Throttle, Grit, and Grace: A Ride That Raised a Son

The Himalayas have a way of making you feel both insignificant and invincible. Their snow-capped peaks stretch toward eternity, while winds whisper secrets only the still-hearted can hear. Roads here don’t just test machines — they test the spirit. Ladakh isn’t a destination. It’s a reckoning.

This ride wasn’t just another adventure for me. It was a gift of grit, growth, and grounding — something that no screen or gadget could offer. In a world where birthdays are increasingly defined by shiny boxes and digital distractions, I wanted Aryan to receive something that would stay etched in his heart. This ride was meant to challenge him, inspire him, and whisper to him truths that only the mountains can reveal.

A Gift Beyond Gadgets: Planting a Seed for Life

It started in early March. "Would you like to ride to Ladakh this summer?" I asked Aryan. His eyes lit up. Having spent a year riding his Royal Enfield in and around Pune, the question was met with excitement and energy. But this was different. This wasn’t a weekend getaway — this was his first real expedition.

Though I’ve done long-distance rides on my Harley, this time I chose to ride with an organized group, especially with Aryan riding his first high-altitude terrain. Dream Riders, a team recommended by my Harley circle, felt like the right choice. We booked a Leh-to-Leh ride covering Khardungla, Nubra, Pangong, Rezang La, Hanle, Umling La, and back.

May 24 – Landing into Thin Air

We left Pune in the early morning and arrived in Leh by 2:00 PM. The first thing we noticed wasn’t the scenery — it was the air. Or rather, the lack of it. Every step felt like a task. Thankfully, Dream Riders had strictly advised us not to do anything on Day One. We rested, hydrated, and began medication for altitude. That evening, we met two fellow riders from Dubai. They would soon become close companions in our journey.

Picture Credit : Fellow Rider Triston.

May 25 – “I Want to Serve Here, Dad”

This was our exploration day. Aryan and I visited Sangam — the confluence of the Indus and Zanskar Rivers. The sight was overwhelming. We marveled at Magnetic Hill, paid respects at Pathar Sahib Gurudwara, and paused in silence at Shanti Stupa.

But it was at Pathar Sahib, hearing stories of valor, where Aryan looked at me and said, “Dad, I don’t just want to visit here — I want to serve here. I want to wear that uniform and be stationed in these mountains.”

My heart swelled. That moment alone made the trip worth it. I said, "This land will teach you more than I ever can. Just keep listening."

That evening, we were introduced to Shamim — our road captain, guide, and as we would soon discover, the soul of our ride. Just 24 years old, Shamim carried himself with the calm assurance of someone who had lived these roads, fallen on them, braved their moods, and grown stronger. His knowledge of Ladakh was intimate, his leadership style quiet but firm. Whether it was helping with a bike glitch, assessing a rider’s energy, or sharing the quiet stories of army posts and Himalayan passes, Shamim led not just with experience, but with empathy. When Aryan listened to him, I could see admiration growing — not for bravado, but for authenticity.

May 26 – Riding into Nubra

The journey began. We were a group of six riders, plus the Dream Riders support team. The route from Leh to Nubra Valley took us over Khardungla — the world's second-highest motorable pass.

The ascent was dramatic. In 40 km, we climbed from 11,000 to over 18,000 feet. Oxygen thinned, engines struggled, but the mountains stood silent — magnificent and unmoved. At the Khardungla milestone, we stopped just long enough for photos. Aryan’s face was a blend of joy, disbelief, and pride. He had conquered something profound.

Descending into Nubra felt like entering a different planet. Ice gave way to desert. At Diskit Monastery, we admired the 108-foot Buddha standing sentinel over the valley. Later, we rode double-hump Bactrian camels across the high-altitude dunes of Hunder — camels found only in this unique region.

We checked into Swiss tents framed by snow-kissed mountains. That evening, around a fire and BBQ, Aryan and I shared our thoughts under a star-sprinkled sky. He was quiet — perhaps reflecting, perhaps dreaming.

May 27 – Testing Endurance on the Road to Pangong

This day tested us. The roads to Pangong were a mix of brutal off-roading and stark beauty. Aryan, now more composed on his machine, navigated loose gravel and sharp turns with increasing confidence.

Pangong Lake greeted us like a sudden miracle. One moment we were dodging rocks, the next we were staring at a still, deep blue expanse that stretched to China. Our homestay faced the famous 3 Idiots spot, but Shamim suggested we skip the crowd and visit a quieter section the next day.

That night, one of the Dubai riders fell ill with altitude sickness. Thanks to a local clinic, he received timely treatment — a reminder of how quickly Ladakh can humble even the fittest.

May 28 – Valor, Dust, and the Way to Hanle

We awoke to a sunrise that felt like a blessing — golden light slowly unfolding across the vast, turquoise canvas of Pangong Lake. The stillness of the morning, the shimmering surface of the lake, and the quiet mountain air made it feel like time had paused. It was one of those rare, soul-stirring moments when the magnitude of nature humbles you into silence. We didn’t walk to the lake or explore further — we just let it wash over us as we sipped warm tea, quietly absorbing every second. As we geared up for our ride to Hanle, Shamim pointed out the distant mountains where the India-China clashes had occurred. Aryan, already captivated by the armed forces, listened intently. Shamim, seeing Aryan’s interest, promised to show him some of the army's hidden bunkers en route to Hanle. Aryan’s face lit up — proud, motivated, and filled with a sense of purpose.

Onward to Hanle, we stopped at the Rezang La War Memorial. A short film narrated by Amitabh Bachchan honored the 114 soldiers who fell in 1962, including the heroic Major Shaitan Singh. Aryan’s silence after the film said more than words could.

Onward to Hanle, we stopped at the Rezang La War Memorial. A short film narrated by Amitabh Bachchan honored the 114 soldiers who fell in 1962, including the heroic Major Shaitan Singh. Aryan’s silence after the film said more than words could.

He walked up to the posted soldiers, introduced himself with his NCC credentials, and bought a dog tag engraved with his name. I watched him stand straighter. He was no longer a boy on a ride — he was a young man finding purpose.

The ride to Hanle was punishing. What lay ahead was not a road, but a stretch of ever-changing terrain that tested every rider’s limits. Gravel paths gave way to loose sand, the kind that swallowed tires without warning. Twists and invisible ditches made it impossible to relax. Aryan and I both slipped — more than once. But every fall was a lesson, every struggle an imprint. Riding in Ladakh teaches you resilience. Push too hard and you sink deeper; stay balanced, stay patient, and you move forward. It wasn’t just about bikes anymore — it was about how you handle the unpredictable, both on-road and off it.

We reached Hanle coated in sand and grit. Our homestay hosts, sensing our exhaustion, offered to wash our riding gear. It felt like being welcomed into someone’s home, not just a guesthouse.

May 29 – Umling La: Where Roads Disappear and Resolve Takes Over

The toughest day yet — and not just physically. Umling La, sitting at a staggering 19,024 feet, isn’t just a destination — it’s a trial. The road from Hanle began as barely-there paths, winding through wind-swept plateaus with nothing but rocks, sand, and sky. There were no signboards, no trees, no markers — just your instinct and Shamim’s guidance. The wind howled constantly, slicing through layers of riding gear. It felt like we were riding across the moon.

Aryan later shared that this had been his favorite part of the entire ride — endless off-roading across silent plateaus. But nearing the summit, his hands went numb. He stopped 1.5 km before the top. We used the engine heat to warm our fingers.

We made it. Aryan didn’t remove his helmet for pictures. "It’s too cold," he said. I took mine off — and regretted it instantly. The air stung. The winds howled. But we had done it.

The descent was brutal. Crosswinds pushed our bikes sideways. The cold gnawed at every joint. By the time we returned to the tea stall at the base, we were frozen. We sipped hot water like it was nectar.

Returning to Hanle that evening, our bodies were exhausted and our faces weathered, but our hearts brimmed with pride. Aryan, though physically drained, had not complained once. As I watched him sip hot water, I realized this wasn’t just about conquering a pass. It was about discovering his own capacity for grit. That moment — father and son, sitting quietly after the hardest ride of our lives — is etched in my memory forever.

May 30 – Lessons in the Curves: Courage, Crashes, and a Father's Pride

The road back to Leh was on a national highway — smooth, winding, and deceptively dangerous. For most of the ride, Aryan and I were in sync, sharing hand signals, tips, and the occasional thumbs-up.

And then — the crash. Our 65-year-old American rider misjudged a curve, went wide, and hit the metal fence. Aryan jumped in, flagged oncoming traffic, coordinated with Shamim and Jehangir, and helped recover the fallen rider and his bike.

Later, Aryan said, "Now I get it — why gear matters, and why you hate modular helmets." I just nodded. Some lessons need to be learned the hard way.

We reached Leh by afternoon. The moment Aryan parked, he took off his helmet and hugged me. Not a boy’s hug. A man's hug. One filled with respect, love, and gratitude.

What This Ride Meant

This wasn’t just a birthday gift — it was a living classroom. Aryan didn’t just learn how to ride — he learned how to read the wind, listen to silence, recover from a fall, and show up for someone in need. I watched him transform — not through lectures, but through landscapes; not with swipes and clicks, but with clutch and throttle. For me, riding beside him wasn’t just a joy — it was an awakening. I witnessed my son evolve. Not in theory. In terrain. Not online. But on the road.

Dream Riders ensured we were safe, but Ladakh... Ladakh did the real teaching. And we, two helmets, one journey — came back forever changed.