Ahhh shit, I thought as my front tire got caught up in the jagged rocks underwater. Then I felt my bike buckle. As I was standing up on the pegs to better negotiate the uneven terrain, I couldn’t stick out a foot to steady myself. Seconds later, ker-splash! I was sideways, semi-submerged in the knee-deep river.
Such a moment was not exactly what I envisioned when setting out on the trip of a lifetime: the 2023 Dainese Expedition Masters motorcycle adventure through the Himalayas of North India. Clad head-to-toe in top-notch Italian moto gear, straddling a shiny Royal Enfield Himalayan Scram 411, I would rumble hundreds of miles through remote villages and over dizzying mountain passes if not with ease then at least with dignity. Sure, my off-road skills are slight, but what can’t be conquered with a little determination, 7,000 miles from home, in view of the most majestic mountain range on the planet?
With a mix of Italian and Austrian exhortations, fellow riders helped me to my feet. Thankfully the bike was undamaged, while I was muddied (and frustrated) but unbowed. In retrospect, it’s the surprises and hiccups I experienced along the way — like an unintentional bike baptism — that have stuck with me most. What I brought back were lessons not limited to motorcycling or mountains or masala, but truths that are right at home on the streets of New York or, really, anywhere else the road goes.
Royal EnfieldThe Bike
Royal Enfield Himalayan Scram 411
Traffic Is Music
“You’re getting the Delhi experience already,” joked my Delhi-native linemate at New York’s JFK airport, as we waited an hour to check in to our flight. Whether boarding a 392-passenger Boeing 777-300ER or navigating city streets with some 33 million other people, logjams are inevitable.
On the ground in India — after a short flight from Delhi to the village of Manali — our first day’s itinerary took us over 13,050-foot Rohtang La, the lowest of six major mountain passes we would summit, and up a treacherously winding road to a 500-year-old monastery. And yet, I got the biggest rush from the trip’s first 30 minutes, just riding out of town.
Riding in India demands a paradoxical mix of tactical patience and life-or-death urgency.
Worth noting: “La” is Tibetan for pass (but both words are often used, e.g. Chang La Pass or Changla Pass), and the actual heights of passes tend to vary by source. Leaning on Indian news media, I shall do the best I can here.
Anyway, adjusting to being on the left side of the road, a vestige of India’s time as a British colony, is a head spinner, but it’s nothing compared to the cacophony of people and vehicles in motion. Without a traffic light or sidewalk in sight, pedestrians, bicycles, scooters, motorbikes, cars, trucks, buses and livestock share essentially one-lane roads, traveling in both directions, and fast.
We honked our horns more in that half hour than I had in entire decades, but these were not angry bleats. They were friendly notes. We were actually cooperating to help everyone get where they were going. Throughout the trip, hulking tour buses and military rigs would pause to let our little peloton scoot through the smallest of gaps. I saw a truck back up a hundred feet so another could squeeze by on a narrow dirt path, while we bikers would jam on the brakes to let a casual cow cross the street before motoring on.
No one — besides the cows — is cruising, though. Driving (or riding) in India demands a paradoxical mix of tactical patience and life-or-death urgency. The key to survival, I soon realized, is the same one I employ pedaling a fixie through New York City’s busy streets: be super aggressive, hitting every hole hard and popping out quickly. Hesitation is heresy.
When order is enforced by numerous lanes, signs and patrol cars, it’s easy to mistake yourself for a competitor. But when (admittedly dangerous) conditions leave the lines undrawn, it’s easier to see the truth: You’re a musician. When everyone plays with a similar reactive rhythm, the cacophony becomes a symphony — or perhaps a really good jazz show.
Don’t Judge a Biker by Their Cover
Our riding crew was a mishmash. Dainese’s head of experience, Luca Bono, contract moto guide Andrea Alessandrelli, two trip photographers and a French journalist joined me as bikers on business. Alongside us rode a host of European motorcycle enthusiasts who’d shelled out a few thousand euros for the experience and the gear: a German, a Russian living in Prague, four Austrian buddies and eight Italians.
Language proved to be a barrier, outside and inside our riding crew. The Italians and Austrians often kibitzed in their native tongues, whilst the even-keeled German (Dirk), the effervescent Russian (Roman), the friendly Frenchman (Collin) and the wide-eyed American (me) chatted in the only language everyone could speak (English).
In both conversation and motion, I came to realize pretty much everyone was way more experienced and skilled than I was. Soft-spoken Roland, an Austrian who shared great advice about feathering the clutch, competes in trials on those funky seatless bikes that can surmount insane obstacles. Roman, who coached me through some technical turns, owns a BMW GS and tackled the inaugural Dainese expedition, a trip through Sardinia, in 2018. These jaunts have since gone everywhere from Iceland to the Atacama Desert, part of an uncommon bond between a brand and its superfans.
One rider I had my doubts about was Vittorino, a lanky white-haired gent who spoke only Italian and was noticeably older than most of the crew. But he and his blonde companion, Anna, the only female rider, seemed so excited, who was I to judge? An idiot, it turns out.
Walking out into the bright sunlight for the second day of riding, I saw our mechanic, Rohit Kumar, had put all the bikes up on the more stable center kickstands, front wheel on the ground and back wheel up. This is embarrasing to admit, but I had no idea how to get my 408-pound ride back down without dropping it and domino-ing a whole row of motos like Pee-wee Herman outside that biker bar during his Big Adventure — except no amount of “Tequila” dancing would save me.
As I futzed futilely, Vittorino noticed my distress. He strolled over, smiled and, grasping the left handlebar with his left hand and the seat bar with his right, gently rocked the bike forward onto two wheels. All without a word, or making me feel dumb, and I never needed help getting the bike down again. I believe humanity is held together by little moments of kindness and grace, and this was one of them.
The next day, as we zigzagged up the 17,480-foot Tanglang La, I made a point of watching him ride. With legs akimbo and deep, MotoGP-like turns, the guy struck me as an older, wiser Valentino Rossi. Bravo, signore, bravo.
The Best Gear Is in Your Head
Not surprisingly, the kit Dainese supplied was top-notch. From breathable first layers and technical socks to the three-layer jacket and pants to the carbon helmet and Gore-Tex-ed gloves and boots, we couldn’t have asked for a higher-performance setup. And, of course, there was the bike.
Launched last year, the Scram 411 is a streamlined spinoff of the original Himalayan, Royal Enfield’s plucky adventure bike — and if you want to fit in fast, you’ll pronounce it hi-MALL-yan, similar to how the locals reference the mountain range (hi-MALL-ya or hi-MALL-eh). That’s just one thing I learned from Tashi Yountan, our charismatic in-country guide who called me “bro” at least 50 times as he led us from Manali to Leh, the capital of the North Indian region of Ladakh, which happens to be his hometown.
With a 411cc engine and 24.3 horsepower, the Scram boasts roughly 1/33rd as much juice as a Dodge Charger, yet its shifting, throttle and brakes are wonderfully balanced, leaving it unintimidated by the hairpin turns and harrowing climbs required to summit half a dozen massive passes. Granted, we had to drop down into first gear (you know, the one you use to simply start moving any manual-transmission vehicle) to find the torque needed for many ascents, but we made it work.
This arsenal of equipment made it all the more humbling when we’d encounter locals riding the other direction in casual clothes, on road motos like the iconic (often 350cc) Royal Enfield Bullet, toting passengers and saddlebags, waving or pumping fists as they passed.
Trailing us in a support truck, mechanic Kumar was even more nonchalantly badass. While I was still shaking off my dip in the river, he hopped on my bike in a T-shirt, jeans and bare feet and zipped through the gnarliest stretch of the river to dry land. I was simultaneously grateful, determined to be in the saddle during any future fording, and simply in awe.
I did not even know “fording” was a thing you could do on a motorcycle before this trip.
A couple of nights later, after we’d cleared 17,688-foot Chang La, the pass Yountan called the most perilous, I chatted with our young physician, Dr. Aastha Singh Dhawan, near a bonfire at our camp on the coast of Pangong Lake, a breathtaking 435-square-mile saltwater basin that touches the shores of both India and Tibet in China.
She had joined us to help if riders got injured (none did, though I probably came closest) or experienced altitude sickness (some did, and her meds and oxygen tanks were invaluable) and left an indelible impression on me when I saw her apologize to and then hug an older woman she bumped into on the streets of Leh.
Dhawan explained that rural Indian doctors learn to function with astonishingly little equipment, diagnosing broken bones without X-rays, for example. And while it’s certainly not ideal for doctor or patient, it’s its own kind of training. Doctors who cut their teeth in rural India are fit for work anywhere in the world, while the opposite is far from true.
Looking back, it’s hard not to draw a parallel with some of my Himalayan struggles. I’ve been riding motorcycles on and off for nearly a decade, but not at all on this sort of bike — or this type of terrain: everything from rough rocks, loose gravel and desert sand to snow melt flowing off the mountains. Heck, I did not even know “fording” was a thing you could do on a motorcycle before this trip. And being kitted to the gills could not spare me from an unexpected swim.
Point being: High-tech gear is great, but it can only augment your actual experience, which will always be hard-won. You can’t buy your way into expertise, though you can certainly buy your way into trouble.
Keep the Shiny Side Up
There’s little room for self-doubt when you’re navigating gravel, negotiating mountain passes sometimes clogged with all manner of vehicles, often mere feet from a cliffside, where one wrong move could mean a terrible tumble or, you know, death. But of course, it’s always there.
I spent my moments of calm, on smooth highways, collecting things to temper my lifelong internal neuroticism and keep my spirits up when we’d hit, say, a massive stretch of unpaved road that kicks rocks and dust in your face for two hours, clouding your vision, drying out your throat and threatening to toss you from your steel horse at any moment.
One human who helped was the contract guide, Alessandrelli, a jovial Italian with a passion for cycles, smokes and Springsteen (the huge tat of The Boss on his right biceps is a dead giveaway). The big fella took me under his wing, and his combo of advice, jokes, bear hugs, praise and post-ride rum were invaluable to my personal morale.
What can’t be conquered with a little determination, in view of the most majestic mountain range on the planet?
The mountains themselves provided their own wise counsel. Taking micro-breaks from white-knuckled maneuvers to gaze at them, I couldn’t help but think: We’re all just specks. These mountains, which the Quran calls nails holding the Earth together, will be here long after you’re gone. So get over yourself already. Stand up, flex your knees, twist the throttle and keep rolling.
Still, nothing gave me a stronger dose of perspective than the streets of Delhi.
There was plenty of joy — a music-blasting, Mario Andretti-level tuk-tuk driver comes to mind — but just as much poverty: boys pushing keychains for spare rupees, young women begging, middle-aged men dodging traffic to sell bits of coconut, older people lying on carts, just trying to stay cool, and alive, in sometimes blistering heat.
Then again, there’s plenty of poverty in America, too, and when I met a vacationing South Indian motorcyclist at a lunch stop, a chatty fellow who expressed no interest in visiting my homeland — India had all he needed — I couldn’t exactly argue. The haunting ancient temple inside 400-year-old Leh Palace and Diskit Monastery’s 108-foot-tall Maitreya Buddha statue are just a couple of spellbinding sights I’ll never forget, and I know I got only a tiny taste of the sprawling subcontinent’s charms.
Of course, none of that was on my mind near the end of our longest, thorniest day of riding, through the vast, dry Nubra Valley on our approach to the highest mountain pass of our journey — and indeed one of the highest in the world — 17,982-foot Khardung La. I’d been hyper-focused, constantly repeating my moto mantra, you got this, to myself as we traversed increasingly challenging technical terrain. (My bicycling mantra, just keep pedaling, is more specific but handy, too.)
I’d managed to stay upright all day, and with the sun starting to set, we encountered the biggest water crossing yet — a serpentine submerged stretch at least a couple hundred yards long. Trip leader Bono, a notoriously wisecracking ballbuster who’d been skeptical of my riding chops ever since my clumsy dip, pulled up beside me. I’d improved a lot since he’d led an impromptu off-road clinic a couple days earlier, but this particular passage was a ford too far.
“Very difficult, a lot of big rocks under the water you can’t see,” he said solemnly. “I’m gonna ride your bike through it.” I simply nodded as he rode off to instruct others, but inside I was crushed.
It seems silly, but no matter how old and wise I get, the phrase “nothing left to prove” never quite rings true for me. You’ve got a chance to prove something every single day.
Minutes later Bono returned, evidently with a change of heart. “You want to ride it yourself?” I could barely get the words out: “I want to try.” He nodded. “OK, just follow me, go where I go.” Then we got rolling, stood up on the footpegs for balance and waded in.
You got this! I screamed internally as our wheels began to disappear, the spray hit our thighs and we bumped along, deep into the waterway. But I held Bono’s line, and despite some close calls, made it to the other side unscathed — and absolutely exhilarated.
The next day, descending mighty Khardung La with a vast Himalayan panorama and the end of our grand adventure in sight, I likely wasn’t the only rider with a smile behind my visor. But mine was as big as a mountain.