But the summit was not a victory. It was fear and exhaustion wrapped tight around my ribs. No triumph. No sense of achievement. Only the cold realisation that I still had to get down. Pride mixed with dread. The job was not done. There was no space for the past up here. Fuck the past. Fuck Kate. Fuck the army. Fuck the failures. None of it mattered now. Survival did. I trusted Lakhpa entirely. We hugged briefly and began the descent.

Looking down, I saw everything we had climbed and everything waiting to punish a single mistake. The true point of a climb is not reaching the top. It is getting down alive. We used the same ropes to abseil. One slip meant being impaled on the ice. Fear surged through me, tightening everything. Fear is a toxic mistress. She lives in all of us. She has her place. But now she needed to fuck off. Trust the rope. Trust Lakhpa. I turned my back to the wall and began to descend.

The Khumbu had its own hierarchy. Climbers at the top, trekkers in the middle, tourists at the bottom, and Sherpas carrying all of us whether we admitted it or not. I pretended I was above it, but the truth was that I cared deeply where I sat in that unspoken ranking. I wanted to be seen as strong, as capable, as a man with purpose. Judgement was just camouflage for insecurity. I had come to the mountains chasing something like absolution, but standing there I felt like every other wanderer trying to convince himself he deserved to be here.

I needed to get away from humanity before I said something unkind. So I climbed higher for the evening. Climb high, sleep low. A rule drilled into me years ago by some drunken senior officer in some forgotten mess hall. The wind bit. The boots crunched rhythmically. At a small monastery at 4400 metres I found quiet again. I meditated but my mind was wild. When I came back down, a pack of village dogs settled around me. Two big mastiffs pressed against my sides, one licking my ear like an old friend. Their calm was better company than anything else that day. We sat there on the rock, looking at the valley below as the sun collapsed behind Ama Dablam and the world widened for a brief moment

Sixty thousand people travel through the Khumbu each year in the narrow weather window between snow and rain. Sherpas make a living, but the valley suffers: pollution, trash, poor waste management. People come for ego, redemption, healing, escape. The climb becomes a path to finding something lost or shedding something heavy.

The mountain shows you what matters. It strips you down in ways you don’t expect. Whatever emotional load you’re carrying, it drags up.

Rounding a tight corner with a cliff on one side and a long drop on the other, I almost walked into a full two-metre wooden door. It moved up the path on a pair of flip-flops underneath. The porter beneath it panted hard, each step a battle. The sight froze me.

Then a large, Arcteryx-clad westerner appeared, red-faced and irate that his path was blocked. He moved to grab the top of the door, ready to drag it aside, which would have toppled the load and sent the porter tumbling into the void with eighty kilos on his back.

Alvaro and I set off on our Don Quixotian quest to chase down windmills toward Kathmandu. The road was dusty, muddy, and full of drunk lorry drivers intent on running us off it. As I swerved around loose chickens and a souped-up tuk-tuk, a two-stroke motorcycle suddenly flew past, two-up. The rider was clearly Western; I could tell from the build and the full-sleeve tattoo. He was riding in jeans, a long hunting knife on his belt, and behind him a slight Nepali clung on for dear life. He left me in a cloud of dust.

My ego was bruised. The red mist rose. How dare he overtake me, a world traveller. I couldn’t take the affront. I gave in to anger and competition.

Fuck him. It was on.

The next week was spent floundering around Pokhara. I joined a local Muay Thai gym to get my fitness back on track. The contrast between Vipassana and kickboxing was fierce. As I entered the gym, a tall, ghoulish-looking man lurked in the corner. Wiry frame, gaunt eyes, moving like a panther crossed with an iguana. He approached with wild energy. There was something disturbing and intriguing about him. “I’m Roman,” he said in a thick Russian accent. “Do you want to spar? Don’t worry, we go light.”

Class hadn’t even begun. I usually avoided sparring with unknowns; it can spill into a full war, and I only wanted some fitness drills. My ego got the better of me. There was provocation in his tone. I took the bait.

In those hours of immobility, my mind turned back to another kind of endurance, one forged in uniform. I had damaged knees from parachuting and years of abuse in the army. Every session reached a point when the pain became unbearable. My mind screamed at me, “What are you doing to me? You won’t be able to move again. This is stupid. What are you trying to prove? Just give up and move.” Using the focus we had developed and understanding that this too shall pass, I observed the pain without reacting. It might sound masochistic, but it worked. Rather than categorising the pain as good or bad, I looked at it in detail. Where exactly was it hurting? The top of the knee, the side, the surface? By detaching from judgment, I could observe. When the pain became too much, I moved to the next body part and repeated the scanning, sweating with determination and pain.

Crossing into Nepal was one of the easiest border crossings so far. I entered from the far southeastern edge, near Bandasa. The "border," if you could even call it that, was barely a suggestion. I could have ridden straight in without anyone stopping me. No real guards, no barriers—just a small hut posing as an admin office, manned by visibly bored and possibly stoned officials.

It was mid-afternoon when I rolled across. I felt relief—maybe even a flicker of joy—to be riding alone again. The southeast of Nepal is flat compared to the Himalayan madness I’d just survived. There’s one main highway that runs the length of the country, and I latched onto it with purpose. The endless twists of India had frayed my nerves—I needed a break from the drama of the mountains.

The peace of Rishikesh was no match for the storm inside my head. Africa had opened a can of worms I wasn’t ready to eat from. Suddenly, I had money in my pocket and respect from men I once worshipped—rough, experienced professionals who liked me for what I brought to the table. I could sit in a room, speak their language, understand all the acronymic jargon. I was part of something bigger again.

Back in Rishikesh, stripped of mission and purpose, I floundered. I turned to alcohol. I hadn’t drunk in a long time. Rishikesh is a dry state—it had been easy to stay clean. But freedom weighed heavy, and the bottle was a fast escape hatch.

I returned to Rishikesh via the Jim Corbett National Park — the northernmost tiger reserve in India. Named after the British adventurer-turned-conservationist Jim Corbett, who once hunted big cats before dedicating his life to protecting them. The descent from the Himalayas into the jungle was mesmerising. I felt like I’d ridden straight into a Kipling novel — wild monkeys swung from the trees, and rustling rivers spilled into deep pools of crystal-clear water.

We lay on the marble floor of the ashram yoga hall, surrounded by candles, incense, singing bowls, strange stringed instruments. And something shifted. I dropped into a trance. Floating in that liminal space between wake and dream, a vision came: a towering, snow-capped mountain glowing electric blue. It stared back at me, silent and certain. Calling. I jolted awake. The image wouldn’t leave me. Maybe it was Nepal calling me.

Then  my old friend Lev messaged. He’d landed a commission from a British paper to cover the Maha Kumbh Mela — the once-in-a-lifetime planetary alignment that would draw millions to Prayagraj, at the confluence of the Ganga, Yamuna, and mythical Saraswati. A gathering only possible once every 144 years. According to astrologers and sages, this alignment would awaken something ancient. It was estimated that over 140 million people would pass through the city in a month — all for the chance to bathe at the Triveni Sangam and receive its rare blessing.

I surrendered to the myths and whispers about the river’s healing power. I sat by her edge for hours, letting the turquoise flow pass me by like time itself. I went to the gym. I ran in the jungle. I spent time with my odd cast of Indian friends. Everyone I met was drawn to this place for reasons they couldn’t quite name. A friend coined it “getting Rishikeshed.” You come for a few days. You stay for months.

I knew I wouldn’t make it to Southeast Asia for the winter as planned. But I made peace with that. I told myself I’d rest here a few weeks, then move on. Keep the body moving. Keep the mind occupied.

But at night, the doubts always returned.

“So she enticed and won our battle-hardened spirits over.” – The Odyssey, Homer

Nestled between large, luscious green mountains, where the Ganges flows down from the Himalayas to meet the plains, lies Rishikesh. Currently known as the yoga capital of the world, it was made famous to the West in the 1960s by The Beatles, who sought refuge and inspiration within the confines of one of the Ganga’s-facing ashrams. Historically, Rishikesh holds immense spiritual significance in Hindu culture, steeped in myth and tradition. It is a place of pilgrimage and theological practice, drawing sadhus (saints) and pilgrims alike from all over India. It is a haven of peace and tranquillity for any weary traveller seeking to escape the mad hustle and bustle of modern India’s mega cities.

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.

Despite Lahore and Amritsar both being major Punjabi cities, the difference in wealth and affluence was a shock at first. Walking from the airport to the city center, I had to double-take when I saw a woman driving a scooter—without a veil! I almost caught myself shouting “Haram!” I was so accustomed to being in the Muslim world, where women are rarely seen driving, that it took me some time to acclimatize. The streets were busy and crowded like those in Pakistan; the air was still smoggy and rich with a mixture of exotic aromas and open sewers—but there was something different.

Arriving in Pakistan was a relief after Afghanistan. I had upheld my promise to ride one last time with the Sultans and, although I felt sad to leave my adopted tribe, I was relieved to be out of Afghanistan and into Pakistan.

Valentyn, the erudite and wild Ukrainian rider I had met in Kabul, joined me to ride into Pakistan. We were headed in the same directions a round the world, it made sense to share some tarmac together. We arrived at Torkham, the northeastern border crossing between Afghanistan and Pakistan, unsure of the security situation. Reports from the overlanders’ grapevine indicated that the border could shut down without warning due to rising tensions between the two countries. Just the week before, a Dutch traveller had been stranded in no-man’s land for a week after the Pakistani side closed due to rioting. The relationship between Pakistan and Afghanistan had always been fraught, often leading to violent clashes.

As I rode through the Tajikistan border, past desolate and abandoned coalition force buildings, a visceral fear churned in my stomach. What the hell was I doing returning to Afghanistan? The searing heat was confusing my thoughts, dragging my mind back to the harsh immediacy of the now.

We approached the bridge that divides Tajikistan and Afghanistan, a benign dictatorship on one side and the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan on the other. We rode slowly towards the bridge head, ducking under the overlapping arcs from an armoured vehicle on the Tajik side. Across the bridge, I could see white Taliban flags fluttering in the hot desert winds.

It was too late to turn back. The plan was already in motion. I could hear my heart pounding louder than Tara's thumping engine. A Taliban soldier in a US Humvee overlooked the bridge, a mounted UK or US Minimi tracking our approach.

I had dreamed about reaching this part of the journey for years. The pamir had a magnetic draw on me. Maybe it was its remoteness and famed natural beauty, maybe it was the challenge of taking the bike and myself to its limits. I didn’t know I was filled with nervous excitement at heading into what many had described as some of the hardest and most rewarding motorcycling in the world. Was I ready? Was the bike going to hold up with the altitude, did I have the skills to get through it, all these questions would soon be answered.

The Pamir highway, carved through mountains and mysteries, was more than just a road; it was a rite of passage for those seeking adventure and perhaps something deeper—solitude, challenge, or maybe a glimpse into ourselves.