Built, Not Found

Seen through the eyes of Nirav Shrestha, Kathmandu’s riding scene is being built in real time: a sanctuary amid the city’s noise, where generations share corners, confidence grows fast, and community turns up for itself.

Kathmandu looks like pure chaos at first. Noise and movement everywhere, a rhythm that feels unreadable. The rules feel different, like there’s no obvious order to it… but somehow it never feels threatening.

You notice it in small flashes: the way traffic negotiates itself without ever fully stopping, the way a street corner becomes a market, the way people move with confidence through a flow you can’t quite decode at first. Later, a visiting rider summed it up neatly: “It’s intense. Constant noise, all kinds of smells, and you need eyes in the back of your head just to get around.”

And then, if you know where to look, you find a pocket of something else entirely.

A pump track in the middle of the city.

Built by Velosolutions, in collaboration with Pump for Peace, it sits there quietly in the chaos, 900 square metres of asphalt that gives Kathmandu’s riders something rare: a place to learn, to gather, and to come back to.

A pocket of asphalt and curves, of rollers and berms, a rhythm you can repeat until your body learns it. A place where the chaos drops away and the only thing that matters is the now. The bike under you. The next corner. The quiet focus you can’t really explain to someone who doesn’t ride.

This is where I met Nirav Shrestha – Kathmandu local, racer, and the kind of character that makes you realise Nepal’s mountain bike scene isn’t just “growing.” It’s being built. Sometimes carefully. Sometimes messily. Often by the same people who graft behind the scenes, then show up the next day to ride like it’s always been there.

The first feeling of flight

Nirav was born and raised in Kathmandu, in what he described as a fairly normal upbringing – “basic needs,” as he put it – but with parents who managed to provide education and stability in a country where that isn’t guaranteed for everyone. He grew up in a joint family with cousins, no siblings of his own. A loud, funny childhood – full in the way joint families are – but shaped by rules that came from a city that didn’t always feel safe outside.

He remembers curfews when he was a kid. Being home before dark. Being told not to accept anything from strangers. Not because his parents were paranoid, but because that’s how you keep your child safe when the streets don’t feel predictable. He says Kathmandu feels safer now, calmer than it used to – the kind of change you feel over time, not in a single moment.

But the thread that runs through his story isn’t fear. It’s the bike.

His first bike was a tricycle, when he was about six. He loved the feeling of it more than running, more than walking – because it made him feel like he was gliding. “You pedal and then you’re just gliding… like you’re in the air,” he told me. After that came a small BMX: neon green and black, “like Sprite or Mountain Dew” – and the earliest version of what he still chases now: that moment the ground disappears, even if it’s only by two inches.

By grade four he was sneaking rides after school – “No helmets. Yeah, only slippers.” His parents weren’t home until later, so he had a window: two hours of “me time” before the day snapped back into schoolwork and family life. His bike was stored a floor above. It was basically the same height as him. He’d drag it down the stairs, sometimes falling, getting up, riding anyway. Then he’d reverse the whole operation – bike back upstairs, clean himself up, homework open on the table like he’d been a “good boy” the whole time.

It’s funny now, the way he tells it – but there’s something telling in that image. A kid who’ll do the extra work just to buy himself a little freedom. A kid who’ll carry a bike twice his size down the stairs, risk a telling off, then haul it back up again, because the feeling it gives him is worth it.

Riding became an escape. From stress. From homework. From the noise of a joint family when chaos found its way into the house. But it also became a tool for exploration – and Nirav describes that part in a way I haven’t heard before.

He compares it to Grand Theft Auto – the way new areas unlock as you explore the map. “For me, it actually was like that,” he said. He’d push out into unfamiliar neighbourhoods, always aware of curfew and daylight, then come home with another piece of Kathmandu stored in his head – not always names, but streets by feel. Years later, in high school, he’d pass a corner and feel the reconnection: “I’ve been here. I don’t know what it’s called, but I know it.”

 

When the scene arrives through a screen

What’s easy to forget, if you’re from somewhere with established trail networks and bike shops on every high street, is that in many places the sport arrives in fragments first. A photo. A video. A rumour.

Nirav didn’t know mountain biking existed in Nepal until 2014.

He was in a stationery shop when he saw a photo of people on mountain bikes. “What is this?” he thought. Then he did what a lot of kids do when they discover a new world: he jumped online and searched for it – “mountain biking Nepal.”

He found videos from Himalayan Single Track. Clips from National Championships. Proof there was a scene here – local, real, not something you had to imagine happening elsewhere. He also found old videos of riders in BC, loam, North Shore features, the kind of riding that makes your brain flick a switch from curiosity to obsession. “That’s pretty crazy,” he thought. “I should try it.”

That moment matters more than it might seem. Because scenes don’t grow only from trails and bikes. They grow from visibility – from a kid being able to see what’s possible in their own country.

The people who quietly build the backbone

Himalayan Single Track – HST – was founded in 2011 by Jenny and Santosh. Jenny moved to Kathmandu from Australia more than twenty years ago, and after different endeavours, she and Santosh grew HST from three bikes in a small shed into something with real weight behind it: a team, a workshop, a fleet of hire bikes, and a touring company.

But the “business growth” part isn’t the point here. The point is what that kind of organisation does for a young scene: it creates structure. It brings standards. It makes riding feel more legitimate – not just for visiting riders coming to Nepal to explore, but for local riders trying to take the sport seriously.

  

Nirav’s story threads through this ecosystem in practical ways – not glossy ones. The first time he earned a better bike wasn’t through sponsorship or luck. It was through school results.

He asked his dad: if he studied hard, would he buy him a good bike? Then he placed third in his class and his dad kept his promise. He walked into the bike shop and pointed at a dream build – too expensive. His dad shut it down immediately. But he still got a decent hardtail. Not the fantasy, but enough to change his life.

 

A few days later he found a small pump track called the “Es Nest Bike Park.” No phone. No helmet. No real directions. He got lost for an hour. Then he found it – and someone there taught him how to pump. “I learned in like a day how to pump and jump,” he said, still sounding surprised by it.

From there, progression turned into a habit. Street riding became training: stairs, drops, urban features repurposed as little lessons. But trails were still a mystery until 2015, when Epic Mountain Bikes linked him up with Rohit Niraula – a mentor who taught him how mountain biking was actually ridden. Not polished coaching. Just fundamentals that worked: look ahead, hold on, don’t crash. And if you’re scared, brake and walk.

They rode Hatiban – an old downhill track – and Nirav says that’s where he really got into mountain biking.

Then came his first race.

Around 2014/15, at the Kathmandu Mountain Bike Fest downhill on Hatiban trail, there were no juniors. Nirav was about fifteen years old. He entered the open category against older riders on full-suspension bikes. He was on a hardtail dirt jumper, single speed, okay-ish tyres, and only a rear brake.

He finished fourth.

“Like the big boys,” he said. His dad was there watching. Start beeps, tyres on dust, people shouting from the side of the trail. And then afterwards – the bit that stuck – he was suddenly part of something. Riders he’d never met handing out tips, laughing at crashes, comparing lines. It wasn’t just a bike anymore. It was a scene.

The sanctuary gets built

The pump track in Kathmandu sits at the centre of this story for a reason. Not because it’s the only thing happening in Nepal’s riding scene, but because it’s a symbol you can touch – and because it changed what access looks like in a city where safe space to play is rare.

Built in late 2022 on the edge of Kathmandu, in Kupondol, Lalitpur, the Velosolutions Pump Track became Nepal’s first community pump track – 900 square metres of asphalt, built to make progression possible without having to leave the city. Pump for Peace helped get it done, backed in part by Crankbrothers’ “Red Shoe” campaign – but what makes it work is simpler: locals actually show up, every week, and make it theirs.

Nirav’s relationship with the track isn’t just that he rides it. He helped build it – heavily behind the scenes.

Not the front-end part with photos and names. The back-end part, where things go wrong and someone has to help deal with it. Accommodation. Logistics. Driving the crew. Sorting supply issues. Handling the kind of messy details that don’t make a caption, like gravel deliveries not arriving and contractors charging double.

At night there were people coming on dirt bikes trying to ride the unfinished track while machinery sat around the site. Nirav stayed guard overnight in winter – then went to college in the morning.

That’s why he talks about the track like it’s personal. Because it is.

“The Velosolutions Pump Track is very special for me,” he said. “I was there day and night, helping to build it. I saw it being shaped… carved… I saw how things went south, how we had to do things to make it right.”

Sometimes he goes there now and doesn’t even ride. He just looks at it. Cleans the place up. Watches the new kids coming through. He calls it a sanctuary – not because it’s quiet, but because it’s safe.

And then there’s Tuesdays.

“Pump Track Tuesdays” is a weekly meet-up where kids and adults turn up together – ten-year-olds to sixty-year-olds sharing the same corners, talking in ways that wouldn’t happen anywhere else in Kathmandu. “They’re conversing, they’re sharing their stories, they’re taking care of each other,” Nirav said. He laughed at the idea that a random ten-year-old and a random sixty-year-old would ever chat in normal life. But here they do.

He described the mix like a rainbow. Like a palette of flavours. Different lives, different generations, different perspectives – together in one place, somehow beautiful.

There’s something in that image that doesn’t need embellishment: a city that can feel like controlled chaos offering a small piece of order that people actually choose to share.

Niels arrives, and the track fills up

Over five days in Kathmandu, the pump track became a classroom. Velosolutions brought in Niels Bensink – a Dutch-born pro mountain biker now based in British Columbia, where he builds pump tracks with the Velosolutions Canada crew – to run a set of riding clinics for the local community. “The turnout was huge,” he said. “We hosted five workshops and new riders kept on showing up.”

For Niels, Kathmandu hit fast. But once the senses settled, what stood out most wasn’t the traffic, it was how normal two wheels felt here. “Everybody rides scooters, bikes, mopeds or motorbikes around the city,” he said. “It gives most riders an extremely advanced sense of bike handling… everybody has the same shared passion.”

He’d expected the track might be sitting there underused. Instead, it was busy – riders dropping in for a few laps as part of daily life. “Lots of people come and go daily, getting a few laps in,” he said. “It’s part of their workout ritual.” And he clocked something important about the design, too: this wasn’t a polished showpiece built for pros. It was grassroots, forgiving, and perfect for progression. A track where younger riders could learn to manual and jump with lower stakes – the kind of place that makes people better, fast.

The clinics showed what that can look like in real time. Kids and adults crowding in, learning side by side. Some with helmets, some borrowing. People sharing bikes, swapping turns, keeping it friendly. “Some riders were there every single day attending multiple workshops,” Niels said. “They couldn’t get enough.”

Progress here wasn’t only technical. It was emotional – confidence building in small increments, lap by lap. A rider who arrives tense, over-braking, pedalling through everything. A rider who leaves with a new idea of where speed comes from: timing, posture, breath, commitment. The physics of it, finally felt rather than explained.

One session stood out above all: the ladies clinic.

“It’s always a question how many girls show up,” Niels said. “But this group ended up having the largest turnout of them all.” Many were mums on trail or city bikes. For some, it was their first time riding anything like this, and the fear was real at the start. But the atmosphere didn’t let it stay that way. “I not once saw the smiles disappear from their faces,” he said. “They were so invested in getting better, even though it was scary… The progress was enormous.”

By the end, riders who couldn’t make it around without pedalling or stepping off were trying manuals, chasing smoother lines, and laughing at their own mistakes. It was joyful and serious at the same time – the exact mix that keeps people coming back.

Through it all, Nirav was the bridge.

Niels noticed it immediately: Nirav arriving early, already riding with locals while the track warmed up. Translating when the details mattered – not just the words, but the feel. “His vibe was very encouraging,” Niels said. “He stepped away from his role as a rider and was willing to help others… He was the hypeman… he motivated participants, cheered them on, and helped keep energy high.”

That’s the version of leadership you don’t always notice unless you’re looking for it – a rider who could be chasing his own lap times, but instead makes sure someone else gets around clean, makes sure a kid doesn’t get embarrassed, makes sure a newcomer doesn’t get swallowed by the faster group.

And in Kathmandu, that matters. Because the track isn’t just sport infrastructure – it’s a social space. Niels saw birthday parties hosted beside the asphalt. He saw people picnicking on the side. He noticed how central it was – reachable enough that riders could roll there from different neighbourhoods, rather than needing transport and planning and permission.

“To me it felt like a real gathering place for kids from different neighbourhoods,” he said – “almost like a safe haven for them.”

That word keeps returning: sanctuary. Not because Kathmandu suddenly becomes quiet, but because the track offers something rare in a city that never really lets you switch off – a safe place to focus, to play, to improve, to belong.

The doorway to the world stage

Velosolutions has built more than tracks. They’ve built a pathway.

For over a decade, they’ve been creating pump tracks around the world, with a mission that’s simple on the surface: make cycling accessible, promote healthier lifestyles, and create safe spaces that bring people together. Pump for Peace extends that work into under-resourced places, where opportunity is scarce and a safe place to ride can be genuinely life-changing.

The Velosolutions UCI Pump Track World Championships sits at the centre of that ecosystem: a global series built around a rare premise in cycling. A level start line. Open qualifiers. A route from local track to world finals. A door left open that usually isn’t.

In 2025, that door swung open in Kathmandu. With Himalayan Single Track helping make it happen, the city’s pump track hosted an official World Championships qualifier, and the prize wasn’t just a number on a timing sheet. Win it, and you’re on a paid trip to the finals.

For Nirav, it couldn’t have been more direct: he won on home asphalt, and a few months later he was in the start gate at the World Champs in Monthey, Switzerland.

“When Velosolutions built the Pump Track in Kathmandu, it wasn’t just asphalt and curves, it was the spark of a dream. On that very track, Nepal hosted a World Championships qualifier, where I trained day after day, learning, crashing, improving, and finding flow.

That track became my classroom, my proving ground. And when I won there, it wasn’t just a victory, it was a ticket to represent at the Velosolutions UCI Pump Track World Championships in Monthey, Switzerland.”

It’s a simple arc, but it’s not a small one: the city, the track, the repetitions, the win, and suddenly Nepal is on the start list in Switzerland.

Honest reality, and choosing to build

Nirav doesn’t talk like someone who thinks sport magically fixes everything. He’s honest about Nepal feeling like survival sometimes. He’s honest about friends leaving in huge numbers. “Eight out of ten” abroad, he said. He described Kathmandu as “controlled chaos”: not just traffic, but uncertainty.

When youth-led protests erupted in Kathmandu and the situation escalated, Nirav was in Switzerland. Watching it unfold from far away, he felt helpless. His home sits near central areas that were affected. He couldn’t be there for his family. Couldn’t do anything except carry it with him, across borders, while he wore Nepal’s name on his back.

That helplessness hardened something in him – not into bitterness, but commitment. He’s been representing Nepal as an athlete since 2014, and he talks about that identity like it’s part of his blood. Wherever he goes, when people ask, he says: “I’m from Nepal.”

Most people his age are looking for a way out. Nirav’s looking for a way to make a life here that still feels expansive – to build something stable enough that the next generation doesn’t grow up believing leaving is the only form of success.

He studied computer networking and cybersecurity because it looked stable. Tried an office job for four or five months. Hated it – felt agitated, time-poor, like he wasn’t even in his own life. He’d rather guide seasonally, travel, show people Nepal, keep his time and his body moving.

That’s where CycleLaya comes in – the riding academy he’s been building, and the beginning of something longer-term: training, progression, and high mountain MTB tours that show what Nepal can offer when riding is treated like something worth committing to. Not just a personal project, but a way of holding the door open behind him.

After Switzerland, Nirav came back with a simple insight: Nepal already has the mountains. What it needs is the system – structure, support, and a culture that protects trails and treats play as something worth investing in.

Niels saw the same tension from a different angle. He understood why some parents hesitate – not because riding doesn’t matter, but because risk costs more here. Hospital bills, gear, insurance – the margin is thinner. He noticed the limited number of parents watching the clinics, and the way older spectators stayed back, curious but uncertain. Yet he also saw the flip side: the parents who did show up, proud to watch their kids light up over something positive. The ones who could see it wasn’t wasted time – it was growth.

Sanctuary, again

Kathmandu still looks like chaos when you zoom out. But inside that chaos, the sanctuary keeps doing what sanctuaries do: making space.

A kid arrives after school and rides safely instead of dodging traffic. A beginner learns to pump and suddenly the bike stops feeling like a fight. A community shows up for itself. A local rider translates so the details don’t get lost. A visiting pro rider runs clinics and leaves the community with a little more confidence than it had before he arrived.

And then, in the middle of it all, you have Nirav – a kid who used to sneak his BMX out in slippers, dragging it down the stairs, returning before his parents got home – now training, racing, representing Nepal, and looking at a track he helped build like it’s proof that the dream is allowed to exist.

Sometimes you fall. He’s honest about that too.

But most times, it’s amazing. Exploration, progression, and in Kathmandu, a pocket of freedom that is quietly changing what the next generation believes is possible.

By Dan Griffiths