The Motorcycle Ride That Burned and Healed Me
A 5,200 KM journey across 9 states that changed how I see life and passion
Most people think long rides start with a plan. Mine started with a feeling.
Not a childhood dream.
Not a bucket list item.
Just a pulse.
A need to ride. To disappear into the road for a while. To get away, not from life, but into it.
I never imagined I would ride over 5,200 kilometers on a motorcycle across 9 Indian states, facing temperatures that swung from 50 degrees Celsius in the heartland to below freezing in the Himalayas. I’m not the kind of person who steps out just to get food on a typical day.
And yet, there I was — sweating through heatwaves, gliding through snowy valleys, dropping my bike four times, and still holding on to a quiet, indescribable joy.
This wasn’t about testing my endurance.
It wasn’t about ticking off destinations.
It was about understanding something — about the road, the machine, and maybe even about myself.
Along the way, I lost 5 kilograms of body weight, battled oxygen deprivation, and once even lost consciousness — saved by my friend who diligently carried an oxygen cylinder in his bag, just in case.
And yet, I never once regretted the journey.
Passion has a strange way of shaping you. It doesn’t just take you places — it rewires how you see everything. This ride did that for me. Not because I planned it to, but because I let it happen.
What follows isn’t a travel guide. It’s a memory map. A series of days lived on the edge of discomfort and wonder. It’s about roads and machines, yes — but also about silence, small joys, and the strange peace that lives only between the kilometers.
Day 1 — The Ride Begins, and the Heat Hits Hard
Bangalore to Hyderabad | June 1, 2024 | ~570 KM, 13 hours
The morning we rolled out of Bangalore, it felt like freedom. The kind of quiet excitement only a long ride can bring. Three of us, geared up and throttling out around 6 AM, with one goal — Srinagar. Over 3,000 km stood between us and the snow-covered north, but at that moment, all that mattered was the road ahead.
The Bangalore weather gave us a false sense of comfort. Cool breeze, smooth roads, and a sleepy city watching us disappear into the horizon. But we knew — once we left the city limits, it would be a different story. The forecasts warned of a heatwave. What we didn’t know was just how brutal it would be.
The first half of the ride was a breeze — literally. Wide highways, open throttle, and my KTM 390 Adventure gliding with confidence. It had just come back from servicing and felt brand new. High-speed cruising is where this machine shines. It was quiet, powerful, and made the early hours feel like flying low over the asphalt. The landscape was a bit dull — just long stretches of road flanked by huge rock formations. I usually crave the greens, the ghats, the scent of trees and wet soil. But with days of riding ahead, I didn’t mind the fast, flat roads on Day 1.
As the sun climbed, the heat punched in hard. By 12:30 PM, it became unbearable. We found a restaurant with AC, parked, and stepped inside like men rescued from a desert. That cool air felt like a second life. I remember resting my head on the side wall at our table, just to cool down. We didn’t leave till around 3:30 PM.
Outside, I noticed my left saddlebag rain cover was torn — sliced clean. Maybe someone brushed past it with a cycle or parked too close. It was new. But I don’t fret over small things. With 17 days of adventure ahead, this was nothing.
The heat outside was still punishing. Riding felt like walking into a furnace. We pushed on toward Hyderabad, weaving through the afternoon haze, finally reaching the edge of the city near the ring road around 7 PM. A cool shower never felt so healing. Dinner was forgettable, but a good night's rest was everything.
That night, tired and slightly cooked, we had a moment of realization — this plan won’t work if we keep riding in peak sun. Central India was next, and it would only get hotter. So we made a new plan: start earlier. We said 4 AM. We left around 6 AM. Close enough.
Rider Moments — the Soul Between the Miles
There’s something about petrol pump stops on these rides. People notice the bikes. Their eyes light up with curiosity and admiration. Questions follow: “Kitna cc hai?” “Mileage kya hai?” “Itna door jaa rahe ho?” You can see it in their faces — fascination mixed with the quiet realization that these bikes, this ride, may never be theirs. But in that moment, we share something. They give us water, tips, even warnings about road conditions ahead. These are the invisible threads that make the ride richer.
The ride also gave me time with myself. Thanks to my 10-rupee 3M earplugs and my SMK helmet with sun visor (highly recommended, by the way), the windblast was tamed and the world outside faded just enough to let my thoughts in. I thought of everything and nothing — past choices, people, wins, regrets. And through it all, a deep sense of gratitude filled me.
I’m privileged. I know it.
To ride like this, to feel the wind, to think in peace — what more could I ask for?
Santhosh and I had intercoms — Bluarmor. Regretfully, they didn’t work as expected. Decent in the city, almost useless on highways at over 60 km/h. Sunil had a different brand, so we were mostly silent riders — just synced by understanding built over previous rides. We didn’t need to talk much. We just knew.
There weren’t many photo stops. Heat kills the desire to pull over and pose. Except one funny moment: Sunil got a speeding challan near a school zone — ₹1,000 gone. Ironically, he was the slowest among us that day.
Lastly, my surprise MVP of the day? My big flask. I thought it would serve in Ladakh’s chill. But it became a savior in the heat. The steel outside burned to the touch, but the water inside stayed cold. A small miracle. I filled it wherever I could, and it cooled my throat like nothing else. I had no idea it would become that valuable. But it did. It stayed with me through the harshest sun Central India had to offer.
Day 2 — Of Old Roads and Heatwaves That Burn Through Memory
Hyderabad to Nagpur | June 2, 2024 | ~500 KM, 12 hours
We left Hyderabad around 6 AM. Not quite the 4 AM start we promised ourselves after Day 1’s heat punishment — but still early enough to enjoy the cool breath of a city just waking up. Riding through the empty lanes as the sun cracked through the horizon was like gliding through a memory.
Hyderabad felt familiar. I had lived and worked here from 2005 to 2009, and as we rode through its wide roads and quiet sectors, a strange nostalgia settled in. So much had changed — the city had grown denser, busier — but in that still morning light, I could see echoes of the past.
With Santhosh riding beside me, our intercoms open and working well on the slow city ride, I shared stories from those days, reliving moments that were long faded. Funny how the mind opens up on two wheels.
Once we escaped the city limits, the warmth began to creep in. Not aggressively at first — just a suggestion, like a reminder of what we were about to enter again. But it didn’t stay subtle for long.
The central belt of India is different. The greenery fades, the air feels thinner, and the sun has a crueller edge. The kind of heat that doesn’t just exhaust you — it sneaks into your gear, bakes your helmet, and simmers under your gloves. By 10 am, we were back in the heatwave, each gust of wind a hot slap instead of a breeze.
We joked through the intercom about our next-day plan: “We start our ride at 4 AM tomorrow. For real.”
But we said it the way students promise to start studying early during exam prep breaks, knowing well it’s more hope than habit.
And yet, hope is a good thing when you’re on a motorcycle in 47°C heat.
What saved us — again — was the gear. The moisture-wicking riding t-shirt I bought online for ₹500 was worth every rupee. It clung to the body just right, wicked away the sweat, and gave some illusion of coolness. Over that, I wore a thin, sleeveless cooling vest soaked in water. It evaporated in 15 minutes — far short of the couple of hours it claimed — but still, it helped block the worst of the frying wind. My arms, though, took the brunt of it.
And under it all, my true hero — the orthopaedic back support belt. You don’t think about your spine until it screams at you. Mine didn’t — thanks to that belt. It held me upright, supported me through every bump and vibration, and across 17 days, never let me feel the weight of the road.
Once outside the city limits, I found myself drifting into thought again. About the absurdity of this ride. About how much motorcycle engineering has progressed — the KTM 390 ADV just kept going, without flinching in the heat. No overheating, no hiccups. Just smooth, raw power.
And I thought about how grateful I was, not just for the machine, but for being able to afford it. This wasn’t imaginable for me a decade ago. People with the right intention said, “Why not get a car instead?”
But where’s the poetry in that!
The highway between Hyderabad and Nagpur was mostly uneventful — just long, dry stretches with fewer places to eat, more dusty dhabas, and vast empty roads. Nothing scenic. Just miles to cover. I stuck to the left lane, kept a steady pace, and let my thoughts drift where they wanted.
I honestly don’t remember if we even had lunch that day. That’s how harsh the heat was — it blurred the hours, erased the appetite. But we finally rolled into Nagpur by around 6 PM.
The hotel was forgettable — small room, not well maintained — but we didn’t care. Another warm shower (courtesy of the outside temperature), some rest, and dinner downstairs. The food was actually decent, much better than Hyderabad’s dinner situation.
And then came the chocolate incident.
The hotel receptionist sent up a huge pack of Cadbury chocolates, assorted and carefully wrapped, meant for Sunil. No one knew why. The service guy wouldn’t give it to me, even when I offered to pass it on.
“Madam sent it for Sunil sir.”, he said.
We laughed about it for hours. That strange, sweet moment in the middle of a brutally hot ride made for the perfect story later.
We ended the day the way we began it — with the promise of a 4 AM start. Firm this time. Absolutely non-negotiable.
What do you think of how that turned out?
Day 3 — Of Forest Breezes, Broken Stations, and the Beauty of Trying
Nagpur to Sagar | June 3, 2024 | ~430 KM, ~9 hours
We were up early. Bags packed, bikes loaded before 5 AM. It wasn’t the perfect 4 AM start we had promised each other the night before, but we decided to call it “progress.” Improvement, not perfection.
But as we were about to ride out, the hotel staff stopped us.
Not to complain. To click photos.
There’s something almost universal about the way people react to a motorcycle packed for the long haul. Maybe it reminds them of a kind of freedom they forgot. Maybe it’s the gear, the weight, the dust, or the quiet thrill in the rider’s eyes. The hotel staff gathered around us with excitement, clicking selfies, asking questions, even recording our departure like we were celebrities. It was fun, but not unfamiliar. These are the little rituals of every long ride.
We rolled out of Nagpur with the early light brushing the road. The air was still cool, and the roads were forgiving. Around 7:30 AM, we entered the highway stretch cutting through the Pench Tiger Reserve.
And suddenly, everything changed.
The road curved gently. Tall trees stretched overhead, mist still hanging in the branches. A light drizzle had just passed — its scent still lingering in the air. The asphalt was dark and clean, wet only in patches. The breeze was cool, the light golden, and the silence deeper than usual.
It was the kind of stretch that doesn’t ask for words. Just presence.
But presence was difficult. I started to feel sleepy. Too sleepy. The soothing weather, the hypnotic straight lines, the hum of the engine — everything was conspiring to lull me into dreams. I tried to push through, tried to hold on. I wanted to make the best of the weather conditions to cover the maximum distance. But after a few kilometers, I gave in. We pulled over next to a tiny roadside shop still warming up for the day.
Tea was being brewed. Poha was on the stove. We stretched, laughed about the sleepiness, and soaked in the forest air. It was the first time in this trip we paused, not because of the heat or fatigue, but because we wanted to. Two rounds of tea, some poha, and a few photos later, we rode on.
That stretch through Pench remains one of the most memorable pieces of road I’ve ever ridden. The right road at the right time in the right weather — it’s rare when everything aligns like that.
But of course, the bliss didn’t last.
As we rode out of the forest belt, the heat began to rise. We braced ourselves. Thankfully, Day 3’s distance was shorter. Mentally, we had framed it as our recovery day — the day we ride easy, reach early, and rest well. That promise kept our spirits high even as the heatwave returned with full force.
The landscape had changed. Central India now looked dry and sparse. Settlements appeared less frequently. The terrain had hardened. And with it came a different kind of silence — a silence shaped by poverty, not peace. We passed long stretches with nothing but barren land, broken signboards, and an unsettling number of defunct petrol stations — abandoned, paint peeled, their canopies hanging like tired arms.
I couldn’t help but think about life in this part of the country. We were passing through with our expensive bikes, riding gear, gadgets, and all — but this heat, this land, this hardship… it was someone’s everyday reality.
I felt grateful. I felt guilty. I felt small.
These are the kinds of thoughts that creep in when the road outside offers nothing to distract you and everything to humble you.
Still, we kept moving.
Every working petrol pump was a checkpoint of joy. We’d stop, refill our tanks, fill our bottles with cold water, soak ourselves, and — of course — drench the cooling vest again. It never lasted more than 20 minutes in that brutal heat, but it helped.
As always, the petrol pump staff were warm and full of questions. Where are you from? Where are you going? How long have you been riding? Their curiosity was genuine, their welcome heartfelt. They invited us to rest in the shade, treated us with a kind of warmth you only find in people who don’t meet riders like us often but deeply respect the spirit of the ride.
Eventually, we reached Sagar.
The city was hot. Boiling, actually. The traffic stop squares were covered with white cloths to provide some respite to the people waiting for the signal to turn green. We wove through narrow lanes looking for our hotel, getting delayed by confusing turns and local traffic. But when we reached — it was worth it. The hotel was new, clean, and surprisingly spacious. No dedicated parking, but we were used to trusting strangers with our machines by now. The receptionist reassured us — “There’s CCTV. Don’t worry.” And we didn’t.
Riders trust their gut. And ours said we’d be fine.
The room was great. We showered (again, hot water courtesy of the weather), ordered lunch, and crashed for the afternoon. We didn’t step outside again.
One last thing before we close the day — the gel-padded cycling pants. I had two with me, and by Day 3, I was starting to really appreciate them. Even with the support, I could feel the strain building. But without them? I’d probably have needed a hospital, not a hotel. (Saddling on the bike helps, though)
We promised ourselves an even earlier start the next day — 3 AM this time. Surely that would beat the heat. Surely this time we’d stick to the plan.
Surely…
Day 4 – Of Lost Turns, Boiling Showers, and the Politics
Sagar to Mathura | June 4, 2024 | ~400 KM, 9 hours
We woke up around 2 AM—determined, clear-headed, quietly proud. By 4 AM, our bags were strapped down, helmets clicked into place, and headlights on. It felt like a win. After three days of trying, we had finally hit our target start time. Spirits were high. The road ahead seemed lighter, somehow. Less daunting. Mathura was just a little over 400 kilometers away, and if we kept the pace, we’d make it before the heat turned merciless again.
But as always, plans are one thing. The road is another.
In the darkness, Google Maps sent us astray. We found ourselves squeezing through what seemed like someone’s backyard—a narrow lane barely wide enough for a two-wheeler. We turned back quickly, laughing at the absurdity of trusting software in a place where intuition would’ve done better. We lost around 15 minutes that morning just trying to get out.
After that, we stopped relying on the map. We began asking people on morning walks. A few misdirections and dead ends later, we finally reached the highway by 5:30 AM.
The horizon was waking up. Faint light scattered through the clouds, and there was a hint of drizzle in the air. The smell of wet earth lifted the fatigue from the early morning detour. The breeze was cool, the roads were wide open, and for a couple of hours, everything felt right. Just us, the machines, and the quiet promise of a good riding day.
But by 9 AM, the heat had returned.
We pulled over around 10 AM under the rare gift of a tree. Next to it, a khatia—a woven bed—invited us to pause. A small roadside shop sold chilled 2-liter water bottles. We drank, refilled, and then I poured almost a full liter of cold water over my head. The feeling of that icy stream tracing down the back of my neck and spine? Pure relief. Like being given permission to breathe again.
We sat there for 15, maybe 20 minutes. Silent. Grateful. Repeating the ritual of water-soak and restart.
Lunch was skipped again. The logic was simple now: ride before 12, stop after. The sun, after noon, felt personal—like it was chasing us with intent. We were close to Mathura by then. Barely two hours to go. The roads were excellent—smooth, wide, and almost empty. But riding fast wasn’t an option. The heat was slicing through our ventilated jackets, stinging our arms and back with dry blasts of wind. It was like riding inside an open oven. The only thought that kept me going was a cold shower and a dark room.
We reached the hotel around 1:30 PM. It was an unexpected setup—a wedding hall with no wedding. The place was empty. Eerily quiet. But the rooms were clean and new. The bikes were parked inside the compound, safe and secure. That’s one less thing to worry about tonight.
I opened the taps in the bathroom and was met with water so hot that it felt like punishment. The sunlight hitting the water tanks all morning had turned every faucet into a geyser. I filled buckets and waited, lying still under the air conditioner that did little to help, the room itself being slowly baked by the sun through a large glass panel.
Then came a summer thunderstorm. Brief, loud, and utterly perfect. Rain cooled the air. The room felt breathable again. I finally bathed, ordered pizza, and fell asleep for a few hours.
That evening, we met the only other soul in the building (apart from the caretaker, of course)—the owner. As we stepped out for a short walk, he invited us into his office, where he sat with a news channel playing quietly on a TV in the corner. It was June 4th—the day the General Election results were coming in.
He launched into his views on the outcome. I listened. I’ve learned not to engage too deeply in political discussions while travelling. Everyone has their view. And everyone’s view, I’ve realized, is shaped more by local experiences than global events. The weather, the price of onions, a neighbor’s job loss—these carry more weight than policy papers or manifestos.
Still, I enjoyed the conversation. It’s always interesting to see how people connect the dots of their lives to the larger national picture. We all do it. We all draw meaning from the world through our own narrow lens. But hearing someone else’s lens, even briefly, can be grounding.
That night, we didn’t bother with dinner. We finished off the leftover pizza, packed our bags, and promised, once again, to wake up at 2 AM and start even earlier.
It would be our fourth attempt to beat the sun.
Because sometimes, the only thing more enduring than the heat… is the hope.
Day 5 – Of Swarms, Smooth Roads, and a Hint of Rhythm
Mathura to Ambala | June 5, 2024 | ~360 KM, ~6 hours
By Day 5, something had changed. Maybe it was the discipline finally kicking in, or just a natural surrender to the road’s rhythm—but we were up by 2:30 AM and out of the hotel before 5. There was a quiet satisfaction in that. For the first time since we began, we had kept our word. And it felt… smooth.
We woke up the lone caretaker, paid for a few bottles of water, and rolled out into the early darkness. There’s something different about riding before dawn. The roads are yours. The air is still cool. The world hasn’t started yet.
But nature had other plans.
The highway was thick with mosquitoes, so many that our headlights caught them in swarms, tapping against our visors like a light rain. At first, we laughed. But by the time we reached a toll booth, we were genuinely stunned. Our helmets, visors, headlights, fog lamps—everything was smeared with crushed mosquitoes. It looked like a scene out of a zombie film. We wiped them off with tissues, exchanged some exaggerated horror-movie sound effects, and moved on, still chuckling at the absurdity of it.
And then… the morning opened up.
But the sunrise wasn’t what we expected. Instead of the dramatic golden burst we’d seen on earlier days, the sun appeared as a dull, orange-red smudge behind a curtain of haze. It hung low and blurred, like a painted circle rubbed halfway out. Hauntingly beautiful, but deeply unsettling. The smog from industrial zones along the Delhi–Mathura highway had filtered the sky into something quiet and toxic.
It looked like art. It felt like a warning.
The road, however, was excellent. Smooth and wide, humming under our wheels. Riding at that hour, through the stillness of a polluted dawn, was oddly calming. The body was finally syncing with the machine. The road no longer felt like a challenge—it was becoming familiar.
Around 7:30 AM, we stopped at a highway dhaba for breakfast. It was the kind of simple luxury only long-distance riders understand. Hot paneer parathas, thick curd, and coffee. Everything tasted perfect. The sun was climbing, but the shade still had a morning calmness to it.
Crossing Delhi was less poetic.
The traffic had already begun to thicken. Office hours were kicking in, and though we had planned well, navigating through the city still took time. The temperature rose, the clutch hand began to ache, and the air lost its sweetness. But it was bearable, only because we had started early. Small victories. Hard-earned.
By around 11 AM, we reached Ambala. The hotel was a delight—clean, spacious, and cool. We had finally broken the cycle of late arrivals, rushed showers, and skipped meals. This felt different, like we had settled into the journey.
We showered, lunched at the hotel’s in-house restaurant (fantastic food), and relaxed. Then came the small errands—Santhosh’s bike chain had loosened up and needed adjusting. I made the rookie mistake of stepping out in half-cargo pants and slippers. As we rode slowly, searching for a mechanic, the heat from my KTM’s engine hit the bare skin of my foot like a furnace. That moment is seared—literally and figuratively—into my memory. The skin was nearly peeling. Lesson learned.
Later, we found a KTM service center right next to the hotel. I picked up spare brake pads and a clutch cable—standard prep for what was ahead in Ladakh. Not urgent, but necessary. This wasn’t just any ride anymore. We were entering a different kind of terrain soon, where things can’t be left to luck.
The evening was uneventful. Dinner was early, and sleep came quickly. For the first time since we began, everything had clicked.
We woke early. We rode well. We reached before the heat overtook us. We took care of our machines. We planned for the next day.
It may sound mundane. But on long rides, these small wins stack up.
And suddenly, you’re not just riding anymore.
You’re flowing.
Day 6 – From Barren Heat to Mountain Breezes and a Hint of the Himalayas
Ambala to Udhampur | June 6, 2024 | ~420 KM, ~12 hours
We started at 4 AM. For the second time in a row, we’d managed to keep our commitment. That alone felt like a small but important victory. The sky was still dark, the air calm and cool, and we were filled with a quiet excitement. This was the day we would start leaving the burning plains behind. The promise of higher altitudes and cooler weather was all the motivation we needed.
By 7 AM, we had already covered over 150 kilometers. The ride was smooth, the traffic light, and the climate still crisp. No heat yet. No struggle. Just motion.
Around 8 AM, we stopped at a place called A-1 Dhaba. In this part of the country, skipping parathas and lassi would’ve felt like disrespect. So we indulged. The food was simple and delicious—thick parathas, cold creamy lassi, and that post-breakfast contentment that only riders understand.
We continued cruising until lunch. Roads were still decent, and the heat was creeping in, but not overwhelming. After what we had endured over the last five days, this felt manageable—almost pleasant. The body has a way of adjusting when the mind is aligned.
Around noon, we stopped at a large rest area. It was the kind of place with a wide parking lot, polished glass-fronted stores, and security guards in uniform. A far cry from the barren, broken-road stops of central India. That contrast—the visual and economic—was striking. Within a span of a few days, we had ridden through absolute scarcity and now into polished convenience. Riding across India, you don’t just see the terrain shift—you feel the inequalities roll past your visor.
We parked under a tin shade and entered a McDonald's—a brief reset into familiarity. A young girl at the kiosk, eager to help, nearly cancelled my espresso order, confused by the absence of milk. When I told her I knew what espresso was, she smiled sheepishly and explained how many people complain after tasting it. We all laughed. It reminded me of another time—ordering espresso at a hospital cafeteria in Bhubaneswar, where the server insisted I take a cappuccino instead. A small but oddly common moment in smaller cities—espresso is often misunderstood.
Lunch wrapped, spirits restored, we hit the road again. This time, the terrain began to change.
The road started to climb. Gentle bends gave way to sharper twists. The surface broke down into parts. Trucks lined the sides of the narrow road—dozens of them, their drivers asleep under the shade of their giant machines. It was their rest time, and we took that as our cue to get through before the trucks rolled out. Getting stuck behind them on those rough mountain bends would have meant crawling for hours.
We pushed through.
At a petrol pump high up in the hills, we filled our tanks and took a short break. The air was noticeably cooler now. After days of heat, the wind felt like grace. No one said it, but we all knew: we were entering a different part of the journey now.
By late afternoon, we rolled into Udhampur. The hotel was easy to spot—right along the highway. We checked in, hauled our bags to a modest but clean room, and let ourselves collapse into it.
Sunil went out for a haircut—he wanted to look good in the photos we’d be taking in Srinagar and Ladakh. That cracked us up. A biker preparing for vanity in the mountains—there was something both hilarious and endearing about it.
I showered and rested. I don’t even remember whether I had dinner or not. My body was quiet. My mind was calmer. I just remember sleeping well. Really well.
That night, we didn’t set alarms. The next day, we would ride to Srinagar. No more racing the sun. No more heat to outrun. We were finally entering the terrain that had called us in the first place.
We packed most of our bags and fell asleep fast, tired, peaceful, and ready.
I almost forgot — My bike hit the first 10,000 kilometers on this day. That’s a pleasant experience to have as a biker.
Day 7 – From Heat to Heaven: The First Sight of the Himalayas
Udhampur to Srinagar | June 7, 2024 | ~190 KM, ~5 hours
We woke up around 5 AM. No rush. No alarms. Just the soft light of a mountain morning and the quiet excitement of knowing we were finally, truly close. Bikes loaded, jackets zipped, a slight chill in the air. It felt like a different ride now—lighter, smoother, cleaner.
The air was crisp. Cool. And as we rolled out of Udhampur, our machines felt almost weightless beneath us. After six gruelling days and over 2800 kilometers through sweltering plains and bone-dry highways, this was bliss.
We rode for nearly three hours without stopping. The terrain began to shift—tight bends, higher climbs, trees growing taller and thicker, and the occasional burst of wind that tasted like snow long melted. When we finally hit the Srinagar highway, we knew.
We pulled over. Not out of need, but out of awe.
It was the Himalayas—my first sighting. Not in pictures, not in stories, not in someone’s Instagram reel. This was real. Towering, still, ancient. Something about them made time slow down. Maybe it was their sheer scale. Maybe the way the clouds moved around them, like whispers. Maybe it was the journey we had endured to get here.
We sat near a cluster of roadside food joints and ordered breakfast—hot, fresh, and simple. Parathas, tea, and for dessert, malpua—crisp at the edges, soft at the center, soaked in syrup. It felt like celebration food. We weren’t in a hurry anymore. We had earned this pause. Without realizing it, we stayed there for over an hour, just soaking in the mountains, the food, and the peace.
Then came the final stretch.
We got back on the bikes for the last two hours of riding before Srinagar. And something magical happened. None of us talked. There was no chatter on the intercom. We just… rode.
The roads appeared like a painter’s stroke across the valley. Every turn brought a new angle of beauty. Pine trees. Quiet army posts. Open skies. The kind of silence that doesn’t need filling.
All the madness of the past week—the 50°C days, the peeling heat, the restless nights, the fatigue melted into a quiet kind of joy. We didn’t say it out loud, but we all felt it.
This was worth every bit of it.
And just like that, we entered Srinagar.
The town welcomed us gently—sunlight dappling through trees, glimpses of shikaras on Dal Lake and small wooden shops. It didn’t feel like a tourist place. It felt lived-in. Real. Sacred, almost.
We reached our hotel around 1 PM. It looked like something from an old Hindi film—a house made of wood, carved panels, woollen rugs, embroidered curtains. It was rustic, charming, unmistakably Kashmiri.
We parked, unpacked, and exhaled deeply.
We had made it.
Seven days.
Nine states.
Close to 3000 kilometers.
And now, here we were in the lap of the mountains, staring at the next chapter for the remaining 2200 kilometers ride through Leh and Ladakh.
…story for another day :)
