Let me premise this article by first saying that I am not your average participant in The Hell Race. For one thing, I am Canadian, one of only three foreigners in the race. Secondly, at fifty two… I was far and away the oldest participant. But then again… there really was no typical participant. If a ‘Hell Race’ were to be advertised in Canada, it would have attracted testosterone fueled, ultra competitive adrenaline junkies between the ages of 18 and 29. Here? The Hell Race riders? Not so much.

That’s one of the things I enjoyed about this race… a fun field of riders. Sure some were in it to win… but most seemed in it to challenge themselves. Me? I entered happy just to participate and hoped to come out of it unscathed! That for me would spell a successful Hell Race! Unfortunately it didn’t work out that way.

So what exactly is ‘The Hell Race’? It is a 55 km four stage mountain bike race starting in Bir Tibetan Colony, Himachal Pradesh, winding it’s way up a mountain road, -1400 meters up to be exact- before crossing the side of a mountain, then through some terraced fields, and finally a screaming downhill -974 meters down to be exact- to the finish line.

The whole town of Bir embraced the event, posters of the race lined the streets and the empty lot across the street from hotel where most of the riders were accommodated, was being prepared for the awards ceremony and after party. Going in I didn’t realize how big a deal this race was.

It was fun as the participants began arriving from all over India -Bangalore, Delhi, Manali, Chandigarh. And even the world! There was a German rider, a Croatian paraglider and me!

The backdrop of The Hell Race could not have been more heavenly. I mean, have you ever been to Bir? An absolute charming little place in Himachal Pradesh. Tucked into the side of the Dhauladhar Range of the foothills of the Indian Himalayas. A quaint village where terraced farming, tea fields and Buddhist monasteries dominate.

Apart from the busy-ish main street, with its neurotic fleet of incessantly honking and speeding taxis, the colony is dotted with village houses… some still built in the traditional mud brick style. And perhaps a little known fact that this is where the cult hit movie, ‘The Cup’ was based and filmed.

The organisers did a fantastic job of meeting the needs of the race participants. Getting out of towner’s booked into our rooms, and ensuring we were well fed and well informed of the race logistics. Heck… the organisers did a fantastic job of the whole weekend! The whole race! Kudos to them.

The race itself? There were 64 of us. A wild mixture of ages, abilities, and backgrounds. One thing in common, the joy of riding. And competing even! I tried making it not about competing… which lasted until the first few riders passed me. Then it was on!

After an early and chilly morning whistle start, the few riders who everyone knew would be in contention for the top prize money zipped ahead effortlessly. My start was less gracious. I panicked and fumbled to put my camera away as the start time snuck up on me, my last minute selfie session rudely interrupted! At this point I had yet to take the race seriously, still telling myself that I would just enjoy the ride!

The first stage was through Bir colony up the steep winding forested paved road to the paragliding take off point in Billing. It was a grind! Yet it was also where I realized that my lung capacity from cycling from Gurgaon to Bir -a whole other story- started working to my advantage and I started to overtake some of the riders who blew past me at the start! That familiar tug of competitiveness, began to assert itself.

It was on this stretch though that the German rider, a young woman who runs tours out of Manali, blew past me as if I were standing still, dealing a near fatal blow to my male pride. I tried to keep up with her for a while, though I knew if I did I would gas out. So, resigned to having a girl beat me, I backed off to lick my wounds at a slower pace.

Hitting the summit was the end of stage one. The summit being Billing… the Paragliding take off point. Bir-Billing happens also to be one of the premier paragliding sites in the world and is where the 2015 Paragliding World Cup was held. I thought we were to stop here …and I did for a few seconds though carried on quick enough when I realized, “No silly, it’s a race!” Sure, the German girl had passed me, though I had caught up and passed several riders on the uphill ride, and the adrenaline of competitiveness was well flowing! Off I pedalled to stage two.

This section was sublime. It was a four foot wide path, not paved and not gravel. What I would consider the ultimate mountain biking trail. And it was fairly even in elevation as it traversed the mountainside.
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This is where I rocked it! This is the kind of riding I excelled at. And I flew! I entered a glorious state of oneness …with my bike, with the trail, heck with the world! I felt that now familiar feeling that is the reason I am so prone to again and again, even at fifty two, hop on a bike; I felt like a kid again! And as I passed a few more riders, I felt unstoppable!

The trail soon degraded into a tumble of stones, that needed to be traversed on foot with bicycle shouldered or pushed. Welcome stage three! As I entered stage three, just up ahead of me, I saw the German girl. Ha! This was huge! I could finish this race with my misaligned pride intact! I had to catch up! My competitiveness, to my later demise, kicked it up a notch and I hurried to catch her.

And I did, only to be caught simultaneously by a youngster I had long ago passed. My victory was moot. Though as I passed the German woman she uttered to me something that, in hindsight, I would have been wise to heed: “Bike safe.”.

It wasn’t malicious or cheeky at all, more concern, as if she knew I was pushing it. And I was pushing it. My ‘competition’ had morphed from the girl to the youngster who had just passed me. I would be having none of that! But it turned out he was part mountain goat, and hopped over the rocks like it was nothing and soon disappeared from view as I clambered along.

I was by now, well into stage three. One more rider passed me on the early stages of this section, and became the focus of my race. I wouldn’t come in first, I wouldn’t catch the kid/mountain goat though my new and sole focus would be to beat the guy who just passed me! Somehow, I passed him back as the rocky trail transformed into a walk/ride along the edge of a rice terrace… and where I would meet fate. I had already fallen a few times, getting up and quickly admonishing myself each time,”Dude, that was way too close, be careful!” Though I didn’t ‘be careful’, the rider I had just passed was surely on my heels!

It was the fourth time I fell that did it. I wasn’t even riding! I was walking with bike. Okay rushed walking. And the fall? A mix between my front wheel getting stuck in the mud, my back wheel rising and then twisting over in a way that I couldn’t stop, and me losing my footing. I landed with a hard thud into the uneven ground. Taking the impact fully on my right wrist and the right side of my rib cage.

I hadn’t been enjoying this section to begin with… the reverie of section two had long dissipated. Now I was face down in the mud, entwined with my bike, a shooting pain in my ribs that did not belie the crack I heard when I landed. Crap! Ow, ow, ow… crap. CRAP! My race seemed over. My competitiveness drained as I picked myself up to assess the damage.

The guy behind me would surely catch up now. The best I could do was figure out how to get to the finish line as soon, and as painlessly as possible. Off I walked, dragging my bike(”Ouch, ow… crap, ouch!!”), and my pride… my stubborn, stubborn competitive pride with me.

‘The Guy’ never did catch up. And the final stage was a glorious paved downhill as intense in reverse as the way up! I didn’t know how far behind me  he was, yet despite being bruised and nearly broken, my competitive spirit rose once again. Braking downhill wasn’t even an option, and I pedalled hard when I could. Keeping an eye over my shoulder for my adversary. I never saw sign of him the rest of the way and so was able to enjoy the final stretch of downhill.

I even caught the youngster! His rear tube and tire no longer even on the rim as he dragged his bike along the pavement, running for the finish line. “Oh, that’s a bummer!”, I said to him as I passed, doing my best to sound concerned. Yet my inside voice was like, “Muahahaha, another one bites the dust!!”. I won’t write his response… seems I wasn’t the only competitive one! Later I felt bad that I was too caught up in the competition to offer him help.

The finish line loomed and I passed it with just enough fanfare from those standing around to make me feel as though I had accomplished something. And indeed I had. The Hell Race was no picnic,  several riders had dropped out. I persevered, I stretched my tenacity to the limit and proudly I crossed the finish line, enduring this serious test of will.

It was a surprise to me when I found out that I had actually finished in 12th place! I was delighted! And in incredible pain! Pain that would last over two weeks. Though not enough to stop me from enjoying the awards ceremony and after party! And learn a few Bollywood dance moves, from some of my new friends.

What an incredibly priceless experience! I came to India to cycle tour… my ride up from Delhi was a very slow paced and solitary experience. The Hell Race was a wonderful contrast. All of it. The Social part, and the adrenalin and fast pace of the race itself. Challenged me to my core, both physically and mentally.

I take away great memories of my first and perhaps last mountain bike race. Yes… fond memories, as well as two fractured ribs, some awesome Bollywood dance moves, and about forty new Facebook friends!