Nepal to Tibet - The highest of highs the lowest of lows

Lobuche East had been conquered, but without knowing it yet something in me had broken. I had pushed too hard. Too far. Too high. Too fast. I didn’t want to stop, I didn’t know how. This was nothing new. I still hadn’t figured out how to pace myself.

My whole life in the military I had sought the hardest things I could do to prove myself. To show others I wasn’t weak, that I wasn’t afraid. To compensate for something lacking in myself. I was never enough, it was never enough, that gap needed constant filling. Joining the military academy, the commando course, P Company, deploying on Ops, all of it was part of a deep unresolved trauma. Rather than resolve it I masked it with badges, medals and accolades. In the process it had started dissolving me.

The past was repeating itself. No directing staff to yell at me now. No badges to collect. Just the old loop running again. Chase the new thing, run from the old thing, burn out, collapse, start again. Nothing had changed except I was on a bike, out of uniform, drifting up and down mountains trying to prove to the world I wasn’t a failure.

As I lay awake in my small guest house on the edge of the mountain, the hue of my breath lit by the moon through the wooden frame, I felt exhausted from the climb but still running on fumes of the past. I pushed away what I called naval gazing rubbish and focussed on the task at hand. Run down to Namche Bazar and link up with Alvaro. From there trek to Surke to get the bikes. Then the death road to Saleri, then Kathmandu. One day to fix Tara. One day to reach the Chinese border. Keep moving. No space for thought.

I had an earthy breakfast of champa, Nepalese porridge. Mima’s cousin owned the gaf, also somehow Nima’s cousin. Tall, slight, delicate hands, nothing like the rough Sherpa stereotype. A doctor by trade but working the Khumbu season to support his family. Hard to fathom from a western mindset. My Khumbu cough had set in, the mix of phlegm and dryness that clings to climbers. My legs were hurting but I had no choice. Sixteen kilometres to Namche if I wanted to make the Tibetan crossing.

I told him my plan to get down in a day. He looked over his coffee, amused and concerned. “I think you can do it. For you maybe seven or eight hours. For us, five.” No condescension, but of course I took it as a challenge. It was on.

I tightened my pack, took a picture of my watch, and stepped out the door. Commando pace on. A Tibetan mastiff I’d met on the way up bounded beside me. I wanted punishment. I wanted atonement. The grind of the uphills was brutal but I felt alive. Blood in my veins, air thickening with every metre descended. Pain turning to fuel. The flow-state swallowing everything else. I was running, gliding, tears mixing with sweat. For a few hours I was free of myself. Alive.

I reached Namche in four hours, took another picture of my watch, sent it to the cousin. As I congratulated myself, a strange sight appeared. A lone Sherpa on a small Tibetan pony, bright red and blue puffer jacket, fluorescent glasses, waving like a madman. It snapped me out of the trance. It was Nima.

“Hey Dai, I bought a horse.”
I stared.
“It’s because of you, all your talk about Vipassana and doing things for others.”
We burst laughing.
“That’s a Sherpa pace. You are one of us Dai. Tonight we have beers.”

I found a small guest house and collapsed. First warm shower in ten days. Exhaustion settled in but I wouldn’t let it. Instead of resting I went out with Nima and the boys. First alcohol since Vipassana. Four pints and I was gone. When the shots came out, I escaped. Stumbled through the steep streets back to the hostel.

The next day was spent in bed, nursing the hangover and the guilt. I hated myself for breaking the vow not to drink. Alvaro had a joint. We shared it. It dragged me further down. I vowed never again. But the unraveling had already begun.

It was time to leave the mountains and say goodbye to Nima, Suren and the gang who had made us feel so welcome. A deep ache leaving my Sherpa family, not knowing if I’d ever return. The constant goodbyes on the road were heart wrenching. Scarves exchanged, big hugs. Then down the valley to get the bikes. One day to Surke. One day to Salleri. One day to Kathmandu. One day to fix the bike. One day to get to the border. No time to feel.

We lumbered down from Namche to Surke in a day. A slow plod. Alvaro exhausted, complaining, struggling. Halfway we argued. He was drowning in existential dread. I suggested Vipassana, Buddhism. He snapped, calling it satanism. My fearless Spaniard suddenly an inquisitor. “I knew a girl possessed by a demon because of this new age shit.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him Buddhism predated Christianity. We dragged our feet downhill.

We arrived in Surke after eight hours, exhausted and mildly terrified about the death road ahead. The bikes were still there under their tarps. We collapsed into a guest house. Thick air wrapped us and sleep came fast.

We left early, fearing a storm. The road was easier than before. Knowing the route is half the battle. We made good time until my radiator blew. Packed with mud, coolant pouring out the emergency valve. I peed on it to cool it down. We limped into Salleri at sunset. Exhausted but elated. Alvaro over the moon after deciding to go home. I didn’t know why I was continuing. Purpose leaking out of me. His departure amplifying the emptiness. He had a life waiting. I had none of that.

We reached Kathmandu the next night. A rugged 370 km ride dodging trucks, heat, dust and racing locals. At the hostel I collapsed on the floor and almost slept right there. One day to fix the radiator before pushing toward Tibet.

The following day was spent in the garage instead of resting. Triumph Nepal had taken an interest and posted about the trip. Interviews, photos, conversation. I was exhausted. The black dog scratched at the door. Suicidal thoughts flickered. I was on the edge but still couldn’t stop.

It rained all day, mixing with pollution and cold. The city sinking and so was I. Lost and feeling unloved.

The next morning I had my final breakfast with Alvaro. After an emotional goodbye I rode north toward the border. Excitement masking the pain. The road turned quickly into Surke part two, a mud soaked track climbing into cloud. Chinese signs appearing. Construction everywhere. The push to flood Nepal with Chinese goods.

I reached the last village before the border, perched on a ridge, covered in mud and dust. Walked into a hotel and collapsed.