Leh in the Indian Himalayas does not reveal itself easily. At 3,500 metres, the air is thin, the light is hard, and the mountains look as if they’ve been cut from biscuit tins. I spent the first few days wandering Leh at a deliberately slow pace. The old market, the palace, Shanti Stupa, a few monasteries on the hills near town- nothing strenuous, just enough to let the body adjust, which it never quite did. I missed breathing!
I arrived at the tour check-in hotel the night before the ride, slightly disoriented, expecting to share a grim room with two young Moroccan riders, Jamal and Yassine. When I saw the double bed they were meant to share and a small, uninviting mattress on the floor, I did what any sensible 50-something would do: I walked next door and paid $20 for my own decent room. That small decision probably saved the first day. I slept deeply, then went back to meet Jamal and Yassine. They were great company, wicked humour, easy to talk to, far younger than me but instantly familiar. That set the tone for the whole trip.
At the team briefing, the ride leaders outlined the route and conditions, then dropped the line that got everyone’s attention: “the end of luxury”. Warm water would be rare, electricity would be available only until 10 pm, and the roads ahead would demand concentration. It was a useful reminder that in Ladakh, the Himalayas set the terms.
I sorted my equipment: jacket, gloves, heated layers. The kit turned out to be very good; even when it was brutally cold on the passes, I was fine. The bike was a different story: a 411 cc Royal Enfield Himalayan, slow and tractor-like, with no real power, but it did the trick and never missed a beat.
17 September: Leh to Nubra via Khardung La
The first test came quickly on the first day: Leh to Nubra Valley via Khardung La. Officially listed at around 5,359 metres, Khardung La is often billed as the world’s highest motorable pass; that title now ‘officially’ belongs to Umling La, deeper in the Changthang region. But it also belongs to other passes; this is India, after all.
At the top of Khardung La, it was snowing and cold, and chaotic, with soldiers, trucks, tourists, and bikes all funnelled up a narrow road. Near the summit, my fingers went numb; taking photos felt secondary to staying upright and warm. Jamal lay on the ground trying not to pass out.
The descent into Nubra was a relief. The valley opened into a stark, beautiful landscape of sand dunes, apricot orchards and the Shyok River. We camped near Hunder, where double-humped Bactrian camels graze on sparse scrub. The tent was comfortable, with a proper bed and thick blankets, and even had a shower at the end of the day. Dinner was in a simple camp kitchen, but the highlight was the bonfire. Everyone gathered around while the ride marshal, a young Ladakhi guy, danced hilariously to Bollywood tunes. His energy lifted the whole group; it was impossible not to smile.
18 September: Nubra to Turtuk and Back
Day two of riding, 18 September, took us from Nubra to Turtuk village and back, roughly 150 km. Turtuk lies close to the Line of Control (with Pakistan) in what was once Baltistan; it only opened to tourists in the last decade. The village is a patchwork of green fields, stone houses and narrow lanes, dominated by views of the Shyok River and the Pakistani side of the valley. For riders, it’s less about “sights” and more about standing at the edge of the map. We ate lunch in a small guesthouse, chatted with locals about Baltistan, and absorbed the strangeness of being this far north, on a motorcycle, in a region contested by history.
The landscape was cold, desert-type, and when I say desert, I mean really desert. In some valleys you could see no vegetation at all. I’m not sure how people lived there: how they grew vegetables or got their food. The road network was pretty good, but that’s to be expected: much of it was built by the Border Roads Organisation (BRO), a partly military body. These roads were made to get military trucks to the Line of Actual Control and the Line of Control, the disputed borders with China and Pakistan. It’s a stark reminder of living history, more than 70 or 80 years on.
Back in Nubra that evening, the group was quieter. Bodies were adapting to altitude; conversations turned to aches, tyres, fuel, and the strange light on the dunes at sunset.
19 September: Nubra to Pangong via the Shyok Valley
On day three we rode from Nubra to Pangong Tso via the Shyok Valley, about 170 km of mixed tarmac, gravel and river crossings. There were long stretches of off-road riding and changing terrain; roads strewn with rocks and loose pebbles demanded unwavering concentration on the Royal Enfield tractor!
Some of the riding was incredibly difficult. The water crossings weren’t so bad, but roads with huge rocks were dangerous. I think going slowly, averaging about 60 km/h, kept things safe. Some corners had rocks from landslides. I’m not sure how some of the roads survived at all; they sat beside huge, loose slides a kilometre high.
The Shyok Valley is brutally beautiful: barren mountains, wide skies, occasional villages clinging to the river. By late afternoon, the first glimpse of Pangong Tso appeared: a long, narrow lake shifting between turquoise, steel-grey, and deep blue as clouds moved across it. Pangong was quite special, such vistas. It was cold, and I had the terrifying feeling that I was going to get sick there, but it only lasted a few hours: a bit of bellyache and runs to the toilet. Again, I’ve been in much worse situations, and I’m very lucky that I got all my meds from Leh before I left.
Our camp sat close to the water. Dinner was simple, dal, rice, noodles, but the setting made it memorable. Sitting by the lake at dusk, with the mountains reflecting in still water, it was easy to forget the rough roads that had brought us here.
20–21 September: Pangong to Hanle and Back to Leh
The next two days reversed the direction: Pangong back towards Leh, with a detour into the high plains around Hanle. The main group pushed on from this region towards Umling La, the ‘official’ highest motorable road at 5,799 metres, but foreign riders, including Australians and Moroccans, were not granted permits for that sector because of the imminent threat of Chinese invasion or similar. A smaller contingent, including me, elected the token marshal, peeled off toward Hanle. It was a relaxed ride through high plains, yak pastures and sparse villages, ending at basic cottages in Hanle before rejoining the main group for dinner.
The altitude throughout the whole trip was incredibly high, probably averaging around 4,000 metres, and I never properly acclimatised. I was always breathless walking up stairs hurriedly, or sometimes even just standing up quickly. There was about a third less air than at lower levels. The final ride home was demanding but familiar by now: cold fingers, thin air, endless hairpins. Descending into the Indus Valley, Leh appeared as a cluster of buildings in a brown bowl, traffic suddenly visible, phones catching signal. After days of remote roads, the return felt almost jarring; I already missed it.
22 September: Departure from Leh
On the last day, members of the larger group continued towards Manali as part of a longer expedition; others, like me, prepared to fly out to Delhi from Leh. Saying goodbye was harder than expected. A week of shared cold, fatigue, bad tea and stunning views had created quick, intense friendships.
At the end of the journey, I felt elated, as I think the others did too. I got on well with everybody on the trip. Nearly everyone was from India, except Yassine and Jamal, and a nice Nepalese couple. That really made it. I enjoyed talking with the Indian riders about their lives: long hours of work in Mumbai, different jobs, and their perspective on India and the world. They all seemed to enjoy the trip as much as I did.
Many of the partners and friends were on the back of the motorcycles, which I found extraordinary because it was very uncomfortable. I tried it for ten minutes, and my ass ached afterwards. Hats off to everyone for being so strong and resilient.
I can’t think of anywhere so unique to ride a motorcycle as this part of the world. Ladakhi culture made it even more special. There were a lot of bikers in Ladakh; it’s hardly a secret anymore, but again, there weren’t so many that it felt like a crowd.
I would do a trip like this again at the drop of a hat, but maybe slightly differently, just to give it a different edge and a different flavour. I think the first time you go somewhere, it’s always the most cautious, because you’re just learning the basics about the new environment and country. I’m so happy I’ve been to India many times before, so I can hit the ground running quickly when I get here. What a wonderful country this is, and how lucky I am to have this in my personal narrative.
Today I’m sitting in my hotel room in Delhi, or rather, apartment; it’s quite big, a very nice apartment at the back of an Indian family home. I’m reflecting upon the journey: it was such a short journey, but then again, some of the best journeys I’ve ever done have been quite short.
Also, Srinivas, one of the riders, made this wonderful travelogue that you can download (and some of the places and dates I describe were influenced by this fabulous work).
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