(fall of 2016)
I felt confident about my plan to cycle the Mustang region of Nepal until a few things became apparent. Firstly, the monsoon continued much longer than usual. Secondly, the road damage caused by this year’s flooding led to more than usual landslides. There were also high waters on roads that would typically be dry by now. Thirdly, my bike was insufficient for this ride and I was ill prepared. I retired at 62 and three days later flew to Kathmandu, Nepal. And now, I write these depressing words at the Om’s hotel in Jomsom. I have done numerous bike tours in the seventies, But now I am way out of my element. A few decades of raising kids put the tours on hold; years later I feel like I a bike tour newbie.
Several locals watch me rebuild my bike. I lose track of the amount of pressure pumped into my tires. An explosion wakes me to the realization that this solo trip is, perhaps, not the best idea. A handsome Ukrainian barefoot monk turns to me and says “perhaps you should have hired a professional guide.” I am embarrassed but he is absolutely right. The owner of the Om’s hotel is at the airport trying to drum up additional hotel business. The distance to the Tea House Hotel is about one city block. To make matters worse, my bike pump is not functioning properly and I am unable to pump up one of my spares. With tail between my legs I agree for the hotel owner to carry my panniers. I carry my bike over my shoulder with my head hanging low. I’m thinking that maybe I should have gone on a river cruise with a few fellow retirees.
Things feel reminiscent of my first bike tour in Europe. I recall heading out ofLondon with a full backpack not knowing the first thing about bike touring. It wasn’t until days later that I was introduced to the joys of carrying gear in panniers. My confidence level now feels about the same as that first day trying to ride out of London back in 1971.
And now, with just one spare tube, I reevaluate my situation. A few locals advise me about the road I had planned to take, and the waist deep waters that I would have to wade through. They tell me that the timing is wrong. All signs point to the possibility of an aborted trip.
A deep inner feeling suggests I change plans. I store the bike at the Om’s Hoteland decide to finish a hike to Muktinath that I started in the late seventies. After hiking to Everest and also Annapurna Base Camps I became quite ill. My trip halted in the medieval village of Kag Beni. I later found out I had hepatitis, most likely from bad water.
I am haunted by my poor decisions yet thrilled about making it beyond Muktinath this time. And what is most spectacular of all is the reunion I had today with aTibetan woman named Pema. She was the one that cared for me while I lay sick in Kag Beni decades ago. Today she gently placed her hands around mine and slowly pressed her forehead to my forehead. Now being able to speak English she said “yes I remember how sick you were back then. I thanked her many times over.
Upon completion of my Muktinath trek and visit with Pema I am now reunited with my bike. We spend time cycling back roads of Pokhara and visiting with shop owners that I have befriended. I enjoy daily visits with an old Tibetan man who says he walked from Tibet years ago. I’ve been unable to procure the correct size Presta tubes and so larger rim holes are made, allowing me to utilize a more popular size and style tube. I buy four spares in addition to the two new ones put on my bike. A bit of overkill yes, but I don’t like the feeling of running out. Before leaving the shop I decide to buy anew pump as well.
For a few days I’ve been riding the back streets of Pokhara and Begnas Lake. I really want to get off the beaten path and on to the mud and dirt villages that don’t even appear on my map. I’ve been traveling on busy paved roads fearing for my life. Honking busses and trucks nearly brush against me numerous times.
In the course of a half hour ride this morning I witness a cyclist get hit by a bus and a cow get sideswiped. I decide that it would be worth looking into the hiring of a bike guide. There’s no way I would have hired a bike guide in my twenties.Now at 62, a bike guide seems like a good idea. All of this led me to the meeting with a remarkable young man named Hikmat BK.
As I enter the Bike Shop of Nepal (on main street Pokhara) Hikmat welcomes me with a warm smile. Despite his young age (of 20) he displays a high level of knowledge, understanding and most of all compassion. Since I had given up on my dream of cycling Muktinath to Beni I decide to have a less lofty goal. I’m thinking that the Beni ride will never happen in this lifetime.
We speak of a week long ride from Pokhara to Kathmandu. We view a detailed map that is stored under glass in the shop. (I love paper maps and having a basic idea of the villages we’ll go through). I have no clue, however, of what the road surface and terrain will be like. Within a few minutes he gains my confidence and I am signed up for the trip. I decide to leave most everything int he hands of my guide, which is most unusual for me.
The rate of $60.00 a day seems like a fair price for all of his and my expenses.That includes food, accommodation and transport (if necessary). Despite my fears of what lay ahead I show up the next day just after first light. There is a feeling of nervousness in the air. I would imagine he has reservations about the days ahead with a sixty something year old woman; I am a bit nervous about the patience level of a guide one third my age.
Today I set forth on a journey with great excitement. I, with my Kona bike and beat up thirty year old Kirkland panniers; he with his borrowed Giant bike and daypack. Our first hour is on the dreaded Pokhara to Kathmandu road where Ihad, just the day before, witnessed the bike accident. I ride faster and stronger than usual. Already I feel a bit more confident with Hikmat.
Before approaching the uphill to Begnes Lake I let my guide know that I will be slow. I ask him to ride ahead and wait for me at the top. The idea of him inching his way uphill right behind me is disturbing. He agrees with our riding style. The tone is set for the trip. We ride mostly dirt roads and muddy trails bringing us through tiny villages. I get the feeling that the locals haven’t seen many foreign faces and shiny multi gear bikes. We eat lots of mini size bruised bananas which look horrible but taste great.
I don’t know the names of most of the places we pass through nor do I really even care. It’s more about the experience and the interaction with folks. I can’t talk to them but somehow we communicate.
“Hikmat” I say, “how do you know where to go if you don’t even have a map”? Hikmat explains that he knows the area quite well and that he just needs to talk to the villagers as we go. He explains that many roads close and open all the time. “A map wouldn’t tell us if a road is washed out or if we will come to a place without a spot to lay our heads at night” he explains. He often stops to discuss the route with others. Being a lover of paper maps, it is hard to get used to this style of travel.
Despite having done numerous tours across the USA and abroad, this is something truly unique for me. It’s cross between a bike and a hike trip. I walk alot; I push the bike quite a bit and often become separated from my shoes as the mud is often deep and pulls hard on my LLBean hikers. I am thrilled when I am able to stay on the bike all day long.
Today I quit apologizing about my speed of travel. Hikmat tells me that many of his younger clients would ride up the hill but then rest for long periods of time before carrying on. He expresses his admiration for my ability to walk a long hill and then hop right back on the bike without complaint. He certainly has a way of setting my mind at ease.
Very soon I come to feel a friendship beyond guide and client. We ride together,eat together, and hang out together in the evenings. This is contrary to what I ave been told most Nepalese guides do. We wander around villages in the evening feeling the warmth and friendship of the locals we came in contact with.
This evening we wander past a pool hall. I ask if we can go in. Hikmat seems surprised and contemplates the whole thing for a moment or two. He explains that women don’t hang out at pool halls but thinks it might be OK for me, the foreigner. As I enter, all eyes are on me and don’t stop watching until I am out the door.
I become used to his care of me and my Kona. As I am off washing up he can be found washing my bike, checking my gears or playing with the local children. His compassion goes beyond his duties towards me and is apparent with everyone he comes in contact with. Despite language barriers it is apparent that people like him everywhere we journey.
I gave up trying to maintain a macho, “let me do it all” behavior. He likes to carry my bike and gear across rivers we encounter. I decide to let him do it a few times as he does it as a kind gesture and because he is my guide. I have no problem being a bit of a “wuss” occasionally (especially at this point in my life).
Today has been a struggle for me and more challenging than I might have thought. I attempt to ride up a mud trench of a path while experiencing a bad bitof “the runs”. I don’t even have to say anything; my guide knows I am not quite right today. Hikmat rides the hill; he makes the long walk back down to me; he then rides my bike to the top of the hill. He walks back down, encourages me and we walk the hill together.
I don’t have to prove anything to him. He is my hero; he is my friend. He is amazing. While joking around I ask him how old his dad is and if he is single. I find out dad is way too young and way too married. We have a good laugh about it. After today’s ride he tells me about the loss of his mother at age 3. She was pregnant with another child. They couldn’t get her from village to a hospital in time; there were complications; she passed away. At times I feel that he views me as a mother figure; I am most certainly OK about that. For a while, I feel like I have another child.
Riding through the earthquake torn areas around Gorka saddens me greatly.Seeing folks living in tin shacks I feel even more grateful for all that I have. I wonder what Hikmat’s home is like. Does he have running water? Does he have more than one room? What kind of possessions might he have? What is his sister like? Why is he always so very nice to me? I wonder.
Near the end of the tour Hikmat advises me that we should consider hopping on a bus for part of the day. “The road would be too long and too difficult” he explains. I tell him that I totally trust his judgement and would go with whatever he feels best. We come into a town that has warm Mountain Dew. I treat us each to a bottle which I have done already a few times on our trip. We toast to our journey and our friendship. We lift our drinks and say “Dew Tour”.
As a bus approaches he abruptly says “lets go.” I grab my gear and place it on the bus. Hikmat rushes around to get our bikes strapped to the roof of the bus.Our every move is being watched by a dozen or so passengers.
For an hour or so my body is thrown all around, sometimes slamming into HIkmat. He’s not fazed by anything especially since he is plugged into tunes. He offers me one of the ear buds so I can also listen…“its been a long time…seeyou again.” I feel lucky to have ended up with such a wonderful young man.
Often the bus stalls; we nearly get stuck in the mud; the views are spectacular yet frightening. The road provides nearly just enough room for one bus, our bus.Our driver honks the horn constantly to notify drivers that might be coming the other way. I say a quick prayer for our safety and of thanks that I am not around the bend.
When we are almost at our destination there is a police road block. Our driver is questioned if he saw another bus along the way. According to the translation the road telling me that we’re gonna get off soon.The driver makes a sharp right; Hikmat spots a narrow dirt road off to the left. He says something to the driver; we disembark. I am thrilled to be back on the bike though I notice my front disk is bent from the bus ride. Within a few minutes Hikmat has it fixed.
Riding into the city of Kathmandu is a rush. I feel more confident than when I had first arrived in the city a few weeks ago. I stick my whistle in my mouth and blow it constantly at drivers. They honk; I blew the whistle loud. They honk again and I blow it louder and longer. My behavior probably doesn’t make the ride any safer but makes me feel more confident and powerful.
A sadness overcomes me as we reach the Thamel Eco Resort It is the end of our journey together. I am overcome with sadness. I have come to really enjoy the company of this young man that was a stranger to me not very long ago.During our farewell dinner Hikmat suggests I consider another attempt at the Muktinath to Beni ride that I aborted.
“I know you can do the ride” he says emphatically. “We can lend you a dual suspension bike; we can ride slowly together and you will be successful.” I believe him. We part ways. I shed a few tears.
And so I’m off to Tibet on an organized group ride. We ride the famous Lhasa to Everest Base camp route over passes of 16,000 feet. And yes, the Kona bike is an excellent choice for this ride. Having already spent a month in Nepal was excellent preparation for the high passes we cross. The entire time in Tibet I keep thinking about my aborted Muktinath to Beni trip and Hikmat’s suggestion to try it again. The scenery in Tibet is breathtaking but I am disappointed with the lack of interaction with locals.
On my return to Kathmandu I send an email to The Bike Shop of Nepal. I tell them I want to sign up for the Jomsom, Muktinath, Beni ride. I inform Kamal (the shop owner) that I would feel most comfortable doing the ride with Hikmat. A few days later I am once again on the Jomsom flight; this time with “a professional”. Ifeel confident with my friend and guide Hikmat.
This is my first experience on a dual suspension bike. Though I ride cautiously I feel much more confident and knew I will be successful this time. Hikmat already knows exactly how to inspire confidence in me and just when to back off. He is able to read my moods and abilities in a way that seems to be beyond his years.
Aborting a trip was not something that came easy for me. My errors and poor planning ate away at me for weeks. I kept thinking of what I should have done differently and felt a great annoyance at myself. And now I am able to turn it all around with the help of my friend. We ride like two buddies on tour together. No longer do I feel the separation of guide and client. The ride is, indeed, technically hard for me. This time I leave the Kirkland panniers behind. I just pack a few necessities in a small daypack I purchased in Pokhara. I use my “life straw” religiously with the memory of hepatitis I contracted in the seventies. Despite my caution there are a few days of intestinal problems. It is on these days that my riding partner is most
appreciated and most patient.
As we ride into Beni I feel an overwhelming sense of joy and accomplishment. I feel a sense of accomplishment even greater than having ridden from Lhasa toEverest Base Camp just a few weeks prior. I am certain that I could not have done it without Hikmat. A few days after the ride he invites me to his home for a birthday celebration with him and his sister. He wants me to help him celebrate his 21st birthday; I feel honored. I am moved that our friendship goes beyond the bike. I arrive with fruit, drinks and cake. His home consists of a room no bigger than 15 x 15 feet.There is one light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He takes another bulb off a shelf and puts it in another cord which seemed like a special gesture reserved for guests.
We eat the cake before the meal, something I am not accustomed to. He tells me that “life is short and so we eat the cake first”. There is only a small bed in the room, which is his sister’s. There is a folding cot behind the door which is his bed. I spot four small shelves with neatly folded clothes. A one burner plugged into the wall is used to cook our rice, dahl and chicken. Everything is ready when I get there. The three of us sit on his sister’s bed savoring our cake and dahl as we split a bottle of Gorka beer. I get the impression that they aren’t fond of the beer but share my gift out of respect.
He neatly piles dishes onto one corner of the room, perhaps hoping that I don’t question where the water source is. I have no idea where they have to go for water and toilet facilities. Everything they own is neat and tidy in this 15 x 15 foot space. Nothing appears to be out of place. I present Hikmat with a wall hanging displaying a quote about friendship as well as a bandanna. The bandanna shows a map of the Annapurna circuit. I joke with Hikmat telling him that he now has a map to show guests on his bike trips.We laugh uncontrollably. I try my best to express heart felled thanks for helping me fulfill my dream.“Hikmat” I say, “ I would not have been successful with my dream without your encouragement. Thank you.” He tells me that he also has a dream. “I dream” he says “of one day being a downhill bike racer.” He goes on to tell me that he has thought about it since he started biking.
I come to find out that there is an upcoming race in Hattiban, Kathmandu. He tells me that he wishes he could go but doesn’t know if he will be able. As I leave I tell him that it would be an honor for me to pay the race entry and expenses for the weekend. His smile is radiant and brings me great joy.
What an amazing way to end my journey. Hikmat raced; he came in first place inthe open downhill division; I was present to see him fulfill his dream after he had been so patient in helping me reach mine. With the end of the Mountain Bike festival also came the end of my three month journey and a wonderful start to my retired life.
As the taxi driver drops Hikmat and his borrowed bike in Kathmandu he asks my friend what his last name is. “BK” he responds. After a couple of long hugs Hikmat hops on his bike and I watch him ride until I can’t see him any longer. On the way to the airport the driver tells me the last name BK represents one of the lowest casts in Nepal. He tells me, however, the cast system is not as strong as it used to be.
I think to myself that I don’t care what BK stands for; I know Hikmat BK is one heck of a guide and a friend forever. I look forward to riding with him again one day.