last year. He is in good form, the whiff of rum exudes form every pore. An “artist” is here. He also appears to enjoy a tipple he cuts an incongruous figure for an artist, the lenses are so thick on his glasses that they sit half an inch in front of his nose. The work done so far doesn’t look promising the word Brahmap u t r a h suggests the rum has taken effect. His next project looks ambitious. A full wall has been given over to the artist with the intention to paint a full panorama of the Himalaya copied from a photograph. The colonel is mirthful. I head back down the stairs from his terrace and spot two full size female mannequins one in Indian dress and one in foreign garb on the balcony above. What the ?? They are here to welcome people says the colonel.
20.40 I am on the train. Should be in Delhi at 04.00. I am 2nd class sleeper back to my natural home in economy class, it becomes cold as the train rattles along the 240km to Delhi.

04.30 I am in Old Delhi station its is still dark. The platforms are awash with a sea of blanketed; snoring bodies there are 1000’s sleeping here. Out in the streets it could be any time at night, its incredibly busy, chaii stalls are in full flow, rice is being served, rotis are being slapped onto to the side of the glowing Tandoor. I decide to take a short walk on the way back to my hotel through the flower market which is just opening up, buyers huddled up in the morning chill, gather round the flowers, as porters carry bundles on their heads to the waiting cycle rickshaws. I clamber on to back of an empty cycle rickshaw and ask the rider to take me back to Paharganj and my hotel. He waves his hand as I ask him the price, not a good sign. 20 minutes later I am here. I get down into the increasingly busy street and offer the puller 40Rs, a generous sum. He looks aghast and wrestles by rucksack back off me feigning to throw the money away, this I take to be a good sign, he has not thrown himself at my feet or looked likely to block the road by lying across it I rescue my rucksack and dart into the crowd its 05.30.

Macho Casanova

I am in a shop. I have a terrible decision to make. In front of me are two cans of deodorant. The only cans of deodorant left in the shop. I am in desperate need. Rakesh’s goat snipes are wearing thin. The choice is this; Casanova, in a nice black can, would cover the smell of a dead goat easy, or Macho, stronger smell would probably kill a goat. The shopkeeper is impatient, what would you go for????

I am a Macho man.

Rode with a great group these last ten days 2 Canadians handy riders, very fit and two Mucovite superfast downhillers. We rode the Top Station descent yesterday. A 30km empty road tarmac climb up through genuine travel brochure beauty. Then its 12 km downhill dropping around 1700 meter to the dusty little settlement of Korangani. The descent is unbelievable, 3 km of swooshing superfast singletrack, then it’s a barely visible rutted path through endless lemon grass before a quick coffee shop stop at Middle station the former half way point on the old ropeway route that transported all the tea from the Munnar hills to the railhead at Body then through to the coastal port of Tuticorn.

After coffee its rock garden after rock garden, super tight stone strewed switchbacks, jump after jump and sustained techi downhilling for around 30 minutes. The Ruskie’s loved it the Canadian’s said they enjoyed it. For me it was a last chance to bring out the creaking lump of a bike that is my 04 Enduro. It clunked, grinded, sludged, battered and occasionally with uncharacteristic grace it danced over the odd rock in the dust stream of Evgeny and Igor, I a helpless passenger. It will hate me for this but a shiny new Iron Horse 6.4 awaits me in two weeks time will the Enduro turn against me? Its got 7 more days to do it’s best.