From the rooftop terrace of Helena’s restaurant I could already see Swayambhu to the west. The spires of the hilltop Monkey Temple had just pierced the mist. This was a good sign. Though the hills surrounding the Nepali capital were steep walls of 1000m or more, I had not yet glimpsed any proper himals from the valley.

I walked back through Thamel, dodging rickshaw wallas and hashish whisperers, to the hotel Blue Horizon. I saw Krishna on the way, coming out of a tea stall. He had been in Langtang with some Israelis a week before, taking them and myself up Tsergo Ri (5000m). Now, having come back to Kathmandu, he had spent weeks wandering around Thamel, trying to get another “fare” that would take him nearer his family or at least make some money. It was the low season for trekking. All the money was leaving the country. I wished him luck and walked to my hotel.

I met my riding partner at 8:00. It was Quiran Van Olden, a Dutchman (married to a Nepali, working in Geneva for Proctor & Gamble Inc., a large household goods manufacturer based in Cincinnati, Ohio, my home town). He gave me a hearty namaste in his funny Dutch-accented Nepali. He was in town to visit his wife’s parents.

We met during a hash-run, a cross-country-race-stroke-picnic held weekly in the Kathmandu valley by jolly expatriates. As the runs are typically geared to favor beer-chugging aptitude rather than physical fitness (in fact, a penalty is levied for trying too hard, and the English contingent is keen to enforce the “rules” see www.aponarch.com/hhhh for further info and photos), Quiran and I had decided to test our mettle by cycling to various points along the valley rim. We had already cycled to Nagi Gomba, a Buddhist Nunnery that sits on a rocky outcrop on the northern valley rim. Although the trip involved mostly dirt paths and a steep ascent, it was not very taxing. We wanted more. We wanted to go higher, drop like rocks. We'd need better bikes for that.

After weeks of seeing swarms of dilapidated Hero Jets clanking to and fro, it was a treat to have found a saikal pasal which rented machines which could almost be described as modern. Our two high performance steeds for the day were Trek 4000 hardtails with aged front suspension, decked out in the finery of well-loved Shimano Deore, circa 1995. As we walked out into the street after picking up the bicycles, I saw Krishna in his blue jumper leaning against a doorjamb.

“Kaha janne?” he asked, indicating my bicycle.
“Nargakot,” I said.
“Aba?” He was surprised. “Pheri jannehuncha?” he asked, wondering if we would be back again today.
“Ho,” I affirmed, and wondered if we might reconsider our plan: Our destination was the ancient fortress of Nargakot, rising 1200m from the valley floor. To get there, we had to cycle through twisted neighborhoods of Kathmandu proper, through Boudha and its Tibetan enclave, pass up ancient Bhaktaphur, and wind our ways up the side of the “hill” to Nargakot, about 35km by the most direct route. We could not be sure of the quality of the roads or the way in which they might climb up the valley wall. But, we reckoned, we might as well give it a go.

From Thamel, we cycled under the only traffic light in Kathmandu, at the junction in front of the royal palace. The presence of the signal had no apparent effect on the crush of busses, taxis, tuk-tuks and bicycles, all trying to edge their way into traffic. It quickly became apparent there is only one rule followed by Nepali road users.

Nepali Rule of Road Use, section 1: attempt to overtake the vehicle to the front with all expediency.
section 1a: sound horn (if equipped) until maneuver as described in section 1 is completed.

With just this one rule, it would seem that no one could possibly survive the chaos of Nepali roads, as it places every individual at odds with every other; however, there is one variable that affects how closely any particular road user adheres to the NRoRU: fear of death. Luckily for the road using population, there seemed to be enough of this to prevent many collisions. But it did not save the populace at large from a crowded, menacing and noisy system of roadways. So it goes.

On the way out of the capital, we passed a saffron robed procession of mourners carrying their new dead to Pashupatinath, on the Bagamati River, where the common citizens burn their deceased family members. No vehicles stopped or slowed to let them pass unharrassed. During my stay in Kathmandu, there was never a time when the smoke plumes were gone from that temple.

Soon the massive mound of Tribuvan airport rose up to our right and we circumvented it to the north, took a right, followed it south, took a left at an unnamed village after inquiring around(“Yo Bhaktaphur bato ho?”), and found a road heading west toward Bhaktaphur. Soon this “road” became a muddy potholed path. We had to carry over more than one crossing where the bridge of logs and wire had given out. The women carrying rice and the men wheeling bicycles laden with vegetable seemed bemused that anyone would cycle somewhere with no cargo, for no apparent reason. After some struggling through mud and cowshit, we found a major road that was “paved,” and that would last until Nargakot.

We skirted the northern neighborhood of Bhaktaphur, took on some water and food, and set off again. After about three hours of valley floor dawdling, we found the base of the valley wall and the road rose sharply up into a forest, switched back, led around a ridge. After rounding the corner, we could see what was in store for us, as the road switched back on and on and on, up the side of the “hill.” Halfway up and heavily breathing, we refilled our water and snacked on museli, and struggled up the rest of the climb.

We found the Hotel at the End of the Universe rise above the final bit of road, which was at least a 15 percent grade, its sign pointing us up a set of stone steps. We carried our bikes up about a hundred vertical feet and set them down on an open patch of grass.

The ground and trees dropped away to reveal a vast valley on the other side of the one we had just left, stretching out into the distance, pocked with hills and forests and rice paddies, some climbing up the side of the steep hills. After what appeared to be 25 miles, the rest of the lowland was smothered in haze that seemed a great sea of gray, and rising above that sea stood the white and black himals, 70 miles distant. We picked out the peaks we knew, most of them a little west of the Everest region. Lantang Lirung (7234m), appearing like a giant Matterhorn, was the dominating peak, but there too was Ganesh Himal and numerous other major peaks (and somewhere, far below them all was the piddling Tsergo Ri I had struggled up a week earlier), all enjoying a clear day in the sun. Quiran and I sat down for lunch at the Hotel, ordered some “pizza,” duud chiya (milk tea) and refilled our water, specifying tato pani, hot (boiled) water. An hour spent gawking at the mountains and resting our legs prepared us for the return trip.

We had decided before leaving that morning to come up the “easy” road and descend via a lesser used route. It would be more fun, we reasoned. After coming off the ridge where the hotel stood, the paved road soon turned to gravel and dirt and started a fast descent. By fast descent I mean there was almost no opportunity to slow to a halt. After a few more turns, the roadway turned into what I’d describe as a boulder strewn path. Each turn was a hairpin, sometimes canted incorrectly if at all, rutted with tyre-tracks from lorries, strewn with mashed boulders that had fallen from away from the valley walls. The main struggle was choosing a line. It was not a question of picking a good one, but of choosing one that would be the least jarring, least damaging to body or bike, least likely to throw one from one’s machine. I set my arms to absorb as much shock as possible, my sandaled feet in attack mode, my jaw firmly clenched. I tried hard to keep my eyes open. Sharp stones skipped from under the tyres and zinged into our legs, drawing blood.

The highpoint would have to be bunny hopping a two meter canyon just as we tore around a blind corner. Quiran expertly sailed over it, but I caught my rear wheel on the edge, only managing to roll off the other side. We exchanged worried glances, but had to concentrate on the task at hand as we began to roll toward other obstacles. It was nearly forty-five minutes of an absolutely silly downhill over terrain I would have had trouble walking safely, at the end of which, my hands and forearms felt as if I’d spent the day having a go at the Pyramids with the 90-lb jack-hammer.

After turning yet another sharp corner in yet more rocky roadway, we saw the valley floor spread out ahead, the lovely, flat rice fields, so beautifully boring. Another turn saw the reintroduction of pavement to the road as our path joined a more major route. We rolled to the bottom. Relief had never been so tactile as, when finally coming to a halt, we took time to massage our aching hands. We soon found that our jaws and brows were also in need of some rest. Indeed, many muscles were aching from being clenched in panic for the descent.

We stopped in a small village and recharged at a local shop on mo-mos (tibetan dumplings) and tea. Normally when it came to momos, I took the safer veg option if possible, but at the time, we could not be bothered by the possibility of waterbuffalo-bourne illness. We scarfed plates full of buff momos, not sparing any of the terribly spicy achar sauce. Soon we were back on the road again and ripping through Boudha, trying not to be crushed by the lorries and busses heading into the capital. Our plight was made slightly easier, I think, by the drivers’ wariness of running over two white men. About other Nepalis, they did not care, but it would only be trouble if they smashed some daft bideshis (foreigners).

We came upon the Ring Road, crossed it while traffic was blocked in every direction, passed up Mike’s Breakfast and Durbar Marg, came again to the solitary traffic light, gave a nod to the royal palace. While riding through Thamel, to the rental shop, we were gawked at by all, in our bloodied, dust-covered state. “Bideshis are so strange,” they seemed to be thinking. Near the shop I saw Krishna again. He had his pack on.

“Kaha janne?” I asked. He said he was going to the Annapurnas. He had found work. He would leave the next day. I asked if he would get to see his family. “Ho,” he said, and he was happy about it. He had not seen his wife and daughter for months. I wished him luck and we shook hands. He walked off briskly, much to prepare for his journey. We made our way back to the shop and deposited out bicycles. I walked to my hotel, showered and fell asleep.

Tom