Post Script

Dear Reader

Phew! All over now.

This blog will stay active until the end of January.

After that I am hoping that it will be able to be published in some form, so I may take it down. If you email me your details (Benedict.Beaumont@Googlemail.com), I will make sure you have a copy.

If you have enjoyed reading it, please spread the word and retweet, repost or just tell someone about the website!

If you would like to know what I am up to next..... check back on the 2nd of January, and I will let you know then.

Much Love

Benedict
21st December,
Somewhere over Ukraine.

Credits and Thanks

First to everyone who encouraged me to cut the strings that bind and start this adventure, I owe a huge thanks. With so much support, the decision was very easy to make and then carry through.

Without exception, everyone was excited, enthusiastic and supportive of me going. I think this is a testament to your own wisdom and love.

To those at school who encouraged me to go and didn't give me a hard time for leaving - Tiff, Susan, Kerry, Rose, and everyone else, thank you for a wonderful five years. To Gareth for taking the piss and Jeremy for standing up for me. Sorry I couldn't stay any longer.

To my integral group, your support in helping me realise myself was instrumental in me reaching where I am now and where I might be on future journeys.

To my friends I left behind - Laura and Alice in the Mansions, Michael here and there and everywhere, Dan in Valhalla and in the lurch, Untrustworthy Pete who is definitely not in Sri Lanka, Sean and Jo, Alex mon frere. Jude and Karen, the wisest fishwives in town. I would have had more fun boozing and beasting round Brighton with you all, but its not all about fun. You were with me in my heart me every step of the way.

To my family, who have supported me with love and wisdom in whatever I do. Mum, Dad, Tor, Aunty Pat, Ollie, Ethan and Phil. I owe everything to you. And to Circe for understanding, or probably not.

To the people I met and allowed me to portrait them; To Ricky and Suzy who unbeknown helped me discover a voice, to Spanish James who inspired with his own adventures and spirit, to Jamaica for his effervescance, to Oliver for beginnings and endings, to Aiytour for his gentleness, to Neil for his ingenuity. I hope that the words give at least a hint of your magic.

To those people I met but I didn't write about; Trixie, Michelle and the breakfast club, the Royal Mountain EBC Group that we shared so many moments with, thanks guys. To Miri, you've got a bright future kid. Jen, you're amazing. Coen, you're gonna be running the UN one day.

To the many many Indian and Nepali people who helped me out along the way; Indra, an extraordinary guide and friend, Mundre who looked after us with his fists when necessary, Deepak who guided me and told stories round Panchesi, Joey, Jamaica, Raju and Vik in India, Vishma in Nepal, and the many other hotel and guest house owners who gave good advice everywhere I stayed.

To those mechanics who helped with Carmen and Ambliss; to Rajesh (for an Evil Pimp, he is not so bad) and Pandit Jee at the Angel Factory, to Ashish at Lucky Motors in Sangla, to the Punjabi brothers in Jaisamer, to Lucky Motors in Rishikesh and Raju, the Bullet Doctor at the Coolest Bar and Bike Hospital in Pokhara. You treated my girls like the Dirty Angels they are, patching them up and sending them back to the war zone. My gratitude.

To all the nameless people who also helped me with Ambliss and Carmen whilst we were out on the road; I would have been up shit creek without you! When I needed you, you were there, with smiles and generosity and crowbars when necessary. You literally saved my life.

And so to the people who have shared this trip with me.

To The Black Knight. Sachin a bolder adventurer than I will ever be; Racing you along the road to Jodhpur was a joust and duel worthy of legend (if only you hadn't thrashed me so badly!) It was the start of some astonishing adventures in the deserts, and a friendship that will go on for years.

To the Saffron Knight, the Restless Pilgrim, Bart, Parthajeet Das. Poet, Playwright, Pandit, a Knight on a Crusade of a different kind; I wish you bon fortune on all your quests. Lets tilt at Windmills again someday.

To Dan; If you had not come to India, then my journey here would have been poorer, harder and a lot less fun. You taught me about bikes and biking, and for that I will forever be in your debt. Next adventure will be somewhere a bit easier, in a climate a bit more pleasant, on machines that are a bit kinder.

To Mark; We went to places neither of us expected, both inside and out. It was a privilege to have shared this with you. It is an honour to be your friend. There will be more, for both of us.

Thanks to people who encouraged, advised or spread the work about the blog; Laura A, Neil G, Kurt N, Chris the Badge, Tor, Alex, Nicola M, Jen. And special thanks to Szuzsu for all the advice I never took, it was always a pleasure to get your emails.

And finally thanks to you, for reading this blog and sharing this journey with me. It has been, well, more than my wildest dreams.

This book is dedicated to unexpected teachers. I had two on this trip, who taught me, transported me, and kept me safe. Carmen and Ambliss. They have it all; style and class, guts and balls, power and precision. Thank God they are bikes and not human girls, otherwise I would be in real trouble. I will never, ever forget the adventures we shared.

Born to Run

[To be played over 'Credits and Thanks'. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMfE2Se4r9w]

In the day we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream
At night we ride the mansions of glory in suicide machines
Sprung from cages on highway 9
Front wheel fuel injected and stepping out over the line
Oh baby this town rips the balls from your back
It's a death trap, it's a suicide rap
We got to get out whilst we're young
'Cause tramps like us Baby we were Born to Run

Will you let me in I wanna be your friend I wanna guard your dreams and visions
Just wrap your legs round these velvet rims and strap your hands cross my engines
Together we could break this trap
We'll run 'till we drop and baby we'll never go back
Oh will you walk with out on the wire
'Cause baby I'm just a scared and lonely rider
But I gotta know how it feels
I wanna know if Love is wild, I wanna know if Love is real

Beyond the palace powered hemi drones
Scream down the boulevard
Girls comb their hair in rear view mirrors
And the boys try to look so hard
The amusement park rises bold and stark
Kids are huddled on the beach in the mist
I wanna die with you Wendy on the Street tonight
In an ever lasting Kiss

Highways jammed with broken heels
on a last chance power drive
Well everybody's out on the rocks tonight
but there's no place left to hide
Together Wendy we can live with the sadness
And I'll love you with all the madness in my soul
Oh someday girl I don't know when
We gonna get to that place that we really want to go and we'll walk in the sun
But 'till then tramps like us - Baby we were Born to Run
Tramps like us - baby we were Born to Run
Tramps like us - Baby we were Born to Run

Goodbye

Delhi was all about goodbyes. Some of them unexpected, some of them painful, some of them more like Sayonara's, Aux Revoirs,or see you soon's.

It feels like I have been saying goodbyes since Kathmandu. As the trip wound down, every day bought me another farewell and closer to coming home. Saying goodbye to other trekkers on the Everest Trip, then to Indra, then Mark, then the interminable waiting in Gorakpur, just wishing to be home, and then taking Ambliss back to the Angel Factory.

The next day I returned to wrap up with the paperwork with Rajesh. As usual he was late, and then kept me waiting in the office.

'So you have any problems?' he asked expectantly when he finally returned. I was pretty sure he had just had a briefing from an engineer about Ambliss, had picked up some problems and wanted to see what I would say.

'A few, but no real big ones. On the first day the gear lever fell off, the tyre blew and the fuel tap was put in the wrong way round so I ran out of petrol!'

Rajesh looked pained. 'Pandit Jee,' he sighed. 'He worked for twenty years in a local repair shop. He was very good at this, fixing things as they came in, and if they went wrong being able to correct the next day. But he never understood what we need here, when clients need bikes to be perfect because they are going a long way. No room for little mistakes. He stopped working here about twenty five days ago'.

'Whats happened to him?' I asked. I liked Pandit Jee, and I thought he had done a pretty good job on Ambliss, and I didn't like to think of him being sacked.

'He has gone back to a local shop. I think this is better for him'. I nodded relieved. 'Anything else?' Rajesh asked. It felt like he was trying to catch me out.

I saw him fingering a list. 'Yes. I got hit by a tractor in Rajesthan. It buckled a few bits on the bike - the handlebars, the leg guard and the rack. You may have noticed that it is buckled?'.

'Yes, I have seen the rack is bent'.

'I got it fixed as best I could. Two Punjabi brothers in Jaisamer and then at a place called Lucky Motors in Rishikesh'. I had never intended to try and conceal this from Rajesh, and I think he was a bit disappointed.

'There are some costs with putting this right, you know'. He added. I sighed. Did he have to grasp after every penny!

'Yes Rajesh thats fine. But then I also will have to charge for all the spares that I have bought back. The bulbs, the clutch kit, the cables, the spare air filter and chain, the spark plugs, the extra spanners that we bought and the tyre pump. And the three litres of fuel I added yesterday'.

'Oh, er, perhaps then we can just call it quits then?'

'Yes Rahesh, thats fine'. I had planned to leave it all with him anyway, I couldn't exactly bring it home.

We shook hands and smiled. All in all, it had worked out quite well. Rajesh in his way did his best to give a good service. It cant be easy trusting people to take out your bikes - I am not sure if I would be able to do it.

'Just before I go, can you ship a bike out to England?'

'Oh, yes!' he said happily. 'We can restore a vintage bike for you, box it up in wood and send it over. Very cheap, I bet more than a new bike'. He showed me a few pictures, but I fled before I got too hooked on the idea.


That evening, around a table in a cafe in a bookshop, I met with my Knights Saffron and Black, Bart and Sachin.

'Hey Man!' said Bart, 'Good to see you!' Sachin hugged me. 'Tell us about the rest of your trip?'

So we swapped stories about what had happened to each of us since we parted. Bart was going to be married in a couple of months. 'Over a thousand people coming! Its going to be huge man!' he grinned at me. 'Shame you cant be there. It will be a party for a week'. Knowing Bart's appetite for socialising, I could well believe it.

'How about you Sachin?'

'I'm just negotiating my leaving date!' He smiled at me. 'Depending how much time I get I will either go and climb to Everest like you did, or there is this trek in Leh, where you walk up a frozen river and sleep in caves. It gets to 30 degrees below zero'.

'Bah! Too cold! Bart scoffed at him. I had to agree.

We were joined by two of their friends, Munisha, who had been on them on a previous trip to Uttarkhand, and Vicky from LA who had been working in NGO's for a few years in Delhi. Their relaxed friendship was lovely to see - and I was instantly included in the warm camaraderie between them. I suddenly got a feeling how easy it would be to slip into a life in Delhi; with Sachin and Bart I would never want for friends.

'So next time I see you Sachin, will be in London, And Bart, I promise to come back to you too'.

We hugged. I will see them again. Our story does not end here.


My last evening, a surprise email. 'Ben, where are you? I am in Delhi, I leave tomorrow. Oliver'.

Ollie! Pretty much the first fellow traveller I had met on my travels three months before. He had gone to Dharamsala and a meditation course whilst I travelled Himachel. We had met again in Rishikesh with the breakfast club, and I had left them just before they upped and left as a group to Rajesthan.

'Lets meet at 7, on the roof of the Vivek, where it all began' I replied.

And so, on my last night in India, I drank beer with Ollie, cradled in the afterglow of chill Delhi day.

'So what happened to you when I left Rishikesh?'

'Well the breakfast club upped sticks to Pushkar. All of us! Lena, Sean, Laura, the three Austrian guys. And Michelle'.

'Oh yeah?', I felt the hesitation in his voice and saw it in his eyes. 'Whats the story there then?'

He had the decency to look a little bit abashed. 'Well, we carried on together. Went to Udaipur and then to a national park. It was really.... special. I came here to discover a space inside myself, some peace you know. I wasn't looking to get involved with anyone. But sharing it with someone.... I got an intimate experience of spirit in a different way'.

'Well where is she now? What happened?'

'She went back to Rishikesh and is now with a Brazilian Shaman guru. What!' He looked at me and laughed. 'Hey man, you gotta let these things go. I will see her again, don't worry.

'I went to Sri Lanka, and did a Therevaden meditation course. It made more sense than Tibetan Buddhism for me.

'After one particular session where I went quite deep I made my way up the road above the centre. You could see for miles - ridge after ridge of countryside disappearing into the mist in the distance, thick jungle to the left, a tree lined hillock to the right, small villages dotted over the landscape and a pink hue projected onto the clouds as the sun went down. It was nature at its stunning best. That is when I felt at peace.'

'So what next for you?'

'3 Weeks at home, then I fly to Brazil. I'm going to start up there, in Rio. I don't know what will happen. Part of me wants to just carry on now, meet up with all the people I have met on the way. But also I have to keep the journey going to new places and new things. You can't go back.

'But what about you? What are you going to do next?' So I told him.

'Cool! he said when I had finished. 'I like it, I can see that working for you. Yeah, thats perfect'.

'So do you think we will meet again?' he asked as we were saying goodbye..

'Well I'll tell you what, if we do, you can buy the beer. If we don't, its on me'.

We hugged. If fate wills it, we will meet again. If not, I am richer for having met him.


My last night I slept badly, excited and nervous and sad and scared and amazed that this journey is over and I am almost home.

I left for the airport soon after sunrise, grouchy and tetchy through lack of sleep. I waited to check in frustrated at the hapless check in clerk. I paced impatiently in the departure lounge. But as the plane took off, I played Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen and cried. Whether it was the emotion of having succeeded in the mission, or perhaps failed, or perhaps relief or grief, or just from being over tired, I don't know. But the tension left me, and I felt truly, honestly, blissfully at peace. It was time to come home.


And now there is one last goodbye. Between us. The time has come to finish this story, so others may begin. Thanks for coming with me. Goodbye.

If fate wills it, we will meet again. If not, then I am richer for having had you with me.

A Bad Parent, A Bad Boyfriend, a Bad Rider

Being a good rider, isn't just about how you drive. Its not just about how you handle your bike in difficult conditions, how well you manage traffic, different road surfaces and weather.

It's about the relationship you have together. How you look after each other. What you do when you are not riding. Do you look check your bike often, do you perform routine maintenance, do you keep her clean?

In some ways it is like al relationship with people. Sometimes the relationship is like it is between boyfriend and girlfriend, a romantic and exciting love affair. Sometimes it is like friends, looking out for each other and enjoying each others company. Sometimes it is like being a parent, looking after a bike, caring for it, restoring it, coaxing it into life.

I am not a natural with bikes, I am certainly not a mechanic like Dan. In the past, when I had a bike back in England many years ago, I admit I was careless and let the bike go to rust.

But now, I can honestly say that I have tried my hardest to look after Ambliss and Carmen and learn what I need to do to get the bet from them. I have tried my best to make the relationship work, and been rewarded as the bikes have been brilliant for me.

Today was one of the hardest days that you have in any relationship, the day that it ends. I have just taken Ambliss back. I have just said goodbye. I have returned her to Rajesh.

I feel terrible. Its like I have abandoned a friend, have betrayed them into slavery or sold them back into a brothel. Like I have been a bad parent, a bad boyfriend or a bad rider.

In some ways Ambliss is only a machine. An assembly of chassis, engine, electrics and wheels. Bulbs, wires, gears and chains. Levers, pistons, plugs and tubes. In its crudest reduction, just steel, rubber and plastic. Having an emotional attachment to a tool is ridiculous, even calling it a name is silly. It is only a machine.

In other ways though she is alive. She has pace and power, strength and endurance. She drinks, she eats. She has a beating heart and a roar like nothing else in the concrete jungle.

She has a personality, she is often cranky in the mornings and doesn't like to get out of bed, wake up and start. She can be a bit playful - sometime the indicators work, and sometimes they don't. They have confounded every mechanic who has worked on them. And she likes attention - whenever I show her off to someone she inevitably starts first time and keeps them safely seated on the back.

I had to win her over. She tested me properly before she was willing to trust me. In the first few hours, her gear lever fell off, she punctured a tyre and ran out of petrol due to her fuel tap pointing contrary to every other bike.

Once I had passed these little tests though, she gave herself to me without reservation. She handled every terrain and condition thrown at her from long straight drives to windy and bendy 45 degree slopes, from slow driving in mad congested traffic to racing at almost 90 on deserted highways. She would drive for days without a moments misfire. She never had any major sickness's or illness's or needed expensive treatment.

And she has heart. She is loyal and courageous. If knocked over she will get back up and keep going. I remember when the rack disintegrated in Uttarakhand. I loaded the luggage onto the back seat, prayed that we would make it to Rishikesh and didn't think we had a hope in hell. Ambliss got us there.

She can take a beating too. She has even taken a beating for me and protected me from harm, most noticeably from the crash. I could have easily been crushed and lost a leg at the minimum, but her leg guard and handlebar kept me undamaged.

We have been a real partnership for two months. She has been part of this story as much as anyone really, it would not have been the same journey without her.

Ambliss didn't want to go, I could feel it. Firstly the right mirror which I had had to take off whilst she was on the train refused to go back in properly, the thread had got fouled. Then I wouldn't start her for ages. And when she finally did wake up, and I pushed her off the stand, the back tyre was totally deflated.

They all felt like tactics used to delay me taking her back. Obstacles that she had thrown in my path to try and keep us together. I sighed and got the pump out, but it was so bad or the puncture was so deep no air would go in. I would have to push her to Tony Bikes.

All the way down the street, I seemed to hear her whisper in my head 'Don't take me back, please don't take me back. I want to stay with you. Please don't take me back, please, I want to stay with you...'

'Hush now little one,' I spoke to her gently too sad to be cross about her playing up. 'Be brave, you've got to go back. Be brave little one, for me'.

'I know I have to, but I'm scared. I don't want to. I don't want another owner. I want you'.

'I know little one, but you're not mine to keep'.

'I don't want too', she the whisper turned into a wail.

I felt like a monster, taking her back. I tried to keep the pain from my voice. If I cracked up now, I might never take her back. 'Come little one. You're not mine to keep. Be brave, like you have been with me. It will be ok'.

'I know, I know' she sobbed. 'I have to, but, but, these two months have been special....' she trailed off.

It was all I could do to stop the tears in my eyes. There was a lump in my throat.

But when we got there, Tony Bikes was closed. Monday! Delhi closes on a monday. Half in relief, half very frustrated I turned the bike around and started pushing her back up to the hotel. Ambliss seemed to glow for the reprieve, even though we both knew it was only temporary.

'Hey man!' A car had pulled up. I was concentrating so much on Ambliss I didn't see who it was at first.

'Rajesh!' I was startled to see him here. 'I thought it was your day off?'

'I just came by to drop something off, Its a stroke of luck be here now. Come, lets go to the office'.

So I wheeled Ambliss back round and pushed her back to Rajesh waiting at Tony Bikes. This time, Ambliss seemed calmer and more in control.

'Its ok', she whispered. 'I feel happier now I have seen him. It will be ok'. Now it was her turn to comfort me.

'I could take you back to the hotel, we could have one more day together'. Now I didn't want to let her go, I felt desperately sad.

'No, its time now. Its time to say goodbye. I need to come home now'. This choked me more than anything.

'Bike ok?' Rajesh asked.

'Yeah, just a flat tyre. Otherwise, an all perfect'. I was amazed I got the words out without breaking down.

'Ok, let just store it tonight. We will have a look at her tomorrow and do the paperwork then'.

'No worries', I said. we chatted awhile longer about the trip but both of us wanted to go. As I walked of down the street, I could hear her calling out to me 'goodbye'.

I turned round and quickly hurried back to the workshop before Rajesh closed the shutter. I laid my hands on her petrol tank, as I did often when I spoke or thought of her, and in my heart said goodbye to here too.

I returned to the hotel full of sadness. It felt like a break up. Had I really been a bad parent, a bad boyfriend, a bad rider to Ambliss?

I remember one break up with a girlfriend. She said to me, 'Can we just pretend, just for one more night, that we are still together, we still love each other, and everything is going to be alright?'

That is how I think that I will deal with the grief of saying good-bye to Ambliss and I suppose the grief at finishing this journey. In my mind now, we are still roaring down the Highway from Mahendrenegar in the mist, still riding a song from Jaipur to Jodhpur and still clattering over the battlefield of Kunzum and Rohtang.

If I pretend hard enough, maybe I will one day really be a good rider.

Doing our best in the Dark Underbelly of Gorakpur

'Tomorrow, train 4pm. 99% sure', were Vik's last words to me before I went to bed. I looked at his thin sallow face, his sharp moustache, his dark eyes. Could I trust him? I had parted with 8000 rps already and already two trains had failed to materialise. I had no choice.

I climbed the rubbish strewn stairs to the hotel. The night didn't really hide the dirt everywhere, the orange lights seemed to pick it up even more.

In the reception, the night manager was huddled up in his parker, only his hands were visible. I had seen him dozens of times in the last day or so, but so far not seen his face or heard him speak.

'You here all night?' A nod of the parker. 'You gonna sleep?' a shake. 'You ever take that off and wash?' a sort of Indian waggle, could be yes or no. I sighed and climbed the stairs.

On the roof garden the two waiters, stocky young men, were play sparring again. Karate punches and blocks, kung fu kicks and tackles, ducks and bobs and weaving. They did this whenever there was a break in service, and sometimes whilst they were in fact serving. Or until the fat sweating cook with a ladle came out and walloped them. They mock bowed at me as I passed, and then started feinting again.

My room was little not much to look at. A strip light gave off a harsh glare, showing up the dirt and grime on the tiles and the peeling and grimy paintwork. Two single beds pushed together, the mattress cover once white now stained. Two chairs, one broken, and a desk with all the drawers missing and the vinyl covering coming off.

Outside, the noise of the traffic was still loud. A never ending cacophony of horns. I huddled beneath the thin brown and course blanket, shivered and tried to sleep.

BOOM BOOM BOOM

BOOM BOOM BOOM

I started awake. It still before 6, Outside there was some demonstration or prayer gathering or an army marching passed banging their drums. I ignored it for a bit, then went outside to see if I could see what it was.

It was still dark, but even if it was light I don't think I could have seen anything. A thick fog had descended, making visibility all but a few feet. White street lights, car headlamps and the yellow bulbs of the stalls made scarcely more than little puddles of visibility. It was a cold and ghostly scene. I went back to bed to read for a couple of hours.

I couldn't decide what kind of novel this was a setting for. Partly it felt Dickensian in its grime and poverty and thick white smog everywhere.

The characters were perhaps too grotesque even for Dickens. Perhaps Mervyn Peake. As well as Vik the shady half crooked travel agent, the silent night manager and the fighting waiters, there was the bug eyed and perpetually gurning gangly barber, all elbows and knees and obscene grins, the cackling mad monkey boy who did the washing up for the restaurant downstairs, the drooling photocopy wallah with the wonky eye, and the creepy and perverted hotel porter who snorted and grunted to himself and kept patting me on the back.

But it also felt darker and less comic than that too. Even post apocalyptic. Everything was covered in soot from the open fires and the traffic pollution. Children washed cutlery in taps over open sewers, cows rooted through piles of rubbish looking for food, beggars in rags warmed themselves by piles of discarded plastic. Everyone was hooded in blankets or scarves, everyone seemed to have a look of desperation in their eyes.

The plot of trying to escape felt almost like Kafka, nightmarish and never ending episodes of frustration, confusion and helplessness.

I went down to VIk. 'I have upgraded your ticket!' he grinned at me. 'Super first class air con now. We need just a little extra bakshish to make sure you go up the waiting list',

I eyed him suspiciously. I had already handed over almost 8000 rps for tickets for me and the bike and various bribes. I narrowed my eyes, 'are you sure you are not ripping me off Vik. I'm getting a bit tired of this now'.

'No, No!' Vik assured me. 'Come, we must go and see the station master'. He scurried out from his office and started weaving through the traffic. I struggled to catch up.

'Listen,' Vik said. 'If he asks you anything, just t say that you have to get to Delhi for a flight tomorrow. Leave the rest to me'. He picked up his phone and started shouting into it like he was bullying or perhaps blackmailing someone.

I had actually started to like VIk. I didn't really trust him, although I had no choice, and he seemed to be half bent and operate in some very shady ways. But if he was a crook, then he was my crook, and he was working for me.

Trying to get a ticket for the train had become a bit like a swindle or a sting, full of bribes, baksheesh and blackmail.. I felt an adrenalin rush as we approached the station master and the showdown - I was actually starting to enjoy the process now.

The station master had big thick 1970's NHS specs on and a long scarf wrapped round his head. He grumbled as he signed bits of paper and filled in forms, al the while VIk was hectoring him. I didn't see any money change hands, but Viks hold over the man seemed secure.

'You got ticket man! told you' Vik came out waving a piece of paper. 'Now all we gotta do is get your bike on the train'.

'Is that not all sorted!?' I asked suddenly panicked that I might be here longer..

'Yeah, yeah sure, no problem. 99% no problem', he grinned at me. I would have to trust him again.

We went back to the shop. I had to drain the tank of petrol, probably, about 1000rps worth which silently disappeared, took the mirrors off and hid them in my baggage. We wheeled it over to the station. It got stuck in the cattle grid and had to be pulled out by three Rikshaw drivers. But I delivered it to the staiton master. He gave me a piece of paper. 'Don't losei it!' he warned me.

Then it was back to the hotel again, Final goodbyes to the 'friends; I had made, the silent manager, the fighting waiters and the creepy porter in the hotel, the bug eyed barber, the drooling internet wallah and the monkey boy in the sewage. And Vik.

'Hey Man, call just came through, YOur ticket is confirmed'. He grinned at me. 'Thats another 2000 you owe me for baksheesh. Have my card, recommend me'.

As I was leaving, one of his porters carrying my bags, he said 'You have been to Nepal? I am from there, a village called Ranikhet. It is twenty years I have been here,' he took his hat off and played with it, his eyes downcast. 'I work here to support my family back there. We are very poor. I don't see them much, but I think of them every day'. He looked suddenly very human and vulnerable, not the cocky and cocksure fixer making margins and cutting deals he had been a few moments before. My heart went out to him.

Spontaneously I hugged him. 'Thanks Vik. You've done me proud. If I come back, I will find you'. And I meant it too.

And so I write now from the first class sleeper compartment of a train heading to Delhi. I made it out. I didn't see but I am sure that Ambliss is tucked away somewhere in the hold.

I don't regret my time in the dark belly of Gorakpur. It was an interesting few days. Especially now I have left.

I also don't really resent paying so much for a ticket, in the grand scheme of things I can afford it. In the end, the money goes to people who need it. All the people I met here probably have a story like Vik, family they are trying to support, people they are trying to help, attempting to make the best of the hand that life has dealt them.

We are made by out experiences and situations, Some people are born in the privileged west and some in the harsh and sometimes ugly underbellies of the world. But all we can ever do is do the best we can with the hand that life has dealt us.

Bookending the Buddha

Kishnagarth, where the Buddha died, is about 50km away from Gorakpur. After seeing where he was born, in Lumbini, it felt right to see where he died too. Kind of bookending the Buddha.

There are two other main sites on the Buddhist Pilgramage trail - Bodh Gaya, where he attained enlightenment, and Sarnath, where he gave his first teaching. I would leave this till a later trip.

The park started like any other Indian bazaar or small town; a jumbled mass of traffic, bicycles, rickshaws, scooters, bikes and tuk tusk; a gate towering over the road; a jumble of handcarts, stalls and shops selling food, haircuts, trinkets.

A modern Chinese temple appeared on one side. I walked through this, and at the back in a corner, found a gate to a park. in the middle was a strange looking stupa, more seventies marble mausaleum than anything Buddhist.

Inside was a Golden Buddha, lying in a death pose. It looked quite unusual - I had seen plenty of supine Buddhas before in Thailand, but something about this one looked to have the serenity and sadness of death. It really felt quite moving.

This temple is called Mahaparinirvana temple. It was bult in about the 5th century AD, but rediscovered, excavated and restored about 120 years ago. The Buddha had lain all that time undisturbed.

Further on in the park, I a sad looking tourist information office. At a lonely desk in an empty room, a man gave me a map. 'Buddha's last teaching-' he pointed at the end of the road. 'Buddhas crenation' he waved round the corner.

Matha Juar, where hs gave his last sermon, looked small to me. Space for maybe a hundred or so people to sit an listen in a small depression before a temple. Not the stadium sized venue that might have been imagined for the last words of a dieing God.

The walk to his cremation stupa took about forty minutes, down a long tree lined avenue. Temples bullet by different Buddhist sects lined the way. A Tibetan Gompa rubbed shoulders with a Japanese Zen Pagoda, a Cambodian Wat with a Sri Lankan holy house, A Thai Stupa with a Chinese Happy Land building. The idea behind such an international park of Buddhist solidarity is quite amazing. I couldn't imagine The protestant, orthodox, catholic and coptic sects managing to co-operate to even start a similar project. But some buildings were in better repair than others, and the Indian street outside looked, well Indian, full of rubbish and dirty as hell.

The Buddha was 80 when he died. He had been teaching for forty years. What would have happened if Jesus had been granted such a long time I wondered? Would his message have been as powerful without his death? Would it have been as powerful if he had articulated it more? Would it have been as able to be misinterpreted, abused and profaned the way it has been for two thousand years?

The last monument was the cremation stupa. It may have been a perfect monument two and a half thousand years ago, but now the bricks were sagging and collapsed. Still it was a miracle it was still standing at all. Two and a half thousand years old.

It felt calm, quiet, sad, holy. Not that dissimilar to Lumbini really. The cold white mist that had accompanied me there was present here too, chilling the air and making everything ghostly.

It is said that when the Buddha was a just a young prince, just Siddharta Gautama, he was molly coddled and protected from suffering by his doting parents. He snuck out of the palace one day though to find out for himself what the world was really like. He saw a sick man, an old man, a corpse and a priest.

On the way back to the bus terminal, a old beggar woman approached me. 'Food, food' she mimed as she passed by.

SIddartha asked his father if he could protect him from being old. HIs father sadly shook his head no.

On the bus, there was a crippled man, his right leg ended at his knee and he carried home made crutches with him. I was not sure if this was from polio or from an accident.

'Can you stop me getting sick, or being crippled?'

As we turned from Gorakpur onto the main highway, the traffic slowed down to a stop. There was a large crowd ahead blocking the way. Slowly though, the traffic eased forward, the horns pushing their way through. As we passed, I saw why they had stopped. A man was spreadeagled on the side of the road, bits of motorbike casing around him, a pool of blood spreading beneath his head.

'Oh, Father, can you protect me from death?'

'No my son. I cannot stop any of these things'.

'Then I will find the priest. Maybe he can teach me how to protect myself from all this suffering'.

When I got back to Gorakpur though, there was no Priest waiting for me, just a dirty fog and a cold hotel room. Perhaps I am the priest I thought, waiting to find a Buddha. Perhaps its you.

Counting Piles of Shit

'I have a train for you! It leaves tonight at 7.30pm. Both for you and the bike'.

'Fantastic Vik, well done! You are a miracle worker! I thought all the trains were booked up for weeks'.

'Yes, yes, but I have found one'.

I was back in India, in Gorakpur, 50km over the border from Nepal. Only 50km in some ways, but oceans apart in others. Gone was the calm, gentle pace of life, gone was the majestic beauty of the countryside, gone were clean villages and smiling people.

Instead, as soon as I crossed the border, there was piles refuse everywhere, the constant din and danger of the traffic, livestock wandering round eating rubbish, dirt, deception, filth, pollution.... I grinned. It felt very alive, pulsing and teeming with life. It was good to be back.

I couldn't face the 20 hours drive back to Delhi. As soon as I had got to the railway city of Gorakpur, I had enquired at a hotel. The manager, wrapped in a parker, had sucked air in through his teeth and looked doubtful. He called a travel agent called Vik, a small ferrety looking man. Somehow he had come through for a train that very day.

I was a bit sad that I wouldn't get to see Kishnagarth, which wasn't far. This was where the Buddha had died, and after Lumbini, it felt like a natural bookend. But if fate throws you are card like this, you don't twist again.

However, as we all find out, fate can be a fickle mistress, full of turns and twists. What she offers with one hand, she is like to take away with another.

'Sir, Sir, bad news', Vik came running over. 'Train cancelled due to fog'. I wasn't sure I could really trust him but I had no choice.

The grey and chill mist had followed me down from Nepal. It clung to everything, a moist nuzzling cold and cloying wet kiss from the Gods.

"Damn! Is there another train tomorrow?'

'Yes, don't worry. I have already booked you on it. Tomorrow you can go to Kishnagarth, and catch train 10pm in the evening.' he smiled ingratiatingly at me.

The hotel was right by the train station, but that was about all it had going for it. I turned down three rooms before I found one that might have passed a hygeine inspection, if the inspector was blind, corrupt or incompetent. But the food was good, and I slept through the noise of the traffic outside.

I decided to take a bus rather than ride to Kishnagarth next morning. Part of it was laziness, but I had experienced these behemoths for months from mhy bike, I wanted to see they were like from the inside. Cramped, uncomfortable, agonising waiting on one hand and then suicidal acceleration on the other, Oh, and very cheap.

'Make sure you are back by 4', Vik has warned, so I made sure I was back by three.

Vik was waiting for me, ringinghis hands and shaking his head, 'Bad news, bad news, you have no luck. This train you are booked on is all AC. No baggage train, It cannot take bike'.

'What!' I was beginning to suspect Vik now. I had handed over 8000rps for tickets, and so far all I had got was excuses and failures. Irritation and anger started to bubble inside.

'Come, come, we speak in my office'.

Before he could soothe me, I started. 'Look, you said that all the trains were booked for weeks. Yet you found me two trains. I am not sure I believe you. I think you are trying to rip me off'.

'No, no sir. You can check in the train station and the bookings on the computer. Everything I said is true'. He said the right words, but there still didn't appear to be a lot of sincerity.

'I could do but trying to get myself understood is very difficult. If you are trying it on with me I will be very very angry.

I know its not your fault, but I have to get back to to Delhi. I have a flight to catch'.

'Ok, ok. We will get you there'. He made some phone calls. 'Ok plan is this. There is a train at 4pm tomorrow. This one leaves from Gorakpur so we can definitely get your bike on. I am 99 per cent sure we can get your ticket too. We may have to put you on train and then when ticket inspector comes round you will have to ask him if you can have sleeper bunk. Tell him you have plane to catch in Delhi'.

'Ok, well thats better than nothing'.

'Yes! Now you will be here all day tomorrow?'

'Not going anywhere as far as I can see'.

'Good. We will meet then and get your bike ready'.

So that was that then. Stuck in Gorakpur for another 24 hours, Nothing to do but count the different piles of shit and listen to the never ending symphony of traffic.

What I have learnt about.... myself

In some ways we already know all about ourselves. Deep down, we hold all the secrets and mysteries of our being, locked away. We may not consciously know them, we may not admit them, we may not let them come out to play, but they are still there rattling their chains or flexing their muscles deep in our souls.

Some of these are secrets are shadows; those qualities and aspects of ourselves we do not admit or recognise because we are scared or or shamed or disgusted by them. Anger for instance, or selfishness or greed. Instead we deny that they within us, push them down, hide them away where no one can see them.

Some of those hidden parts to us on the other hand are treasures. Gold and Jewels. Traits or habits or characteristics that we don't think we have. Courage, wit, humour, forgiveness. Things we admire in others.

Shining a light into these places is not always easy, sometimes you have to go a long way around the world to do it. It is not always comfortable, but then adventures are also about hardship too.

Sometimes you know these treasures and depths are already there, and sometimes they come as a surprise.

I remember when I left my job as a teacher, I didn't really know what I was going to do. I knew that I was going to get a bike and drive it round India, but thats about it.

I wasn't sure exactly why I wanted to do this, but it had been a dream for a long time. I consciously told a lot of people that I was going to do this almost to force myself too, so I couldn't back out.

When I got out to Delhi, I was actually petrified. It might not have come out in the blog, but I was very nervous about the whole adventure. About getting a bike and driving it round. I didn't have a motorcycle license, I was not even sure I could remember how to ride. One I was there, half of me wanted to head right back to England and give up.

But I did get a bike. I did remember how to drive it. And I drove it the three hundred and fifty kilometres to the Himalayas. I was scared and nervous as hell but I did it.

I remember thinking when I arrived in Shimla, that whatever happens now, even if I crashed tomorrow, I will have done what I set out to do. Ride a motorbike up to the Himalayas. It was a feeling of massive relief almost close to elation.

In Himachel Pradesh I learnt that I could achieve what I set out to achieve.

After the hike up to base camp, when we were recovering in Kathmandu, late one night, over a shisha pipe and beers in a bar, someone asked the question, 'Could you die happy now?'

Mark shook his head, definitely no. I want to see my children grow up'.

Sarah, a volunteer working with street children, also shook her head, 'I'm engaged to be married. I haven't had children yet. If I died now, I would feel like I have missed out'.

Miriam was only 19, from Holland, trekking by herself because she couldn't stand Christmas at home. 'No! I am only 19! I don't want to die yet!'

Then it was my turn. I remembered a few years ago, soon after I became a teacher thinking that it would be ok if I died now. It wasn't that I had achieved everything that I had wanted to, but finally I had become a person that I could be proud of; an honest, decent, kind, patient, hard working, unselfish man. Very different to the vain and glory hunting young man I was before.

'I looked death in the face in Rajesthan. I could have died. I used to think I could die happy now, and I could. But I do not want to die now at all', was my answer to the question.

In Rajesthan, I learnt that I did not want to die. Just becoming the person that you want to be and achieving everything that you set out to is not enough to consider your life done. That decision is not left to us.

In Rajesthan I learnt that I did not want to die.

And finally on the trip up to base camp, I learnt what I want next in life. Actually that isn't quite right right. I knew all along, I just admitted it to myself.

And all that I learnt I knew already really, it was all inside. I just needed to come away to discover it.

We all have gifts inside of us. Maybe living is finding out what these gifts really are.

Why I am here part 4

'Next up is Benedict. Rose, would you like to say a few words?'

'Well I haven't got much to say, apart from he has been a wonderful member of the department and will be missed. I know he is really popular with the kids, but also with the staff too.'

I picked my way up through the crowded staffroom to the front, where the headteacher, Mr Boatwright and my Head of Department, Rose, were waiting for me.

It was the last day of term, and after five years, my last day at the school. Traditionally, those leaving would say a few words.

I had seen quite a few people over the years come up to give their goodbye speech. Some of them had been there for years and said hardly a word, some just a few and did presentations with pictures and jokes. Some were funny, some were boring, some were actually quite moving.

There were five of us leaving today, I was in the middle. After was an assistant head who was moving onto another school, and the acting head Mr Ross who was retiring after over twenty years at the school.

I got to the front. 'Thankyou Mr Boatwright, Rose....'

I looked out at the sea of faces before me. A hundred or more friends and colleagues all wondering if I would drone on, make it funny, or bottle it and just return to my seat.

My voice went dry and I fumbled with my notes. All the words that I had prepared and rehearsed went out of my mind. It is one thing talking to a class full of kids, even a year group, but to face your colleagues is an altogether more daunting prospect.

I paused, took a breath, and began.

'Its a strange feeling being up here now. Each year we see people come up, and know at some point we are going to have to do the same thing.

'When I started to think about what I should say, I got really stuck. I just came up with lots of questions. So I will try and answer some of them now.

'Why did I become a teacher? Well like a lot of you, I had inspirational teachers when I was young. They had a big impact on me, and I suppose I wanted to be that person for others.

'It is an altruistic job. Its easy to see the benefit you bring to others when you work in schools, and this indirectly has made me very happy. I genuinely felt a calling to be a teacher.' I hadn;t really been looking at anyone in particular. The faces blurred before me. No one was fidgeting, or looking bored, but then no one really looked that interested either. I began to wonder if I was going on too long.

'So what have I learnt? Well I have learnt how to teach! I certainly didn't know how to when I arrived, but with patience and some good teachers I have got a lot better.

'I know its the kids who are supposed to learn in lessons, but I often think that I learn far more than them - just watching and being with them I have learnt all sorts of lessons, patience, tolerance, forgiveness.... all kinds of things.

'And now the harder questions. If I love teaching so much why I am leaving? I don't have another job to go by the way.

'We all know that teaching isn't just a nine to five job, it takes as much as you let it and then some more. Even if you never take work home, or come in early to do marking, or stay up late preparing lessons, then it is exhausting. Looking round now, I can see faces as tired as I am'. It was true - all of us were at the end of our endurance after a gruelling eight week term. Everyone needed to get away and try and recover.

'I do not want to be a tired teacher. Going on year after year, giving until I am have nothing left, and then giving some more.

'I don't want to be a teacher that just goes through the motions either. Does the bare minimum, and doesn't care about the pupils'. There were a couple of teachers that I felt were sometimes like this, but very very few and only then just occasionally. Almost without exception my colleagues had been compassionate and well motivated professionals, doing their utmost for each and every child.

'I would rather leave teaching than be this kind of teacher.

'I don't want to burn out. Or maybe this is a burn out, but on my own terms.

'So what am I going to do next?' I paused, and took another deep breath.

'Now this is a really tough one, and to be honest, I don't know and don't really want to know. I don't have another job to go to, just a big blank slate before me. Its structured unstructured time if you like. A time to think and be and see what happens.

'I have some vague plans - I would like to go to India, get a motorbike and drive it round the Himalayas and the Deserts. I would like to go out in the wilds, away from everything. I would like to go to strange lands, meet exotic people, save beautiful princesses from monsters, discover lost civilisations, have adventures at the end of the world..... '. I was getting a bit carried away with myself now.

'Really I don't know. I don't know what will happen, what I will do, where I will go, if I will come back, what I will do when I return. Maybe I will find out what I want to do whllst I am there.

'But before I go who knows where, I want to say thanks. To everyone here, and the people who aren't, the staff who have left and the pupils I have taught, for making these five years so important.

'I am proud to have been a part of this school and it has been an honour and pleasure to work with you.

'Thank you for everything'.

I left the front and quickly went back to my seat. I was not sure how my speach had gone down. I felt utterly empty, I had given everything to the school and it was now coming to an end.

Andy the assistant head spoke briefly, and then Mr Ross quite movingly. But I barely heard them. My school was over and the adventures had begun.

Many Kinds of Madness

There are as many kinds of madness as there are people it would seem.

Some are mad with money, or lust, or greed, or dreams. They are corrupted by the chance to make or have or own. You can feel their grasping when you talk to them - always seeming they want something from you - it is utterly repulsive.

There is a madness of pain, when you are disabled by hurt. Maybe a physical sickness or wound, an emotional trauma or a spiritual loss, that renders you incapable of anything but howling your pain, grief and loss to the world.

There are quiet madness's and violent madness's, passing ones like summer storms, or madness's here to stay like a winter freeze. Gibbering madness's, frothing madness's, raging madness's. Normal everyday not quite right madness's.

Then there is a type of whimsical nonsensical craziness that has you just shaking your head sadly and saying 'Mad, mad, utterly mad'. I met a couple from Hungary that fell into this category today.

As I was having breakfast they came over. 'you drive motorbike? yes? Us too! From Budapest!'

I had heard of many people making this overland trip, but had yet to meet one. 'Really! Wow!' I looked around for their bike, but couldn't see one. 'Where are your bikes?'

'Right there!' The man, a tall rangy, bearded fellow, with pale blue eyes, pointed at what I thought was small car or covered tuktuk. His wife, smaller, round and jolly, with black curly hair and a big smile, nodded too. They looked to be in their early forties.

'That, erm wow'. It could only be loosely called a bike. A bike engine maybe, with a chasis and three wheels and suspension and a cabin and controls like a car. 'We bring this over through Romain, Turkey, Iran, Pakistan, India, now Nepal. We fly it to Thailand, then Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos. Then Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia. THen Australia. Then Chile, Peru, Bolivia. Then...'

'Hang on... you are doing a World Tour right?'

'Yes, yes everywhere!' He beamed at me.

'In this! Goodness'. Their adventure put mine to shame. 'Do you fancy a drive?' he asked.

'Yes, sure!'

So I was driven at break neck speed round outside the Park where Buddha was born, in a souped up 650cc, motortrike, rattling along at almost 80km a few inches above the ground. '117km and hour, no problem!' My hungarian driver shouted excitedly over the engine. We didn't reach that, but it felt like we were taking off.

Afterwards, we sat, drank coffee and compared adventures. He could only speak a little English, his wife none at all. But we got on like a house on fire. Almost as if we spoke the same language. Almost as if I was as mad as them.

Perhaps I am. I know that some people think that I am a bit touched for wishing to go off, risk body and mind driving round India and Nepal on a motorbike, putting up with extreme cold, discomfort and expense. But would I go away for years to do something like they were?

Although there is a part of me that would love to, and is envious of people that do, there is a bigger part that says no. That is too much for me. I can only take so much.

I drew a map of Nepal for them, they had only just arrived from India, with some of the highlights. They invited me to Hungary next year to go and stay with them.

I didn't catch their names, but If you wish to follow their adventures, www.velorexadventure.com is where they are recording their adventure.

Fading into White

The Sun didn't break through the clouds all day. It was cold, and I was glad that Vishma had nagged me into wearing my leather biking trousers.

A lot of the road I had been on before, but heading the other way, I didn't recognise it. Dussa, Jokihara, I vaguely remembered. I had my chain tightened in Muglin where I turned south for Bharatpur, but I would not have been able to pick the town out from an identity parade.

The river widened beside me, maybe to about 80m across. The kilometres clicked by. Kabilas, Gaidakot. Rivers, jungle, mountains. Nepal really had it all.

I stopped for some chowmein in Dumkauli and looked at the map. I had decided to leave Nepal at the border town of Sonauli. I would have one last night in Nepal, at Lumbini, and then cross tomorrow.

This would be close to the city of Gorakpur in India. I could then decide whether to ride to Delhi, a journey I suspected would take upwards of two and a half days or try and catch the train.

A nice surprise happened soon after. To get to Lumbini, I thought I would have to head northwest to Bhutwal, and then turn south. About 120km. Shortly after lunch though, a road that wasn't marked on my map appeared on my left. Lumbinin 50km. It looked a good road. I even got 5 minutes of free wifi there. I turned Ambliss's front wheel and took the shortcut offered.

Lumbini was the birth place of the Lord Buddha, Siddartha Gautama. It was only 20km from the border and so I felt a perfect place to stay. I got there about 3pm, found a hotel, and headed to the park.

It was eerily still and quiet. Its close season anyway at the moment, but the mist and fog that was still in the air, giving everything a flat washed out look, and seemed to just swallow the few people aound.

At the gate a small monk greeted me. 'Oh my God! Wow! A Royal Enfied. Go Man!'. I looked at him - there was something a bit strange about his face, his features didn't look quite right, he was obviously blind in one eye. 'You can park your bike up there. Cool man'. Hodgkinsons diesiese perhaps? He seemed as serenely happy yet full of humour and life as the best monks I had seen.

I drove up through the gardens and parked my bike. Lumbini was where the Buddha was born, but he was raised somewhere else, and performed all the major acts of his enlightened career further south in India. Nothing really significant happened here, apart from his mother, giving birth to him in a sacred pool.

The story of Lumbini itself has always fascinated me though. The Holy Emperor Ashoka came here around the third century BC, and planted a pillar on the spot where he was born. A monastery grew up around it, and flourished for 900 years. Hiuen Tsang, the Chinese Buddhist Scholar visited in the 7th Century (the TV series Monkey was based on his journey), but it was starting to get run down. Soon after, the monastery was abandoned. No one really seems to know why.

For almost 1200 years, it lay abandoned, hidden and forgotten. Then, using Hiuen Tsangs notes about the area, British and Indian Archaeologists started seriously looking for the site. I find it absolutely fascinating that Europeans used a 1300 year old manuscript from China, that was written after a 30 year journey, 1200 years after Buddhas death, to find his birth place in Nepal. Gandhi said that the greatest gift the British gave the Indian's were their history, but it was not an easy gift to give.

The temple was pretty much deserted. Trees and rose bushes appeared out of the mist. Ruins of the original monastery lay tumbled about. A few Japanese Buddhist Nuns, dressed in white, walked around. Some Monks, dressed both in Mahayana Red and Therevaden Yellow meditated under a tree.

I sat for a while too, thinking. It felt holy, special, sacred, but empty too. Everything was pale, washed out, or fading into white. More like a graveyard than a birthplace. There were ghosts here too, I felt sure. I shivered and hurried back to Ambliss.

At the gate, the half blind disfigured Monk grinned at me. 'Oh My God! Its the Enfield. You like the Park? You give me some money?'. I handed over 100rps. It felt like a small price to pay to leave.

Riddles in the Dark

'Ben, Ben, wake up! We are having a campfire!'. It was Vishma, the likeable and excitable young manager of the Big Fig resort.

I struggled awake and climbed out of the tent. It was dark, but it didn't feel too late, probably an hour after sundown, about 6pm. I had slept a couple of hours, tired from a late night and a long drive.

On the stony shore of the river, a fire was burning merrily away. I could see a few people sat on chairs warming their hands in the light. I stumbled over to them, tripping over the larger rocks, my vision still not adjusted to the night.

'Hi Ben! Sit down please', Vishma pulled up a chair for me. 'This is Coen, he is staying here. And these are other members of the company, but they don't speak much English'. He introduced me to the other Nepalis.

'Coen. Pleased to meet you'. A tall, bearded man stood up and extended a hand. 'I'm volunteering at the schools here. I'm Dutch. Well sometimes. It depends whose staying here. If its other Dutch or Germans, then I am from Malta, and I don't speak. I don't like them much'. He grimaced. 'But no groups here here today, Just you, me and Vishma. He man!,' he turned ot Vishma, 'You got any more of that 'gift' left?'

'Sure man!'. Vishma unearthed a bottle of seven up. 'This is present from a man in Pokhara. I don't know what it is, not Roxy, but it is good, strong. Want some?'

'Sure!'.

We talked for a while and I found out a little bit about them. Vishma had been with the company, Himalayan Encounters, for about five years. They owned hotels in Kathmandu, Pokhara, Bandipur, Bhaktipur, and this one, an eco rafting village on the shores of the Tishuli river. He did impressions of the owner, a charismatic but eccentric brit named Tony who had started the company 35 years ago, who only spoke at full volume. 'VISHMA! HAVE YOU GOT THE BLOODY T-SHIRTS!' or 'VISHMA, YOU HAVE TWELVE MINUTES TO MAKE UP A SPEECH ABOUT THE TOURISM INDUSTRY IN NEPAL!'

Coen had been here for a month and before had been volunteering in schools in India and Thailand. His parents travelled a lot when he was growing up and he had lived in Spain, Malta, and been to a public school in York. He was a true hippy child.

Both of them were very talkative, intelligent, inquisitive. English was not the first language for either of them, but they both spoke fluently. I guessed from their educated conversation that they were both in their mid twenties.

Sitting under the stars round a campfire, a river quietly gurgling away nearby, the jungle covered mountains on either side, a tent all set up for me; it felt perfect.

'Hey, you like riddles?' Vishma looked at me hopefully. 'See if you can work out'.

'Sure, go ahead'. It would make a change from stories I thought.

'Ok. Sixty cups on a table. One Tea Cup falls off. How many are left on the table'.

'Fifty nine?' I replied after pausing to think through the possible answers. This seemed to be the only one possible.

'No man!' Vishma said smugly.

'How come? Sixty cups minus one, Ah hang on, you said one tea cup falls off, So would it still be sixty cups? The tea cup doesn't count?'

'Nope, but good try. Its five.'

'Five? How come?'

'Sixty cups. Six Tea Cups. One tea cup falls off. Five tea cups left!' He laughed to himself hysterically.

'Ok Vishma!' Coen interrupted him. 'I've got one for you tonight. You have to guess what it is. The man who makes it doesn't use it. The man who buys it doesn't need it. The man who it is for doesn't see it. What is is?'

'Oh God, Oh God!' Visshma put his head in his hands in mock despair. 'Give us a clue'.

'its made of wood'

'Is it a walking stick for a blind peson?' I had a guess.

'No, but good try. Do you give up?' We nodded. 'Ok its a coffin! The person who makes it doesn't need it, the person who buys it doesn't use it, and the person who does use cannot see it because it he is dead!'. We groaned.

'Ok, Ok, I have another one', Vishma said. 'In the morning, it walks on four legs, in the afternoon two legs, and in the evening three. What animal is this?'.

'I know this one,; I said smugly. 'It comes from the Greek myths. The Sphinx would ask this question and kill anyone who didn't answer right. Theseus got it. The answer is man. In the morning of his life he is a baby and crawls on all fours, in the afternoon of his life, he walks on two legs and in the evening, he has a walking stick, so walks on three'.

'Very good', Coen said. 'Ok, your turn!'

Did I know any riddles? I couldn't think. I looked out into the dark. Riddles... Riddles in the Dark... hang on, didn't Bilbo Baggins have to solve riddles in the dark in the hobbit to defeat Gollum? It all came flooding back to me.

'Ok, I have one! 'A box without hinges, key or lid, but inside Golden treasure is hid'.'

Both Vishma and Coen looked helpless. 'Its a food,' I added when I feared they would give up to soon.

'Give up!' Vishma said eventually.

'Its an egg! The golden treasure is the yolk'.

'Dinner!' The cook called, and we left the campfire to eat Nepal food Nepali style.

It was a really magical evening, full of beauty and surprises. I had not looked for anything special, yet here I was next to a river, under the stars about to sleep under canvas in the jungle heart of Nepal.

Next morning I had breakfast with Vishma and Coen. 'Its been great getting to know you man', Vishma said. 'you're a real inspiration. I want to get a bike now', Coen added.

'Hey, how old are you two?' I asked. In the light they looked suspiciously youthful.

'20' Vishma said, '18' Coen. I groaned, so young, so bright. This time it felt like I was the wise old man with two young supplicants.

'Ok guys, we will meet again. Vishma, if you are not running your own hotel or Tourist company then I will be very disappointed. Coen, your gonna wing that IBA and end up running a big multinational, I just know it

I gunned Ambliss and headed off west.

What Motorcycling has taught me about Life

1. Make Good Speed Whilst You Can...

... because you never what is up ahead. Many times I have thought that I could cover the last fifty or sixty kilometres in an hour only to find that traffic has choked the road, or the road has turned into a series of crater fields. A journey of an hour has turned into three.

Just when you think life is plain sailing, that it is a simple journey home, then it is when it gets a lot harder. So make hay whilst the sun shines, because tomorrow it turns dark.

2. Take your Turns Early...

... you turn with a lot more control. It is easier to react to a bike overtaking a car overtaking a lorry on a hairpin bend at 3000m for instance. You can adjust your speed, move out of the way or stop completely. Or not get run off the road.

Roads, whether beneath your feet or part of life are full of turns, that is their nature. They should not be avoided, but embraced. Just give yourself enough space and time to deal with what is around the corner.

3. Go out Wide and Come in Tight...

... to give yourself the maximum amount of vision. So you can see whats coming at you. So you can be ready to accelerate through the gap between a lorry and bus, or slow down so you don't startle a goat herd.

Life is full of opportunities. If you don't give yourself the best chance to see them, you will never have the best chance to take them.

4. Adjust your Speed Before you Hit bad Ground...

... slowing down on treacherous surfaces is dangerous. You skid on sand, on oil, on gravel, on moisture on tarmac. You will fall into potholes and rear up too fast and out of control. Your bike can jump out of gear, your breaks can lock, your handlebar turn into a bucking bronco. Before you know it, both you and the bike are fucked in a broken heap somewhere.

There is no shame in slowing down. Caution is as much a virtue as courage and skill. Sometimes you don't know what is ahead until you are already in it. When you know the ground and the terrain, when it is sure underfoot, by all means then gun your throttle and make top speed.

Accelerating out of tricky situations, mind you, is a different matter.

5. Play to Your Strengths...

... and give way where you are weak. Nothing in India can beat a 500cc Bullett from a standing start. There is nothing with nearly as much power. Similarly, accelerating up hill, even in Nepal where they do make gutsier bikes, nothing can match it, especially at high altitudes. On rough ground, two wheels are an advantage and their robust build is better than the slighter Indian bikes.

But on a straight, there are plenty of things that go faster. Cars, even the little Mazeratis and Suzuki's have more speed. Buses, careening along with a kamikaze sway, are best to give way to.

Everyone has strengths and weakness's. If you have to choose the battles that you fight, choose the battles that you can win.

6.Bad Terrain and Roads are nothing to be afraid of...

.. they just mean that you have to adjust the distances you can expect to cover in a day. If anything, the challenge and the variety are what makes a road trip by bike exciting.

Everyone has bad times and good. Ride the storms, manage your expectations. It can't be sunny every day. You never know, you may get to like the bumpy bits.

7. Trust in Fate. Help is never far away...

... even when it looks bleak. Even when you are desperate or hurt. There is always someone who can help. The number of times that I have been assisted by people passing by has been countless. When I crashed, when I ran out of petrol, when I skidded off the bike, when I was lost, when I needed somewhere to stay, when I was hungry or thirsty.... there was always someone who could help.

Not only that but I met some astonishing people, went to some utterly beautiful places and did some very unexpected things. These are the times that make journeys, whether round India on a motorbike or through life.

Trusting people is not easy. Trusting strangers is harder. Even harder is trusting people who do not speak your language.

If you don't, life not only becomes a lot harder, it becomes impossible.

8. The Expected Happens / You Find What you Seek

I am not talking necessarily about grails and quests (although it applies), but what you imagine it will be like. I expected long journeys, dirty accommodation, cold and hardship and I found it. I expected challenges, crashes and danger, I found that too. And sometimes ugliness and dirt and ignorance, and yes I found those too.

But adventure, and excitement, and interesting people with stories to tell. And amazing landscapes and astonishing food and uncharted places and lost kingdoms and gods and monsters and beasts and angels.

I also had high expectations of people. I expected them to help, and they did. I expected to be trustworthy, and they were. I expected kindness, wisdom, patience, understanding, and almost without question, that is what I experienced.

9. Plan as much as you can...

.. and then be prepared to abandon those plans up completely. Something better might be around the corner and if you are too blinded by what you have already prepared then you will miss out. What you thought might be unmissable, might be just tedious.

When I landed I only knew that I wanted to get a bike and head to the mountains and possibly the deserts. I didn't know for sure if Dan or even Mark would show up. Gradually destinations and routes appeared, I made friends along the way, and everything made perfect sense. But I changed my mind frequently and radically and wasn't too proud to take a day off now and then.

Before I left, I called said this would be 'structured unstructured time'. I had to let go and just trust that fate would push me in the right direction. Without a doubt it has done this.

10. It is Good to be Alive...

...I know that truly. I have looked death in the face and exulted at the wonderful life that I have been granted.

The air never tasted so sweet as when you are close to losing it forever. I will never forget this.

Motorbiking in India does bring you closer to death. But it brings you closer to life as well.

What kind of journey?

The smog and traffic of Kathmandu was behind me, ahead a windy, pocked road, climbing to the hills north of the City. It was quite leafy and green, but it appeared that very little traffic used this road out. Fine by me, gave me some time to think.

So that was that then. Everest over, Mark on the plane back home, just me and Ambliss winding up this adventure together.

The road passed through the forest, and then to a small village a the top of the hill. A policeman lazily waved me through a checkpoint. I knew there would probably be good views behind me, but I couldn't be bothered to stop.

It would be a long epilogue - I had to drive back to Delhi before the 20th, which gave me a week. I hadn't planned a route yet - I was toying with the idea of riding straight to the border at Birganj, or heading to a border further west at Sonauli. I was also tempted by the idea of driving back the way I had come, to Mahenendragar, or even putting Ambliss on a train.

Going though a small pass, the valley opened up on the other side into farmland. Staggeringly, almost every part of the steeply sided slopes were terraced. Not only was it a miracle of landscaping and farming, but it looked pretty as a painting too.

I didn't really plan on having any more adventures. The three big things I had wanted to do, drive an Enfield up to Himachal Pradesh, drive through a desert, drive to Nepal and then climb Everest, were done. I had achieved what I wanted to, both inwardly and externally. I began to wonder what kind of journey this last bit would be.

The road passed through a wedding reception and party. A hundred suited farmers and country Nepalese folk gathered outside an official looking building. I tooted as I passed and they all waved at me.

I considered stopping writing blog entries. I had surely said all that I wanted to say; told as many stories as I could; collected some interesting interviews along the way, but that didn't feel right. I wanted to write some more, about what I had learnt about myself and the world over the last few months.

After few small villages the road passed through farmland. Men and women working in fields, waiting for buses, washing vegetables by the side of the road, herding animals.

I yawned. It had been a late night. Another one. The last four or five days in Kathmandu seemed to blend into one big pizza and beer party. Marks last night had started with a quiet beer at 7pm, and finished at four am in our hotel room, reminiscing about the walk, many bottles of beer lining the walls.

Sometimes the road was in the sun, and sometimes in shadow. It was cold then, despite thermals and jacket. Also, there was a lot of dew on the road, and water cascading from the rocks. I skidded off the bike once - the back wheel just bottomed out, and I followed the bike across the road. I was winded, but that was the extent of it. I got straight back on, kicked Ambliss awake, and carried on.

Raju from Royal Mountain travel suggested I go a back way out of Kathmandu - head northwest, to Tinchuli, then take a shortcut from Deva Ghat to the Prithivi highway. A trip of about 6 hours. Why not? I didn't have any real preference or any ideas of my own.

I stopped for tea once, chatted to a few policemen by a bridge, Namaste'd people every time I pulled over. I made the highway about 2pm, and turned West. Raju had suggested a place called Benighat to stay the night, and I was there by three. Tired and ready to stop.

At an ivy clad tea house, called the Big Fig, I pulled over. 'I need somewhere to stay,' I said to the young and helpful restaurant manager. 'Can you suggest anywhere?'

He grinned at me. 'Yes of course. Over there!' He pointed over the other side of the river. I couldn't see any buildings on the other side. 'No not high up, on the shore'.

I looked down. 'Are they tents?' I looked a bit dubious. I figured tents might be a bit cold.

'Yes, our eco canvass village. Its really warm don't worry', he had picked up on my hesitation. 'Come, we will have fun getting the bike over! Only one person has done it on a bullet before!'

I let myself be persuaded. The manager, was personable and enthusiastic, it looked something a bit different and exciting.

I was surprised even one bike had made it across the bridge. A cobbled lane, steep and narrow, let down to the bridge. That was hard enough to drive down. Then the bridge itself, again narrow and swaying in the wind. After that a tough road track leading down to the river. And finally over a sand and stone riverbed to the camp.

Ambliss and I handled everything that was thrown at us. I was really proud of us after not riding for a couple of weeks we could still handle rough terrain.

The tents were surprisingly comfortable. I stretched out in the late afternoon sun, and promptly fell asleep.

What kind of journey would it be back? Perhaps it would not be the dull and empty epilogue after all.