I wasn't expecting a lot from the launch of the Royal Enfield Himalayan 450.
The ride was happening right down the street from my house and I know most of the trails pretty well. They're fire roads that I've seen Harleys and Camrys driving down. Nothing big, nothing technical, nothing that the dainty Himalayan would struggle to make it up. And while its name implies a certain technical off-road prowess, it's a $6,000 motorcycle.
I had the sense that it'd likely be less capable than a Honda CRF300L Rally.
But the key word in that sentence above about the trails was "most," as the Royal Enfield folks scouted a route I'd never been on. And aligning far more with this motorcycle's namesake mountain range, the mountains near me had received every ounce of the rain we most desperately needed in June and July during a single week in August.
The week before the ride.
Though the heavens parted, the precipitation they'd brought remained, and it had carved foot-deep ruts, left two-foot-deep mud puddles that were the entire width of the trail, scattered rocks and boulders, unearthed roots, and filled water crossing after water crossing with deep, dark water. The rain had also compacted portions of the trails where you could run flat, bouncing off the Himalayan's rev limiter, daring you to upshift, and sending you off crests pinned in fourth.
By the end of the day, mud stained my teeth from grinning as I splashed through each successive puddle, my hair felt like a horse's coarse mane, I'd G-d out the bike on one occasion, sent it up rutted it hill climbs, sliced through Utah's beautiful ribbony tarmac, and maybe broke my tibia (TBD).
This $6,000 motorcycle. This seemingly whatever machine I was ready to write off. This little baby adventure motorcycle. Well, it has no business being as good as it is, and if you buy any other adventure bike in the next few months, you're an idiot.
Again, when I had thought about what this ride would entail as I left my house in the morning, I figured we'd take it easy, run some fire roads, do some tarmac stuff, and it'd be a pleasant, albeit quiet, ride through my mountains. Something akin to its predecessor and likely more closely resembling Husqvarna's 401s. Fine, but not an adventure I'd remember in my twilight years.
We had the introduction to the motorcycle, I was told of the new engine, the improved torque and horsepower, how Royal Enfield engineered the frame and suspension, it's 8-inches of travel, and the four different modes (Performance, Performance minus ABS, Eco, and Eco minus ABS). I was also introduced to the Himalayan's TFT screencasting, its basic interface, and the engineer's underscoring that it could be fixed with a hammer if need be.
Foreshadowing.
And while I listened and watched the presentation, though they'd taken it to the Himalayas and supposedly tested it, I've ridden a lot of the mainstays of the adventure motorcycle lineup in recent years, and all of those seemingly have better specs. "It's a scrambler for folks that want to cosplay as adventurers," I whispered to myself as I looked over the bike in the conference room.
Boy was I fucking wrong.
After a short highway romp, we headed off-road and onto a semi-slick fire road in a slot canyon that had just been graded. The dirt, Utah's famously fine substrate, was slick and I had immediate concerns as I had no traction control, nor properly knobby tires. All we had were the CEAT dual-sports. Yet, while the Himalayan moved around whenever I hit those initial greasy spots, it felt controllable. It moved with my inputs instead of against.
More than that, it felt as if it was goading me further. As if it was telling me, "Hey, bucko, quit being a wimp. Let's have some fun." So I obliged.
We picked up speed gradually at first, but the further we got, the faster our caravan of motorcycles went, as the Himalayan almost became an extension of my legs and arms. Only a few miles in, we hit our first water crossing, a 30-foot-wide river that was two feet deep at its lowest point, and with semi-quick running water. I plowed through without issue. Two more crossings happened quickly after the first, one of which's far bank had become immensely slick after repeated Himalayan crossings and featured a large hole right in the path of travel. Even with the dual-sport CEATs, I pirouetted around without issue.
And then the speeds got real.
As we moved out of the canyon, we found ourselves on hard-packed trails that were fairly straight. Feeling more and more confident with the Himalayan's capabilities, we started pushing. What's the old saying, "Faster and faster until the thrill of speed overcomes the fear of death"? That's what raced through my brain as I clicked the Royal Enfield into third, speeding across the trail.
Crests littered the path ahead and the eight inches of travel surprisingly soaked every single jump up. It got to the point where I was actively searching for jumps and hops just to send the Himalayan flying once again. But in my excitement, I failed to see a particularly large crest ahead—as did everyone else—and at a speed I'm not allowed to discuss in polite company, as well as needing to wait out the statute of limitations, I sent it. Myself, as well as my cohorts, slammed into the dirt, G-outing the bike, which hopped up upon rebound, letting me do a small wheelie out.
Expletives were shouted.
And then the terrain changed once again. As we made our way up into the higher portions of the mountains, the canopy grew thicker, shade fell onto the trail, and the climbs grew steeper. As such, the torrential rain that Utah received a week earlier hadn't dried out. Massive, deeply rutted mud puddles made the path forward look like the Moon's surface. Just filled with cold-ass water. And that fine, silty strata that surrounds the puddles turns to ice whenever water gets onto it. The pucker factor was real.
Yet, for a long while, everyone made it through without issue. Even on those compromised dual-sport tires, the little Himalayan was just shredding. Every time we stopped to catch our breaths, our cadre of riders couldn't stop laughing and smiling, all of us uttering some version of, "How the hell is this motorcycle going through all this?!" We were running through spots where proper dirt bikes were having trouble. Where Mavericks and RZRs were having issues and getting stuck.
And while a few folks needed some pushes through some of the mud, the Himayalans just kept going like the Energizer bunny.
Everyone fell, though. The mud was beyond slick. I'd be surprised if even a set of full-on knobby tires would've helped. But as I watched everyone around me drop their bikes, pick them back up, and carry on, I had managed to keep my steed upright even through the worst of it. I congratulated myself numerous times.
But I jinxed it.
One of the highlights of the Royal Enfield presentation was that the Himalayan is designed from top to bottom to be simple. Simple to use, simple to maintain, and simple to fix. The idea is that it could be fixed by the side of the road somewhere in the Himalayas with a hammer and not much else. I wasn't planning on testing that aspect, but the conditions had other thoughts.
As I got to a particularly large, well-shaded, deep mud puddle that folks had already blasted through, I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then sent it. And while I got out fine, I gave it a little too much throttle upon exit, the rear wheel slipped out sending the bike into a slow-speed tank slapper, and I went down. It didn't feel like a hard hit as it was happening—thank you, adrenaline—but the bike had come down on my left leg hard.
Once I extracted myself, I limped up and got the bike upright to inspect the damage. I'd bent the shifter, curving it almost in on itself, and had tweaked the bars hard to the left. Yet, with the help of another rider, we got the bars back to center, and with a stick I found on the side of the trail, I bent the shifter back to where it was supposed to be. And though it was caked in mud, and had just been nearly broke, it worked fine.
My leg was OK for the rest of our trip, though as I write this, I have it elevated with ice and have made an appointment for X-rays cause it may be broken. And yes, I had a full off-road boot on.
Our final stint was on pavement through the willowy tarmac that surrounds the Unita Mountains. These roads are closed during winter, so they never see a plow, they're never salted, and there are no real fault lines to cause upheaval. As such, they're perfect. They make Los Angeles' famous roads look like bargain basement trash—I can say that having lived in LA for a decade. And it was here that the Himalayan performed its final revelation.
Somehow, using some ancient black magic, or just some really well-thought engineering, Royal Enfield gave this motorcycle some serious road-going chops. It's light and nimble. It hugs corners and lets you get your knee down. And while it doesn't have a lot of power or torque, what it has is put down low enough so you're never bogging down or revving the piss out of it just to make it up a hill.
Once again, I found myself pushing the motorcycle faster and faster (within the speed limit, of course) and laughing to myself how this inexpensive little motorcycle was just blowing past all my preconceived notions. I was truly blown away, as were my counterparts riding with me.
I feel like I need to reiterate this over and over again, but the Royal Enfield Himalayan 450 has a starting price of $5,799—this includes a 3-year, unlimited-mile warranty, too. That's less than half of a Honda Transalp, a Yamaha Tenere, Suzuki's V-Strom, and three times less than BMW, Ducati or KTM's offerings. And yeah, I'm putting the Himalayan 450 with those bikes as having ridden most of them, I can say hand on heart, it'll keep up with them. Hell, it might even beat them in some respects. It absolutely does in price.
Seriously, if you buy a new adventure motorcycle that isn't a Royal Enfield Himalayan 450 in the year of our dark lord 2024, you're a moron. It may just well be perfect. At least, that's how I feel after flogging the ever-living hell out of it and not finding a single flaw.
God, I want one.
