Written by Henry Nottage. Posted in Rides
Like most folks, my first experience on a motorcycle will be forever etched in my memory. I had taken six months off work, acquired a driver’s license, and, knowing nothing about bikes, bought a Cagiva Elefant 750. About 500 miles of riding later I was fully loaded and setting off from my home in Sheffield, England—towards Mongolia.
Unable to get a foot flat on the ground, and with two spare tires on board, I only made it to the end of my street before I was lying on the ground, wondering why in the hell I was doing this.
I returned from this monumental trip a different person with a permanently shifted self-perception. I could tolerate only another five years of the daily grind before something deep within called me back to the open road. I needed another challenge—to attempt something I did not know if I could finish.
A month of fast learning and slow building the Metisse was finally finished.
So I sold my house, quit my job, and set about deciding what bike would be my home, companion, nemesis and savior. I decided that building my own classic bike out of a variety of old parts would be a good idea. It had to be something simple, but visceral—a snarling beast of vibration, oil leaks and fumes. I saw an article in a classic bike magazine about Metisse frames—built for scrambling in the ’60s, solid, and capable of taking a variety of engines.
Metisse—the frame manufacturer favored by Steve McQueen. All packed and ready to set off on a cold British October morning.
To increase the range from that of a trials bike to something more useable Parker Fabrications made a custom aluminium gas tank.
I was astonished to discover that they were still in business. What’s more, the owner was keen to see one of their frames getting some serious “long distance testing”—amazingly, he also offered me a workbench to build the bike.
I should have broken in the engine more delicately, but I had put myself under a strict deadline to get on the road. As a result, there were several fixes required along the way, culminating in a major breakdown in Iran. It was there that a local family came to the rescue, inviting me into their home, showing the greatest hospitality and kindness I’ve ever witnessed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, they helped ship the bike to India (where I hoped to find parts), bought me a plane ticket to Delhi, and provided constant support and encouragement through every step. After a rather emotional farewell, I was off to India and back to repairing my broken machine.
Parts had to be sent from England, and the whole thing needed a damn good fettle. By the time I was ready to leave Delhi, there were only two days left on my visa. The ride to the border was through some of the worst traffic I had ever experienced. But Nepal was like stepping from a fire into cool, blue water.
In Pokhara, I made some friends who were looking for a mini-adventure. The team consisted of Fern Hume (an English girl riding a Suzuki DRZ around the world), Ben (a young English guy riding a 100cc Yamaha RX back to the U.K.) and Sonu Gurung (a young Nepali woman, also on an RX, working at a bike hire and training center).
Riding in the Annapurna National Park, Nepal.
Our destination was Manang, in the heart of the Annapurna conservation area—a National Park with 8,000 meter-plus peaks.
Maps do little to convey how difficult a ride it was actually going to be. We had over 200 kilometers of mountainous dirt roads to cover, and I’d never really ridden off-road before. As the track rose, the climb became steeper, the rocks larger and the dry, fine dusty bowls deeper and more threatening. Overly aware of the drop to one side, my pace fell to a first-gear crawl.
Approaching the village of Chamgye, we knew there was a tough section ahead. The way I had been riding just didn’t feel right, so I tried something new. Trying to remember as much as I could from a motorcycle trials show I’d seen on TV, I gunned the throttle, gripped the tank between my legs and hoped beyond reason for a good outcome. To my amazement, the technique worked perfectly.
I can’t speak for the rest of the group, but I felt incredibly lucky to have gotten this far without a bad fall. Given the drop-off, the phrase “bad fall” took on a whole new significance—you cock it up, you die. In addition to concerns that my skills might not be up to the challenge, and my stones not big enough, I also had major doubt over whether my bike would survive the trip.
We could see another steep climb ahead. With my heart in my mouth, I gave it as much gas as I dared—which got me up the bad section. However, it was too much for Ben’s little RX, the clutch had died—it had to be trucked out. His ride was over.
Setting off up another steep slope my bike made a horrible noise and stopped. I struggled to get it started again without losing control as gravity pulled me towards the cliff’s edge. With more throttle and a bit of paddling I just managed to get enough momentum to clear. At the next stop, I could see in the faces of Sonu and Fern that we were all thinking the same thing—this was madness and we should turn tail and flee while we still could.
But, we were determined to push on and make it to Manang. After resigning ourselves to just keep going, a switch in my head flicked. Pinning the throttle wide open over hard sections, allowing the bike to jump around under me while relaxing my grip on the bars, the ride suddenly became fun. With each hard climb and steep descent my technique improved, my speed picked up and the grin on my face got bigger.
Sonu blasts through one of the many picturesque but freezing cold rivers running through the Himalayan Mountains on the ride to Manang.
By the end of the day, I was chuckling like a hyena and spraying dust and gravel everywhere I went. Fear and trepidation had been replaced by adrenalin, dopamine and serotonin. I wanted more, and luckily that was exactly what we were going to get.
We found a small guesthouse in Dharapani—the only place where we could get the bikes off the narrow track, and made it our home for the night. I awoke the next morning feeling like a kid on Christmas. The track ahead was my present and I was desperate to unwrap it. I didn’t have to wait long to get my first real treat—the most technical section so far.
Rounding a bend carved into a sheer cliff face the track suddenly turned from a mixture of dust and stones to large angular rocks. A large waterfall crashed into a small, shallow pool, maybe 15 feet across, covering the track. The runoff then formed another waterfall that fell an unknown distance away—maybe 100 feet, or 500 feet, I couldn’t be sure. Either way, if anyone slid over that edge on the wet rocks it was game over.
It was into the pool, full throttle out the other side and I was through! I then rode the lightweight RX through and helped push Fern’s DRZ, getting several lung fulls of exhaust, struggling to keep the bike upright and get the back wheel over the worse bits. The mixture of heat, exhaust, adrenalin and relief was too much—I was on my knees throwing up.
After more exciting riding, several river crossings and some lovely wooded trails, we arrived at Chame. The track took us into a narrow scoop being cut out of a vertical cliff, and this in turn led to some superb single-track, then more river crossings, tiny suspended footbridges and great riding as we rolled towards Manang.
At Lower Pisang, I was stopped by a large river. There was an old track on the other side, but the water was deep, opaque and fast moving. Doubling back to look for another place to cross I found Sonu and Fern trying to start Sonu’s bike. The spark plug cap had broken off, so Fern and I blasted off to find a replacement.
A charming facet of the Nepali language is that their word for “mechanic” is “mystery.” We were assured that the next village had a “mystery.” But the real mystery was why anyone thought the guy was a mechanic—he was of no use to us. Sonu was luckier. By complete fluke she met a trekking guide whose friends promised to go back to Chame for the part. Just in case that fell through I made a bodge repair.
The morning came, and although we were keen to get moving, the fact we had to wait for the part gave us ample opportunity to recover from our banging headaches. Roksi, a local moonshine, is evil stuff.
By midday, the plug cap still hadn’t arrived so we fitted the repaired one. The rest of the ride to Manang took us through breath-taking scenery on fantastic dirt roads. We had made it to our target, but there was a growing fear in the back of my mind. I had learned how to ride up the difficult sections—going down might be another matter.
After a fitful night’s sleep, I put the bike in first gear and simply let it roll along—with only a few little slides, and no drops or falls, my worries ended up being much harder to swallow than the actual ride down.
Looking back, it was incredibly satisfying to know that we had conquered our fears, pressed on into the unknown and emerged victorious. From out of my depth to revelling in my element. I had searched so long for a feeling like this. Suddenly selling my house and all my possessions had been justified. Now, all I had to do was find something harder….
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