This poem is adapted from 'The Man from Snowy River' by A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson (1864 - 1941), first published in 1890.

There was movement at the Java for the word had passed around

That the Enfielders were getting under way,

And had joined the wild truck drivers on the highway out of town,

So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.

All the tried and noted riders from their houses near and far

Had mustered at the workshop overnight,

For the bikers love hard riding where the wild truck drivers are

And the Bullet snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Goofy, who rode his bike with his T-shirt lifted up;

Mohan, with his beard as white as snow;

But few could ride beside them when their blood was fairly up –

They would ride wherever bike and man could go.

Ishwor Gurung of the Rifles came down to lend a hand,

No better rider ever held the bars;

For never bike could throw him when the Enfielders did ride,

And San Miguel was coursing through his veins.

And one was there, a stripling, on a small and weedy bike,

He was something like a racehorse under-sized,

With a BSA 250 – three parts thoroughbred at least –

And such as are by Classic bikers prized.

He was hard and tough and wiry – just the sort that won't say die –

There was courage in his quick, impatient tread;

And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,

And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,

And the old man said, "That bike will never do –

For a long and tiring bike ride – bhai, you'd better stop away,

Those roads are far too rough for such as you."

So he waited, sad and wistful – only Ishwor stood his friend:

"I think we ought to let him come," He said,

"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,

For both his bike and he are mountain bred."

"He hails from Kathmandu, by Bagmati River's side,

Where the roads are twice as bad and twice as rough;

Where a motorcycle's tyres burn the rubber on the road,

The man that holds his own is good enough.

And Himalayan Enfielders on the mountains make their home,

Where the river runs those giant hills between.

I have seen full many bikers since I first commenced to roam,

But nowhere yet such bikers have I seen."

So he went – they got together by Thamel in the town –

They raced away towards the valley’s brow,

And Binod gave his orders, "Boys, go at it from the jump.

No use to try for fancy riding now.

And Goofy, you must lead them, lead them boldly from the front;

Ride boldly dai, and never fear the spills.

For never a truck driver could keep the mob in sight

If once they gain the shelter of those hills."

So Goofy rode to lead them – he was racing on the wing

Where the best and boldest riders take their place -

And he raced his Bullet past them and he made the ranges ring

With compression as his Bullet led the race.

Then they halted for a moment while Lyall took a slash,

But he saw the well-loved highway in full view,

And he charged along the highway with a sharp and sudden dash,

And off along the mountain road he flew.

Then fast the bikers followed, where the gorges deep and black

Resounded to the thunder of their tread.

And the Bullets woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back

From the cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.

And onward, ever onward, the wild bikers raced away

Where mountain oak and deodar grew wide;

And truck drivers muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day.

No truck can hold them down the other side."

When they reached the Madi River even Ishwor took a pull,

It might well make the boldest hold their breath.

The wild ganja plant grew thickly and the broken road was full

Of speed breakers and any slip was death.

But the man from Bagmati River left his throttle open wide;

He charged across the road bridge with a cheer;

He raced across the speed bump – a deep nala at the side –

And the others stood and watched in very fear.

He hit the speed bump flying and stood up on his feet.

He cleared both bump and nala in his stride.

And the man from Bagmati River never shifted in his seat –

It was grand to see that mountain biker ride.

Through the sal trees and the saplings on the rough and broken ground,

Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;

And he never hit the foot brake till he landed safe and sound,

At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the truckers as they climbed the further hill,

And the watchers on the mountain standing mute

Saw him pop a flying wheelie, he was right among them still,

As he raced across the khud side in pursuit.

They lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met

In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals

On a dim and distant hillside the truck drivers racing yet,

With the man from Bagmati River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their radiators burst;

He followed like a bloodhound on their track,

Till they halted, cowed and beaten, then he turned their wheels for home

And alone and unassisted brought them back.

But his BSA 250 could hardly make the pace,

With bent front forks and shattered headlight glass,

But his pluck was still undaunted, 'spite the grazes on his face

And a big black bruise a-swelling on his arse.

And down by Annapurna where the snow-capped mountains raise

Their torn and rugged battlements on high,

Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze

At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,

And where around the Phewa Tal the reed beds sweep and sway

To the breezes and the snowy mountain peaks,

The man from Bagmati River is a household word today,

And the bikers tell the story of his ride.

From Himalayan Enfielders with grateful thanks to the sponsors of Ride Nepal 2004.