when he failed to find anything else wrong did he reluctantly follow my instructions , screwing apart the carburettor to poke a length of thin copper wire inside the main jet . Whether the bodge would work or not , only tomorrow would tell .
The following morning , swaddled in thermals and down , I began the 130 kilometre , 2,400-metre climb towards the Pass , zigzagging upwards through taupe , pine-clad hills half obscured by cloud . Trucks ground up the steep inclines and shaggy yaks ambled across the road , skittering nervously as I passed . At 3,000 metres , when the trees had thinned to nothing , the Hero was still going . Onwards I climbed , slower and slower , crawling steadily towards the summit through a wilderness of cloud . 10 km … 8 km … 6 km , said the white marker stones by the road . When we crept past the 4 km stone , I knew we ’ d make it . Even if the bike conked out now I could push it to the top .
It was cold . Dregs of snow lay on the rocky verge and the freezing air bit through my two pairs of gloves . How odd to think I ’ d been in the tropical heat of Assam only
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