Riding through a revolution

We were three corporate workers fed up with our mundane days in the concrete jungle, so we decided to plan an escape. The destination was set: Nepal, in all its wild glory. We shipped our bikes from Mumbai to Gurgaon, got on the saddles, and rode out to Lucknow. By the time we crossed the Gorakhpur to Sunauli stretch, crossed the border, and dealt with the slow Nepali customs process, the sun was going down. We finally arrived in Butwal for the night, eager to crack open our first icy Gorkha beers the second we parked.

It was a phenomenal feeling. Riding our own bikes through a foreign country washed away the rust of our daily routines. The pure wonder of childhood came rushing back as we took in the fresh air, the new roads, and the total freedom. The next day, on our way to Pokhara, we took a long two hour lunch just to stare at the mighty peaks in the distance. As we were getting ready to leave, a local rider pulled up next to us and asked if he could ride with us to Pokhara. Just like that, we were four.

We woke up the next morning, checked the bikes, and got ready to head out. We noticed crowds gathering in Pokhara. It looked like the beginnings of a demonstration, but we brushed it off and rode out toward Nayapul on smooth tarmac. With our new rider friend leading the way, we turned toward Ghandruk. The views were amazing, right up until we hit our toughest challenge. The trail became a narrow path covered with massive boulders. Our bikes just would not budge. Between the four of us, we fell eleven times. We had to resort to pushing each bike up the grueling climb. It took everything in us not to quit. I have ridden a lot of difficult terrain, but the lonely tiredness of that stretch as the night became darker still haunts me.

We somehow made it to Ghandruk. Thinking the worst was behind us, we settled into our rooms. That was when we realized exactly what those demonstrations in Pokhara really were — the early seeds of a quiet revolution that had been bubbling for months. That night, on Sept 8th 2024, under heavy police crackdowns, it erupted into the infamous violence of the Gen Z revolution. All of a sudden, we were stuck in a foreign country with closed borders and no idea what to do next. With nowhere else to go, Ghandruk became our safe haven, and Hotel Aagan became our home.

We spent days holed up there, forging deep bonds with the hotel owner, Deep dai, and his family. As a gesture of goodwill, his brother-in-law Parmish guided us on a two day trek through a jungle full of leeches to see the incredible views of the Annapurna and Dhaulagiri ranges from Mulde Peak. When the roads finally seemed safe enough, Deep dai escorted us back to Pokhara. With our local rider friend still alongside us, we were now five. Pokhara bore the fresh marks of the violence that had just happened — municipal buildings broken, a hotel still on fire.

The ride home would have been uneventful had my fried clutch not given out entirely just past Lucknow. It was frustrating to limp along at 60 kmph while my friends were cruising at double my speed. I became the turtle they would have to catch up to, or wait for at the next break. Somehow we made it to Delhi. We returned with only half the adventure we had planned, witnessed a revolution we never expected, and brought back more memories than we ever could have asked for.