Stories from the Road - Mangi and Tungi

 The Most Meaningful Part of My Ride Wasn’t the Destination

During my recent ride to Mangi–Tungi near Nashik, I came across a few children playing in their backyard. What caught my attention was their bicycle.

Almost every part of it was broken. The handlebar had been recreated using whatever pieces they could find, and the damaged seat had been carefully put back together. What many of us might consider useless or throw away had become something meaningful to them—a reason to play, smile and enjoy the moment.

Travel keeps reminding me that inspiration is often found in the simplest places. That little bicycle made me realise that something no longer useful to us could bring immense joy to someone else. Before discarding things, perhaps we should consider repairing, reusing or giving them to someone who may truly value them.

Sometimes, the most powerful lessons come from people who do not even realise they are teaching us.

Just another story from the road—and from the people who continue to inspire me.

Stories from the Road - BE HUMAN

 BE HUMAN

An act of kindness worth sharing.

Yesterday, I went to Dabaspet, almost 90 km from Electronic City, to hand over my motorcycle to a logistics company for its journey to Delhi.

Once the paperwork and packing were done, I suddenly had a very practical problem — how do I get back home?

The godown was on the highway. The nearest bus point was further away, autos were difficult to find, and getting back to Electronic City would probably mean 3+ hours and multiple changes.

As I was walking out, the security guard at the gate casually asked,

"Where are you going, sir?"

"Bangalore."

I asked him whether I could find an auto or bus nearby.

Instead of simply giving me directions, he asked me to wait.

He checked the vehicles scheduled to leave the facility and spoke to one of the drivers. A fully loaded delivery truck heading towards Trivandrum was about to leave.

"He can drop you on the way."

That was it.

A stranger saw another stranger having a problem and decided to solve it.

I offered the security guard some money. He refused.

"I was only trying to help you. I don't expect anything."

I thanked him and climbed into the truck.

The driver moved his belongings, made space for my bag and helmet, and welcomed me into a world I had only ever seen from the outside.

And then the road started looking very different.

Sitting that high in a fully loaded truck gives you an entirely different perspective.

Cars cutting across lanes without indicators.

Two-wheelers squeezing through tiny gaps.

Vehicles overtaking from the left and sitting in blind spots.

We ride and drive as though the truck behind us has a 360° camera and can stop whenever we want it to.

It can't.

Braking a fully loaded truck is nothing like braking a car or motorcycle. Every careless lane change by someone else becomes a calculation the truck driver has to make.

As we continued towards Bangalore, we started talking.

I asked him about his work, his journeys and how he manages these long hours on the road.

Then I casually asked:

"How much do you get paid?"

His answer stayed with me.

₹4 per kilometre.

He explained that he needs to maintain roughly 37 km an hour; if his average falls below that, his effective earnings reduce accordingly.

He was driving all the way to Trivandrum.

He spoke about sleep, schedules, distance and the constant pressure to keep moving.

While I sat beside him working on my laptop, I realised how different our two working days were.

Same highway.

Same hours passing.

Completely different lives.

Eventually we reached Electronic City. He pulled over safely and helped me get my things down.

I offered him some money.

He refused too.

His reason was almost identical to the security guard's:

"I agreed because you might not have found another way from there."

Nothing more.

I took his number, thanked him and wished him a safe journey to Trivandrum.

I started that day simply trying to send my motorcycle to Delhi.

I came home carrying something far more valuable.

Two people who had absolutely no obligation to help me did so — and both refused to take anything in return.

Sometimes we make kindness sound like something extraordinary.

It isn't.

It can be asking someone where they are going.

Making one phone call.

Finding them a seat.

Moving your bag to make space.

Dropping someone along your route.

Or simply noticing that another human being needs help.

BE HUMAN.

Because you may never know the person's story, you may never meet them again, and nobody may ever know what you did.

But perhaps that is exactly when kindness means the most — when there is nothing to gain, nobody watching, and no expectation of anything in return.

And one more thing I will carry from that truck ride:

The next time you cut in front of a truck, squeeze through its blind spot or assume the driver will brake for you, remember there is a human being behind that wheel — carrying tonnes behind him, fighting distance, time and fatigue, while trying to get home safely too.

On the road and in life, leave a little space for another human being.

STORIES FROM THE ROAD - Himalayan Adventure | October 6, 2026

 STORIES FROM THE ROAD

Himalayan Adventure | October 6, 2026

The Last Village of India Taught Me Something About the Life We Live.

Some journeys take you to the end of a road. A few make you question the way you've been living.

It was October 6. I left Leh around 1:30 PM, heading towards Siachen Base Camp, near the northernmost reaches of India, beyond which lies the mighty Siachen Glacier.

I wasn't in a hurry. For once, I wanted to take things slowly.

Khardung La was familiar territory. Having crossed it several times over the years, I had no intention of stopping at the summit. I continued towards Khalsar, refuelled, and headed further north.

The roads gradually became narrower. In some stretches, there was hardly a road at all.

But what a beautiful time to be in the Himalayas!

Early October had painted the entire landscape in shades of yellow and gold. Autumn was everywhere. The next hundred kilometres took me through remote villages, with mountains rising on either side and a silence that only the Himalayas can offer.

I rode slowly through the villages, respecting the people and their space. These were their homes, their everyday lives. I was merely a traveller passing through.

By the time I reached the security checkpost, the sun was almost setting.

"Where are you heading?" asked the defence personnel.

"Siachen Base Camp."

"It's too late now."

"I know. I'm planning to stay at Warshi tonight and visit the base camp tomorrow morning."

He nodded. "Yes, there are tents at Warshi. You can stay there and go tomorrow."

I thanked him and continued.

Beyond the checkpost, the road ran alongside a wide riverbed.

And then, something extraordinary happened.

As the sun began disappearing behind the mountains, the wind suddenly picked up. Fine white sand from the riverbed started rising into the air, carried by powerful gusts.

Within seconds, the entire landscape had transformed.

The last golden rays of sunlight, the white sand swirling through the valley, the mountains standing silently in the background — it was surreal.

I stopped the motorcycle.

There was nothing to photograph, nothing to explain. I simply stood there watching.

Some moments in the Himalayas are not meant to be captured. They are meant to be experienced.

As darkness approached, I switched on my headlight and continued towards Warshi.

A home at the end of the road

It was around 7:30 PM when I reached Warshi, one of India's northernmost villages, near Siachen Base Camp.

There were just a couple of houses and a small campsite with six alpine tents.

I parked my motorcycle outside and walked towards the house.

Two thoughts were running through my mind.

What if they don't have accommodation? And what if they accept only cash?

I wasn't carrying cash.

A young woman managing the family-run campsite welcomed me.

"Do you have a tent available?"

"Yes."

"Do you accept GPay?"

"Yes, we do."

What a relief!

Here I was, almost at the northern edge of the country, surrounded by mountains, with temperatures dropping below minus six degrees, and GPay was working perfectly!

She showed me a tent.

It was surprisingly comfortable — a spacious alpine tent with a queen-sized bed and an attached bathroom.

"₹1,500, including dinner and breakfast," she said.

I confirmed the stay.

"What would you like for dinner?"

I explained that I would be starting a long ride the next morning, all the way towards Kanyakumari, the southernmost tip of mainland India.

I wanted to keep dinner light.

"Just a little rice, dal and some vegetables."

"Will 8 PM be okay?"

"Perfect."

I moved my motorcycle inside the property. She showed me a dedicated parking space and asked whether I needed help carrying my luggage.

I didn't want to remove the saddlebags. It was freezing, and I was planning an early departure.

I took only my change of clothes and chargers.

Then I remembered the battery trouble from the previous day and the sand blowing across the valley.

"Do you have anything I could use to cover my motorcycle?"

"Wait," she said.

She disappeared into one of the rooms and returned carrying a couple of thick blankets.

Not something I had expected!

They were heavy enough to withstand the wind. I helped carry them and covered as much of the motorcycle as possible.

A simple gesture. No hesitation. No complications.

Just someone helping a traveller protect his motorcycle from the Himalayan cold.

A conversation over dinner

By 8 PM, I had changed, plugged in all my gadgets and walked towards the dining area.

It was actually the family's kitchen and dining room.

There was a fireplace, and the warmth was wonderful after being outside in the freezing cold.

The family was around, and they made me feel welcome.

I sat near the fire.

"Can I have some hot water?"

"Hot or warm?"

"Lukewarm will do."

I also asked whether I could carry some back to my tent.

She brought me a flask.

Dinner arrived shortly afterwards.

A little rice — barely six spoonfuls — dal, and a freshly prepared salad of finely chopped beetroot, carrots and tomatoes, along with apples from their own farm.

Nothing elaborate.

But sitting beside that fire, in a small family kitchen at the far northern edge of India, it felt like one of the most memorable meals of my journey.

We started talking.

I was curious about life in Warshi.

There were only a handful of houses around. Leh was approximately 200 kilometres away. Winter was approaching, and temperatures would soon fall to minus fifteen degrees or even lower.

I asked her something that had been on my mind.

"How do you manage your groceries and daily essentials here? Especially during winter?"

She replied quite casually.

"We go to Leh once a month and bring whatever we need."

"And during winter?"

"Sometimes once in two months. Depends on the weather."

I looked at her.

"Two months?"

"Yes."

She explained that travelling to Leh during winter wasn't easy. The weather could be unpredictable, and reaching the city meant negotiating the mountain roads, including the formidable Khardung La.

For her, it was simply how life worked.

For me, that answer stayed in my mind long after the conversation had moved on.

Two hundred kilometres for groceries. Ten minutes for ours.

I couldn't help thinking about the contrast.

Back home in Bengaluru, we live in a world where almost everything is available at our fingertips.

Groceries in ten minutes.

Food in fifteen.

Medicines, household essentials, vegetables, even something as small as a packet of biscuits — delivered to our doorstep.

Sometimes, we order things from a shop barely a few hundred metres away.

Not because we cannot go.

Simply because we don't have to.

And here was a family living in one of the remotest corners of India, planning their essentials for an entire month, sometimes two, because the nearest major town was 200 kilometres away, across some of the most challenging mountain roads in the country.

I kept thinking about that.

For them, planning wasn't a productivity technique.

It was a way of life.

Every trip mattered. Every purchase had to be thought through. The weather determined when they could travel, and the distance determined how carefully they needed to prepare.

Back home, I sometimes order something simply because I don't feel like stepping outside.

Somewhere along the way, I wondered whether convenience had quietly started replacing effort, even when effort was still possible.

It wasn't that I suddenly felt quick commerce was wrong.

Far from it.

Technology has made our lives easier in extraordinary ways. It saves time, helps people who genuinely need assistance, and connects even the remotest places to the rest of the world.

I had just experienced that myself.

Here I was, in Warshi, using Wi-Fi to update my whereabouts and GPay to pay ₹1,500 for my stay.

The same technology that lets someone in Bengaluru order groceries in minutes had reached a tiny settlement near Siachen Glacier.

That was remarkable.

But the conversation made me think about something else.

There is a difference between using convenience when we need it and becoming so accustomed to it that we stop making even the smallest effort.

I thought about the number of times I had ordered things that I could easily have walked out and purchased.

The small interactions missed.

The short walks avoided.

The simple act of stepping outside, meeting people, visiting a local shop, and being part of the world beyond our front door.

Nothing dramatic. Just ordinary things that had gradually disappeared from my routine.

Sitting there beside the fire, I made a small decision for myself.

When I return home, I want to make a conscious effort to step out and get the things I need whenever reasonably possible, rather than automatically reaching for my phone.

Not to abandon technology.

Not to make life unnecessarily difficult.

Just to be a little more conscious about the difference between what I genuinely need and what I have simply become used to.

Funny how a casual conversation over dinner, in a village I might never visit again, could make me reconsider something so ordinary.

The last conversation of the night

After dinner, I paid ₹1,500 through GPay, thanked the family and picked up my flask of warm water.

As I was walking towards my tent, I heard her voice.

"What would you like for breakfast tomorrow?"

"I'll probably leave around 5 AM. Don't worry about breakfast."

"That's okay. We'll prepare something by 4:30. And hot water too."

I smiled.

I told her I might skip breakfast, as I had a very long journey ahead.

She still wanted to make sure I had something before leaving.

It was such a small exchange, but I found it deeply touching.

At a place where even the simplest essentials required a 200-kilometre journey, a family was making sure a complete stranger wouldn't leave hungry.

I walked towards my tent, carrying the flask she had given me.

Outside, it was bitterly cold. My motorcycle stood under the thick blankets she had brought. The mountains had disappeared into the darkness.

Tomorrow, I would head towards Siachen Base Camp and begin my long journey south, towards Kanyakumari.

But my thoughts were still in that warm little kitchen.

I had come all this way to experience the Himalayas, the roads, the altitude and the northernmost reaches of India.

I hadn't expected a conversation about groceries to become one of the most meaningful moments of the journey.

And the irony wasn't lost on me.

At the far end of India, where people plan months ahead for the most basic necessities, I had found Wi-Fi, digital payments, comfortable accommodation and extraordinary hospitality.

Technology had reached the last village.

Yet the people there still lived with an understanding of necessity that I felt I was slowly losing in my own life.

We have made the world accessible without stepping outside our homes. And somewhere in that extraordinary achievement, I wondered how much of the world I had stopped stepping outside to experience.

That night in Warshi, I realised something about my travels.

I may ride thousands of kilometres to reach a destination.

But sometimes, the part of the journey that stays with me isn't the road, the mountain or the distance.

It's a conversation with someone whose everyday life makes me look at my own a little differently.

And this one certainly did.

Stories from the Road | Himalayan Adventure | October 2026

SAME MOUNTAINS. SAME MOTORCYCLE. A DIFFERENT WORLD.

The Himalayas — 2016 vs 2026 | Ten Years Apart

Stories from the Road — Part 2: The Experience

Ten years ago, I travelled through these mountains chasing a record. This time, I returned on the same motorcycle and discovered how much the world around me had changed.

In 2016, I rode from Leh to Kanyakumari in 61 hours on my Honda CBR250R.

In October 2026, I returned to the Himalayas for another endurance challenge, this time starting from Siachen Base Camp.

The record attempt didn't go as planned. Unexpected mechanical issues brought it to an end at Manali.

But this story isn't about the record or what went wrong. That's a different chapter.

This is about what I saw, experienced and felt while travelling through the Himalayas after a decade.

The changing roads, the people, the motorcycles, the technology and some things I wish hadn't changed.

THE HIMALAYAS I REMEMBER FROM 2016

I still remember those roads.

Long stretches of broken surfaces, unpredictable conditions, water crossings and mountain passes where progress was measured in hours rather than kilometres.

Rohtang Pass itself could consume three or four hours. The roads were difficult, and there were stretches where riding demanded every bit of concentration.

Even beyond the Himalayas, places like Seoni Ghat had their own challenges. Roads that were once filled with potholes and difficult sections have now been transformed by better highways and elevated stretches.

In 2026, returning through the mountains was a completely different experience.

The Atal Tunnel has changed access to the region. Highways are wider, roads are better maintained, and many stretches that once demanded considerable time and effort are now far easier to negotiate.

Even the remote Leh–Nimmu–Padum–Darcha route was an extraordinary experience, taking me through landscapes that still feel untouched in many places.

I was genuinely impressed by how much infrastructure has improved.

Better roads mean better access for local communities, easier transportation, more tourism and opportunities that didn't exist earlier.

And that's something worth appreciating.

But while the roads had become easier, the experience of travelling through them had changed in ways I hadn't expected.

WHEN THE MOUNTAINS BECAME CROWDED

One of the biggest differences I noticed was the number of people.

In 2016, there were places where I could ride for long stretches without encountering many vehicles.

Reaching a mountain pass felt like arriving somewhere truly remote.

You would stop, switch off the engine, look around and spend a few minutes simply appreciating where you were.

Sometimes another traveller would arrive, and a conversation would begin.

Where are you coming from? How are the roads ahead? How far are you planning to ride?

Those small exchanges were part of the journey.

In 2026, many of these places were bustling with activity.

Cars, motorcycles, tourist vehicles, groups of travellers and people taking photographs everywhere.

I noticed people rushing from one viewpoint to another, trying to capture reels, photographs and videos.

At some places, I wondered whether people were spending more time preparing their photographs than actually looking at the mountains.

I enjoy photography myself. I take pictures, record memories and share my experiences from the road.

So I understand why people want to capture these extraordinary places.

But I also remember a time when reaching a mountain pass meant simply standing there, looking around and appreciating the silence.

Sometimes, I wonder whether we have become so occupied with capturing the moment that we forget to experience it.

THE BEAUTY WE COME TO SEE — AND WHAT WE LEAVE BEHIND

Another thing that disappointed me was the litter.

Plastic bottles, food wrappers, disposable packaging and other waste scattered around some beautiful locations.

These are landscapes that have taken thousands of years to form, and yet we sometimes treat them like ordinary roadside stops.

I don't believe everyone travelling to the mountains behaves irresponsibly.

I met plenty of thoughtful travellers, and I know that tourism brings important economic opportunities to these regions.

But seeing litter at remote mountain passes and viewpoints was disheartening.

A place doesn't become less beautiful because more people visit it.

It becomes less beautiful when we stop caring for it.

I wish more of us would carry back what we bring, respect local communities and leave these places as beautiful as we found them.

Not because someone is watching, but because these mountains deserve that respect.

BETTER ROADS. FASTER VEHICLES. DIFFERENT RISKS.

Another noticeable change was the pace of traffic.

The highways are better. Vehicles are faster. There are more powerful cars and motorcycles on the roads than ever before.

But I also noticed wrong-side driving, hurried overtaking, people using phones while driving and even recording videos while riding.

One incident near North Pullu, while climbing towards Khardung La, particularly disturbed me.

A Mahindra Thar came towards me in my lane. As it approached, I noticed the driver holding a mobile phone in one hand while steering with the other.

I had to move towards the extreme edge of the mountain road to avoid a collision.

The driver simply continued.

I have travelled through difficult terrain for years, and I understand that the mountains come with their own uncertainties.

But that moment reminded me that sometimes the greatest risk on the road isn't the terrain or the weather.

It's another person's lack of attention.

We have better navigation, Bluetooth systems, hands-free communication and technologies that make travelling easier.

Yet something as basic as keeping our eyes on the road still seems to be overlooked by some.

The roads have improved tremendously. Our responsibility towards others travelling on them remains just as important.

DIGITAL INDIA — AN EXTRAORDINARY CHANGE 🇮🇳

Now, here's something that genuinely amazed me.

I travelled all the way to Siachen Base Camp and completed the expedition without making a single cash payment.

Zero cash.

Everything through Google Pay.

Even in remote Himalayan settlements, small establishments had QR codes.

At Siachen Base Camp, I found Wi-Fi connectivity and digital payment facilities.

Think about that for a moment.

In 2016, travelling through these regions meant making sure I carried enough cash because ATMs and connectivity couldn't always be relied upon.

In 2026, I could make digital payments even in places that once seemed completely disconnected from the rest of the country.

That is an extraordinary transformation.

Of course, connectivity still varies across mountain routes, but the difference compared with a decade ago is remarkable.

And fuel prices? Well, that's another story! The difference between what I paid in 2016 and what I paid during this expedition was quite a reminder of the passing years.

"YOU CAME ALL THE WAY ON A 250CC?" 😄

I heard this question more than once during the expedition.

And every time, I smiled.

The motorcycling world has changed dramatically.

Ten years ago, a 250cc motorcycle was considered quite capable for long-distance touring.

Today, large adventure motorcycles have become common.

Bigger engines, advanced electronics, better suspension, riding modes, traction control and specialised touring accessories have transformed the way people travel.

And I genuinely appreciate these developments.

But there I was, travelling through the Himalayas on the same Honda CBR250R.

Eleven years. More than 1,50,000 kilometres. And still an incredible companion.

I don't ride this motorcycle to prove that a smaller engine is better than a bigger one.

Every motorcycle has its strengths, and I admire what modern adventure motorcycles can do.

But this CBR has been part of some of the most extraordinary experiences of my life.

I know its character, its strengths and the way it behaves on different roads.

From the 61-hour Leh-to-Kanyakumari ride in 2016 to this expedition through Siachen, Khardung La, Leh, Padum and Shinku La, it has travelled with me through countless experiences.

The technology around us has changed.

The motorcycles have changed.

But the excitement I feel when I start this CBR and head towards an unfamiliar destination hasn't.

THE PEOPLE WHO MAKE A JOURNEY MEMORABLE

Beyond the roads and machines, one thing has remained wonderfully familiar.

The kindness of people you meet while travelling.

During this expedition, I met strangers who helped me when my motorcycle wouldn't start, people who shared accommodation, offered advice and made sure I reached safely.

At Pang, I met Sumanth, Gopi and Prathap.

We were strangers when we met.

By the next morning, we were helping one another and riding towards Leh together.

At Jispa, Sharath Shenoy helped me find accommodation when almost everything was full.

And during that difficult night near Shinku La, the occupants of a passing car agreed to help me navigate towards Keylong when my motorcycle's headlight stopped working.

None of these people had any obligation to help.

Yet they did.

It's these encounters that continue to make travelling special for me.

No matter how much technology changes, no navigation app or sophisticated motorcycle can replace the comfort of knowing that someone is willing to help when you need it.

Some of the best memories from a journey come from people whose names you didn't even know when the day began.

TEN YEARS APART — WHAT HAS REALLY CHANGED?

During the long ride home, I found myself remembering my 2016 journey.

The difficult roads, the places I stopped, the people I met and the excitement of attempting something that seemed almost impossible at the time.

Looking back at photographs from that ride, some moments still feel surprisingly recent.

Yet here I was, travelling through the same mountains ten years later.

The roads were different.

The motorcycles around me were different.

Even the way people travelled, communicated and shared their experiences had changed.

And naturally, my own perspective had changed too.

I still enjoy endurance motorcycling.

I still love planning difficult routes, chasing ambitious goals and testing my ability to cover long distances.

That passion remains as strong as ever.

But I have also come to appreciate things that don't appear in a ride's statistics.

A conversation with someone at a roadside tea stall.

An unexpected act of kindness.

A quiet morning in the mountains.

A stranger who stops to help.

The feeling of finally reaching home after an exhausting journey.

These are the things I find myself remembering long after the ride is over.

WHAT WILL THE HIMALAYAS LOOK LIKE IN 2036?

If so much has changed between 2016 and 2026, I wonder what another decade will bring.

Will the mountain passes become even more accessible?

Will electric motorcycles and new technologies change how we travel?

Will the remote places of today become crowded tourist destinations?

Will we still find those quiet corners of the Himalayas where we can stop and enjoy the surroundings?

And on a more personal note, will I still be riding these roads?

Perhaps on the same CBR. Perhaps on another motorcycle.

I don't know.

But I hope I will still have the curiosity to explore, the enthusiasm to take on new challenges and the opportunity to share these experiences with people who matter to me.

Because ultimately, while the destinations and achievements are important, it's the experiences along the way that make the journeys worth remembering.

In 2016, I returned from the Himalayas with a 61-hour record.

In 2026, I returned with another extraordinary experience and a different perspective on the world around me.

I still want to chase records.

I still want to ride through remote mountain passes, explore unfamiliar roads and take on challenges that seem difficult.

But I also want to enjoy the journey itself.

The landscapes, the people, the conversations and those unexpected moments that no amount of planning can predict.

The roads will change. The motorcycles will change. The world will keep moving forward.

I just hope that when I look back another ten years from now, I'll still have stories worth sharing — and the same excitement to discover what's around the next bend.

Stories from the Road. Until the next adventure. 🏍️

#StoriesFromTheRoad #TenYearsApart #HimalayanDiaries #HondaCBR250R #SiachenBaseCamp #EnduranceMotorcycling #LifeOnTwoWheels

I WENT CHASING A RECORD. THE HIMALAYAS HAD ANOTHER STORY WAITING.

Siachen Base Camp to Kanyakumari Expedition 2026 | Honda CBR250R  

October 10, 2026. Back home in Bengaluru. Safe, exhausted, grateful, and with another incredible story from the road.

Ten years ago, in 2016, I rode from Leh to Kanyakumari in 61 hours on my Honda CBR250R.

A decade later, I wanted to attempt something even more challenging — riding from Siachen Base Camp to Kanyakumari in under 60 hours.

The starting point had moved further north. The Himalayan section was more demanding, and I wanted to see whether I could better my own time from ten years ago.

Months went into preparing for this expedition. Studying routes through Google Street View, memorising landmarks, checking road conditions, planning checkpoints and preparing the motorcycle.

But there was one part of my preparation that hadn't gone according to plan.

Sleep.

OCTOBER 1 — THE JOURNEY BEGAN BEFORE I WAS READY

Whenever I prepare for an endurance ride, I usually make a conscious effort to get more sleep than usual for at least a month beforehand.

Of course, sleep doesn't work like a bank account where you can accumulate unlimited hours and withdraw them later. But my intention has always been to begin a demanding expedition properly rested, without carrying fatigue from the preceding weeks.

This time, that didn't happen.

Between work, planning, last-minute arrangements and an early morning flight on October 1, I hadn't been sleeping as I had hoped.

I was working almost until the last minute and couldn't get any meaningful sleep before leaving Bengaluru.

I reached Delhi, collected my CBR from VRL Logistics by afternoon and started towards Chandigarh.

By the time I reached Chandigarh, I decided to call it a day.

I needed proper rest before heading into the mountains.

But despite being tired, I couldn't sleep peacefully that night.

The expedition had barely begun, and I was already carrying the exhaustion I had specifically wanted to avoid.

OCTOBER 2 — CHANDIGARH TO JISPA

The next morning, I continued towards Jispa.

It turned out to be a much longer day than expected.

The long weekend had brought an enormous number of travellers towards the mountains. Traffic congestion stretched across much of the route, with long delays and near standstill conditions at several places.

By the time I reached Jispa around sunset, I was exhausted.

And I had another problem.

I hadn't made an advance accommodation booking.

Almost everything was full.

I contacted Sharath Shenoy at By the River. His property was also fully occupied, but he kindly helped me find accommodation elsewhere.

Eventually, I managed to stay at Camp Jispa Journey.

Jispa sits at approximately 3,200 metres above sea level. The long day, the altitude and the accumulated fatigue were beginning to affect me.

I had a headache, the temperature had dropped below freezing, and by the time I settled into the tent, it was already late.

As usual during demanding rides,  All I wanted was to sleep. But once again, I couldn't.

OCTOBER 3 — AN UNEXPECTED PROBLEM AT JISPA

The next morning began with a surprise I hadn't planned for.

I packed my luggage and tried to start the motorcycle.

The CBR behaved unusually.

The battery had become weak, and the engine wouldn't start as expected.

I tried repeatedly.

Minutes turned into almost an hour.

Eventually, with the help of a couple of people, I removed the luggage and tried pushing the motorcycle downhill.

After a few attempts, the engine finally came to life.

I loaded everything back onto the motorcycle and prepared to leave.

It was already around 10:30 AM.

I had a long day ahead, but physically I was struggling.

The lack of sleep, the altitude, the headache and the unexpected morning effort had taken their toll.

I continued towards Pang, but my progress was much slower than planned.

By the time I reached Pang that evening, I was completely exhausted.

And when I tried starting the motorcycle again, the same problem returned.

I decided to stay at Pang for the night and deal with the battery in the morning.

PANG — THREE STRANGERS WHO BECAME PART OF MY JOURNEY

Pang sits above 4,000 metres, where the air is noticeably thinner and the temperature can fall well below freezing.

That evening, I met three fellow travellers — Sumanth, Gopi and Prathap.

They were experiencing this route for the first time and were planning to continue towards Tanglang La after 7 PM.

Knowing the terrain and how challenging these mountain roads can become after sunset, I suggested that they stay back and cross the pass the following morning instead.

They agreed.

But there was another problem.

Accommodation was extremely limited. Only two cottages were available, and there was no separate room for them.

My cottage was quite spacious and could accommodate four people, so I invited them to share it.

We settled in for the night.

It was a simple arrangement between people who had only just met on the road.

Unfortunately, I couldn't sleep again.

My thoughts kept returning to the motorcycle.

Would it start in the morning? Was the battery the only problem? How much more time would I lose?

I wanted to wake up early, but my body was exhausted.

OCTOBER 4 — PANG TO LEH

I finally woke up around 9:30 AM.

By then, the sun was out.

We packed our belongings, and I tried starting the motorcycle.

The same problem.

Once again, we had to push the CBR downhill.

After a couple of attempts, it finally started.

Sumanth, Gopi and Prathap stayed with me and helped without hesitation.

We then continued towards Leh together.

By approximately 3 PM, we reached Leh safely.

I said goodbye to the three of them and headed towards Khakha's place at Gomenor Stay.

By now, I was already a day behind schedule.

I didn't do much that evening. I went to my room, hoping to get the rest my body badly needed.

But even after reaching Leh, I couldn't sleep properly.

OCTOBER 5 — LEH, A BATTERY AND ANOTHER SLEEPLESS NIGHT

By October 5, I was in no condition to simply wake up and continue riding.

Several nights of inadequate sleep had left me physically and mentally exhausted.

I decided to stay in Leh and resolve the battery problem before proceeding.

In the evening, I went looking for a replacement battery.

Finding the correct one wasn't easy.

Eventually, I found an alternative and called Karthik, who has supported my CBR for years and knows the motorcycle extremely well.

We discussed whether the available battery could be fitted.

With his guidance, I managed to replace it.

And finally, the motorcycle started normally.

By then, it was around 7:30 PM.

I returned to my accommodation relieved that the immediate problem appeared to be resolved.

But the thoughts continued.

The delay. The exhaustion. The remaining distance. The record schedule.

And another night passed without proper sleep.

OCTOBER 6 — ALMOST READY TO GIVE UP

By October 6, I had reached a point where I seriously considered calling off the expedition.

I was exhausted.

Not from riding alone, but from several days of inadequate sleep, altitude, travel delays and repeated uncertainty about the motorcycle.

I knew I wasn't in the physical condition I had planned to be in when attempting this record.

For a while, I decided that perhaps it was better to stop.

But another thought kept coming back.

I had travelled all this way. I had spent months preparing. And I still wanted to reach Siachen Base Camp.

Even if I couldn't attempt the record within the planned time, perhaps I could at least complete the Himalayan journey I had set out to experience.

So I decided to continue, without putting myself under the same time pressure.

I started from Leh towards Siachen Base Camp at approximately 1:30 PM.

I had expected the journey to take around four hours.

But I was riding slowly, and it took longer than anticipated.

By approximately 7 PM, I reached Warshi, the last village before Siachen Base Camp.

I managed to find a place to stay at a camp in Warshi.

For the first time in several days, I felt like eating something.

I had some fresh vegetable salad, a little dal and rice.

Nothing elaborate, but after days of barely eating, it felt good.

And that night, finally, I managed to get some sleep.

Not as much as I would have liked, but enough to feel a little better.

I planned to leave around 5 AM the next morning.

OCTOBER 7 — SIACHEN BASE CAMP. THE MOMENT I HAD WAITED FOR.

The morning was bitterly cold.

Sub-zero temperatures, a little snow and the kind of freezing conditions that make even packing your luggage a task.

I couldn't start as early as planned.

Eventually, I left Warshi around 6 AM.

Siachen Base Camp was approximately another 45 minutes away.

As I rode towards it, many thoughts were going through my mind.

The preparation, the sleepless nights, the battery problem, the delays and the decision I had almost made to abandon the journey.

And now I was finally approaching the place I had travelled all this way to reach.

I arrived at Siachen Base Camp, took in the surroundings and prepared myself for the return journey.

By then, I knew that the original record schedule had already been seriously compromised.

But having finally managed some sleep, I still wanted to see how far I could go.

At approximately 8 AM on October 7, I began riding south towards Kanyakumari.

The destination was thousands of kilometres away.

The first major challenge was Khardung La.

And the mountains weren't finished testing me.

KHARDUNG LA — A FRIGHTENING ENCOUNTER

It was terribly cold.

My hands were freezing, even with my riding gloves, and the weather was beginning to turn snowy as I headed towards Khardung La.

As I climbed near North Pullu, I noticed a Mahindra Thar approaching from the opposite direction.

Initially, nothing seemed unusual.

Then I realised it was heading straight towards me.

I was riding within my lane, but the Thar had drifted into my path.

As it came closer, I could see the driver holding a mobile phone in one hand (recording vedio) and steering with the other, seemingly unaware of the approaching motorcycle.

There was barely any time to react.

I moved towards the extreme left, almost to the edge of the mountain road, leaving just enough room for the Thar to pass.

And it did.

No acknowledgement. No apology. The driver simply continued.

For a few moments, I kept thinking about what had just happened.

Here I was, thousands of kilometres from home, carefully negotiating freezing mountain roads, and a few seconds of someone else's distraction had almost changed everything.

Of all the challenges I had prepared for, this wasn't one of them.

I continued riding, but that incident stayed with me.

THE SANDSTORM THAT MAY HAVE CHANGED EVERYTHING

After Leh, I took the Nimmu–Padum–Darcha road towards Manali.

This was one of the stretches I had been looking forward to — remote Himalayan landscapes, isolated roads, high-altitude terrain and the kind of riding that demands your complete attention.

Somewhere along this route, I encountered something completely unexpected.

A sudden, violent swirl of wind and sand.

It happened within seconds.

I could see the dust moving, but couldn't judge how quickly or forcefully it would come towards me.

Before I could react, the swirling sand hit me and the motorcycle with tremendous force.

I had to stop.

For those few moments, the wind and sand surrounded us. By the time it passed, both the CBR and I were completely covered in fine dust.

I dusted myself off, checked the motorcycle and continued.

At that moment, I didn't think much of it.

Just another unexpected encounter on a remote Himalayan road.

Little did I realise that those few seconds might have changed the course of the entire expedition.

As the day progressed, the headlight switch wasn't functioning as expected, and eventually I was left without a working headlight.

And I still had Shinku La to cross.

SHINKU LA — THREE HOURS I WILL NEVER FORGET

By the time I approached Shinku La, darkness had set in.

Over 5,000 metres above sea level.

Sub-zero temperatures. Snow around the mountain roads. Thin air. Darkness.

And no functioning headlight.

I had crossed difficult Himalayan passes before, but this was an entirely different situation.

The road ahead was barely visible, and I still had to make my way towards Keylong.

Fortunately, I managed to request help from a passing car. The occupants agreed to let me follow them, using their vehicle's lights to help me navigate the road.

For nearly three hours, I followed that car through the darkness towards Keylong.

Those three hours felt much longer.

My eyes were constantly on the road, the vehicle ahead and whatever little of the terrain I could make out.

But the real exhaustion was happening inside my head.

What exactly had failed? Could it be repaired? Would I be able to continue the attempt? What if another electrical issue developed? 

I had spent months preparing for the physical demands of this expedition — distance, altitude, weather, road conditions and time.

But I hadn't anticipated the mental strain of navigating a remote mountain road in darkness, dependent on another vehicle's headlights, while constantly wondering what was happening to my motorcycle.

The cold was manageable. The altitude was familiar. The distance was something I had prepared for. But those three hours of uncertainty drained me mentally more than I had expected.

Eventually, I reached Keylong.

Only then could I begin thinking through what might have happened.

I called Karthik, the person who knows my CBR better than anyone.

As we discussed the symptoms and retraced the day's events, I remembered the sudden sandstorm on the Nimmu–Padum–Darcha road.

That brief encounter could have been the reason.

Fine sand may have entered the handlebar switch assembly and interfered with the electrical contacts, potentially causing the switch failure.

We couldn't confirm the cause at that moment, but it was a plausible explanation.

It was difficult to believe that a few seconds inside a violent swirl of sand might have affected an expedition that had taken months to prepare.

By the time I reached Manali that evening, I was physically tired and mentally exhausted.

MANALI — THE DECISION I DIDN'T WANT TO MAKE

The motorcycle needed attention. The time lost in the mountains had disrupted the schedule, and continuing the record attempt was no longer practical.

I had to make the decision.

The Siachen-to-Kanyakumari sub-60-hour attempt was over.

I won't pretend I wasn't disappointed.

After months of preparation, countless hours of planning and the determination to revisit a challenge from ten years ago, accepting that the attempt had ended before I could reach the plains wasn't easy.

But I was also relieved.

Relieved to have crossed Shinku La safely.

Grateful to the people in the passing car who helped me through those difficult hours.

And grateful that my motorcycle had brought me through another extraordinary day in the Himalayas.

That evening, the record was no longer on my mind.

All I wanted was to get the motorcycle attended to, rest and make my way home.

Sometimes, accepting that a mission cannot continue is harder than the effort you put into attempting it.

OCTOBER 8–10 — THE LONG ROAD HOME

October 8 | Manali to Gwalior

The morning began with getting the motorcycle attended to and resolving the issues that had interrupted the attempt.

Once everything was sorted, I started towards Bengaluru.

By the end of the day, I had reached Gwalior.

October 9 | Gwalior to Hyderabad

Back on the highways, the CBR settled into its familiar rhythm.

It was another long day, covering approximately 1,200 kilometres in around 14 hours.

After everything we had experienced in the Himalayas, there was something deeply satisfying about watching the kilometres pass and knowing that the journey home was progressing.

October 10 | Hyderabad to Bengaluru

A few hours of rest, another early start and the final stretch home.

By morning, I was back in Bengaluru.

The return journey had taken me through some of the most demanding Himalayan terrain and across the plains of India.

I hadn't reached Kanyakumari.

I hadn't achieved the record.

But my Honda CBR250R and I had made it safely home.

And after everything that had happened, that meant a great deal.

THE INCREDIBLE MACHINE BEHIND THE JOURNEY

11 years. Over 1,50,000 kilometres. One Honda CBR250R.

The same motorcycle that took me from Leh to Kanyakumari in 61 hours in 2016.

The same machine that has been part of countless endurance rides, mountain expeditions and adventures across India.

And now, another extraordinary journey through sub-zero temperatures, snow, remote mountain roads, high-altitude passes and thousands of kilometres of highways.

Yes, we encountered unexpected mechanical and electrical issues.

But once they were attended to, this incredible machine carried me from Manali through Gwalior, Hyderabad and all the way back to Bengaluru.

That is something I genuinely admire about this motorcycle.

Over the years, I've come to know it in a way that's difficult to explain. Every sound is familiar. Every journey carries a memory. Every new destination adds another chapter to a story that began in 2015.

People sometimes ask why I continue riding the same 250cc when there are so many bigger, more powerful motorcycles available today.

I don't have a complicated answer.

This motorcycle has been part of some of the most extraordinary moments of my life.

We've travelled too far together, shared too many experiences and created too many memories for me to see it as just another machine.

And even today, every time I turn the key, I feel the same excitement I felt when our journey began.

THE PEOPLE BEHIND THIS SOLO EXPEDITION ❤️

A solo ride may have only one rider on the motorcycle, but there are always people who make the journey possible.

Some of the most memorable moments of this expedition came from people I met along the way.

Sharath Shenoy — By the River, Jispa

Thank you for helping me find a place to stay when Jispa was completely packed during the long weekend, even though your own property was full.

Sumanth, Gopi and Prathap — Three strangers at Pang

We met by chance at Pang, shared a cottage for the night and ended up travelling together towards Leh.

When my motorcycle refused to start the following morning, all three of you helped push it downhill until the engine finally came to life.

You stayed with me and made sure I reached Leh safely.

We met as strangers, but those are the kinds of encounters that make travel memorable.

Karthik — The man behind my CBR

No matter where I am or what goes wrong, Karthik has always made himself available when I need his expertise.

From helping me find a solution to the battery problem in Leh to discussing the switch failure after the Shinku La crossing, he was only a phone call away.

Having someone who knows this motorcycle so well and stands behind these adventures means a great deal.

Manjunath and Motoblazer (Highlander)

Thank you for helping me with the motorcycle and riding gear.

Manjunath, the riding jacket you recommended was exactly what I had been searching for since my old Cramster Eclipse.

It proved to be a perfect companion in the Himalayan conditions.

Khakha — Gomenor Stay, Leh

Thank you for looking after me during my stay and making me feel at home, so far away from home.

VRL Logistics

Once again, thank you for transporting my motorcycle from Bengaluru to Delhi.

Perfectly packed, delivered within four days and in excellent condition, ready for the journey 

My family and friends

For always standing behind me through these adventures, even when my plans take me thousands of kilometres away from home.

And to everyone who followed my live tracking, checked my whereabouts, called, messaged or worried when my location stopped moving — thank you.

Knowing that people were following my journey and genuinely cared about my safety meant more than I can express.

And a special thank you to the people in the car who helped me navigate those difficult hours from Shinku La towards Keylong.

I may never meet them again, but their help made a difficult night manageable.

Sometimes, the people you meet for a few minutes on the road become part of a story you remember for a lifetime.

MISSION FAILED. DREAM STILL ALIVE.

I started this expedition with one objective — to ride from Siachen Base Camp to Kanyakumari in under 60 hours.

I didn't achieve it.

And I'm fine saying that.

There is no point pretending every adventure ends in success.

Some attempts work. Some don't.

Looking back, the challenges began long before I reached Siachen.

The sleepless nights. The traffic congestion. The headaches at altitude. The repeated battery problems. The exhaustion that almost made me abandon the journey in Leh.

Then came the freezing morning at Siachen, the frightening encounter near North Pullu, the sudden sandstorm and those three mentally exhausting hours across Shinku La without a working headlight.

Yet there were also the people who helped me, the places I visited and the satisfaction of finally returning home.

And through it all, the CBR and I shared another extraordinary journey.

In 2016, I returned with a 61-hour record.

In 2026, I returned with an experience that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

The dream hasn't gone anywhere.

There are already two extraordinary adventures taking shape for March 2027 and September/October 2027.

New destinations. New challenges. Another opportunity to explore the limits of human endurance and what a motorcycle can achieve.

For now, the CBR gets some well-deserved attention, and I get to look back at another journey I'll never forget.

We didn't beat the clock. But we made it home. Together.

And sometimes, that's a story worth telling too.

Until the next adventure. The road isn't finished with us yet. 🏍️

#SiachenBaseCamp #HondaCBR250R #EnduranceMotorcycling #StoriesFromTheRoad #HimalayanExpedition #MissionFailedDreamAlive

Fastest North to South (Leh to Kanyakumari) in 61 hours published in Media 

Deccan Chronicle - 5th, November, 2016 - Article Link - http://epaper.deccanchronicle.com/articledetailpage.aspx?id=6678812#

Throttle club  - https://news.throttle.club/throttle-featured-rider-balaji-mohan/

TheIndia - http://www.theindia.co.in/travelogues/fastest-north-to-south-leh-to-kanyakumari-ride-india

RushLane - https://www.rushlane.com/leh-to-kanyakumari-fastest-balaji-mohan-12211865.html

Fastest North to South -Leh To Kanyakumari "The Story Behind Adventures 61 Hours of Heavenly Ride"