Scramble for Peace – Northern India
As stimulating as Amritsar was, it remained a bustling, polluted, and noisy city. My nervous system was exhausted—I had been riding for nearly five months. The anguish of repeatedly altering my plans weighed on me. By my original itinerary, I should have been in Mexico . However, geopolitical events in Russia had forced me to divert my route. Given my background, I preferred to avoid lingering there too long. Instead, I took the southern Silk Road, abandoning the dream of riding into Mongolia and the lower Siberian flats.
Adding to my internal turmoil, an old flame I had met on the road wanted to reconnect. We had planned to meet in Kolkata, which meant I would have to cancel the last available crossing of Tibet and, consequently, my overland route into Southeast Asia. This left me with three options: ship the bike from Chennai to Kuala Lumpur, air freight it from Kathmandu to Thailand, or wait for the spring snowmelt and continue my overland journey, all costly and time consuming options.
I was torn. One part of me wanted to press on and focus solely on my journey, while another part longed for closure. If it was truly love, surely it would be worth it? Naïvely, perhaps, I chose to follow my heart.
Now, I had a decision to make—push through a two-week ride from Amritsar to Kolkata via the scenic route or head for the mountains and possibly fly there later. I was too tired to think clearly, so I just moved forward blindly.
My mental fog mirrored the weather outside as I departed. I needed clarity. As had often been the case during this journey, I instinctively turned to the mountains for peace. Scanning the map, I found Dharamshala—home to the exiled Tibetan people and the Dalai Lama. If I couldn't find mental clarity there, where else could I? With nothing more than an intent to breathe fresh air and embrace silence, I rode north.
Leaving behind Punjab’s orange sun and smoggy gray-green haze, I climbed into the jungle-lined foothills of the lower Himalayas. Dharamshala sits over 1,500 meters above Delhi. As I ascended, the traffic thinned, the air cleared, and the oppressive pollution dissipated. Hours later, I rode into the city. It felt like stepping into another country. Indian faces gave way to rounder, stockier Tibetan ones. The saffron-clad sadhus of the Hindu world were replaced by maroon-robed Buddhist monks going about their day.
Perched on the side of a mountain, Dharamshala’s roads were steep and narrow, with motorbikes darting up and down, honking around blind corners. Among the Tibetan locals, a new demographic emerged—Indian hipsters in eco-friendly beanies, sporting linear tattoos. For every Buddhist temple, there was a matching artisanal coffee shop. Intrigued, I stopped for a freshly brewed cup.
Inside, soft jazz played. I sipped my cappuccino, listening in on a group of young hipsters at the next table. They debated skincare, indie cinema, and an upcoming film festival. My mind struggled to process the contrast—just the day before, I had fought my way through hordes of manic Pakistani drivers in the most polluted city on earth. Now, I sat surrounded by culture, intellectuals, and art. I must have looked rough—dust-covered, still emaciated from my recent illness, bearded, clad in rugged riding gear. I could feel them avoiding my gaze.
I decided to stay a few days. I needed quiet, overpriced coffee, a gym session, and a chance to enjoy simple pleasures. More importantly, I needed rest.
At the local gym, I met Alaskan Alex—a towering, bearded CrossFitter casually tossing 80 kg weights above his head. Fresh from a lucrative salmon fishing season in Alaska, he too was searching for respite. We laughed at ourselves—men of action who, in the name of rest, pushed our bodies to destruction in the gym.
Days passed in peaceful routine. I wandered the surrounding forests and stumbled upon an old British colonial church. It could have been plucked from England, except it stood amid towering pine trees, with white monkeys leaping across its Gothic spires and vultures circling above. I felt as though I had wandered into the pages of Kipling.
Oddly, I encountered no spiritual bypassers—no lost Westerners seeking enlightenment through mysticism. Instead, my time was spent lifting weights with Alex in the mornings, feasting on Tibetan momos (dumplings) afterward. Through Instagram, I connected with two fellow British adventurers—Alex, a tattooed wanderer in his mid-thirties, and Alfie, his eager young protégé. They had walked from Delhi to Dharamshala, compressing adventure into their tight timeline. Their energy was infectious. I envied their camaraderie and appreciated the outreach.
Like all Brits abroad, our meeting inevitably ended in a drunken escapade. On my way back to my hotel, I stumbled upon a group of Kashmiri gangsters. Over charras cigarettes, we spoke of politics and UFC, laughing into the early hours.
The next morning, hazy but satisfied, I bid my farewells and set my sights east. My route would take me through Himachal Pradesh, the mountain town of Shimla, then on to Delhi, Uttarakhand, and finally into Nepal.
Dharamshala to Shimla
The ride to Shimla was breathtaking. The road clung to high ridgelines, flanked by dense jungles on one side and snow-capped peaks on the other. The tarmac was smooth, the air crisp. Yet, despite the beauty, I felt drained. I wasn’t listening to my body. My need for rest battled against my ego’s drive to push forward. I told myself I would allow a break once I reached Nepal or Thailand. Until then, I had to press on.
Irritability set in. Patience is hard to maintain on Indian roads at the best of times. Indian drivers, I realized, were the worst I had encountered. There were no rules—only size dictated right of way. Unluckily for motorcycles, we ranked lowest.
Shimla sat even higher than Dharamshala, perched along a ridgeline, encircled by pine forests teeming with monkeys. Once a summer retreat for the British Raj, its architecture still bore colonial influences—European-style houses scattered across the hills, a grand cathedral sharing its summit with a towering statue of Hanuman, the monkey god. On the map, I had assumed it was a sleepy provincial town. In India, however, what appears small in contrast to the mega-cities is still enormous by Western standards. It was another metropolis—one I desperately wanted to escape.
I had heard of Rishikesh, a riverside town at the foothills of the Ganges, famed for its tranquility and outdoor activities. Craving peace, I pointed my bike east.
An Unplanned Detour to Delhi
The road from Shimla to Rishikesh descended from the Himalayas into the plains, but first, I had to navigate the labyrinthine city streets. Once clear, I sped south toward Chandigarh, where I hoped to service Tara at a Triumph dealership—the first official one I’d seen since Greece. Tara badly needed maintenance, so I planned a brief stop.
Fatigue struck suddenly. I pulled over and downed ten cups of chai to stay awake before pressing on to Chandigarh, one of India’s most modern cities. Designed by a French architect, its grid-like layout and functioning traffic lights made it an anomaly. Yet, upon arrival, I discovered the dealership was closed.
A local biker approached, offering advice. “You’ll have better luck in Delhi,” he suggested. Too exhausted to argue, I foolishly agreed to follow him. He promised we’d reach Delhi in under three hours. Google Maps estimated four. He took off like a lunatic, weaving through traffic at 160 km/h. Undertaking buses, darting through impossibly small gaps—I couldn’t keep up. My frustration mounted, but still, I followed.
As we neared Delhi, the traffic worsened. I snapped. Ditching my reckless guide, I found an expensive hotel, hoping for rest. Instead, I landed in the middle of a Punjabi wedding, drums pounding into the night.
So much for sleep. At dawn, I mounted Tara and rode toward Rishikesh, clinging to the hope that, at last, I would find some rest.
Delhi to Rishikesh
Leaving Delhi meant battling through the morning traffic just to escape the city limits.
Indians are, for the most part, a kind and educated people—but put them behind the wheel of a vehicle, and it’s as if an expressionless cow has been handed a car, one hoof glued to the horn, the other pressed firmly on the gas pedal. They will drive you off the road without a second thought, staring blankly as they blast their horns incessantly, completely unaware of the chaos they cause.
Traffic in India is a lawless, nerve-fraying experience. Trucks, tractors, SUVs, motorcycles—none adhere to lane discipline or even the basic principles of traffic flow. Every intersection is a battlefield of gridlock, each driver vying for the smallest gap, cramming into every available space until the roads become saturated. Then, they sit there—an unmoving, honking herd of vehicles, staring blankly into the abyss of their own making.
As a Western driver, remaining calm is a challenge when surrounded by these motorized zombies, their reckless maneuvering a constant threat to my life. I spent three hours wedged in a suffocating traffic jam, hurling insults at the amorphous mass of metal and madness. I was at my limit—burnt out, exhausted, and desperate for a break from riding.
After a grueling seven-hour ride—one that should have taken three—I finally rolled into Rishikesh.
