Samir Sednai
14 min.
My lungs burn with each desperate gulp of thin air at 18,380 feet on Khardung La. My blood screams for oxygen that isn't there. My Royal Enfield Himalayan sputters and gasps beneath me, its mechanical heart reflecting my own struggle—we're both creatures designed for thicker atmospheres, now fighting to function where molecules have scattered to the winds. The bike's power bleeds away with each foot of elevation gained, its once-confident voice reduced to a strained whisper. We've crossed some invisible boundary where living things—flesh, metal, combustion—aren't meant to thrive, yet here we are, two hearts beating against the void at the roof of the world.
Delhi's Crucible: The Escape
Delhi swallows me whole—a living beast made of 22 million souls, car horns, incense, and sweat. The city rushes against my senses like a fever dream, every inch filled with movement and noise and smell that pounds against my consciousness. I feel crushed by the weight of humanity, the press of bodies and vehicles that seems to defy physical laws. The air hangs thick with exhaust and spice and the electric buzz of too many lives packed too tightly together.
Rider's Note: Flee Delhi before dawn breaks (N28°33'26.2" E77°13'16.8"), when the city briefly exhales between night and morning chaos. Find Sanjay's workshop near Karol Bagh market—just a rusted gate in an alley that opens to motorcycle salvation. His hands hold the secret to making engines breathe at impossible heights, and riders pass his number like a sacred text. The Inner Line Permit office runs on its own mysterious timetable—applications vanish into bureaucratic black holes or emerge approved in hours with no explanation. The real test comes in the city itself—if you can dance your Enfield through Delhi's traffic ballet without touching another vehicle, the Himalayas might just let you live.
I thread my motorcycle through the city's arteries like a blood cell fighting against the current. The Enfield's modest power becomes my ally—quick enough to dart through gaps, torquey enough to pull away from trouble. The choreography becomes instinctual: dodge the wandering cow, anticipate the three-wheeled tuk-tuk's swerve, slide between the bus and the fruit cart with millimeters to spare. My body learns Delhi's unwritten physics, the unique space-time rules where proximity means something different than anywhere else on Earth.
Manali: The Gateway
The land rises around me with sudden violence—flat plains surrendering to mountains that pierce the sky like nature's watchtowers. The transformation happens so quickly it feels like crossing into another dimension. Manali clings to these slopes with stubborn charm, the last place where things work the way they're supposed to, the final handhold before launching into the void. Beyond this point, a broken bike isn't an inconvenience—it's a survival scenario.
Rider's Note: The mechanics in Manali (N32°14'36.1" E77°11'35.6") possess wisdom no engineering school teaches—they've learned from the mountains themselves what makes engines survive above the clouds. Find Vishnu's workshop, where this former Royal Enfield engineer has crafted a reputation for breathing life into dead machines at 15,000 feet. Don't argue when he suggests rejetting your carburetor for the third time—his hands know what your owner's manual doesn't. Skip the jerry cans for a proper secondary tank; when you're gasping for air on a high pass, your bike's weight distribution becomes life or death physics. Let your chain hang 2mm looser than normal—the temperature swings up here will tighten it beyond spec when the mercury drops at night.
Old Manali grows from the mountainside like something organic, houses and shops sprouting wherever the ground allows. Staircases zigzag between buildings stacked at impossible angles, defying gravity with the same casual confidence as the locals who bound up them carrying impossible loads. The air here tastes different—cleaner, sharper, with hints of pine and distant snow. My lungs drink it in greedily after Delhi's soup, even as they sense a warning in its clarity: this is just the beginning of how the atmosphere will change.
Rohtang Pass: First Breath of Thin Air
The road to Rohtang plays tricks with reality, bending time and weather into impossible shapes. One moment I'm riding through crystalline mountain air, the next I'm swallowed by fog so thick I can barely see my front wheel. The clouds move with sentient purpose, as if the mountain is breathing them in and out, testing my nerve. At 13,050 feet, the pass is just a warmup for what's coming, but the locals didn't name it "pile of corpses" on a whim.
Rider's Note: The weather on Rohtang Pass (N32°22'19.4" E77°14'46.1") doesn't just change—it transforms, like a spirit shifting forms. Forecasts are fortune-telling here, not science. When you reach the checkpoint, walk straight to the officer on the left with your papers ready; the vehicle line you see hasn't moved since morning despite appearances. The road plays dirty tricks—perfect pavement suddenly becomes axle-breaking holes without warning. Your phone will become an expensive brick halfway up; if something goes wrong from here on, your emergency beacon is your only voice to the outside world.
With each switchback climb, I feel the strange paradox of the mountains taking hold—the riding gets harder as my body and bike grow weaker. The air thins, stealing strength from both engines: the Enfield's cylinders and my own lungs struggling to extract power from disappearing oxygen. My reactions slow just when the road demands more from me, creating a sinister equation with no easy solution.
Lahaul Valley: The Great Divide
I drop over Rohtang's edge and the world changes in a heartbeat—lush green vanishes, replaced by stark beauty that catches my breath. The mountains have split the land in two, forcing clouds to surrender their water on one side, leaving this realm parched and painted in earth tones. It's as if I've ridden through a portal into another world, the transformation so complete it seems impossible these landscapes exist on the same planet, let alone just miles apart.
Rider's Note: The descent into Lahaul Valley (N32°30'15.7" E77°19'50.9") demands a complete rewriting of your brake habits—wet mountain roads suddenly become dry desert tracks, and your tires will either grip like glue or slide like they're on ice. The river crossing at Sissu is a trickster—crystal water hides channels deep enough to swallow your front wheel whole. Enter slow, keep perpendicular to the current, and don't stop mid-stream. The monastery at Keylong is more than spiritual refuge—it's your last chance to fully charge everything before the real wilderness begins. Your fuel consumption will make no logical sense from here on—dropping down hills should suck gas but doesn't, climbing will drain your tank bone-dry regardless of how gentle your throttle hand.
The valley spreads before me in startling clarity, distance compressed by air so pure it feels like a new element. After the claustrophobic fog of Rohtang, the endless sight lines almost overwhelm my senses. Prayer flags snap in the wind, their colors electric against stone and sky—ancient technology perfectly adapted to this place, where they simultaneously honor gods and map the invisible currents flowing through mountain passes.
Baralacha La: Where Earth Meets Moon
The world turns alien as I approach Baralacha La, the last traces of green surrendering to a landscape of raw stone and gravel that belongs in NASA photographs. At 16,040 feet, my body betrays me in subtle ways—thoughts come slower, movements become deliberate, as if I'm moving underwater. My fingers feel thick and clumsy on the controls. Simple calculations—speed, distance, time—require concentration that would embarrass me at sea level.
Rider's Note: The climb to Baralacha La (N32°43'39.4" E77°25'16.2") messes with your head before your body—you'll make stupid mistakes without realizing it, your judgment failing silently while confidence remains intact. The stone hut at kilometer 337 looks abandoned but might save your life when storms roll in without warning. The water crossing at Bharatpur changes with the season's whims—last year's safe passage might be this year's raging torrent. Trust only current local knowledge, not maps or guides. Your spark plugs will fight the thin air here, creating ignition troubles even in well-maintained machines. When you hit the military checkpoint, present your documents in exact order of importance; the sequence matters to them for reasons civilians will never understand.
The road becomes more suggestion than fact, blurring into the surrounding terrain until I'm tracing what looks like the most-traveled path through rock and scree, hoping it's actually the route. My vision narrows strangely—peripheral details fading while the center of my sight takes on hallucinatory sharpness, colors more vivid than they should be. My brain is rationing oxygen, sacrificing wide-angle awareness for focused survival.
Sarchu: Night Camp in Thin Air
Sarchu appears below me like a mirage—canvas tents in neat rows where no settlement should exist, a temporary human foothold at 14,070 feet. Nothing permanent survives here; the camp emerges each summer when the roads open, then vanishes before winter's wrath. It's a place of transition, not destination—a breathing space to let oxygen seep back into blood and brain before the mathematical precision of Gata Loops and the crushing height of Lachulung La.
Rider's Note: The Sarchu camp (N32°54'38.9" E77°36'38.6") is where altitude sickness stops being theoretical—nearly half of all travelers feel it gnawing at their edges regardless of fitness or experience. The medic tent offers oxygen without questions or paperwork; use it before you need it desperately. The generator runs exactly three hours each night (6-9 PM), turning this tent city briefly electric—charge everything you own during this window. Your bike needs night protection even under clear skies; temperatures plummet to -10°C, turning fuel lines into condensation traps that will strand you come morning. The water here contains mineral cocktails that will break your filter; chemical purification tablets are your only trustworthy option.
Sleep becomes a strange half-state as night falls—my body cycling through disturbing rhythms where breathing stops completely until my brain jolts awake in panic, gasping for air. The pattern repeats through darkened hours, a primitive survival mechanism fighting atmospheric reality. The bitter cold seeps through layers of sleeping bags and blankets, a reminder that this height belongs to the realm of planes, not people. Despite exhaustion, true rest remains elusive in this place where even unconsciousness requires conscious effort.
Gata Loops: The Spiral Staircase
Gata Loops coils upward like a concrete serpent—21 hairpin turns stacked one above another, climbing 1,500 feet in a dizzying spiral that seems to defy gravity. Each numbered switchback demands perfect execution, a precise dance of clutch, throttle and lean angle, all while my lungs and engine struggle against the thinning air. The higher I climb, the less forgiveness the mountain offers, margins for error shrinking with each tight corner.
Rider's Note: The Gata Loops (N33°03'12.8" E77°44'25.2") were designed by someone who hates motorcyclists—each hairpin tightens at the apex exactly when you've committed to your line, forcing a mid-corner correction when you're most vulnerable. The water flowing across loop 14 changes by the hour; what was ankle-deep at breakfast might be knee-high by lunch as the summer sun melts glaciers above. Between loops 17-19, the road surface hides ripples that will compress your suspension to the stops without warning, potentially bucking you over the edge. Don't lug your engine thinking you'll save fuel—keep the revs up through the climbs. The engine runs cooler at higher RPM in thin air, counterintuitive as that seems.
I pass the ghost shrine at curve 9, a bizarre monument of water bottles and whispered stories where travelers pay respects to a truck driver who died alone here in winter. The bottles catch morning light like strange jewels—part religious offering, part practical warning. The mountain doesn't care about your plans or pride; it will take the unwary and unprepared without remorse. I leave a full bottle of my own, a gesture somewhere between superstition and respect for this place where humans exist only by mountain consent.
Lachulung La: The Breathless Peak
Lachulung La marks the point where air itself becomes the enemy—at 16,600 feet, the world turns hostile to living things in ways that can't be ignored. My breath comes in shallow sips that never satisfy, each inhalation a reminder of oxygen's absence. The landscape mirrors this biological truth—nothing grows here, not even the hardiest alpine scrub. This is a realm of naked rock and ancient ice, a place where life is an intrusion rather than a natural state.
Rider's Note: The final push to Lachulung La (N33°05'26.6" E77°55'33.1") plays carburetor tricks that defy physics—the air gets so cold so fast that ice forms in your fuel system even in summer heat. Use your choke even when logic says you shouldn't. Beyond kilometer 54, the road simply disappears where avalanches have erased it; you'll need to find your own path across scree fields while your brain operates at half-capacity. The tin shelter at the summit might look like a death trap, but its lightning rod design makes it the safest place when electrical storms roll in—which they do with terrifying speed. Your bike is now running at 60% power at best; anticipate this weakness by carrying momentum through terrain you'd normally take more cautiously.
The pass marks an ecological boundary as clear as any border—the terrain beyond shifts dramatically, high alpine severity giving way to an endless plateau that stretches beyond vision. Prayer flags crack like rifle shots in the wind, their movement creating depth markers in a landscape where distance becomes an abstract concept, impossible to judge with oxygen-starved eyes. Colors take on supernatural intensity against the stark backdrop, as if compensating for the life missing from this altitude.
Pang: Canvas City in the Sky
Pang defies logic—a temporary city of canvas at 15,400 feet, higher than any permanent settlement has a right to exist. The parachute cafés and sleeping tents sprout each summer when the roads clear, then vanish with fall's first serious snow. It's an outpost of perfect impermanence, a human beachhead in territory that belongs to weather and stone. Yet somehow, at an elevation higher than Mont Blanc's summit, I find a peculiar comfort—the hypoxic plateau where my body has begun to adapt to air that shouldn't sustain life.
Rider's Note: The parachute cafés at Pang (N33°09'17.9" E77°57'06.8") aren't just shelters—they're climate control miracles, trapping just enough moisture to ease your cracked skin and bleeding nose. The motorcycle mechanic with the yellow tent migrates here from Manali each summer, bringing specialized high-altitude tools you won't find anywhere else this remote. His knowledge comes from a lifetime of keeping engines running where they shouldn't. Order the copper-pot tea without questions; it contains herbs that ease altitude headaches through some mountain alchemy no pharmaceutical company has bottled. Your electronics will die faster than spec sheets suggest—a "full" battery might give you 60% of expected life. Ration power like water in a desert.
The military presence reminds me why these roads exist at all—not for tourists or pilgrims, but for national defense. Soldiers patrol with practiced efficiency, their vehicles modified for altitude in ways my motorcycle can only dream of. I'm tolerated here, not welcomed—a foreign rider permitted passage through strategic terrain by bureaucratic exception rather than rule. The realization is humbling; my adventure is someone else's daily duty, my thrill their normal commute to remote outposts where they'll spend months watching borders invisible to my tourist eyes.
More Plains: Earth's Red Planet
The More Plains stretch before me in impossible contradiction—a pancake-flat plateau at 15,400 feet that shouldn't exist in the wrinkled, violent topography of the Himalayas. For 40 kilometers, the road cuts straight across terrain that could double as a Mars movie set, rust-red earth meeting electric blue sky at a horizon so distant it curves with the planet. My brain struggles to process this vast emptiness where it expects peaks and valleys, the cognitive dissonance as disorienting as the thin air itself.
Rider's Note: Entering More Plains (N33°16'41.2" E77°59'15.6") tricks your riding instincts—after days of technical mountain switchbacks, the flat straight road seduces you into dangerous speed. The terrain creates perfect mirages where sunbaked air meets cooler layers, making water and distances dance in ways that confuse already oxygen-starved judgment. The stream crossing at kilometer 27 rewrites its own path each season; last year's GPS waypoints might lead you straight into a new channel deep enough to drown your engine. Your motorcycle will run surprisingly cool through here despite the heat—the straight-line riding creates perfect airflow that even thin air can't diminish. It's the first mechanical blessing this landscape has offered.
The plains offer an otherworldly beauty that's both thrilling and unsettling—I can see the actual curvature of Earth from here, the horizon bending ever so slightly at the edges. The clarity of air creates optical illusions where distant mountains appear close enough to touch, scale and perspective warped beyond reliable interpretation. I've ridden into a place that registers as "alien" in my deepest consciousness, a landscape my mind struggles to categorize because it matches no evolutionary experience in my DNA.
Tanglang La: The Sky's Threshold
Tanglang La looms as the final boss battle—at 17,480 feet, it's the second-highest motorable pass in the world, a place where the air holds barely enough oxygen to keep a human conscious. The climb is an exercise in slow-motion suffering, each meter of elevation stealing more clarity from mind and power from engine. My thoughts come sluggish and simple as blood oxygen drops below critical thresholds, complex decisions reduced to basic survival math: keep moving upward.
Rider's Note: The approach to Tanglang La (N33°31'18.2" E77°46'59.8") requires conscious breathing—deep, deliberate cycles that fight the shallow panting your body wants to do. Your judgment goes first, quietly and without warning; decisions that seem perfectly sound will reveal themselves as dangerously stupid later. The road surface hides frost-heave ripples that create handlebar-wrenching vibrations at exactly 25km/h—go faster or slower to avoid shaking bolts loose. The wind between the summit peaks creates sideways gusts that hit like invisible walls, strong enough to push your bike a full meter sideways without warning. Accept that your carburetor is now operating beyond its design limits—this isn't something you can fix or adjust for; it's the price of riding where air barely exists.
The summit brings strange sensory contradictions—colors burn with hallucinatory brilliance while my peripheral vision dims to tunnel focus. The bike's mechanical sounds reach my ears with crystalline clarity, each valve and piston stroke isolated like instruments in an orchestra, while the wind's howl fades to background murmur. My brain is prioritizing survival data, filtering the sensory flood to preserve precious oxygen for what matters most.
