Chasing Sunsets and Storms

The Himalayas had always called to me, their jagged peaks a siren song for my restless soul. At 34, I was burned out—too many years in a Mumbai cubicle, staring at spreadsheets, dreaming of freedom. So I quit my job, sold my car, and bought a Royal Enfield Himalayan, a rugged bike built for the mountains. My plan: a solo ride from Leh to Manali, a 475-kilometer stretch known as one of the world’s most dangerous roads. It was June 2025, and I was chasing sunsets, storms, and something I couldn’t name. What I found was danger, beauty, and a version of myself I’d forgotten existed.

I started in Leh, the capital of Ladakh, at 11,500 feet above sea level. The air was thin, my lungs protesting as I packed my panniers with essentials: a tent, stove, clothes, and a journal. The bike’s engine roared to life, a deep growl that echoed my excitement. The Leh-Manali Highway promised high-altitude passes, unpredictable weather, and roads that could vanish into landslides. I’d read the stats—hundreds of accidents yearly, many fatal—but the risk only fueled my adrenaline. I wanted to feel alive.

The first day was a dream. I rode south from Leh, the landscape unfolding like a painting: barren mountains in shades of brown and gray, monasteries perched on cliffs, prayer flags fluttering in the wind. The sky was a piercing blue, the sun warm on my leather jacket. I crossed the Indus River, its turquoise waters glinting, and hit my first pass, Taglang La, at 17,480 feet. The altitude hit hard—my head throbbed, my breaths came shallow—but the view was worth it. Snow-capped peaks stretched to the horizon, and I felt untouchable. I snapped a photo, my bike dwarfed by the vastness, and scribbled in my journal: Day 1: I’m flying.

That night, I camped near Rumtse, pitching my tent on a flat patch of rocky ground. The temperature plummeted to near freezing, and I shivered in my sleeping bag, the silence of the mountains both eerie and comforting. I cooked instant noodles on my stove, the flame flickering in the wind. A lone yak grazed nearby, its silhouette lit by a crescent moon. I’d never felt so small, so alive. Sleep came fitfully, the altitude keeping me on edge, but I woke to a sunrise that painted the peaks gold. I packed up, eager for the road ahead.

Day two brought the first taste of danger. The road to Pang was a mix of asphalt and gravel, winding through the More Plains—a high-altitude desert at 15,000 feet. The wind howled, kicking up dust that stung my eyes through my visor. I leaned into the bike, fighting to keep it steady. Then, a storm rolled in. Dark clouds swallowed the sun, and rain lashed down, turning the gravel to sludge. My tires skidded, and I nearly went down, my heart slamming in my chest. I pulled over, rain soaking through my gear, and waited it out. Lightning cracked, illuminating the desolate plateau. I was alone, no other riders in sight, and for the first time, I felt fear. The Himalayas didn’t care about my dreams—they could swallow me whole.

The storm passed after an hour, leaving a double rainbow that felt like a peace offering. I rode on, adrenaline pumping, and reached Pang by afternoon. It was a cluster of tents and shacks, a pitstop for travelers. I downed a cup of butter tea at a dhaba, the salty warmth reviving me. An old truck driver, his face weathered like the mountains, warned me about the road ahead. “Gata Loops are tricky,” he said, pointing to a series of 21 hairpin bends descending 2,000 feet. “And watch for landslides at Sarchu.” I nodded, thanking him, but his words lingered like a storm cloud.

The Gata Loops tested my nerve. The road was narrow, barely wide enough for my bike, with a sheer drop on one side. Loose rocks littered the path, and I had to lean hard into each turn, my body tense, my eyes locked on the next bend. Halfway down, a truck appeared, barreling toward me. There was no room to pass. I swerved to the edge, my rear tire inches from the abyss, and stopped, heart pounding. The driver honked, shouting in Hindi, but eventually backed up, giving me space. I exhaled, hands shaking, and kept going. By the time I reached the bottom, I was drenched in sweat despite the cold. I’d survived, but the mountains weren’t done with me.

Sarchu, my next stop, was a barren campsite at 14,000 feet. I pitched my tent near a stream, the sound of rushing water my only company. That night, a thunderstorm raged, lightning illuminating my tent like a strobe. I barely slept, the wind threatening to rip my shelter apart. Morning brought a grim discovery: a landslide had blocked the road ahead. A group of riders—two brothers from Delhi, Vikram and Arjun—joined me, their bikes loaded with gear. “We’ll wait,” Vikram said, lighting a cigarette. “BRO will clear it.” The Border Roads Organisation was known for maintaining these routes, but the wait stretched into hours. We shared stories, chai, and a pack of biscuits, bonding over our shared insanity. By noon, the road was open, but the delay meant I’d be riding into dusk—a dangerous prospect.

The stretch from Sarchu to Baralacha La Pass was a gauntlet. The road turned to dirt, pocked with craters from melting snow. I hit a patch of black ice, my bike fishtailing. Instinct kicked in—I eased off the throttle, leaned back, and let the bike find grip. It worked, but my pulse raced for miles. At 16,040 feet, Baralacha La was a frozen hell. Snow flurries swirled, visibility dropped to nothing, and the cold bit through my gloves. My fingers went numb, my breath fogging my visor. I stopped to warm my hands on the engine, the heat a small mercy. The pass was a gateway to Lahaul Valley, but it felt like a gatekeeper, daring me to turn back. I didn’t.

Descending into Lahaul, the landscape changed—barren rock gave way to green meadows, waterfalls cascading down cliffs. I passed Keylong, a small town, and considered stopping, but the sun was dipping, painting the peaks orange. I wanted to chase that sunset. The road to Rohtang Pass was my final hurdle, notorious for its traffic and mud. I hit it at twilight, the sky a riot of pink and gold. The sunset was breathtaking, but the road was a nightmare. Monsoon rains had turned it to slush, and I fishtailed through every turn. A bus full of tourists got stuck ahead, blocking the way. I waited, engine idling, as the last light faded. By the time I crossed Rohtang, it was dark, and I was exhausted.

I reached Manali at 9 PM, 475 kilometers and four days after I’d started. My body ached, my bike was caked in mud, but I’d made it. I checked into a guesthouse, the owner—a gruff man named Sanjay—offering me a hot meal. Over dal and rice, I reflected on the journey. I’d come seeking adventure, but I found something deeper. The Himalayas stripped me bare—no cubicle, no routine, just me and the road. Every near-miss, every storm, forced me to confront my limits. I’d been running on autopilot in Mumbai, numbed by monotony. Here, I was raw, awake, alive.

The ride taught me resilience. I’d faced death—those hairpin bends, that black ice—and kept going. I’d found peace in the chaos: the yak at Rumtse, the rainbow after the storm, the sunset at Rohtang. I’d connected with strangers—Vikram, Arjun, the truck driver—reminded that humanity persists even in the wildest places. Studies I read later backed this up: adrenaline and nature exposure boost mental clarity, reduce stress hormones like cortisol, and foster a sense of purpose. I’d felt it all.

Back in Manali, I spent a day recovering, my body bruised but my spirit soaring. I wrote in my journal: I chased sunsets and storms, and they chased me back. I’m not the man I was in Leh. I’m better. I sold the bike to Sanjay’s nephew, a young rider eager for his own adventure. I didn’t need it anymore—the mountains had given me what I came for. I took a bus back to Delhi, watching the Himalayas fade through the window. I wasn’t running anymore. I’d found what I’d been chasing: myself.