What I didn’t mention about the first trip to, or rather should I say from, Nagarkot was the trip home. I wouldn’t call it road rage, the way I tore down the inadequately paved roads, but maybe honk happy. Not that I haven’t learned this already, but it is truly liberating to honk your horn every fifty or so yards and then watch the traffic part in front of you like the Red Sea. The only thing that would have gotten me through that quicker would have been a siren. This was my only trip behind the wheel in this country of any significance. I still hate driving on the left hand sign, but I manage.
The car will go back to Nagarkot months later, but I won’t be riding in it. Sal again will be part of this, as will my other colleague, Aidan. Together we hatch this bright idea that will see us in Nagarkot on a Saturday, on our day off…running, that is. This time we take a different route. It will be 15 km of more or less level terrain followed by a consistent 9 km climb up the mountain. Not an easy run, but manageable.
There are times when you think to yourself that Saturdays are wonderful events, rare opportunities to charge the batteries while devoting much needed time to your children when you otherwise wouldn’t see them. You can go out and play some ball yourself or slouch on the sofa while watching it. Who in their right mind would then spend it beating themselves up hustling up a mountain? People who have a very odd sense of fun, no doubt.
The plan is simple. Get up at six, run at seven. Have the car meat us every five k so we can drink water and move on after a few minutes. The plan is executed to perfection. Meanwhile, once we leave hazy, foggy and smoggy Kathmandu, curious villagers line up to watch these crazy white people beat themselves up while they are sitting around drinking tea.
After fifteen k’s, the paved road seizes to exist, the climb begins, and we are now going to earn our brunch. Once you leave the Valley, you are on your own. You will find the odd motorcyclist here and there, but other than that, there is nothing but animals and hamlets who have nothing to do with either electricity or machinery. Conceivably, this is also the perfect place to get mugged. It is not uncommon for westerners to wander out too far into the outback, only to be relieved of their belongings by groups of bandits who are as far away from civilization as they are from any physical representation by the law. Even while I am huffing and puffing up that mountain, I have to remain alert.
Luckily, I run into nothing the rest of the way but friendly villagers and a stray dog or goat here and there. I recognize the village where I walked by with my kids in their stroller only a few months before. I wonder if they recognize me. When I see the hotel, I pump my fist and wait for the others. For the briefest of moments, when we sit down to eat brunch, the mountains peak through the thick shrouds of haze and reveal themselves. What a tease. One minute, as if the mountains wish to reward us without fully unveiling. We still have a beer at ten a.m., a Carlsberg beer that never tasted better.
I will be walking for a few days like I have been grossly violated, but it won’t be without a smile on my face. Yeah! I kicked that mountain's a$$!
The car will go back to Nagarkot months later, but I won’t be riding in it. Sal again will be part of this, as will my other colleague, Aidan. Together we hatch this bright idea that will see us in Nagarkot on a Saturday, on our day off…running, that is. This time we take a different route. It will be 15 km of more or less level terrain followed by a consistent 9 km climb up the mountain. Not an easy run, but manageable.
There are times when you think to yourself that Saturdays are wonderful events, rare opportunities to charge the batteries while devoting much needed time to your children when you otherwise wouldn’t see them. You can go out and play some ball yourself or slouch on the sofa while watching it. Who in their right mind would then spend it beating themselves up hustling up a mountain? People who have a very odd sense of fun, no doubt.
The plan is simple. Get up at six, run at seven. Have the car meat us every five k so we can drink water and move on after a few minutes. The plan is executed to perfection. Meanwhile, once we leave hazy, foggy and smoggy Kathmandu, curious villagers line up to watch these crazy white people beat themselves up while they are sitting around drinking tea.
After fifteen k’s, the paved road seizes to exist, the climb begins, and we are now going to earn our brunch. Once you leave the Valley, you are on your own. You will find the odd motorcyclist here and there, but other than that, there is nothing but animals and hamlets who have nothing to do with either electricity or machinery. Conceivably, this is also the perfect place to get mugged. It is not uncommon for westerners to wander out too far into the outback, only to be relieved of their belongings by groups of bandits who are as far away from civilization as they are from any physical representation by the law. Even while I am huffing and puffing up that mountain, I have to remain alert.
Luckily, I run into nothing the rest of the way but friendly villagers and a stray dog or goat here and there. I recognize the village where I walked by with my kids in their stroller only a few months before. I wonder if they recognize me. When I see the hotel, I pump my fist and wait for the others. For the briefest of moments, when we sit down to eat brunch, the mountains peak through the thick shrouds of haze and reveal themselves. What a tease. One minute, as if the mountains wish to reward us without fully unveiling. We still have a beer at ten a.m., a Carlsberg beer that never tasted better.
I will be walking for a few days like I have been grossly violated, but it won’t be without a smile on my face. Yeah! I kicked that mountain's a$$!
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