There is a point in any journey, where no matter how bad it gets, you just need to keep going, otherwise all the pain and effort has been for naught. I'm now bouncing from rock to rock, and very close to going over the precipitous edge. I have learned to look well ahead, and plan my route well before I get to the next hazard, but often I'm forced off that choice by opposing traffic. When the front wheel hits a rock, as it does often, it kicks the wheel one way or another, and just when I think I have it under control, the rear wheel hits the same rock, with completely unpredictable consequences. Twice the front heads straight for the edge, and twice I somehow manage to avoid the catastrophic fall. Braking is clearly not an option, and I discover that opening the throttle seems to stabilise the bike as well as anything, or maybe it was just luck that prevented a very rapid and once only descent. I'm in constant fear of a puncture, or even worse, a rock through the soft alloy underbelly of the engine; I don't imagine that my recovery cover extends this far up a mountain. We reach a point where the road widens on a long sweeping bend, and I pull over for a break. It's like a moonscape, with piles of white rocks and dark grey gravel and silt left behind by the melting glaciers. It would have been a great photo opportunity, but Mick's keen to get on, so we mount up and continue through the rocks. I can see the next series of hairpins up and to my right, a repeat of what we've just been through, but the surface is now indescribably bad, all the small particles having been washed away by the melting snows, leaving only a jumble of sharp rocks to pick through. I'm forced off the 'road' in several places, as there simply isn't any path through the chaos of stones, and the forward planning succumbs to instinct and hope alone.
9 Hairpin by
bancquo, on Flickr
I recall climbing in the Ochils in my youth, and always persuading myself that the next ridge was the top, when it wasn't. It's the same again, each bend leading inexorably to another, as the snow builds up at the side of the track in huge drifts until suddenly we're in standing traffic, and the show stops.
9.1 rocks by
bancquo, on Flickr
I manage to park the bike somewhere secure, and realise I'm completely exhausted, mentally and physically. When I was a kid, 65 year old men were sitting by the fire in their slippers, not riding unsuitable motorcycles up mountains. I scrape the surface off a snowdrift, and scoop some of the virgin snow beneath into my mouth, where it combines with the dust to form a gritty slurry that I spit out before taking another mouthful, recalling that unique taste of snow from my childhood. Why does snow have a taste?
10 Summit by
bancquo, on Flickr
There's a party atmosphere in the thin air, the sense of achievement palpable, and the babble of excitement in German, English and Italian fights with the buzz of two-strokes, as some adventurous individuals head across the tundra to a steep hill of gravel, where they attempt, and largely fail, to reach the summit. Getting back is another obstacle, and several sink through the softening snow into the bog beneath, to the amusement of the spectators. Of course the man with the badges has long gone, so we have only a few pictures to record the experience.
11 Summit snow by
bancquo, on Flickr
The stink of fuel from the bike pollutes the clean mountain air, and I discover that the odd smelling petrol is dripping from the fuel tap area onto the dynamo. Not evaporation from the carburettor then... The tap seems tight in its union, and the hoses are secure, so I effect a repair by stuffing some Kleenex into the damp area, and hope that will prevent a fiery and explosive end to the trip.
It's around this point that I realise that the journey is only half complete, and I still have to find my way back down the hill. Manhandling the bike 180°, I fire up the motor, and start the descent, Mick still patiently taking up the rear. It's terrifying, and, for me, much worse than the ascent, where the gradient works to slow the bike when required. Even in its incredibly low first gear, engine braking isn't sufficient to control the downward progress of the Militare, and I find myself crawling along, trying to feather the rear brake and avoid touching the front, while my bowels churn like an overloaded cement mixer, and the sweat exudes from every pore. Right hairpins are the worst, as about half way around, all that is in front of you is the emptiness of free space into which the slightest error will send bike and rider to oblivion; not ideal when you suffer from vertigo. Progress is painfully slow and exhausting in the continuing glare of the summer sun, but eventually, we find ourselves within site of base camp, a few hundred feet below us, and stop for a photo shoot by the spectacular waterfall that borders the route.
12 waterfall by
bancquo, on Flickr
As we remount, my side stand spring falls off into the dust. It's not broken, but neither will it stay on, so something has clearly been bent, and I'm forced to drop the spring into the pannier and retrieve a couple of tie-wraps to hold the stand up. As we descend the last series of hairpins to Base Camp, I'm frozen with fear, each turn presenting a new vision of certain death, and it's with great relief that we finally reach the junction.