Kibber, me and my Royal Enfield

The ride from Kaza, which was our pitstop, to Kibber and back passes the oldest monastery in the valley of Spiti, called Key, and is along the banks of the Spiti river for some parts of the journey. Spiti river is a pretty sight, with narrow and wide channels flowing through a pebbled valley, green patches, animal herds andreflections of high peaks.

The beauty of the valley was too hard for the photographer in me to resist. And as I rode the bike down into the river with a picture forming in my mind, the cautious rider in me was blinded by the photographer. The kind of photographer who gets more than a little lost in his subject.

My riding partner said “Don’t do it”.

I rode down into the stream. I should have noticed signs of trouble when the clear stream layered with shiny pebbles turned chocolate brown, but all that I had in my mind, was the perfect shot.

I waited for the water to clear, it did not. For any rider, that should have been warning enough, but an artist takes risks, stupid risks, and is mostly not aware of them while taking them. I decided to click the bike in the muddy water anyway. The vista was perfection, the bike was at the right angle, so very well placed in water that it was down to its number plate. Yes, that was the next warning, the heavy built Enfield with a full tank of petrol was sinking into the mud beneath the shiny pebbles that could no longer be seen. I continued to shoot, looking for that perfect frame, mesmerized by what the viewfinder had to offer.

My riding partner gave his second warning “Dont try to ride out, we’ll push it out in reverse”

Now that was not the cautious rider, nor the photographer speaking. That my friends was the third guy in my head, the arrogant rider. He believed his bike could do anything, which in this case was pulling itself out of what was as close to quicksand as it could get. Throwing caution and logic to the wind and powered by bravado I planted myself on the saddle and added my weight to the bike. Too busy to notice how the plane of vision was going down by the second. I kicked the Enfield to life, put her on the first gear and did that ‘spin and drop the clutch’ trick that gets motorcycles out of mud. And in precisely three seconds of releasing the clutch, the Enfield sank up to its axle bolt, the exhaust bubbling up and spewing black oil into the muddy water. The bike was trapped..

Shutting off the engine at this point means letting water seep in, which was going to result in an immobile 200kilograms of metal in an empty river bed. With civilization 15km away, no tool kit, no water, no network and no human being visible for as far as the eyes could see, we were stuck.

At 4000m above sea level, thin air leaves little oxygen to reach the lungs, and even mild effort results in quick exhaustion. And pulling a motorcycle sunk up to its axle out of a river bed, was not exactly mild effort. For twenty minutes we put all our muscle into the rescue operation. We tried to roll her in reverse. We tried to rock her out. We even tried to let her fall to a side. But the mud was stubborn, it had the bike in its jaws and then it tried the same with my boots. I was losing breath fast, thirst struck me faster than I wished it would, no one was passing by, and we now risked being stranded.

And then that which comes to your rescue in those moments of desperation kicked in, madness. I placed myself behind the motorcycle, one leg in the mud, one on stable ground and gripped the mudguard mounts from both sides with my arms and pulled at her with all my strength. She resisted at first, then in one smooth motion, she rose up from the mud, a full one feet, with her weight resting on my arms. A little ray of hope goes a long way in situations like this, and that ray of hope had arrived. With my buddy holding the front of the Enfield, and me the rear. We tugged at her three more times while dragging her to the dry land, and she was out. Fully, completely out, of the mud trap.

We sat down, and breathed hard and quick to fill up our bodies with oxygen, as we now had to revive a motorcycle that would refuse to start, with water in its exhaust. It took about 50 kicks to hear the first signs of life from the engine as water sloshed about in the exhaust pipe. But that first signs of firing meant just one thing.. we were riding back!

We rode to Kaza, the town we were camping at, as fast as we could. We had a long ride waiting for us the ride the next day..

Looking back at the frames from the river bed, I wonder if I really learnt anything important as a rider from the what I just did. The closest I could get to was “See if the ground will hold before you place an Enfield in a river bed”..

To more river beds..