Waiting for sheep.

I am finally on the ascent up to the mighty Baralacha La, the third of the high passes. I ride through a valley with walls of yellow and dirty orange rocks, up toward the massive blue and copper mountain. For miles, the only sounds I hear are my knobby tires on the gritty pavement and the occasional Indian truck growling up the road. It almost 1 p.m., I am miles from the pass and already behind schedule. My leg muscles are shot, my water bottle is empty and I've lost my spirit. The support bus picks me up along with all the others that are too exhausted to go any further. For the next few miles, we experience the mountains through the bus window. At the snow-covered top, the Chandra-Bhaga Range comes into view. We are now at the crossroads of four distinctly different areas of the inner Himalaya: Spiti, Lahaul, Zanskar and Rupshu. Eons ago, this landmass of Tibet and Ladakh was pushed up from the bottom of an ancient ocean. The collision of two gigantic land masses, India and Eurasia, formed the Himalayan range. Here granite and deep sea sediment mingle with age old rocks, giving the range its unique character.

Rotang pass in the Indian Himalayas.

I jump on my bike with lunch on my mind. After about 18 miles, I see the group lounging near a river gulch. Lunch is the usual: fruit and cheese sandwiches. I stay only long enough to wolf down my cheese with the others. I'm one of the last to arrive, but I will be the first to leave. I've got the rest of the day ahead of me: 28 glorious miles downhill and an incredible drop of 10,000 ft to cover before nightfall! As we descend, the landscape changes from massively contorted cliffs to alpine scrub to gushing waterfalls and green forests. You can feel the air getting thicker, suddenly filled with the smell of pine and apple blossoms, noisy with the sounds of insects. After a while, I look around me and am surprised to realize that I am in the lead! Suddenly all my frustrations funnel into my old familiar competitive spirit. I muscle my way up inclines and pick up speed on the rocky downhills. At times the road is a mucky, muddy river, gripping my bike like quicksand. I don't stop for photos, calls of nature, or beautiful vistas. I'm not about to give up my lead.

The next day we leave the main road for a detour into the remote, relatively untouched Lahaul, a narrow river valley with crashing waterfalls and farmers working their terraced fields of potatoes and hops."Namaste!" (Hindi for "hello") is their greeting to us as we cycle through. We camp on the outskirts of the town of Udaipur. It is perfect except for one thing: the only water comes from a small public spout in the center of town and it is undrinkable. The only bottled drink here is the local beer, Thunderbolt. After an incredibly wild 60-mile ride, I stagger into the local fly-infested pub to find the American women drinking the local brew and laughing over the day's events while listening to a 10-year old minstrel. While we down a few Thunderbolts, half the townspeople take our bikes out for a spin.

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