Chasing a Dream: Preparing for the Royal Enfield Himalayan Odyssey
Every rider has a destination that quietly lives in the back of their mind long before they ever begin planning the journey. For some, it is crossing a famous mountain pass. For others, it is riding along a beautiful coastline or exploring a distant country. For Royal Enfield riders in India, one such dream has always been the Himalayan Odyssey. Long before I owned a motorcycle, I had watched photographs and documentaries of riders travelling through the rugged landscapes of Ladakh, crossing rivers, navigating mountain passes, and camping beneath skies that seemed impossibly vast. Those images carried a certain magic. They represented far more than adventure. They represented freedom, exploration, and the willingness to leave familiar roads behind in search of something unknown.
When Royal Enfield announced the twentieth edition of the Himalayan Odyssey in 2024, I found myself reading every detail with genuine excitement. The event had already earned an iconic status among motorcycle enthusiasts. Once every year, riders from different parts of India and several countries around the world gather in Chandigarh to begin a carefully organised seventeen-day expedition through the Himalayas. More than three thousand kilometres of riding, high-altitude mountain passes, remote valleys, the Siachen base camp, and some of the most spectacular roads in the country become part of a journey that is remembered by participants for years afterwards. The twentieth anniversary made the event even more special, and I knew that if I ever wanted to experience it, this was the year.
There was only one small problem. I had barely begun my own journey as a long-distance rider.
Only a short while earlier, I had completed my first highway ride to Indore with two close friends. That journey had given me confidence, but confidence and experience are not the same thing. I was still learning. Every ride taught me something new about the motorcycle, about long hours on the road, and about myself. Compared with many participants who had already travelled extensively across the country, I considered myself an amateur. Yet I also knew that experience never arrives before the journey begins. Every experienced rider had once stood exactly where I was standing, wondering whether they were truly ready for something bigger.
After completing the registration process, I realised that preparing for the Himalayan Odyssey would itself become an education. The organisers required every participant to submit a medical fitness certificate before being allowed to join the expedition. This meant undergoing a complete health examination, including blood investigations and a treadmill stress test, to ensure that the body was capable of handling prolonged riding at high altitude. Initially, it felt like an unusually detailed requirement for a motorcycle ride. However, the more I studied the route, the more I understood why these precautions existed. Riding above fifteen thousand feet is fundamentally different from riding on ordinary highways. Reduced oxygen levels, extreme weather, unpredictable terrain, and continuous physical exertion demand much more from the human body than most of us realise. The certificate was not merely paperwork. It was a reminder that the mountains deserve respect and that enthusiasm alone is never enough.
While the medical preparations were underway, I also began preparing myself as a rider. Since I had almost no experience riding in organised groups, I started joining local motorcycle rides around Gwalior whenever possible. These weekend rides became my classroom. I learnt how group formations worked, how riders communicated through hand signals, how to maintain safe distances, and why discipline becomes far more important when dozens of motorcycles are travelling together. Until then, riding had always felt like an individual activity. Group riding introduced an entirely different responsibility. Every rider had to think not only about their own safety but also about the rhythm and wellbeing of everyone travelling alongside them.
The organisers also circulated a detailed equipment checklist that every participant was expected to carry. Reading through that document was a humbling experience because it made me realise how much I still did not know. Spare cables, puncture repair kits, tyre inflators, basic tools, medicines, hydration packs, thermal clothing, rain gear, emergency supplies, and countless other items appeared on the list. At first glance, it looked excessive. Gradually, I began understanding the logic behind every recommendation. Once you enter remote Himalayan terrain, help is not always immediately available. Fuel stations become rare, mobile networks disappear, mechanics are often hundreds of kilometres away, and weather conditions can change within minutes. In such places, preparation is not a luxury. It is an essential part of the journey itself.
One recommendation on that list immediately reminded me of a lesson I had already learnt during my first ride to Indore. A good-quality ISI-certified full-face helmet was compulsory for every participant. During my Indore ride, I had deliberately chosen a half-face helmet because it felt more comfortable. That decision had taught me more than I expected. Hours of continuous wind had left my face dry, the constant noise had become mentally exhausting, and dust found its way into every possible gap. The experience had convinced me that if I wished to continue touring seriously, I would have to become comfortable with a proper full-face helmet.
I purchased one well before the expedition and began using it during every practice ride. Initially, it felt restrictive. I missed the openness I had become accustomed to while riding with an open helmet. Gradually, however, my opinion changed completely. I realised that a full-face helmet does much more than protect against serious injuries. It reduces wind fatigue, blocks excessive noise, keeps dust and insects away, protects against rain, and allows the rider to remain mentally fresh even after several hours on the road. What had once felt uncomfortable slowly became something I no longer wished to ride without. It was one of those lessons that can only be appreciated through experience rather than explanation.
Yet despite all this preparation, I still carried one important misunderstanding.
When choosing my riding footwear, I purchased a sturdy pair of waterproof sneakers with ankle protection. They appeared strong, looked comfortable, and seemed perfectly suitable for the journey ahead. In my mind, riding boots existed mainly to provide ankle support and keep the feet dry during rain. Since these shoes appeared capable of doing both, I felt completely satisfied with my decision. Looking back today, I realise that I was evaluating them as ordinary footwear rather than specialised safety equipment. At that stage of my riding journey, I simply did not know what I did not know.
With the motorcycle serviced, luggage carefully packed, spare parts organised, and riding gear finally complete, I left Gwalior alone for Chandigarh. This ride itself covered nearly five hundred and fifty kilometres and became my first solo journey of that distance. Unlike my earlier trip to Indore, I now felt much more relaxed. The previous months of preparation had quietly increased my confidence. The motorcycle no longer felt unfamiliar beneath me, and long hours on the highway had become easier to manage. Somewhere along that ride, I realised that preparation had already begun transforming me into a better rider, even before the actual expedition had started.
Reaching Chandigarh was an experience unlike anything I had witnessed before. Everywhere I looked, Royal Enfield motorcycles stood neatly parked in rows, carrying registration plates from different states and even different countries. Riders of every age were busy adjusting luggage, discussing routes, checking tyre pressures, introducing themselves, and sharing stories from previous adventures. Although many of us had never met before, the atmosphere felt surprisingly familiar. We were all there for the same reason. Every rider carried a different story, but everyone shared the same excitement about the journey that would begin the following morning.
Royal Enfield had planned the expedition with remarkable professionalism. Dedicated mechanics, paramedics, recovery vehicles, photographers, videographers, and support staff had assembled to accompany the ride throughout the seventeen-day expedition. Before the motorcycles were allowed to leave, we were given detailed route briefings, safety instructions, first-aid sessions, and even CPR training. At first, these activities felt like formalities. Only later, after witnessing the physical demands of riding through high-altitude terrain, did I fully appreciate why every one of those sessions had been included in the schedule.
The final step before the expedition was a detailed inspection of every motorcycle and every rider’s equipment. Each helmet, jacket, glove, luggage arrangement, and piece of safety gear was examined carefully. Watching the inspection process made it immediately clear that the organisers were unwilling to compromise on rider safety, regardless of experience or nationality.
When my turn arrived, everything seemed to be progressing smoothly until the inspector reached my footwear.
He looked at my riding sneakers, smiled politely, and simply shook his head.
“They won’t be allowed.”
For a few moments, I genuinely could not understand the problem. They were waterproof, offered ankle protection, and appeared considerably stronger than ordinary shoes. I confidently explained my reasoning, expecting that perhaps there had been some misunderstanding.
Instead, I received one of the most valuable lessons of my entire riding journey.
The inspector explained that during a motorcycle accident, ordinary shoes—even sturdy ones—can come off surprisingly easily the moment they strike the ground. Riding boots are designed differently. Their extended height secures them firmly around the lower leg, ensuring that they remain attached to the rider’s feet during an impact, providing protection precisely when it is needed most. It was never just about waterproofing or ankle protection. It was about ensuring that the footwear stayed exactly where it was supposed to stay under the worst possible circumstances.
At that moment, I realised that confidence built upon incomplete knowledge can sometimes be more dangerous than having no confidence at all.
That evening, while many participants relaxed and explored Chandigarh before the expedition, I found myself searching the city’s markets for an approved pair of riding boots. Eventually, after visiting several stores, I found one that satisfied the inspection team. The approval brought relief, but another practical problem immediately appeared. Carrying two bulky pairs of shoes through the Himalayas was impossible with the limited luggage space available on the motorcycle. After explaining my situation, I requested the shopkeeper if he would be willing to courier my sneakers back to Gwalior after I paid the shipping charges. Without hesitation, he agreed.
It was a small gesture, but one that I still remember with gratitude.
That night, as I repacked my luggage outside the hotel, I realised something that would stay with me throughout the expedition. The Himalayan Odyssey had already begun teaching me lessons before a single kilometre of the official route had been completed. Preparation was not simply about buying expensive equipment or ticking items off a checklist. It was about replacing assumptions with experience, accepting that there was still much to learn, and approaching the mountains with humility rather than overconfidence.
The motorcycles had not yet left Chandigarh, but I was already becoming a different rider. Little did I know that the roads ahead would test me in ways no amount of preparation could ever fully anticipate. The Himalayas were waiting, and with them came experiences that would eventually transform this adventure into one of the most emotional journeys of my life.
The Road Finally Begins
After completing the inspection and replacing my riding shoes with a proper pair of riding boots, I finally felt ready for the expedition. The months of preparation, the medical tests, the practice rides, the equipment checks, and the repeated packing had all led to this point. Early the next morning, more than a hundred Royal Enfield motorcycles assembled before sunrise, their headlights illuminating the quiet streets of Chandigarh. Some riders had participated in earlier editions of the Himalayan Odyssey and already knew what lay ahead, while others, like me, were experiencing such a large and professionally organised expedition for the first time. Despite the differences in age, nationality, profession, and riding experience, everyone shared the same excitement about the journey that was about to begin.
The organisers divided us into two groups. One group would travel towards Leh through Jammu, Srinagar, and Zojila Pass, while the other would take the route through Manali and the Zanskar Valley. Both groups were scheduled to reach Leh after six days, spend time there together, and later exchange routes for the return journey so that every participant could experience both sides of the Himalayas. I was assigned to the Manali and Zanskar route, which many experienced riders described as the more demanding section because of its rough roads, higher altitude, and remote stretches with limited facilities. At that stage, I had no personal experience with either route, so I simply accepted the assignment with curiosity and trusted the planning of the organisers.
As the convoy rolled out of Chandigarh, I immediately realised that riding with nearly sixty motorcycles was very different from the shorter group rides I had joined around Gwalior. Every rider had to maintain discipline, respect the pace of the group, follow the marshals, and remain aware of the motorcycles travelling around them. There was no unnecessary overtaking or competition. The purpose was not to arrive first but to ensure that every rider remained safe and reached the destination. The support system travelling with us included paramedics, mechanics, recovery vehicles, and a photography and video team that regularly moved around the convoy to document the journey. At times, the presence of camera vehicles and professionally equipped crews made the expedition feel like being part of a large film production, although the real purpose was to capture the experience of riders undertaking one of Royal Enfield’s most important annual journeys.
The first day towards Manali allowed everyone to settle into the rhythm of the expedition. We stopped together for fuel, refreshments, and meals, and these breaks gradually became opportunities to meet riders from different parts of India and several other countries. Some had completed numerous long-distance expeditions, while others had spent years travelling internationally on motorcycles. Listening to their experiences reminded me how new I still was to this world. My first highway ride from Gwalior to Indore had taken place only around four months earlier, and before that I had rarely travelled anywhere by motorcycle. I had never considered myself a city rider either, because the motorcycle had never been part of my regular daily travel. I bought the Hunter 350 simply because it suited me well. Its compact size, manageable weight, and easy handling matched my lean body type and gave me the confidence to control it comfortably. The motorcycle felt natural beneath me, which mattered far more than choosing a machine according to a particular category or image.
The Hunter 350 was therefore not selected because I intended to use it mainly in the city, nor had I bought it with the Himalayan Odyssey in mind. I had chosen it because it was the motorcycle I could handle confidently, and only after purchasing it did longer journeys gradually become part of my life. The ride to Indore had introduced me to highway travel, and the Himalayan Odyssey arrived only a few months later as an unexpectedly large next step. Many participants were riding the newly launched Himalayan 450, which had been designed specifically for rough terrain, steep climbs, and high-speed touring. Others were using motorcycles such as the Meteor 350 and Super Meteor 650, which offered a more relaxed cruising experience over long distances. Very few riders had chosen a Hunter 350 for an expedition of this kind, so my motorcycle naturally attracted curiosity.
People frequently asked how I planned to complete the Himalayan Odyssey on a Hunter. The question was never insulting or discouraging. Most riders were simply interested because the motorcycle looked noticeably smaller beside the adventure machines and large cruisers surrounding it. I explained that I had not selected the motorcycle specifically for the mountains; I had selected it because it suited me physically and felt easier to control than the larger motorcycles I had considered. I had become comfortable with its weight, posture, and response, and I trusted a familiar motorcycle more than an unfamiliar machine that might have appeared more appropriate on paper.
As the roads gradually climbed towards Manali, I began understanding how differently each motorcycle approached the journey. The Himalayan 450 riders could maintain higher speeds over uneven surfaces and move through rough sections with relative ease. The larger cruisers settled comfortably into open highways at a steady pace. My Hunter could manage the route, but it required patience. It was not able to follow the Himalayan riders over broken roads at the same speed, nor could it cruise like the larger touring motorcycles. Instead of treating this difference as a problem, I gradually accepted that both the motorcycle and I needed to travel according to our own rhythm.
The marshals had given us one simple instruction before leaving Chandigarh: every rider should remain somewhere between the lead vehicle and the recovery van. As long as we stayed within those limits, there was no pressure to ride at anyone else’s speed. This instruction became especially important for me because the group naturally spread out as the day progressed. Faster motorcycles moved far ahead, while the recovery team remained some distance behind. Even while travelling as part of a large expedition, I frequently found myself riding alone for long stretches.
Initially, I wondered whether I had fallen too far behind. After some time, I began appreciating the situation. Riding alone allowed me to concentrate entirely on the road and understand the behaviour of my motorcycle without trying to match another rider. The Hunter settled into a pace that felt comfortable, and I gradually developed greater confidence in handling bends, judging overtaking distances, and maintaining control over changing surfaces. Since I had only recently begun highway riding, these hours became a practical education that no training session could have provided. Every kilometre added something to my understanding.
The landscape also began changing gradually as we moved away from the plains. Rivers appeared beside the road, the air became cooler, and the surrounding hills slowly grew into much larger mountains. Travelling on a motorcycle allowed me to experience this transition continuously rather than arriving in the hills suddenly after a flight or train journey. I could feel the temperature changing through my riding gear, smell the difference in the air, and notice how the road became more demanding with every climb. The journey itself became as important as Manali, because every section revealed how quickly geography, weather, and riding conditions could change.
At one point near Manali, I followed the offline navigation that had been shared with us and reached the accommodation before seeing any other rider. Since I had not noticed the lead vehicle or many motorcycles on the route, I assumed that I must have taken a different road or become separated from the main convoy. The resort stood beside the river and was surrounded by mountains, but the entire place appeared surprisingly empty when I arrived. For some time, I believed I might be the last rider to reach the destination, only to discover that I had actually arrived before most of the group. Riders gradually began appearing later, and by evening the resort was filled with motorcycles, luggage, conversations, and the familiar energy of the expedition.
The location in Manali was one of the most beautiful stays of the journey. The river flowed directly beside the property, and the surrounding mountains created wide panoramic views in every direction. That evening, I spent time with two or three riders whom I had begun getting to know during the journey. They belonged to different age groups and professional backgrounds, yet those differences mattered very little once the conversation began. One of the most enjoyable aspects of the Himalayan Odyssey was meeting people whose lives were completely different but whose interest in travel immediately created common ground. We explored the nearby area, returned for dinner with the larger group, and gradually prepared ourselves for the next day’s ride towards Jispa.
Leaving Manali marked a clear change in the expedition. The roads became narrower and more uneven, traffic reduced, and the landscape began feeling increasingly remote. The route towards Jispa was still manageable, but it introduced us to the kind of terrain that would dominate the following days. Smooth roads were interrupted by diversions, broken patches, gravel, and water crossings formed by streams moving across the route. Every change demanded attention, and I began learning how posture, throttle control, braking, and balance influenced the motorcycle over unfamiliar surfaces.
Jispa itself remained comfortable compared with the higher-altitude destinations that followed. By then, we were gradually moving away from regular hotels and towards more basic lodges, camps, and homestays. The surroundings became quieter, the air thinner, and the conveniences of ordinary travel less reliable. Mobile networks started disappearing, fuel stations became increasingly important, and the organisers repeatedly reminded everyone to remain hydrated and avoid unnecessary physical exertion. Although I had completed the required medical tests and read about altitude sickness, I still understood the subject mainly through information. The following days would teach me what reduced oxygen actually felt like.
By the time we reached Jispa, I had already learnt several important lessons. I had stopped comparing my motorcycle with the faster and more specialised machines around me. I had accepted that my pace would be different and that completing the journey safely mattered more than proving anything to anyone. The Hunter was not the obvious choice for the expedition, but it was the motorcycle I understood and could handle confidently. More importantly, the fact that my highway riding experience had begun only four months earlier made every section of the journey a genuine learning experience. I was not arriving in the Himalayas as an experienced city rider or seasoned tourer. I was arriving as someone who had only recently discovered long-distance motorcycling and was learning through every road, mistake, halt, and changing landscape.
The expedition had begun with the excitement of joining an iconic Royal Enfield event, but it was gradually becoming something more personal. The mountains were teaching me to respect my own pace, understand the machine beneath me, and remain comfortable with the fact that I still had much to learn. The roads beyond Jispa would become far more difficult, the altitude would test almost everyone in the group, and the comfort of the earlier days would soon disappear. At that moment, however, I was simply grateful to have reached the Himalayas on a motorcycle that felt right for me, even if it was not the motorcycle most people would have chosen for the journey.
Life Above Fifteen Thousand Feet
By the time we left Jispa, the expedition had already settled into a comfortable rhythm. Everyone had begun understanding their motorcycle, finding a pace that suited their riding style, and gradually adjusting to life on the road. The excitement of the first day had settled into quiet confidence. We no longer felt like participants at a large organised event; instead, we had become a group of travellers moving together through one of the most remarkable landscapes in the country.
The roads beyond Jispa introduced us to a completely different side of the Himalayas. The green valleys that had accompanied us until then slowly gave way to vast open landscapes where vegetation became increasingly scarce. The mountains appeared harsher, their colours changing from deep greens to shades of brown, grey and white. Every valley looked different from the previous one, and every few kilometres the scenery seemed to reinvent itself. It was impossible to predict what waited around the next bend, which made the journey itself more fascinating than any destination marked on the map.
The riding conditions also became noticeably more demanding. Smooth stretches of road would suddenly disappear beneath loose gravel, broken asphalt or streams flowing directly across the route. In many places, melting snow from the mountains above created small water crossings that changed continuously throughout the day. Some could be crossed without much thought, while others required slowing down, choosing a careful line and trusting the motorcycle to find its way across uneven rocks beneath the flowing water. These were situations that I had never experienced during my earlier rides, and I found myself learning something new almost every hour.
One of the advantages of riding at my own pace was that I never felt rushed while approaching difficult sections. Faster riders would often disappear into the distance, but instead of trying to follow them, I concentrated on understanding the road immediately in front of me. The Hunter responded honestly to every input. It rewarded smoothness and patience rather than aggression, and over the previous few days I had begun appreciating its character more than ever. There were certainly motorcycles that could have completed the route more easily, but I gradually realised that confidence on a familiar motorcycle is often more valuable than uncertainty on a more capable one.
As the altitude continued increasing, the organisers reminded us repeatedly about hydration and rest. Until then, I still viewed altitude sickness as something that affected only a few unfortunate people. I had read about it before joining the expedition, watched videos explaining its symptoms, and listened carefully during the medical briefing in Chandigarh. Despite all that information, it remained an abstract concept in my mind because I had never experienced anything similar myself.
That changed as we approached Bharatpur.
Situated at an altitude of nearly sixteen thousand feet, Bharatpur is one of the highest points along the route before the road begins descending again. Even before reaching our lunch stop, I noticed subtle changes within my own body. Walking after a short break required slightly more effort than usual, and I instinctively found myself breathing a little deeper than I normally would. Nothing felt alarming, but there was a clear awareness that the body was functioning under conditions it had never encountered before.
Our lunch stop that afternoon was a large tent built to shelter travellers from the strong mountain winds. Inside, simple beds had been arranged along both sides while tables occupied the centre. The tent quickly filled with riders as everyone arrived one after another, and it became immediately obvious that altitude affects different people in very different ways. Some participants quietly lay down on the beds without saying much, while others sat with their heads lowered, waiting for the fatigue to pass. A few complained of headaches, some experienced nausea, and others simply looked unusually exhausted despite having ridden only a few hours that morning.
I was fortunate not to experience severe symptoms, but I immediately understood why the organisers had taken the medical preparations so seriously. I remember sitting down for lunch and noticing that even eating required noticeably more effort than it normally would. There was no pain or discomfort, only a strange heaviness throughout the body. Every movement felt slightly slower, as though someone had quietly reduced the amount of energy available without changing anything else. It was a subtle experience, but one that left a lasting impression because it demonstrated something I had previously understood only in theory. At high altitude, the body continues functioning, but it does so with considerably less oxygen than it is accustomed to receiving.
Stepping outside after lunch, I spent a few minutes simply observing the landscape around us. There were no forests, no large settlements and almost no signs of permanent human habitation. Snow-covered mountains surrounded the valley in every direction, while powerful winds carried fine dust across the open plains. The silence was unlike anything I had experienced elsewhere. It did not feel empty. Instead, it created a sense of scale that photographs rarely manage to capture. Standing there, I understood why so many travellers describe the Himalayas as humbling. It is difficult to stand in such an environment without becoming aware of how small we really are.
One thought crossed my mind that made me smile. The previous year, I had completed a skydive in Dubai, jumping from an aircraft at around fifteen thousand feet. At the time, that altitude had seemed extraordinary. Now I was standing on the ground at an even greater elevation, preparing to continue riding a motorcycle through terrain that many people only ever see in documentaries. It was a simple comparison, but it reminded me how unusual this journey really was.
As we continued towards Sarchu, the weather changed repeatedly. Bright sunshine would suddenly disappear behind thick clouds before returning again a few minutes later. In the mountains, these changes are accepted as part of everyday life. There is little point in predicting the weather because it follows its own rhythm. Riders quickly learn to adapt rather than complain. Rain gear is worn and removed several times during the day, jackets are opened and closed as temperatures fluctuate, and plans remain flexible because the mountains always have the final say.
The roads leading to Sarchu offered some of the most spectacular scenery I had witnessed until then. Vast valleys stretched endlessly ahead while rivers carved their way through the landscape below. Every turn revealed another view that invited a photograph, yet I gradually found myself stopping less often. During earlier trips, I had wanted to photograph almost everything. Somewhere during this expedition, I realised that constantly reaching for the camera also meant stepping away from the experience itself. Some moments are better remembered through memory than through a photograph. They remain more personal because they exist only in the mind of the person who experienced them.
By the time we reached our campsite in Sarchu, we had already spent the entire day riding at an altitude that most of us had never experienced before. Although the journey itself had been spectacular, it had also demanded far more from the body than any previous day. The campsite consisted of large expedition tents spread across the open valley, and after parking our motorcycles everyone quietly made their way towards the accommodation, looking forward to some rest before continuing towards Leh the following morning.
It was only after getting off the motorcycle that I truly began understanding the effect of altitude.
The cold was certainly present, but it was not the biggest challenge. The real difficulty came from the lack of oxygen. Every small activity that would normally take only a few seconds suddenly required noticeable effort. Even changing clothes inside the tent felt exhausting because the body simply did not have the energy it normally would. Walking to the dining hall for dinner, something that would usually be completely insignificant, felt surprisingly demanding. Nobody was in a hurry because everyone instinctively realised that conserving energy had become more important than saving time.
The atmosphere around the campsite reflected the same experience. Riders who had been laughing and sharing stories during previous evenings were now noticeably quieter. Conversations became shorter, movements became slower and almost everyone preferred sitting or lying down rather than walking around unnecessarily. It wasn’t because people had lost enthusiasm for the journey. The altitude simply demanded that the body use its energy carefully. At nearly sixteen thousand feet above sea level, even ordinary activities reminded us that we were functioning in an environment very different from the one our bodies were accustomed to.
After dinner, the medical team advised everyone to take the prescribed medicines, remain well hydrated and get as much sleep as possible. These instructions had been repeated throughout the expedition, but that evening they carried a different meaning because we could all feel why they were necessary. Nobody lingered outside the tents or stayed awake talking late into the night. Most riders quietly returned to their tents, hoping that a good night’s rest would allow their bodies to recover before another demanding day.
Sleeping, however, was not as easy as it sounded. The altitude itself made proper rest difficult. Although we wrapped ourselves in several blankets to stay warm, the greater challenge was simply allowing the body enough time to adapt to the reduced oxygen levels. It became one of those nights where you wake up repeatedly, not because anything is wrong, but because your body never feels completely settled. The cold outside was part of the experience, but the altitude remained the constant presence throughout the night.
The following morning brought another reminder of how much the environment influences the human body. Waking up was easy enough, but beginning the day required much more effort than usual. Brushing my teeth, washing my face, changing into riding gear and packing the luggage all felt unusually tiring. These were tasks that normally happened almost automatically, yet that morning each one seemed to require conscious effort. It was not a question of motivation or willingness; the body simply responded differently at that altitude.
Before leaving the campsite, the organisers had arranged additional fuel because there were no fuel stations for roughly the next two hundred kilometres. One by one, the motorcycles lined up to refill their tanks before departure. Watching the fuel being distributed reminded me once again how carefully every aspect of travel had been planned. In most parts of the country, running out of fuel is an inconvenience. In these mountains, it can become a serious problem, and the expedition team had anticipated it long before we arrived.
Looking back, Sarchu completely changed my understanding of high-altitude travel. Until then, I had associated the Himalayas with breathtaking landscapes and challenging roads. Sarchu showed me that the greatest challenge is often much simpler than that. Sometimes it is not the road that tests you, but the ordinary activities that you have performed every day of your life without ever giving them a second thought. When even changing clothes or walking a short distance requires genuine effort, you begin to appreciate just how extraordinary life at such altitudes really is.
A Change of Plans
Reaching Leh felt like an important milestone, but not the destination of the expedition. We had completed the first six days of the Himalayan Odyssey by travelling through Manali and the Zanskar Valley, while the second group had reached Leh through Srinagar and Zojila Pass. For the first time since leaving Chandigarh, all the participants were together again. The next phase of the expedition was the one I had been looking forward to the most. Over the coming days, we were scheduled to ride to Khardung La, Nubra Valley, Siachen Base Camp, Pangong Lake, Hanle, Umling La and several other places that had inspired me to register for the Himalayan Odyssey in the first place. Reaching Leh therefore felt less like the end of a journey and more like the beginning of the Ladakh chapter that I had imagined for months.
The organisers had planned two relatively relaxed days in Leh before we continued further. It gave everyone an opportunity to recover after almost a week of continuous riding, inspect the motorcycles, wash riding gear, and spend some time exploring the town. The pace of life immediately changed. For the first time since leaving Chandigarh, nobody was packing luggage before sunrise or preparing for another long day on the motorcycle. Riders wandered through the local markets, visited cafés, explored monasteries and caught up with friends from the other group, each exchanging stories about the different routes they had taken to reach Leh.
I had similar plans for the day. One place I particularly wanted to visit was the Shanti Stupa, which overlooks the entire town of Leh. The climb to the Stupa itself is rewarding, but the view from the top makes it even more memorable. Standing there, the town appears quietly nestled within a vast mountain landscape, reminding you how small every settlement is when surrounded by the Himalayas. After several days of riding through remote valleys and high mountain passes, it felt good to stand still for a while and simply observe the place without thinking about the next destination.
As I stood there looking across Leh, my phone rang.
It was my father.
He told me that my grandfather’s health had deteriorated significantly. Although we had known for some time that his health had been gradually declining because of age, this time the doctors had informed the family that very little time remained. Nobody could say exactly how much time was left, but everyone understood that the situation had become serious.
For several minutes after the call ended, I remained standing at the Stupa without moving. The view before me had not changed. Visitors continued walking around the monument, people were taking photographs, and prayer flags moved gently in the wind. Yet my own thoughts had shifted completely. Only a short while earlier I had been thinking about the roads that still lay ahead, especially the ride towards Pangong Lake and Umling La. Those places had occupied my imagination ever since I registered for the Himalayan Odyssey. Now they no longer seemed important. My only concern was reaching Jaipur as quickly as possible.
I returned to the hotel and immediately spoke with the organisers about the situation. Before deciding to leave the expedition, I wanted to explore every possible option that would allow me to reach home quickly without abandoning the motorcycle in Leh. We first looked for available flights, hoping that I could leave by air and somehow arrange for the motorcycle to be transported later. We also explored whether there was any practical way to send the motorcycle separately so that I could collect it after returning. Unfortunately, neither option proved possible. Flights were either unavailable at such short notice or unsuitable for the urgency of the situation, and arranging immediate transportation for the motorcycle from Leh was equally difficult.
Once those possibilities had been ruled out, I sat down with one of the marshals to discuss the alternatives. Having led numerous Himalayan expeditions, he knew the roads and the practical realities of travelling through Ladakh far better than anyone else. We spoke about the situation, the distances involved and the quickest route back. After listening carefully, he encouraged me to return through the Jammu route instead of waiting for uncertain arrangements. He explained the road conditions, suggested suitable halts and reassured me that, although it would involve some very long riding days, it was entirely achievable if I remained patient and rode responsibly.
The Ride Back Home
That evening, after speaking with the organisers and the marshal, I packed my luggage once again. It felt strange because I had unpacked everything only a day earlier after reaching Leh. At that time, I was preparing for the second phase of the Himalayan Odyssey. Now I was securing the same bags onto the motorcycle with the intention of riding back in the opposite direction. The plan was simple. Leave Leh at five o’clock the next morning, try to reach Jammu before nightfall and then continue towards Jaipur the following day.
Although the decision had been made, sleeping that night wasn’t particularly easy. My mind kept moving between the expedition I was leaving behind and the reason I was returning home. Only six days had passed since leaving Chandigarh, yet it felt as though the journey had just begun. The roads to Pangong Lake, Nubra Valley, Siachen Base Camp, Hanle and Umling La were still waiting ahead for the rest of the group. I had imagined riding those roads for months, and now I was preparing to turn back before experiencing any of them. At the same time, I knew there was nothing to think about anymore. The decision had already been made, and my only responsibility now was to reach Jaipur safely and as quickly as possible.
The next morning, I left Leh at around five o’clock. The roads were still quiet, and the cold mountain air made the early start feel refreshing despite the circumstances. Unlike the previous week, I was no longer riding as part of a convoy. There were no marshals ahead, no recovery van behind and no fellow riders stopping together for tea or photographs. It was just me, the Hunter 350 and a long road leading towards Jammu.
The distance for the day was close to eight hundred kilometres, something I had never attempted before, especially on mountain roads. The marshal had advised me to remain patient throughout the ride and not allow urgency to affect my judgement. His advice stayed with me for the entire journey. No matter how important it was to reach home, there was little point in taking unnecessary risks. Reaching safely remained the priority.
The route itself was completely different from the Manali–Leh road that I had travelled a few days earlier. The Jammu route felt considerably more forgiving. Large sections followed the national highway, making it possible to maintain a more consistent pace. There were still mountain roads to negotiate, and some stretches remained rough, but compared to the raw terrain of the Manali route, this journey felt much more manageable. Looking back, I realised why the marshal had confidently suggested this option.
Even though I travelled through remarkable places such as Kargil, Dras, Srinagar and Katra, I barely stopped anywhere. Under different circumstances, I would have spent hours exploring each of these locations. Kargil carries immense historical significance, Dras is known as one of the coldest inhabited places in the world, Srinagar is among the most beautiful cities in the country and Katra serves as the gateway to Vaishno Devi. During this ride, however, they simply became milestones along the way. I acknowledged them as I passed, but my thoughts remained fixed on reaching Jaipur.
The ride gradually settled into a simple routine. Refuel the motorcycle whenever required, drink enough water, use the washroom, stretch for a few minutes and continue riding. There was very little room in my mind for anything else. Unlike my earlier journeys, I wasn’t looking for viewpoints or memorable cafés. Every stop felt like time spent away from the destination, so I naturally kept them as short as possible.
Somewhere during those long hours on the road, I realised how much confidence the previous six days of the Himalayan Odyssey had already given me. Only a few months earlier, my longest motorcycle ride had been to Indore. Now I was riding alone through the Himalayas, comfortably covering distances that had once seemed impossible. The expedition had already transformed me into a far more confident rider than I had been when I left Gwalior.
Riding Through the Storm
After nearly sixteen hours of riding the previous day, I reached Jammu with a sense of relief. Covering almost eight hundred kilometres through the mountains had seemed like the biggest challenge when I left Leh, but by the end of the day I realised that the journey to Jaipur was now genuinely possible. My grandfather was still with us, and that gave me enough hope to continue without losing a single unnecessary hour. After a few hours of sleep, I woke up before dawn, packed the motorcycle once again and started riding at around five o’clock in the morning.
It had already started raining before I left Jammu.
At first, I assumed it would be another passing spell of rain that would eventually clear as I moved further south. Instead, the rain continued relentlessly. For the next six and a half hours, until almost half past eleven in the morning, it hardly stopped for even a few minutes. Riding continuously in heavy rain was something I had never experienced before, and it introduced a completely different set of challenges that had nothing to do with mountain roads or altitude.
Although I was wearing proper rain gear, waterproof riding gloves and waterproof riding boots, I gradually realised that staying dry on a motorcycle involves much more than simply protecting yourself from the rain falling from above. Throughout that morning, I experienced three different kinds of water, and each one created its own difficulty.
The first was the continuous rainfall itself. Thousands of raindrops kept striking the visor of my helmet every second, making it difficult to maintain a consistently clear view of the road ahead. Every few moments I found myself wiping the visor with my glove, only for it to become covered again almost immediately. Visibility constantly changed depending on the intensity of the rain and the movement of vehicles ahead, requiring complete concentration throughout the ride.
The second challenge came from the water already accumulated on the roads. In many places, especially around towns and low-lying areas, the roads had become partially submerged. It was often impossible to judge the actual depth of the water until the motorcycle entered it. There were several stretches where the water rose almost to my knees while riding through it. Every such section demanded slower speeds and careful throttle control because hidden potholes or uneven road surfaces could easily disturb the balance of the motorcycle.
The third type of water was by far the most difficult to deal with. Every time a bus or heavy truck passed from the opposite direction, its tyres threw enormous sheets of water into the air. Unlike rain, which falls gently, these waves struck with tremendous force. Within a fraction of a second, the entire helmet visor would become opaque, my riding jacket would receive another heavy impact, and the motorcycle would momentarily disappear behind a wall of water. Even after expecting it several times, the force of those splashes remained startling throughout the day.
As the hours passed, my riding gear gradually became less effective. The rain itself was not the problem. Water found its way into places that no waterproof clothing could completely prevent. It entered through small gaps around the neck, collected inside the gloves, slowly soaked the sleeves and eventually reached my clothes underneath. By the time I entered Punjab, almost every layer I was wearing was wet. My gloves and boots still offered protection, but they had collected enough water that they felt noticeably heavier with every passing hour.
One incident during the morning remains particularly vivid in my memory. While crossing a heavily flooded section of road, the water became much deeper than I had expected. The motorcycle slowed almost to a stop before the engine suddenly stalled. For a brief moment, I simply stood there in knee-deep water, surrounded by rain, wondering whether the motorcycle would start again. At that point, I had no idea which town I was even passing through. The sky remained dark, visibility was poor and I was completely focused on reaching Jaipur as quickly as possible.
Fortunately, after pushing the motorcycle out of the deeper water, the engine started again without any mechanical issues. It was one of those moments that lasts only a few minutes but feels much longer while it is happening. Had the motorcycle refused to start, I honestly do not know how much time would have been lost trying to arrange help in those conditions.
By the time I finally crossed into Punjab, the rain gradually began losing its intensity. For the first time that morning, I pulled over for a proper break. I found a small place to eat, removed my gloves and immediately poured out the water that had collected inside them. My socks were completely soaked, and I squeezed as much water as possible from them before putting everything back on. It was a simple break, but after several hours of continuous rain it felt surprisingly refreshing. More importantly, I could finally see the sun beginning to appear through the clouds.
The improvement in the weather also lifted my spirits. I knew that every kilometre completed brought me closer to Jaipur, and despite the difficult morning, I was still making good progress. The roads ahead looked considerably better, and I hoped that the remainder of the journey would become easier.
That optimism lasted only for a while.
As I approached Haryana, I discovered that several sections of the highway had been closed because of waterlogging and road repairs. Traffic was diverted through village roads that I had never planned to use. Instead of continuing towards Chandigarh as originally intended, the diversions gradually took me away from the route. After looking at the navigation for some time, I realised that trying to return to Chandigarh no longer made sense. I stopped briefly by the roadside, changed the destination on my navigation directly to Jaipur and continued the journey without trying to recover the original route.
The weather also began changing once again. Although most of the water had dried from my riding gear during the afternoon, dark clouds returned as I approached Rajasthan. Rain started once more, bringing heavy traffic, flooded service roads and thick mud around several construction zones. By this stage, however, I had already accepted that there was little point in worrying about the conditions. I simply continued riding steadily, avoiding unnecessary risks and reminding myself that I was much closer to my destination than when the day had begun.
As the evening grew darker, the familiar roads leading into Jaipur finally appeared before me. After another day of almost sixteen hours on the motorcycle and nearly eight hundred and sixty kilometres of riding, I reached my grandfather’s home at around nine o’clock that night.
Every kilometre of the previous two days suddenly felt worthwhile.
The moment I walked into the room and saw him, I knew that leaving the Himalayan Odyssey had been the right decision.
The Last Goodbye
Reaching Jaipur that night made every kilometre of the previous two days worthwhile. After riding for nearly sixteen hours on two consecutive days, covering more than sixteen hundred kilometres from Leh through Jammu, I had finally reached home. Physical exhaustion disappeared the moment I entered the house. My entire focus was on seeing my grandfather.
He was lying on the bed, surrounded by family members who had been caring for him over the previous few days. His condition had deteriorated significantly since I had left for the Himalayan Odyssey, and he was no longer able to move or speak comfortably. He looked at me with surprise, almost unable to believe that I had reached so quickly. As far as he knew, I was somewhere in Ladakh and would return only after completing the seventeen-day expedition. He had no idea that I had left the journey midway and ridden continuously for two days to reach him.
Although he could not speak much, I could see the happiness on his face. He tried to lift his hand and gently placed it over my head. It was a simple gesture, but one that I will remember for the rest of my life. He had become extremely weak by then. Even basic movements required effort, and his body was no longer responding the way it once had. Yet despite all of that, the affection in that moment needed no words.
The illness had reached a stage where every day had become increasingly difficult. He was bleeding while passing urine, could barely move without assistance and required constant care. Relatives had already started arriving from different parts of the country and from abroad because everyone understood that very little time remained. The atmosphere in the house was quiet. There was no panic or confusion anymore, only a shared awareness that we were spending the final moments with someone who had been the centre of our family for decades.
That night, I stayed beside him.
After spending the previous two nights in hotels during the ride back from Leh, it felt strange that I was finally able to stop moving. For the first time since receiving my father’s phone call at the Shanti Stupa, there was nowhere else I needed to go. I had reached in time, and that alone brought a deep sense of peace. I never imagined that the previous night, spent beside him, would become the last night we would ever share together.
The following morning began quietly. As part of his regular routine, the nurse came to help him with cleaning and changing his clothes. I stepped into another room for a short while so they could complete their work comfortably. A little later, I heard movement inside the room. When we returned, he was no longer responding.
Despite every effort, he peacefully left his body.
The house that had been filled with hope only the previous evening suddenly became silent. Family members gathered around him, each absorbing the reality in their own way. There are moments in life that seem to slow time itself, and this was one of them. Nobody spoke very much. There was simply a quiet acceptance that a remarkable journey had reached its natural conclusion.
As I sat beside him, one thought remained with me more strongly than anything else.
I had reached in time.
Had I waited even one more day in Leh, hoping that another flight might become available or deciding to continue with the expedition for a little longer, I would almost certainly have missed those final moments. Instead, I was fortunate enough to receive his blessing one last time and spend those final hours in his presence. Looking back today, I do not think I could have asked for anything more.
My maternal grandfather, Shri Shyam Sunder Madan, was much more than a grandfather to me. During the years I spent in Jaipur while completing my engineering, I lived with him and shared countless conversations that gradually shaped the way I think about life. His stories, his wisdom, his discipline, his sense of humour and his remarkable energy influenced me in ways that I understood only much later. Many of the values that eventually found their way into User Manual for a Human Being, Yoga School of Bharat and my own approach towards learning had quietly been nurtured during those years together.
He never tried to impose his ideas on anyone. Instead, he encouraged curiosity, independent thinking and meaningful conversations. We travelled together extensively, spent countless evenings discussing life and shared experiences that remain among my most treasured memories. Even today, whenever I find myself explaining an idea during a Yoga class or writing about human life, I often recognise echoes of those conversations without consciously intending to.
When I look back at the Himalayan Odyssey now, I rarely think first about the mountain passes, the off-road trails or the extraordinary landscapes. Those memories remain incredibly special, and I will always be grateful for the opportunity to participate in one of Royal Enfield’s most iconic expeditions. Yet the journey acquired a meaning that I could never have anticipated. It became the journey that brought me back in time to say goodbye to someone who had played an irreplaceable role in my life.
People often ask me what the most memorable part of the Himalayan Odyssey was. They expect stories about riding at sixteen thousand feet, crossing difficult terrain, surviving Sarchu or reaching Leh. All of those experiences were unforgettable, but they are not the first memories that come to my mind.
I remember a phone call at the Shanti Stupa.
I remember a marshal who suggested the Jammu route when every other option seemed impossible.
I remember two long days on the motorcycle, riding with only one thought in my mind.
Most importantly, I remember walking into my grandfather’s room and seeing the smile on his face when he realised that I had come back.
Every journey teaches us something. The Himalayan Odyssey taught me about endurance, preparation, teamwork and the remarkable landscapes of the Himalayas. The ride back from Leh taught me something even more important. No destination, however extraordinary, can ever become more valuable than the people who give meaning to our lives.
This memoir is therefore not only about a motorcycle expedition across the Himalayas. It is also a tribute to the person whose stories, values and guidance shaped so much of my own journey. If this ride made one thing possible, it was giving me the opportunity to spend those final moments with him, receive his blessing one last time and say goodbye with gratitude rather than regret.
In loving memory of Shri Shyam Sunder Madan.
1939–2024
The greatest journey he gave me was never on a motorcycle.
It was the journey of learning how to live.