Borrowed Trust, Borrowed Wheels

A stranger’s bike, a snowy road, and the ride of a lifetime

Written & Photographed by : Prakhar

The weight of the bike through slushy curves, the quiet thrum of the engine in freezing air, the throttle pulling me into the unknown, that was the soul of this ride.

Himachal has a way of humbling you, not just with its mountains, but with its people. For every traveler who finds their way here, the destination is never just a place on a map, it’s a lesson, a story, a moment that stays with you forever. Mine began on a cold February morning, born from an overwhelming urge to feel something real and the free time on my hand. I didn’t want company. I wanted clarity and maybe a little bit of solitude. What I found was so much more.

The plan was quite simple, a bus from Shimla to Bhuntar, a night in a modest dorm, and then return via kasol. But the Himalayas don’t obey plans, they rewrite them. Somewhere past Jari, the road had been blocked by a massive landslide. We were told to cross the broken stretch on foot and find our way beyond. As I stood watching machines claw through the wounded mountainside, I couldn’t help but reflect on what we’ve done to these hills. We carve them apart, lay roads across their spines, and call it progress. But when they crumble, it’s not just destruction, it’s grief. It felt like watching something ancient cry for help, and all we could do was wait.

We were asked to walk. Just 6 kilometers, they said. I thought I could manage it, the spirit of youth, perhaps. What I hadn’t accounted for was the thinning air, the climbing altitude, and the sheer mental weight of silence. It wasn’t a treadmill, these were the Himalayas, and they were reminding me just how insignificant I was.

And then, like only Himachal can, the mountains sent someone.

A truck slowed beside me, the driver, half-tipsy but full of warmth, waved me in. I hesitated but then decided to trust. Himachali hospitality is not a myth it’s a way of life. We talked, shared laughs, and at one point, I handed him my bottle of Coke in exchange for a seat in his truck. Somewhere between the winding slopes and his stories of riding at 2 AM to rescue a lost friend, I mentioned how badly I wished I’d brought my motorcycle. That’s when he stopped the truck, looked at me, and said, almost casually, “Take my bike to Tosh.”

At first, I laughed. He was serious.

There it was a stranger’s bike, his prized possession, in my hands. He handed me the keys like one hands over a cup of chai. No fear, no hesitation. Just trust. I stood there, speechless. There are some moments that restore your faith in the world. This was one of them.

I threw my leg over the seat and fired up the engine. The moment I twisted the throttle, everything changed. The road stretched ahead, glistening with snowmelt, framed by towering deodars and silence thick enough to feel. My pulse matched the rhythm of the machine. I wasn’t just riding, I was being pulled forward by something bigger than myself.

The 10 kilometers to Barshaini were anything but easy. Snow had laced the tarmac in thin, deceptive layers. The kind that laughs at experience and demands respect. Braking needed calculation, corners needed prayer. Every twist of the wrist was a choice between fear and freedom. But this is what motorcycling teaches you, not just control, but surrender. Not to the road, but to the moment.

I slowed down, not because I had to, but because I didn’t want it to end. The snow-dusted trees, the cold wind grazing my face, the sheer vastness of it all, it felt like riding through a dream I didn’t want to wake up from. And yet, part of me knew the ride was about more than just scenery. It was about trust in a stranger, in a machine, and in myself.

When I reached the top, I was greeted by a half-frozen lake, framed in silence. The snow was knee-deep, the sky a cold canvas above me. I sat by the water, letting the chill sink in. There were no notifications, no deadlines, no noise. Just the mountain, and me.

As the sun dipped behind the ridges, I knew I had to leave. Darkness in the hills isn’t poetic, it’s unforgiving. I rode back to the man’s house with a heavy heart but he welcomed me with the same open arms, offered food, and insisted I stay the night. That dinner, in a small village home, warmed me more than any bonfire could.

But college doesn’t wait, and reality doesn’t bend. I had to leave. We said our goodbyes like old friends, and I boarded my return bus not just with memories, but with something else a new found understanding of the word humanity.

It wasn’t the view that made the journey unforgettable. It wasn’t even the risk or the snow. It was the simple act of being trusted, and the freedom to ride, not for distance or destination, but for the feeling.

The weight of the bike through slushy curves, the quiet thrum of the engine in freezing air, the throttle pulling me into the unknown, that was the soul of this ride.