TWO KIWIS AND A NEPALESE BIKED TO THE EVEREST BASE CAMP

JOHNNY MULHERON & JONATHAN KENNETT of Wellington and CHHIMI GURUNG of Kathmandu cycled all the way to Everest Base Camp... JOHNNY MULHERON writes.

I reckon Tintin had it easy in Tibet. We were having a hellish time trying to organize permission to ride there. In one hectic week we had obtained a plethora of information, much of it contradictory. Perhaps this had something to do with the 'Asia Syndrome'. The main symptom of this disorder is the inability to say not to a direct question in case of (a) losing your interest, or (b) offending you. One reputable travel agent assured us it was useless trying to get information from the Chinese Embassy: "They know absolutely nothing about Tibet."

Take these frustrations, add the rapidly increasing feeling of lose-endedness, throw in an enthusiastic monomaniac Nepalese mountain biker, let the whole lot summer for a few days, and you have the perfect formula for something out of the ordinary; some would call it "desperately insane": mountain bikes to Everest Base Camp.

As is usual with such ambitions, the reality of the task is only comprehended during the first few days of the event. In one particular case, this involved a 3500m pass to ascend, where our knowledge of bike carrying skills was extended literally to the highest level.

"These panniers were a mistake," said Jonathan.

"Yeah," replied, welcoming the distraction from the shoulder scrunching, spinal column distorting task at hand, "packs would have been the caper." 

This admission really hurt. The soonest we could get hold of packs was in Namche Bazar, ten days away. We were carrying our bikes half of the time, so throwing them on top of packs would have made life easier.

"If one more sherpa laughs at me I'm going to ride this beast right over him", I exclaimed in the anger induced by blood, sweat and tears. And to think that the previous evening we had a heart to heart and came up with the following options:
(a) turn back - the most sensible thing to do
(b) hire sherpas to carry our bikes - not a popular choice
(c) carry on - absolute insanity and therefore the only real possibility

Bob and Chuck thought we were weird.

These two Americans had four sherpas, a cook and a guide with them. We reached the top of Lamjura Pass and watched them eat a five course cooked lunch while we nibbled enviously on glucose biscuits.

"Yeaaah, waaal, this guy here cooks real good but we have to wait two hours for it," Chuck drawled.

Some have it tough.

Neither of us had experienced biking on snow but at the top of Lamjura Pass in our 'who gives a damn' state, we learned fast. Descending was an uncontrolled skid, dodging trees, trekkers and sherpas. Keep that front wheel on line! Watch that humungous rock!

That night we contemplated the damage: injured nerves in our hands which we hoped were not as permanent as our ripped tyres and bent handlebars. Bob and Chuck arrived later with horror stories about overladen sherpas daintily tiptoeing with bare feet on the icy slope.

The next few days actually involved cycling. It was some of the best mountain biking I had ever done. (I deny anyone to carry a bike over an all-consuming 3,500m pass and not say that about the next rideable section.) We were thriving in our new-bound ability to pass sherpas and trekkers at speed. This meant that inevitable laughing and a "they're crazy" comment. I now knew how to say those words in several languages, made unintelligible by the distortions of Doppler.

The amount of attention our bicycles were attracting was astounding. Without the aid of any form of modern communication, there was without fail a welcome committee at every village to greet us, or rather our bicycyles. Of course each committee member assured us they were consummate mountain bikers, in spite of being totally overawed by these technical wonders: "Where are the petrol tanks?"

"That's a relief,' I naively sighed, confident that the expert at the wheel of my bike could handle it and his four passengers. Yes, that's the Asia way: use everything to the max and then begin to thrash it in earnest. Thus, one of the hidden advantages of riding in Asia was revealed: bikes are much harder for local novice maniacs to wreck. Chro-moly rules, okay?

An aside: there is money to be made for someone who develops a system to disengage gear levers. I lost count of the times I jumped on my bike and nearly ruptured myself as the chain wildly slipped through the gears after locals had tempered with the levers.

At Lukla airport we met the previously mentioned Nepalese biker.

Chhimi Gurung of Kathmandu had, as far as I could tell, one aim in life; to become the first Nepalese to bike to Everest Base Camp. Because of motorcycle injuries earlier in the week, he had flown to Lukla, missing out the full-on experience we endured 'biking' the same distance.

Chhimmi thought there had been only a few bikes to base camp, carried in by sherpas. Apparently a few years ago some Japanese men went most of the way only to have their bikes turned back at the Sagarmatha National Park boundary. Ever the triers had continued carrying one wheel!

We had been worried the same fate was destined for us. However, there was no problem. The time spent in Kathmandu reminiscing with the New Zealand-trained park warden had paid off. We were in. Namche Bazar was now reality. Panniers were exchanged for packs. Snow, high altitude and the resulting cerebral of pulmonary edema now became facts of everyday life.

The next morning Jimmi awoke complaining about a tooth cavity.

"Jimmi," I said, "I've got just the thing," as my mind returned to the pokey dentist's waiting room in New Zealand.

"We've never had anyone requesting Cavit (a temporary filling) before," the receptionist told me. "I'll get the dentist."

The irate man appeared. "Don't you go to a dentist?" he demanded, obviously concluding I was a cheapskate, gathering materials for self-dentistry.

"No, no no, I need it for a bike trip to Tibet," I assured him. Immediately his attitude changed and I not only got the Cavit but a lecture on how to use it. It had been a worthwhile endeavor, and Jimmi's tooth was successfully filled.

As New Zealanders religiously raised on Mountain Safety Council propaganda, we were frequently horrified at the ill-preparedness of many trekkers. BLASPHEMY! The avoidable condition of altitude sickness was common, with 50% of trekkers turning back because of it. I guess some people make it hard on themselves. Of course there were the plain fruit brains.

Take Diamox Dan. This crazed Canadian tattoo had got lost among the ice seracs and moraines of the Khumbu Glacier in his noble but misguided quest to 'touch Everest'. He had fallen through ice up to his neck. A passing American expedition witnessed it and went down with a body bag to collect the frozen specimen. However, desperation breeds strength and Diamox (an aclimatization drug) Dan had managed to drag himself out. Hence he lived to tell the tale, and tell it he did.

For us it was forever onwards and upwards, through blizzards untill we reached Lobuche at 5,000m. We were only one day from our destination. Base Camp proved elusive as each of us suffered altitude sickness, and a couple more blizzards blew through. At last it came together and in perfect conditions we reached Kalapathar, overlooking Base Camp. The next day we reached the littered bomb-site itself.

That evening Jimmi expressed all our sentiments. "I have not slept in three nights. If I don't go down I won't live."

"I couldn't agree more. The thought of spending another night at Lobuche in the cold, with its pig food and sleepless nights listening to throat-wrenching coughs of trekkers close to death, was too much. In the gloom of another storm we went down. Jonathan comprehensively tested his helmet on some ice. It passed. I had a battle with ice veneer coating my front rim, rendering it brakeless. I tried everything to get rid of it, scratching, rubbing and in sheer desperation, bathing the offending rim in the warm liquid carried by all of us. Alas, nothing worked and I had to skid down, matching cries of jubilation with agonized curses. Oh fickle, fickle fate.

Trekkers hardly had time for photos (we charged them Rs 20 for the privilege) as we careened past in a warmth-hunting, pizza-crazed, altitude-fit state. The only chance of catching us was during brief stops to fill pressure losing tyres. Eventually it was Kathmandu and civilization. A chance to regain strength to cope with curfews and riots. A chance also to consider news of the world: an Indian prisoner awaiting a piles operation for the last eight years; and the two sewerage workers dying of suffocation while clearing a blocked drain.

And we thought we had it tough.