We purify water from a crude fountain under the baleful eye of the last creature to drink out of it: an irritable, foul-smelling cow. Dan, Seb and I squat in the courtyard of a ramshackle, mud-brick house in Chele, Nepal, prepping our bikes for a ride that is almost impossible to prepare for, since almost no one has ridden it before us. We pump air into slowly leaking tubes and futilely brush ever-accumulating dust from our chainrings.
We're still crouched over our bikes when the chocolate-skinned woman who owns the guest house enters the courtyard with a woven bamboo basket of apples. She gives us two apiece, then produces three strands of white silk. These are katas: scarves used in Buddhist ceremonies. Travelers wear them as a kind of prayer flag because they are believed to bring good fortune. The woman drapes one over each of our necks.
"Namaste," she says. As defined in yoga classes all over the western hemisphere, this means "I salute the god in you." But here it's also just a poetic-sounding greeting.
Eager to begin the day's trek, I stash the kata in my hydration pack and begin climbing. This will be our third day of riding, and I'm already enchanted by the rugged mountains and unearthly views. The trail, across pale rock and sand, follows a trade route established in the 14th century. We don't even bother to wear our helmets or straddle bikes; the uphill is far too steep to ride. Instead, we push. And when rocks knock us backward, we hoist our 30-pound rigs and heave them onto our shoulders. Hanging one hand on the handlebar, the other on the nose of the saddle, bikes balanced somewhat on our packs, we trudge upward.
A mile or so outside of Chele, the path bends to the right, up the tight, scenic canyon of the Ghyakar Khola River. The 5-foot-wide trail climbs a series of rock slabs serving as a primitive staircase. I hug the wall to the right, wary of a leftward slip that would send me over the cliff. Also, we need to make room for a descending train of donkeys. Clopping loudly, they nurse themselves down the rocks. Bells strung around their necks clang with each shaky step. I press harder against the wall.
This cliff-hanging trail is just one of many challenges we've already faced in Nepal. Notably, our two local escorts both left us within days of the start of our journey. The first, a French expat bike-shop owner named Tanji, returned to his store shortly after we crossed into the remote Upper Mustang region. On a mild uphill a day later, his friend Umang, a doughy, two-pack-a-day smoker from Kathmandu, snapped his chain—and his spirit—and promptly turned south for the lowlands, leaving us with only a map to guide our way.
By this point we've come too far to follow them down the escape hatch, and instead point our bikes upward. Sweating from the climb, we pause and survey the landscape. From our vantage point we can see the trail unfurl over countless high passes before climbing upward into infinity. We wonder what Nepal will throw at us next.
Off in the distance, the sepia landscape evokes California's Sierra Nevada or the Argentine altiplano. In one valley, verdant trees cluster in the river bottom where emerald potato fields are strung together by a thin thread of a bridge. Other canyons are squeezed in so tight it's impossible to guess at their depth. Hulking brown mountains line up in front of the snowcapped Himalayas. We may be uncertain about the path ahead, but views like this keep us pushing forward.
Source: http://www.bicycling.com/ride-maps/featured-rides/i-was-told-thered-be-enlightenment
Elaine A. Blizzard Tammy C. Israel Beth C. Mejia Cynthia K. Austin Ana J. Edwards Davida V. Munson
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