We began with four.

We were Ross from Glasgow, Steve from Montreal, Matty from Cornwall (the English one) and myself. Ross had been waiting for Matt to get his bike ready for over two weeks, while Steve and I had only recently gotten our shit together for the Trip. Ahh, the Trip. From Manali, in the foothills, over some of the most ruggedly beautiful landscape in the world. The end point was Leh, high in the Himalayan region of Ladakh. It is often accomplished in three long, grueling days. We weren’t counting on it.

The Trip began with probably the hardest pass we would cross. While far from the highest road, we had to climb over 2000m in less than 40 km, and the pass was infamous for being broken, muddy and choked with buses and trucks. It is known as the Rohtang La, which translates to Plain of Bodies Pass. Or is it Stacks of Corpses Pass? No matter. Before the road was built it was punishing. Now, even with the road, there are a few deaths every year, thanks mostly to careless driving and awful conditions. It was intimidating, but we kept our minds focused on the idea that we’d be getting through the worst of it on the first day.

So we set off. We intended on leaving nice and early, around seven, but Matt was completely disorganized and so took a while loading his bike. We left after eight. Nine kilometers into our trip, Matt turned back. We had barely climbed a few hundred meters and his bike was already struggling. We rightly assumed it would only get worse – the pitch, the mud, the lack of oxygen starving your lungs and carburator. So Matt turned around.

Then there were three.

We pressed on.  Ross and Steve had spent months and months on their bikes, but I was a total newbie after only two weeks on my ride. And, as per usual, my ride struggled. She was overheating and losing power. We made some simple adjustments, but still I was not doing very well. At one point, stuck in the mud below a steep hairpin clogged with jeeps, I was ready to turn back. I felt defeated, and only Steve’s enthusiasm saved me.

Steve, a middle aged Anglo-Montrealer, had just rented a farmhouse back in the foothills further south. He had a well tuned bike and minimal baggage. He laughed at Ross and I with our tarpaulin wrapped packs loaded on our luggage racks. Still, he was a positive guy. I was sitting there, swearing loudly to myself, my head slowly cooking inside my helmet, up to my ankles in soft mud, ready to call it quits. I had just taken three or four runs at the corner, but the narrow lane next to the jeeps had the deepest mud and the steepest pitch. The jeeps were stuck behind a line of trucks and buses, all of us waiting for a rockslide to be cleared.

“OK man, let me give you a push. One more try dude.”

“Fuck man, she’s not going to make it.”

“One more try, man. What’s one more try?”

So we tried once more. Steve and Ross grabbed a side of my luggage rack each and ran behind me as I revved her up in first gear. My rear tired fish-tailed through the mud but I got up and around the corner. I didn’t stop. For the next two or three switchbacks I just hammered it in first gear and honked furiously at the tourists and locals and army guys who were standing bored next to their idling trucks. I wasn’t about to stop, not now that I was moving.

So we made it. Slowly, painfully. We crossed the top somewhat anticlimactically. It wasn’t until we were riding downhill for the first time in two hours did we realize we had already crossed the infamous notch in the mountain. We stopped and celebrated with handshakes and awkward hugs. Some chai from the small tents serving as dhabas to truck drivers and tourists. A couple of local tourists from Delhi riding their bike to Leh sat and had tea with us. We all got terribly sunburned in the thin atmosphere. Our lungs strained for air and we were soon giddy and dizzy from oxygen deprivation.  We had to wait almost thirty minutes for a bulldozer to clear a pile of rock. Finally we were headed downhill and made it to the town of Koksar, at the bottom of the pass. Here, we ran into trouble again.

Steve’s bike wouldn’t start. It was the best of our bunch, newly rebuilt and running clean. But something was cooked in the electrics and she just wouldn’t turn over. A group of soldiers came out of the adjacent army base to check us out. The army presence is massive up here in the mountains, as the region is wedged between the Pakistani and Tibetan frontiers. India has border disputes with both countries (China, not Tibet – sorry). The soldiers called back inside the base and a couple of their mechanics came out. For two hours they tinkered. We waited. Eventually Ross and I went on, at Steve’s insistence.

Then there were two.

We flew along the valley toward Keylong, our stop for the night. Brand new tarmac for fifteen kilometers allowed us to kick it into fourth gear and really fly. The scenery was incredible and for the first time that day we were truly enjoying the drive.

We pulled into Keylong as the sun was setting. My throttle cable snapped just in town so Ross found a cheap hotel and moved our stuff into it. After showers and a smoke we wandered along the market to find a restaurant. Coming around the corner was the unmistakable ‘BOP BOP BOP’ of an Enfield.

“Is that Steve?” I said, hopefully. The bike came around the corner and we saw the blue tarps and the smiling face of Matt. Fucking Matt. He had made it. Somehow. It took me a minute to believe it, but there he was. He had seen Steve, who was back in Koksar arranging for a truck to take his ride to Keylong and a mechanic. We took him up to our hotel and, after dinner, slept like rocks.

Then there were, improbably, three.