Raid Report - The Home Run
With six hours sleep under my Arai helmet I’m a different man. The choices are no choices at all – if I retire from the race it will make no sense to anyone and may well cast a small cloud over what is, and has been, a fantastic event. It could be disrespectful even to the other competitors who have given their all. The least I can do is give the same and win or lose with the best grace an oik such as myself can muster.
Having simply parked the Yamaha up last night, I give it quick ‘n’ frosty check over. Tyres are still pressurised, split link still in place on a chain that hasn’t needed adjustment in over 1500 miles of racing. No leaks, no major rattles. I still don’t know where Rocky and I stand time-wise – and have a strange lack of concern, deciding to conserve everything for the last stage, whatever the situation. Worrying now is just a waste of mental energy.
At the start point the usual printout of our current time standings is not available, but still I’m unconcerned as we leave for the first transport stage, heading for the last competitive section. Rocky is above me in the starting order, so he’s still in first place and I will be chasing him up the mountain.
It’s colder than an Eskimo’s earlobes as I head out of Leh. Even at ‘just’ 3300m there’s a light glaze of ice smoothing the ponds. We will be climbing two vertical kilometres higher this morning. I keep speed low so as to buck some of the wind-chill and to avoid sitting around for too long while waiting for the off. Rocky has been employing the same thinking and we ride the last 20, or so, kilometres together.
We are nonetheless still some 30 minutes under time and are both feeling the chill in our spectacular, snow-capped, sub-zero surroundings. My cold-tattered cuticles are usually painful, but this morning there’s no sensation and the blood coagulates upon emergence. The streams are frozen, the valley is silent, not a bird in the sky. Even the ubiquitous crows don’t show. No breath of wind. Utterly lifeless, save two drivers, two riders, and the officials huddled in their vehicles. The peak snow oranges in the dawn and as the minutes pass and the sun rises higher somewhere over the summits, the glow drains down the sandy mountainsides promising a tolerable day. But not far enough. Not soon enough.
What feet? I’m jumping around, singing and dancing without a care, winding myself up, but still the ice blocks in my Sidi boots won’t thaw. This early morning podiatry discomfort is, however, less than peripheral. I’ve not an ache in my body and feel as fit at 4300m as I did in my Fen-level hovel before I left over four months ago. But stronger.
Like a demented native American witch doctor with a rattlesnake up his bison-skin kilt I stomp-hop over to one of the official cars to see if they can give me the low down on the time situation. They don’t recoil from the sun-and-wind-and-cold-burned, wrinkle faced, chapped-lipped, red-eyed nutcase, but instead get on the radio and come back with an answer: 1min 6sec. Then I’m called back – mistake, it’s 1min 16sec. Still purrrrfect.
Having made the decision to go for the kill (and to be honest I’d imagined how I’d feel in exactly this situation when I’d entered the race, only to berate myself for being over-cocky to the point of stupidity) I find myself looking at Rocky as prey. The high mountains can do strange things with the mind and right now they’re painting blood-red crosshairs on the back of the 22-year-old’s helmet.
In a physically and mentally challenging event like this you’re often looking inward. Once you’ve found the something, a mental condition maybe, The Zone, that will let you ride on the edge, your edge, on the edge of the edge, that big, scary, fatal edge, hopefully without going over it, then… then you start to write overly-long, babbling sentences with a surfeit of commas. And maybe you learn to work yourself into that zone.
First car goes… two minutes pass… second car goes… rabbit in the trap… two minutes pass… run bunny run! For two minutes Rocky is, I assume, giving it everything. In this time he can easily be over a mile ahead as I drop the clutch and begin to chase down his bobbing scutt.
In the thick gloves I’m wearing, I can’t ‘double-shuffle’ the slow-action, big-turn throttle in my palm, so I’ve started with my elbow cocked above the bars. Drop the elbow for full-fuckin’ open and use the wrist for more sensitive throttle metering. Power uphill is my huge advantage here, so I’m going to milk the bike for every wheezy (at three miles high) dobbin.
My biggest weakness throughout the event has been concentration when I’m racing alone – pushing hard without going too hard when there’s no other vehicle to gauge my performance against. On all the high-risk, technical race stages so far, I’ve been talking to myself, geeing myself up, usually with some hardcore self abuse and foul language: ‘concentrate, eyes up you dozy f’er, pick a line, push. Don’t look down you silly old git, stop fannying, open the throttle all the way, shit or get off the pot…’
Today, besides self checking that the throttle cables are like bowstrings where the grip is available, it feels easier – this is when you know you’re going quickly. The normal tension warning is exhausted hands, from gripping the bars too tightly. Now I’m focused yet relaxed, the perfect state. It’s smoother, less dramatic, but faster.
I catch sight of Rocky much earlier than expected and he doesn’t appear to be going so fast as usual. His body language isn’t what it should be – usually he’s wide-shouldered, puffed up like a boxer, but today he looks deflated, hunted, waiting for the sound of my engine. I feel sympathy when I come up behind him before the top of Tanglang La, sound the horn, and lope past.
On the first downhill section, mainly dirt and patchwork-mac, I’m bemused not to find Rocky anywhere in the mirrors. It’s only been a couple of kilometres since I passed him. I slow down – after all, I only have to keep him in sight – but he doesn’t show and normally he’d be barrelling downhill behind me. At the end of a long, death-drop straight I look back again, but he’s not there. I’m worried he’s overdone it in pursuit. I stop, put a foot down to crane backwards and wait. In a few seconds Rocky’s blue leathers appear, so off I shoot.
At the foot of the descent are a flat-out few kilometres to the finish. My top speed is still limited to 130kph as the bike bucks, sways and weaves beneath me, the damping in my overheated shocks failing to cope with the undulations and ever-shifting cambers. But there is certainly no way I’m going to be caught. As the line comes into view, the second-placed car is having his card stamped, so I’ve made up over three minutes on the four-wheeler.
The Times of India, 9/10/06: “[Asish (Rocky) was] hunted down by rookie Ianson (sic), a British auto-hack, powering a brute, 660 cc Yamaha XTR – which called for lots of Zen for motorcycling… Finally on the 7th day in the thin air at about 17,000ft near the top of Tanglang La, Ianson ‘went mental’ and passed the reigning champion on the last competitive section of the event,’
If anyone knows what that first bit means…
At the competitive’s finish, I’m congratulated by all and interviewed by a TV crew. I try to point out that the event isn’t actually over, that there are another 300-ish kilometres to the Manali finish and that anything could happen the remaining mountainous miles. And of course, anything does…
I reckon I’ll be very short of pictures for Bike, so grab a friendly photographer do a few shoots of the ride back. This, of course, murders my average speed, so I pick up the pace a little, which also helps my concentration – for most of the long ride, at least.
Rohtang is the last pass before Manali, one of the most beautiful spots on Earth and one of the most stunning rides. I’m over halfway down the Manali side, eager to get to the line and crack open a beer. I’ve been whooping through the tourist traffic that’s been making its way down from the pass’ top and making good progress I’ve passed most of the other returning competitors.
In the dwindling light I find myself behind a small taxi, itself behind a jeep. Beeping my tits off I pull out and start to pass, when so does the taxi. Beep, beep, beep is having no effect and I’m pushed to the edge, where I’m forced to brake. The Taxi’s rear wing takes my front wheel and leaves me spinning down the hillside.
As I struggle up the slope, kicking my boot’s toes into the dirt like a snow climber, a rope is thrown from above, courtesy of Cheta, the co-driver in the second-placed car. I wrap it around my right wrist. Mistake, it’s bloody agony as I’m helped/hauled up by my injured hand.
Near the top many hands pull me to the road where I’m relieved to see the bike lying on the falls’ edge. The right-hand footpeg assembly has been sheared off and the bars are twisted away to the right, but it looks rideable and starts after a few seconds on the button, so I tuck my injured leg into the side of the engine, ask which way I am supposed to be heading and with the steering pointing off the cliff, ride off towards the finish. I self-diagnose a touch of concussion as oncoming traffic leaves me weaving to a halt when it dazzles my pie-pupil eyes and I manage to drive straight past the turning to the finish before realising my mistake and U-turning.
At the finish gate everything is very low key, with few spectators and no photographer to record the event. Rude Matt has made it home before me, making him the first westerner ever to complete the Raid.
The battered bike is left in the Parc Ferme and I’m helped to carry my kit to the nearby hotel. In my room I’m joined by a gaggle of congratulatory friends and we sink a few beers before dinner, after which I crawl under the blankets like a beaten dog and pass out.
Having simply parked the Yamaha up last night, I give it quick ‘n’ frosty check over. Tyres are still pressurised, split link still in place on a chain that hasn’t needed adjustment in over 1500 miles of racing. No leaks, no major rattles. I still don’t know where Rocky and I stand time-wise – and have a strange lack of concern, deciding to conserve everything for the last stage, whatever the situation. Worrying now is just a waste of mental energy.
At the start point the usual printout of our current time standings is not available, but still I’m unconcerned as we leave for the first transport stage, heading for the last competitive section. Rocky is above me in the starting order, so he’s still in first place and I will be chasing him up the mountain.
It’s colder than an Eskimo’s earlobes as I head out of Leh. Even at ‘just’ 3300m there’s a light glaze of ice smoothing the ponds. We will be climbing two vertical kilometres higher this morning. I keep speed low so as to buck some of the wind-chill and to avoid sitting around for too long while waiting for the off. Rocky has been employing the same thinking and we ride the last 20, or so, kilometres together.
We are nonetheless still some 30 minutes under time and are both feeling the chill in our spectacular, snow-capped, sub-zero surroundings. My cold-tattered cuticles are usually painful, but this morning there’s no sensation and the blood coagulates upon emergence. The streams are frozen, the valley is silent, not a bird in the sky. Even the ubiquitous crows don’t show. No breath of wind. Utterly lifeless, save two drivers, two riders, and the officials huddled in their vehicles. The peak snow oranges in the dawn and as the minutes pass and the sun rises higher somewhere over the summits, the glow drains down the sandy mountainsides promising a tolerable day. But not far enough. Not soon enough.
What feet? I’m jumping around, singing and dancing without a care, winding myself up, but still the ice blocks in my Sidi boots won’t thaw. This early morning podiatry discomfort is, however, less than peripheral. I’ve not an ache in my body and feel as fit at 4300m as I did in my Fen-level hovel before I left over four months ago. But stronger.
Like a demented native American witch doctor with a rattlesnake up his bison-skin kilt I stomp-hop over to one of the official cars to see if they can give me the low down on the time situation. They don’t recoil from the sun-and-wind-and-cold-burned, wrinkle faced, chapped-lipped, red-eyed nutcase, but instead get on the radio and come back with an answer: 1min 6sec. Then I’m called back – mistake, it’s 1min 16sec. Still purrrrfect.
Having made the decision to go for the kill (and to be honest I’d imagined how I’d feel in exactly this situation when I’d entered the race, only to berate myself for being over-cocky to the point of stupidity) I find myself looking at Rocky as prey. The high mountains can do strange things with the mind and right now they’re painting blood-red crosshairs on the back of the 22-year-old’s helmet.
In a physically and mentally challenging event like this you’re often looking inward. Once you’ve found the something, a mental condition maybe, The Zone, that will let you ride on the edge, your edge, on the edge of the edge, that big, scary, fatal edge, hopefully without going over it, then… then you start to write overly-long, babbling sentences with a surfeit of commas. And maybe you learn to work yourself into that zone.
First car goes… two minutes pass… second car goes… rabbit in the trap… two minutes pass… run bunny run! For two minutes Rocky is, I assume, giving it everything. In this time he can easily be over a mile ahead as I drop the clutch and begin to chase down his bobbing scutt.
In the thick gloves I’m wearing, I can’t ‘double-shuffle’ the slow-action, big-turn throttle in my palm, so I’ve started with my elbow cocked above the bars. Drop the elbow for full-fuckin’ open and use the wrist for more sensitive throttle metering. Power uphill is my huge advantage here, so I’m going to milk the bike for every wheezy (at three miles high) dobbin.
My biggest weakness throughout the event has been concentration when I’m racing alone – pushing hard without going too hard when there’s no other vehicle to gauge my performance against. On all the high-risk, technical race stages so far, I’ve been talking to myself, geeing myself up, usually with some hardcore self abuse and foul language: ‘concentrate, eyes up you dozy f’er, pick a line, push. Don’t look down you silly old git, stop fannying, open the throttle all the way, shit or get off the pot…’
Today, besides self checking that the throttle cables are like bowstrings where the grip is available, it feels easier – this is when you know you’re going quickly. The normal tension warning is exhausted hands, from gripping the bars too tightly. Now I’m focused yet relaxed, the perfect state. It’s smoother, less dramatic, but faster.
I catch sight of Rocky much earlier than expected and he doesn’t appear to be going so fast as usual. His body language isn’t what it should be – usually he’s wide-shouldered, puffed up like a boxer, but today he looks deflated, hunted, waiting for the sound of my engine. I feel sympathy when I come up behind him before the top of Tanglang La, sound the horn, and lope past.
On the first downhill section, mainly dirt and patchwork-mac, I’m bemused not to find Rocky anywhere in the mirrors. It’s only been a couple of kilometres since I passed him. I slow down – after all, I only have to keep him in sight – but he doesn’t show and normally he’d be barrelling downhill behind me. At the end of a long, death-drop straight I look back again, but he’s not there. I’m worried he’s overdone it in pursuit. I stop, put a foot down to crane backwards and wait. In a few seconds Rocky’s blue leathers appear, so off I shoot.
At the foot of the descent are a flat-out few kilometres to the finish. My top speed is still limited to 130kph as the bike bucks, sways and weaves beneath me, the damping in my overheated shocks failing to cope with the undulations and ever-shifting cambers. But there is certainly no way I’m going to be caught. As the line comes into view, the second-placed car is having his card stamped, so I’ve made up over three minutes on the four-wheeler.
The Times of India, 9/10/06: “[Asish (Rocky) was] hunted down by rookie Ianson (sic), a British auto-hack, powering a brute, 660 cc Yamaha XTR – which called for lots of Zen for motorcycling… Finally on the 7th day in the thin air at about 17,000ft near the top of Tanglang La, Ianson ‘went mental’ and passed the reigning champion on the last competitive section of the event,’
If anyone knows what that first bit means…
At the competitive’s finish, I’m congratulated by all and interviewed by a TV crew. I try to point out that the event isn’t actually over, that there are another 300-ish kilometres to the Manali finish and that anything could happen the remaining mountainous miles. And of course, anything does…
I reckon I’ll be very short of pictures for Bike, so grab a friendly photographer do a few shoots of the ride back. This, of course, murders my average speed, so I pick up the pace a little, which also helps my concentration – for most of the long ride, at least.
Rohtang is the last pass before Manali, one of the most beautiful spots on Earth and one of the most stunning rides. I’m over halfway down the Manali side, eager to get to the line and crack open a beer. I’ve been whooping through the tourist traffic that’s been making its way down from the pass’ top and making good progress I’ve passed most of the other returning competitors.
In the dwindling light I find myself behind a small taxi, itself behind a jeep. Beeping my tits off I pull out and start to pass, when so does the taxi. Beep, beep, beep is having no effect and I’m pushed to the edge, where I’m forced to brake. The Taxi’s rear wing takes my front wheel and leaves me spinning down the hillside.
As I struggle up the slope, kicking my boot’s toes into the dirt like a snow climber, a rope is thrown from above, courtesy of Cheta, the co-driver in the second-placed car. I wrap it around my right wrist. Mistake, it’s bloody agony as I’m helped/hauled up by my injured hand.
Near the top many hands pull me to the road where I’m relieved to see the bike lying on the falls’ edge. The right-hand footpeg assembly has been sheared off and the bars are twisted away to the right, but it looks rideable and starts after a few seconds on the button, so I tuck my injured leg into the side of the engine, ask which way I am supposed to be heading and with the steering pointing off the cliff, ride off towards the finish. I self-diagnose a touch of concussion as oncoming traffic leaves me weaving to a halt when it dazzles my pie-pupil eyes and I manage to drive straight past the turning to the finish before realising my mistake and U-turning.
At the finish gate everything is very low key, with few spectators and no photographer to record the event. Rude Matt has made it home before me, making him the first westerner ever to complete the Raid.
The battered bike is left in the Parc Ferme and I’m helped to carry my kit to the nearby hotel. In my room I’m joined by a gaggle of congratulatory friends and we sink a few beers before dinner, after which I crawl under the blankets like a beaten dog and pass out.
