Uphill with Kathmandu’s Hardcore Bikers

It’s a bright and sunny Saturday like any other in Kathmandu Valley. It’s also early...wait, way too early to be out on a bicycle. No wait, a Mountain Bike.

Let’s rewind a little bit. I’m on assignment to follow a group of weekend warriors (the only day off in Nepal is Saturday), on their weekly jaunt in and around the valley on their bikes. Earlier I met with 36-year-old Ajay Bajracharya, an executive working in Pulchowk who began his addiction with pedaling only in the last few years.

“It’s a physical and mental retreat for me,” said the sprightly looking Ajay, fit beyond what I could ever achieve in my lifetime.

I was down with the flu the entire week after our brief meeting, and had to postpone my little tag-along mission to the following Saturday. Still coughing like a sailor down with pneumonia, I (bravely?) went ahead and rose just before dawn to meet Ajay, who had lent me a spare bike, and we began our journey from Pulchowk in Lalitpur.

A couple of disclaimers: no exercise in 6 months and having never touched a mountain bike before does not make for a confident ride.

The destination was Chisapani, a tiny village on the flipside of Shivapuri national park on the rim of the Kathmandu Valley. Approximate one way distance: 35km horizontally, and 1km vertically to reach the 2100m altitude.

Route does not include traffic, goats, and impossible uphill climbs

Early on, it was easy enough on the level and not-so-bumpy roads, and Ajay educated me on the basics of gear changing on these technological marvels.

At 7.30am, Kathmandu’s legendary pollution takes a backseat, and the cool morning air fills my lungs as we pedal through usually clogged streets, past Boudanath and into the outskirts. Locals can’t help but stare at Ajay, decked out in gloves, bright blue cycling jersey and sperm-shaped helmet.

We rendezvous with the rest of the crew: 46-year-old Dipak Shrestha, self proclaimed father of mountain biking in Nepal, Ramesh Shrestha, 29-year-old software engineer, Suresh Raj Shakya, 39-year-old handicraft business owner in Boudanath, and the father and son duo of Prakash Dhakhwa, 43, and 13-year-old Pranaya Dhakhwa.

Introductions are brief, as they clearly cannot wait to get going. Soon, I am left behind in a trail of dust. Almost immediately the trail goes sharply vertical, talk about a literal steep learning curve. My lame thigh/calf combination is severely underdeveloped for this sort of physical torture, and some passages are so steep that the front of the bike lifts of the ground and threatens to flip my bije 180-degrees backwards.

Within an hour, I am at the point of complete exhaustion and thankfully Prakash lags behind. Recently recovered from a heart operation, he doesn’t want to push himself unnecessarily and we talk in between our sharp intakes of breath. In contrast to the rest of Kathmandu, everything is quiet here and in the distance (more accurately, somewhere above me), I hear the rest of the pack cheerfully chatting while zooming ahead.

Rests are few and far in between, and I find the crew waiting patiently for me at a tea shop overlooking the valley. I attempt to swallow the hot liquid, and it chafes painfully against my dry lips and parched throat.

There is obvious camaraderie amongst these men, even though they only meet once a week. No signs of tiredness at all, and they laugh and talk endlessly about cycling, the trails they conquered last week. I can only muster the strength to smile weakly.

I took copious notes to mask my disability to speak, and should I repeat it verbatim here, it would be filled with how inadequate I am. Fighting cramp, I continue with my cycle/hike up rough terrain, an endless winding path that offers no respite. Coming down should be easy, or so I thought.

At 1pm, 5 hours after first engaging 1st gear on my bike, we reach Chisapani. It’s a small collection of hotels for hikers that use it as a launchpad to go to other destinations in the region. Daal bhaat, thank you very much! Prakash spends his post lunch in silent meditation by a window, and the others make small talk with locals and stretch their muscles.

The fears I had about downhill riding were all fully justified. Too fast, too dangerous, bumpy, and too often it was totally out of control. Some passages were thrilling, and clear of rocks and boulders. But worst of all were the steep paths strewn with obstacles that seemed to have my death written all over them: huge boulders, misshapen logs and the occasional goat.

Thankfully we take a siesta by a sparkling river - the water was bracingly cold, perfect for sore feet and some painful meditation.

As my friend told me later, perhaps god was propping me up with strings since I miraculously only fell off my bike once. Holding the brakes made little difference, and after skidding and skipping over countless rocks, the flat land of Kathmandu Valley finally came into view.

I was invited to go again with these freaks of nature next week. I shouldn’t press my luck.