The petrol pump at Tandi, just after you leave Keylong, has a sign that should be carved into every adventure rider’s consciousness: “Last fuel for 365 kilometers.” This is not a suggestion. This is not tourism board hyperbole. This is a simple statement of fact that separates optimists from people who understand math.
Three hundred and sixty-five kilometers is a number that seems reasonable until you factor in altitude, headwinds, the fact that your Royal Enfield’s fuel gauge is more decorative than functional, and the very real possibility that the next pump at Pang won’t have fuel when you get there. Then that number transforms from a distance into an existential crisis with a countdown timer.
I’ve watched this realization hit riders in real-time. They pull into Tandi feeling confident – they’ve done the math, they have a 15-liter tank, they get maybe 30 kilometers per liter, they’re fine. Then someone mentions that the pump at Pang sometimes runs dry for days. Sometimes weeks. Sometimes the tanker truck doesn’t make it over the pass because of landslides or snow or bureaucratic indifference.
Suddenly, mathematics becomes theology. You’re not calculating fuel consumption anymore; you’re calculating faith.
The Manali-Leh highway’s fuel situation is a perfect demonstration of the illusion of control. You can prepare, you can carry extra fuel in jerry cans strapped to your panniers, you can even ride a bike with legendary fuel efficiency. But you’re still operating in a system where the variables include geological events, weather patterns, and the Indian government’s fuel distribution logistics in one of the most remote regions on Earth.
This is where existentialism meets carburetors. You have to make a choice with incomplete information, and that choice has consequences that could range from “mildly inconvenient” to “genuinely dangerous.” Do you carry extra fuel and add weight that will decrease your fuel efficiency, creating a paradox where the solution contributes to the problem? Do you trust that Pang will have fuel, essentially betting your safety on a system that has failed before and will fail again?
The Buddhist approach would be to accept uncertainty and proceed anyway. The engineer’s approach would be to carry enough extra fuel to account for every variable. The actual approach most riders take is somewhere in between: carry some extra fuel, ride conservatively, and spend the entire stretch from Tandi to Pang doing mental arithmetic that gets increasingly desperate as the kilometers tick by.
I once rode with a group where one rider had calculated everything perfectly – except he’d calculated based on highway riding, not mountain passes with 20-kilometer climbs at altitudes where engines gasp for air as desperately as humans. By the time we reached the top of Baralacha La, his confidence had evaporated along with his fuel. We ended up siphoning from three other bikes to get him to Pang.
The lesson he learned – the lesson everyone learns on this highway – is that theoretical fuel efficiency and actual fuel efficiency are separated by about 4,000 meters of elevation gain and the laws of thermodynamics. Your engine needs more fuel at altitude because there’s less oxygen for combustion. Your carburetor can’t adjust for this because it’s a mechanical device from 1955 that thinks sea level is the only level.
There’s a particular kind of anxiety that develops when you’re running low on fuel in a place where “running out” doesn’t mean calling roadside assistance. It means you’re 50 kilometers from the nearest human habitation in a valley where night temperatures drop below freezing even in summer. The stakes clarify your thinking remarkably.
What’s fascinating is how this fuel anxiety reveals different philosophies about risk and preparation. Some riders show up with 20 liters of extra fuel strapped to their bikes like they’re crossing the Sahara. Others show up with nothing but faith and a concerning ignorance of geography. Neither approach is entirely wrong, but both say something about how people navigate uncertainty.
The extra fuel carriers are pessimists who’ve decided that the universe is fundamentally hostile and must be planned against. The faith riders are optimists who believe things will work out because they generally have before. The universe, characteristically, doesn’t care about either philosophy and will strand both types with equal indifference if the math doesn’t work out.
I’ve learned to carry about 5 liters of extra fuel – enough to matter, not so much that I’m hauling a mobile refinery over mountain passes. But more importantly, I’ve learned to ride like fuel matters, which means slowing down, using engine braking on descents, and accepting that “making good time” is meaningless if you’re doing it on an empty tank in the middle of nowhere.
The petrol pump at Pang, when it finally appears after those 365 kilometers, is possibly the most beautiful sight in Ladakh. Not because it’s architecturally interesting – it’s a concrete box with rusty pumps in a gravel lot surrounded by mountains. It’s beautiful because it represents the validation of your calculations, the universe briefly cooperating with your plans, the temporary illusion that you have control over anything.
Of course, sometimes you arrive and there’s no fuel. The tanker hasn’t come. Nobody knows when it will come. You can wait – people have waited three days – or you can ration what you have and try to make it to Leh, another 170 kilometers away with one more high pass in between.
This is when adventure tourism becomes actual adventure, which is to say, a situation you’d pay money to avoid if you’d known in advance.
The Manali-Leh highway’s fuel situation teaches you something that applies far beyond motorcycle touring: you can prepare for uncertainty, but you can’t eliminate it. You can reduce risk, but you can’t make it zero. And at some point, you have to turn the throttle and go, knowing that you’ve done your best and hoping it’s enough.
Also, maybe carry a jerry can. Faith is great, but gasoline is better.
