From Himalayan Roads: Chapter Nineteen - Last Days in Ladakh

Solivagant did his job well. As the mode by which I traversed these Himalayan roads, he was priceless. I remember back in Bhutan when he had five flat tires in as many months. I remember when he wouldn’t start and how the handbrake went out suddenly and couldn’t get repaired until I got to India. Somehow, fortuitously, once I left Bhutan, Solivagant never got a flat, always started (eventually), and ran like a dream.

I ran around Leh for days looking for a buyer for Solivagant. I was in the land of the Royal Enfield though, a loud, masculine bike that is the poster image of the Indian Himalayan odyssey. Solivagant’s 220cc adolescent growl and his humble frame did not entice prospective buyers. Delhiites and Punjabis and middle and upper class professionals from all over India came to Kashmir to look the part of an Enfield rider as they journeyed over the passes to Manali, or Srinigar. They were willing to pay for that image too. Enfields cost more than twice as much as I was asking for Solivagant, but still I couldn’t find takers. Solivagant just wasn’t cool enough.

One prospective buyer described him as beat up and old. He only saw the cracked plastic, loose screws, and a handbrake that rattled and threatened to pop off. The buyer used the (legitimate) fact that the bike came with no legal documents against me. His offer was a quarter of Solivagant’s worth. But it was better than any other offer I received.

I half expected it.

Poor Solivagant. He had no idea he’d be treated that way.

I realized then that Solivagant and I had been similar in many ways throughout this journey. We were underdogs. This feeling was highlighted right at the end of the ride, when I began the stretch from Manali to Leh. A pair of Indian riders on a 500cc Enfield tried to sway me against finishing.

“Your bike won’t make it over the passes. Its engine is too small,” they said.

I was undeterred. Of course Solivagant could make it. He had made it all the way from Bhutan and would make it to the end.

I started out the journey an inexperienced rider and somehow I had made it too. Together, Solivagant and I survived the chaos of Indian traffic, the mountainous roads of Kashmir, the awful routes to Nepali villages. We got a little beat up, we were a little tired, but we were a testament to the luck that comes with an adventurous spirit. With trust that adventuring is good, and a willingness to endure a bit of challenge, we were able to see and do incredible things. We were rewarded with an experience of a lifetime.

Now it was time to say goodbye. As much as I thought I could leave Solivagant without emotional attachment, there were signs that I was wrong. When the buyer made a final offer of $150 dollars, knowing I had no other options and had a flight booked for the next day, I berated him more harshly than he deserved.

“You’re dishonest,” I said. “I don’t like doing business with dishonest people.”

He gave me a look as if to say, “I’m the only one who will do business with you.”

I handed him the key, took one last look at Solivagant and walked away, refusing to shake the guy’s hand. I told myself that my reaction was because I was fed up with the underhanded bartering that I had found all over the subcontinent. But really I was just sad that the journey was over and that I would not ride Solivagant ever again.

He had been a good companion. Though Solivagant means “wandering alone,” that was never the case. We started and ended the journey together. It was only then, right at the end, when I returned to my guesthouse and began packing my bags for my series of flights back to Colorado, that I actually felt alone. I was without my trusted companion and the road ahead was one that could not be ridden by motorcycle.