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.