Indeed at times we wondered how several groups we met en-route could return home with pictures of the amazing scenery through which they’d ridden, so regimented and scheduled was their ‘follow-my-leader’ riding style.

And so on past Shimla, its steep, narrow and (sometimes stinky) bazaars explored, our next short day to Thanedar gave Mark a chance to recover and “flush the bug” whilst relaxing in the apple orchards of the Shivalik hills NE of Shimla. Day 4 saw us ride through thick deodar forests and into the Satluj river valley heading north, direction Sangla, a hidden valley of flowers.

For myself I was biding my time to get to our first camp nigh stop in the steep sided green forested valley of Sangla. Two nights there brought relaxation and the chance to capture some dramatic photos of the mighty Baspa river then in full spate with snow and glacial melt. The road to the end of the valley literally carved from solid rock, towering in places almost 1000 feet above the river, demanding 110% concentration from the rider.

Of course to get there one has to ride through a few kilometres of dusty road conditions where massive hydro-electric projects are under construction. The reward coming in seeing gargantuan dam structures being built to tame one of Himachal’s most powerful forces of nature, the mighty Satluj river, and not just one, but three or four dams. Incredible India!

Camping done, bags packed and loaded, we made it Recong Peo on the western valley above the Satluj, where I was tickled by Chandon’s comments – our Permit Agent, that he was waiting for us to arrive for our permits and as always we enjoyed his precise and speedy service. Our one night stop in Kalpa over, again in endless apple orchards, we pressed on further up the valley direction Nako, in the north of District Kinnaur. We were riding north into Himachal Pradesh, a state rich in natural resources.

Kinnaur is a land of different people, speaking diverse Indo-Tibetan languages, their temples unique in all India whose gods move closer to Buddha the further north you travel. We planned to rest-up for two nights, such beautiful campsites are rare and why rush when you’re in paradise. Our camp garden overlooked the crystal clear mirror-like lake in the bosom of the ancient and largely unspoilt village, blessed in recent years by His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama. The peace and calm our preparation for the final push to our objective; The Spiti Valley.

Our tours are more adventures than tours and the best adventures don’t always happen in easy to get to places. At times the act of adventure requires the odd hardship, and calls on us to stay in a variety of different accommodations. Standards and facilities vary and sometimes they change on a daily basis; be forewarned don’t judge the adventure by the bedroom. These routes are not for the faint hearted.

Day 10 saw us crossing the bridge at the confluence of the Pare Chu and Spiti Rivers, blue and grey waters smashing together, giving violent birth to the Satluj river. Check post duties done, we were on our way to Tabo, the first big town in the Spiti Valley, but not before a short detour heading close to the border with Tibet.

Gyu is a remote and quiet village, overlooked by ridges that conceal outposts of the Indo-Tibetan Border Police Force, India’s para-military border patrolling force. Some years ago these men discovered the body of a Lama who had, as the story goes, meditated to death for the good of his family. His virtually intact body, dried by the passage of time lies wrapped in silk Kattas in a small temple above the village for the roaming traveller to behold.

It’s at times like this, just when you think it’s all going fine, when your guard is down and spirits high, an engine develops a worrying clatter. A screwdriver-stethoscope quickly revealed that the exhaust valve push-rod was loose. We’re 9kms off the highway, in a deserted village, we rolled the wounded machine down out of the sun and into the shade of convenient rain shelter, and with calm deliberation i open my tool bag.

Suppressing images of sheared rocker studs, I removed the rocker box, the pushrod had shrunk by 3 mm – but the 4 rocker mounting studs were intact. Three spanners and agile hands are required for the adjustment and with the tappet cover back in place the motor started nicely. We were back on the road.

Back to the highway, hot dry and dusty and with our night stop still 50kms distant we pressed on for Tabo. We’d swung through only a few bends of the Spiti river and riding behind I heard it a split second after him, a distinctive ‘pOp’ and his motor was dead. No amount of kicking would start his engine. It appeared his day’s ride was over. Rapid fire thinking, clear minds and only quick decision could save the day.

Fate shows its face in many different ways, but that day it smiled on us. His motor had stopped yards from a paused jeep whose driver was speaking with a shepherd grazing his flock. We were 50 kms from Kaza on a quiet traffic free mountain highway. It was hot, dusty and with half a bottle of water left, our option was staring us in the face.

“Ask the driver if we can load it onto his jeep!” I assumed the role in an instant.

Three or four of us hauled the heavy bike - the White Bike weighed a little over 180Kgs, onto the bed of this local driver’s Mahindra jeep. Secure at least until Kaza, the driver’s home town and our night stop.

I rode ahead and after sometime stopped for momo at Tabo. The driver had stopped too so he bought him tea and we decided to ride on two-up the last 30 kms. The jeep driver would drop the bike in Kaza.

A speciality of Indian Fate is the happy ending. The jeep driver dropped the stricken machine at the hotel in Kaza amidst an audience in whose numbers stood a mechanic. Alaska Rider’s Mechanic and Support Driver stepped forwards to take control of the situation. They assumed the role and without prompt, the White Bike became their task. It was out of our hands.

Manoji the ‘Mistre’ flicked the switches, turned the motor and gave it a good kick. It fired, first time! There was nothing wrong the motor. The carb’ blockage or speck-on-the-plug had cleared and the motor ran nicely.

Manoj made a small adjustment and chided me for setting the gap a tad tight, but in such situations one accepts the tip and always with a humble smile. There are a million Bullet mechanics across all India, but Manoj was special. Boundless thanks to Manojji and to Dawaji too, Alaska Rider’s Team Driver; our saviours in a faraway place.