6 a.m. and it’s raining. Not exactly the grand start we had envisioned for our epic first cycling day. Still, we saddle up a bit after eight, aiming straight for the Rotang La: 40 km of uphill, from 2,000 to nearly 4,000 meters, followed by a “relaxing” plunge into Koksar.
From Old Manali we sneak onto a gorgeous, nearly traffic-free backroad to Palchan—saving ourselves a few nerve-wracking kilometers on the busy highway. From the Rotang turnoff it’s just us and the occasional crew of men, women, and children tirelessly patching up the old pass road, living in tiny tent villages strung along the way. Drizzle comes and goes, but as long as we’re grinding uphill the temperature is almost… pleasant.
At Marhi (3,300m), we stop for lunch. Dozens of dhabas (Indian roadside restaurants) shout for customers—though today the crowd is rather underwhelming. By now the air is thinning, and the rain is thickening. Georg is pedaling like a Tour de France contender. He flat-out refuses to sing along with me—maybe that’s why he’s sprinting ahead.
By 4 p.m., we finally crest the pass. No sweeping vistas, just fog and rain. Georg barrels down and promises to wait below, while I change into dry clothes plus my “rain armor” and gulp down a quick chai.
Then comes the 20 km downhill in freezing rain. My fingers are so cold they may as well belong to someone else. Georg fares no better—he’s shivering in a dhaba in Koksar when I arrive. The owner can’t make coffee (tragic), but he does announce there are no rooms left in town and we’ll “have to camp.” Exhausted, we believe him. Lucky us: an old man swoops in and offers two simple rooms with HOT showers (!!) at a “super price.” Deal of the century.
Koksar itself? A scrappy little village with more dhabas than inhabitants. Definitely a new world compared to Manali. The sun even makes a brief cameo at sunset—just in time for us to dry our clothes on the rooftop terrace before it vanishes behind the mountains. Distance: 75km, 2000 elevation meters
At six AM, it’s raining again. Our clothes are still soggy from yesterday. Breakfast (bread, peanut butter, bananas) is eaten in the room, but luckily by 9:30 the sky brightens and we roll off toward Darcha.
No monster passes today, just a lot of ups and downs. Traffic is light, drivers are shockingly considerate and, unlike in the old days, barely use the horns beside us. A passing shower dampens our lunch break, but otherwise the road stays dry until the last two hours. Between clouds and peaks we occasionally glimpse glaciers. The Bagha River below Jispa is swollen and raging, licking at the doorstep of fixed-tent camps with names like “Touch the River.” (Sure, but maybe don’t live in it?)
By the time we reach Darcha, it’s cold and wet again. A man named Tenzig waves us in and offers his homestay. Dinner and breakfast included. Alternatives: zero. Decision: yes. Regrets: none.
The place is wonderful: cozy rooms, sun on the rooftop terrace, and even a monastery down the road where I chat with the one monk who lives there. In the evening we share a kitchen meal with Tenzing’s four-generation family and get a glimpse into local life. Distance: 75km, 1200 elevation meters
