Last fall I had the adventure of a lifetime. Royal Enfield invited me to ride the Moto Himalaya Mustang, which took me from Kathmandu in Nepal to the border of China, high in the Himalayan mountains. The full story appeared in the March Dual-Sport/Adventure Bike Buyer’s Guide. Now, Royal Enfield’s 2025 adventures are scheduled and taking sign-ups. You can check them out at Royal Enfield’s website. In case you missed it, here’s the original story.
Every foot came with a hefty price tag. The traction wasn’t actually that bad considering I had street tires and a 400-pound motorcycle. But, when I got to the point where I was spinning at full throttle in second gear with no perceptible progress, it was time to surrender. I wouldn’t get any higher unless I got off and pushed, and that would have reduced my blood oxygen level to zero. I looked over at DJ. He had come to a stop at roughly the same level, so I side-hilled my way to him.
“How high?” I wheezed.
“According to this, 15,590 feet,” he replied, looking at his watch.
It was higher than either of us had ever been. The weird part was that we were in a valley looking up at peaks that were at least 10,000 feet higher. In the distance was the Dhaulagiri, the seventh-highest peak in the world. In the other direction we could see a bit of the Tibetan Plateau, and a little to the left were peaks in China. “That will have to do.”
THIN AIR AND ANCIENT PATHS
It was day six of the Moto Himalaya Mustang tour in Nepal. Seven days earlier, I couldn’t have told you anything about Nepal. I didn’t know what language they spoke (Nepali, by the way), what side of the road they drove on (left) or even what hemisphere it was in (Northern). I did know that Mount Everest was there, but that’s all. The Moto Himalaya Mustang is an annual 10-day motorcycle tour sponsored by Royal Enfield that is open to anyone who signs up. It starts in the capital city of Kathmandu, which sits in the country’s central valley at 4600 feet. Then it goes down. The city of Pokhara comes on day two at only 2700 feet. From there, you get a glimpse of things to come—jagged snow-capped peaks on all sides. Everest, as it turns out, isn’t one of them. That lies about 200 miles to the east. For this particular ride, we were going west to the walled city of Lo Manthang in the ancient kingdom of Mustang. In Lo Manthang, they have a language all their own, which has more in common with Tibetan than Nepali. Our guides were from India and Nepal, and even they didn’t speak the local language. How did we all communicate? English.
Here’s how it all came about: Royal Enfield is a large motorcycle company that produces bikes mostly for the domestic Indian market. It is, technically, the oldest motorcycle company in the world, with continuous production since 1901. Outside of India, though, Enfield has traditionally been relegated to the retro bike market, with motorcycles and designs straight out of the ‘50s. Recently, that’s begun to change. The Royal Enfield Himalayan 450 is a newly introduced adventure bike that is as modern as anything on the market. That’s how I got there. It was my chance to test the Himalayan 450 in the very mountain range that provides its namesake.
I’ve been lucky. In a preposterously long career, I’ve had opportunities to ride dirt bikes all over the world. At this point, I can’t even make an accurate list, but it includes six continents and virtually every country in the European Union. Nothing, and I mean nothing, compares to the adventure I experienced in Nepal.
HOW HIGH WOULD YOU LIKE?
It might have been possible to get a little higher than we did on day six, but it wasn’t necessary. We had better things to do. Our group consisted of about 10 riders plus several guides.
There were two other Americans, one of whom was DJ Osborne who leads tours of his own out of Park City, Utah. Our leader was Pankaj Bishnoi; we called him “Prince.” We had been in Lo Manthang for a couple of days at that point, and Prince told us we were going to ride to the “golf course” as a short excursion. I imagined there was an actual golf course where jetsetters went to set record-breaking drives in the ultra-thin air. No, in actuality, it was just a flat, grassy area at the end of a high, rocky road. To get higher, there would be no more roads, and every foot would cost dearly.
After the record attempt, we had no more fight left. We went cave exploring near the Chinese border that afternoon. Not that long ago, these caves were occupied by guerrillas who were opposed to the Chinese annexation of Tibet. This whole region had only recently settled down to the point where tourism was practical. Long before the squabbles with China, Mustang had been an independent monarchy with its own royal family. Lo Manthang was the capital, and at the center of that walled city was—and still is—a royal palace made of mud. On the other side of the city, there’s a Buddhist monastery where monks pray and chant, much as they did 600 years ago.
Western civilization has yet to arrive in Mustang. There are no restaurant chains or grocery stores. They don’t even have gas stations. If you want petrol, you buy it in a jug from a small general store. Most of the region is actually supplied from the Chinese side of the border, which has more accessible roads. The roads on the Nepal side are a work in progress. Tourists to the area are mostly mountain climbers and hikers. The only commercial airport is Jomsom at almost 9000 feet, and from there it’s a seven-day walk to Lo Manthang. I can’t imagine that the hikers were thrilled that we did it in half a day.
THE BOYS
All of us thought we came to ride motorcycles. It turned out that motorcycles were secondary. It was all about being there. Nasuh Mahruki was a Turkish mountain climber with an unreal resume. Beyond several summits on Everest, he had climbed K2 without oxygen or any help from a sherpa. The only significant mountains he hadn’t climbed in his long professional career were the ones in Mustang. Travel in the region had been too restricted for too long. He came because it was a box he had to check, if not on foot then by motorcycle. Tobiasz and Piotrek were Polish YouTubers and probably the most skillful riders in the group, although DJ and Omar could hold their own, too. Karthik, Reed and Kingy had more experience on pavement than dirt. All of us quickly discovered that the most challenging riding had nothing to do with dirt roads, rocks or trails. It was traffic. When I think of traffic, I think of gridlocked freeways and lane splitting. In order to lane split, though, you need lanes. The escape from Kathmandu was an insane, chaotic flow of scooters, motorcycles, trucks and taxis. There were no lanes, no traffic lights and seemingly no rules. Keeping up with Prince was essential, but it was like the first turn of a National motocross, non-stop for five hours. Every intersection was a game of chicken. Riding on the left made it even more essential to follow the leader, but even that rule seemed to break down at times. From the very start I believed that the locals and even our guides were the most skillful motorcyclists on earth, simply because they survived all this on a regular basis.
As we got out of town, it seemed to settle down. There were rules, and Prince repeatedly admonished me for not knowing them. Don’t ride directly beside him. Don’t pass cars on the left. Don’t be timid about using your horn. And, whatever you do, don’t fall behind. When the pavement turned to dirt on day two, I began to feel more at home, but even then, traffic was a big factor.
The roads were narrow and rough, and the other vehicles were mostly buses and trucks. For the average Nepali resident to travel to Mustang, it was an arduous five-day ordeal. You would book passage on one of these incredibly sketchy buses and pray that your driver was really good at his job. They showed incredible skill as they navigated mountain switchbacks that were so tight a Civic would have to perform a three-point turn. It seemed that virtually all the buses would break down at one point or another. They all carried their own spare parts. It was a common sight to see the driver changing a differential in the rain while all the passengers waited on board.
It was kinda strange, but the farther we traveled into the most remote areas, the more comfortable I became. A 12,000-foot pass in the Himalayas doesn’t feel that different from riding in Nevada. It’s dirt, rocks and twisty roads. That’s the stuff I knew and understood. There was occasionally something from left field, though. There were several Indiana Jones-style swinging foot bridges over canyons and rivers. They were sturdy, but they were long. As far as I knew, it would be very difficult to fall off. But, you had plenty of time to think about it.
THE PEOPLE
The region of Mustang is predominantly Buddhist. Monasteries and temples were common, and every summit had strings of prayer flags stretched across the road. The flags were always arranged in a specific order: blue, white, red, green, and yellow for sky, air, fire, water and earth. Every village had prayer wheels, which were cylinders mounted on spindles, unusually mounted in long rows. The faithful spin them (clockwise only) and recite a mantra.
In Lo Manthang, I discovered the monks were approachable and highly intelligent. They are among the most educated and skilled people in the area. In the monasteries, they are taught language and crafts. I met one who had retired from his life in the monastery and now ran a small shop where he sold intricate paintings to the tourists who trickled through town. Both Buddhists and Hindus consider the Himalayas a source of power and enlightenment. It’s easy to understand how a place like this feeds spiritualism. It would be impossible to get up every morning surrounded by those incredible peaks and not be moved. They don’t look like any other mountains in the world.
The tour spends three nights in the ancient walled city of Lo Manthang with short excursions in the local area.The tour spends three nights in the ancient walled city of Lo Manthang with short excursions in the local area.
THE RIDE
The trip back down the mountains along the Kali Gandaki River was fun. A big rainstorm washed away sections of the road, and there were long sections where you simply had to surf through running water. If any of the more street-oriented riders needed help, the Polish boys would spring into action and happily ride multiple bikes across to safety.
That extended beyond the riders in our group to the locals. Tobiasz must have ridden about 10 bikes through one washout. There were only a few moments throughout the trip where I would consider the terrain itself to be truly challenging. This trip was more about seeing things I had never seen and going places I had never been. Motorcycles were essential to that simply because there was no other way to do it. There’s no way on earth that I would set foot on one of those buses. In a car, the trip would take weeks. And while I admire the hikers and mountain climbers, that’s just not me.
No, it had to be done by motorcycle. And, I would love to do it again. The only frustrating part is that next time, I won’t be able to do it for the first time.