to the speed of an asthmatic slug , bunny-hopping past an ‘ IF YOU ’ RE MARRIED DIVORCE SPEED ’ sign at the dangerous speed of seven miles per hour . In the Hero ’ s present state there was no chance of making it over the Sela Pass tomorrow . I had to find some way to fix it .
That night I stayed in Dirang , a pretty town scattered across a valley at the milder altitude of 1500 metres . Over the telephone from England , Marley – my all-knowing boyfriend - told me that by stuffing electric wire inside the main jet of the carburettor and removing the air filter , I should be able to alter the fuel-to-air ratio sufficiently for my Hero to wheeze over the Pass . It was the equivalent of putting the bike on a homemade respirator .
Soon , a local mechanic and I were squatting beside the Hero , studying its carburettor by torchlight . Ignoring my pointing , sign language and instructions on Google Translate , he poked around the bike for other explanations for its sickness , while I hopped around behind him in frustration saying , “ No – carburettor , carburettor !” But I was a woman , I couldn ’ t possibly be right . Only
TRAVERSE 19