Two Friends, One Road, a Generational Promise: Kunal’s Ladakh Bike Trip with Thrillophilia
Ever since Kunal was a kid, the road to Ladakh had been more than just a line on a map. Growing up, he and his best friend had spent countless evenings listening to stories of their fathers’ legendary road trips. Kunal’s father and his best friend had made that journey together when they were young, braving the rugged roads on their old Enfields with nothing but grit and friendship to fuel them.
The tales of that trip were majestic- stories of breakdowns in the middle of nowhere, of racing against storms, and of quiet moments by the mountain lakes. Kunal and his best friend grew up, feeling that bond between their fathers- a bond that was as much a part of their lives as the dusty photos and worn maps tucked into old albums.
They’d made a vow back then, a quiet, unspoken promise, that one day they’d ride those same roads, recreate that journey, and carry on the legacy that had been passed down to them. And finally, after years of talking, planning, and sometimes doubting if it would ever happen, here they were.
Engines revving, hearts pounding, ready to finally ride.
“Can you believe it?” his friend shouted over the hum of their bikes as they set out at dawn from Leh.
Kunal just looked over at his friend, his brother in spirit, and knew they both felt the same thing- excitement, a touch of fear, but mostly, a strange kind of magic.
They rode through winding roads, upon which the mountains cast long shadows as the morning light slowly crept over the peaks. With every twist and turn, they felt a little closer to their fathers, like somehow they were connecting with them across time, through these very roads and mountains. At every stop, they’d check their bikes and laugh at each other’s dirt-covered faces.
As they rode on, it was as if their fathers’ voices echoing in every rugged cliff and sharp turn, that brought the old stories vividly to life.
“Remember when your dad talked about fixing his clutch with duct tape?” Kunal laughed as they stopped at a roadside dhaba for a quick cup of tea at Likir.
His friend laughed, shaking his head. “And how your dad got lost for three hours because he ‘thought he knew a shortcut’?”
“Yeah, that sounds exactly like him,” Kunal said, looking at the mountains stretching ahead. He felt like a kid again, riding with his best friend, and living the younger days of their fathers.
The first day passed in a haze of excitement and laughter, through the rough roads of the Himalayas. By evening, they stopped at a small guesthouse, a humble place where they could rest well for the night.
As they sat outside, watching the stars appear one by one in the vast, clear sky, Kunal’s friend turned to him with a serious look on his face.
“You know,” he started slowly, “this trip actually means more than I thought it would.”
Kunal nodded, feeling the weight of his friend’s words. “Yeah. It’s not just a road trip, is it?”
“No. It’s like…” His friend stammered, searching for words. “It’s like we’re finding a part of them that they left for us.”
The next day, they were on the road again, the air thinner and the landscape more rugged as they approached Khardungla. They passed small villages, waving to locals, who returned their smiles with warmth and sometimes with a cup of tea as well. The landscape was harsh, yet somehow, they felt at peace.
At one point, Kunal’s bike hit a rough patch, and the engine sputtered. His friend said, “Don’t tell me this is it, man. We can’t give up now!”
Kunal, laughing despite the situation, tried to restart it. “Guess we’re going old school. Let’s see if that trick our dads used works!”
They tried everything they remembered their fathers had done- tapping here, kicking there, even whistling like it would somehow bring the engine back to life. Just when they were starting to lose hope, their tour guide showed his expertise and helped them repair it.
As they set off again, Kunal turned to his friend and said, “You know, our dads probably had to face this exact same thing. Breakdowns, breakdowns… maybe it’s just tradition!”
By the time they reached Pangong Lake, both were quiet, overcome by the stillness of the place. The water stretched out before them and it felt surreal, standing there in the silence, as though they’d reached a place beyond time.
“This place…” his friend started, his voice almost a whisper. “They must have felt this too. Just… the vastness of it all.”
Kunal nodded, looking over the shimmering lake. “It’s like it’s calling out to them, to us.”
They stood there for a while, neither speaking, just taking in the view. It was as if, at that moment, they weren’t just two friends on a bike trip; they were sons, carrying the legacy of their fathers forward, keeping alive a friendship and a dream that had spanned generations.
As they prepared to head back, Kunal’s friend suddenly reached into his bag and pulled out a small, tattered leather notebook. “I brought this. It’s my dad’s. He wrote about his Ladakh trip here.”
They laughed, imagining their fathers, young and wild, laughing and cursing over the same road. They weren’t just remembering them; they were living their own stories now.
As they rode back, Kunal felt lighter, the miles melting away in a stream of laughter, conversations, and comfortable silences. They weren’t just friends anymore; they were like two parts of a story, woven together by the road, by family, and by friendship.
When they finally reached home, dusty and exhausted, they didn’t say anything. But in the warmth of their fathers’ hugs and the pride in their eyes, they knew they had fulfilled a promise.
And as Kunal looked at his friend, he knew they’d be telling these stories to their own kids in years to come.
Read more: Leh Ladakh Bike Trip Reviews