Old School or New

Saw both the PanAmerica and Heritage Softail cruising along today. One's new and young and can go anywhere...the other is a seasoned bagger packing a legacy and has been everywhere. Whichever you choose, you don't lose...

RE-juvenate...even if for a short while...

Suddenly 5-6 leisure days available this week. Still, freedom to ride for now, before going back in the garage, before next Monday's monstrous traffic resumes.

Stay Tuned...

The status quo continues...much travel ahead but the time to depart remains fluid. Packing is such a chore when it's suitcases instead of saddlebags.

Jamshedpur to Delhi-Feb 2000

“into the sunset we ride
the road long and wide
the dark sky beckons on, the dust is our destiny…” - - Rahul.

These lines are older than this ride, but make more sense now, as I look back to 11 years ago.

There is something about the road. Much has been written about it. It has been glorified, romanticised in poem, film, song, philosophy and legend. About how it symbolises life, primarily. About how we must walk (or ride!) the long road, how we can not stay, how we must traverse every stony stretch, negotiate every tricky turn and precipice. And, well, besides all that soft headed jazz, its also bloody good fun.

It was February 2000. The four of us, Rahul, Ranjeev, Raman and Sidhu set out for what was perhaps considered the dumbest idea ever that a graduating batch of XLRI Jamshedpur had thought up. Riding back all the way from XL to New Delhi, a total of about 1300 kms on motorcycles. Raman and Ranjeev on Raman’s Hero Honda splendour, Rahul and Sidhu on Sidhu’s Enfield 350 Machismo, a.k.a. Dhanno.

But that's exactly what we did. The final term was over, we all now had jobs, bright future prospects and no where to look, but ahead. So, one fateful morning, after having stayed up all night, we saddled up and rode out of XLRI. Our first day target was to clear Bihar (this was before Jharkhand). We had very little clue about what was in store.

This included around 450 kms through some of the most notorious areas of Bihar, like Hazaribagh district, where one could get robbed on the highway, in broad daylight, apparently. Well, about the toughest part was trying to keep from crying out loud, every time we ran over one of the million potholes dotting the entire length of a lame excuse for a National Highway (the G.T.) that Bihar has to offer. There were times when we actually rode through the fields in search of the elusive road...

The first night at Dehri on Sone saw four dusty, weary, yet pleased as punch riders check into a seedy hotel. The bathing water was ice cold but the food was hot and the bedding adequate. On the road, you don’t choose your luxuries; you count your blessings. The rest was easy. Benares, with a halt at the ghats and the singing Hare Rama, Hare Krishna crowd, Allahabad and a halt at Fatehpur town. Not to be mistaken with Fatehpur Sikri. Again, a well-deserved rest at 100 bucks-a-night joint, which had multi coloured windows.

The next morning was perhaps the highlight. Instead of going through the NH we took a detour and what followed was a breathtaking stretch of country road through rural Kanpur. Fields of mustard in full bloom for miles, horse carts, ancient looking wells and small villages. The smell of a winter morning and a sense of eternal bliss in the cold, crisp air. The saddlebags strapped tight, the weathered leather jacket braving the morning dew and the 4-stroke bike engine chugging away tirelessly. This was God’s own country and God’s own time and everything worked perfectly.

The third night at Agra saw us pulling into a bright, well-lit city, decorated for some sort of tourist fest. This time, we had more time on our hands and hot water. Even a TV that sort of worked. We were up very early again. The only time to see the Taj Mahal in all its marble glory is at the break of dawn. Later, back at the hotel after tea and a quick shave we did the final stretch.

Agra to Delhi is perhaps one of the best roads in India. Black, smooth tarmac, multiple lanes, the works. We were on full throttle here, doing about 95 to just below 100 and we couldn’t get any faster. 3 hours later, we hit Delhi with its stream of traffic and a sea of humanity in our faces. We had reached our destination.

We didn’t know whether our journey heralded a new beginning in our lives or an end to the ones we had left behind at XL. We didn’t know if it encouraged future riders in its wake or was a swan song of the Bl@x. Either way, it was time to give the old riding gloves a rest.

Raman
Ranjeev
Rahul
Sidhu
XLRI 2000

The Last Leg...Mama, I'm comin' home...

Despite all intentions, we end up leaving Pathankot late and by 9 am when we depart, the sun is already blazing something fierce. An all too obvious reminder, that it is still the height of summer in the North India plain. The only comforts now are the great roads and my discovery that the sleeping bag makes for an incredible backrest.

Not much left to describe, except that we chug along listlessly in the oppressive heat. No amount of water, that we drink or pour over ourselves, helps. We stop often to rest, sapped by the scorching sun. We’re a heartbeat away from heat stroke. The blinding sunlight transforms the countryside into the surface of Crematoria, from the Riddick movies. Everything looks like it’s going to be incinerated any minute now. This is not summer. It’s an annual nuclear holocaust.

We pull into the driveway of my parents’ house, who are away to Gurgaon to be with my eldest sister and her kids visiting from the US. We are back here after less than two weeks, but it seems longer. I feel transformed. The excitement and trepidation I left with has been replaced with some emptiness, perhaps, but also a stronger sense of self. It’s bloody paradoxical, come to think of it.

Tonight, it’s beer and pizza at home as a token celebration. We were too bushed to step out and go to a bar. The next morning, Nitin and I bid farewell to Darius who carries on along to Delhi. We have to take a small detour, so decide to pack off Nitin’s bike onto a truck bound for Hyderabad, while I park mine at home and take the car to Delhi instead. Back to the humdrum and the mundane. In time, this ride will transform into pure nostalgia. It will have been, a worthwhile investment of experience.



“Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quietest chambers. The mind can never break off from the journey.”
– Pat Conroy

Srinagar to Pathankot: Ride through the Valley of Death…well almost

The Srinagar-Jammu highway is closed for traffic every night when the army sweeps every inch of it for any concealed improvised explosive devices. This is hostile territory, make no mistake. But in the day, it proves to be as much a killer. Owing to the Amarnath Yatra, the traffic is the heaviest I’ve ever seen on any highway. It’s slow progress as we snake up to the famed Jawahar Tunnel and then down again.

We are overtaken by a foreigner, smiling and waving, on a low, powerful KTM sports touring bike. A few miles later, he crashes into the drain next to the road and understandably loses his good humour. Our spirits are no better, battered by diesel fumes, honking horns and the endless stream of vehicles being driven by lunatics. Makes me miss the tranquility of Ladakh already.

After Patni top, we stop for an epic lunch which goes on longer than intended. The view from this dhaba is lovely and just right to stop at, and watch the traffic go by from. And then, the ride toward Udhampur. We ditch Jammu in favour of the relatively unused state highway toward Samba. The terrain here is reminiscent of the muddy ravines of Chambal. As darkness descends, a chai stop at a dhaba in the middle of nowhere, a few moments to soak in the wilderness, the isolation, the realization that I may not be back here again and then we head out.

The road from Samba to Pathankot was under repair and being four-laned. In the dark, with oncoming traffic and headlights, the last part of the ride is rather tiresome. Once again, the realization that night riding is never a great idea. The fun part of the ride has given way to the tedium of commute. As we pull into Pathankot late in the night, the town seems dead. It’s pretty warm now and the dust and grime of travel is suddenly all too apparent. We manage to get a large room on a budget in a seedy hotel close to the bus stand. The narrow stairway and the dingy green corridors with dim red bulbs is something right out of a Ram Gopal Varma film.

However, later, after a shower, sitting in an air conditioned room with enough rum, butter chicken and tandoori rotis, this place seems like a haven. Not so much for Darius who seems visibly upset on getting the news that Michael Jackson has died today. It’s the 25th of June 2009. End of an era for sure. But I am a bit more upset about the fact that the epic journey has come to an end. And I’ll wager, so is Nitin.

I’m pretty sure, many years hence, I’ll look at my bike and think, the way you make me feel, is totally off the wall and I can’t stop loving you and I will remember the time, I did this thriller of a ride and I will wanna be startin’ something again…heh heh. Ok tribute to Whacko Jacko…check. Done.

The Journey Home - Kargil to Srinagar

Perfect sunny day to ride. A God-like feeling to roar out of Kargil on the way to Drass. A feeling of calm. And immortality.

Then we see the sign.

Apparently we should exercise caution, since we are under enemy observation. A mental picture of a handheld rocket making its way rapidly toward our trio, from the mountaintops, emerges. Yup, good idea to skip the photo-op at this sign and chug along. Yeah, and scratch the plan of showing Paki border troops, the finger, too. Not good for international diplomacy and that sort of thing. Wouldn’t be kosher. Or Halal, in this case.

A board proclaiming that this is 2nd coldest inhabited place on the planet welcomes us to Dras. It’s so cold that apparently hens lay smaller eggs here. We got this on good authority from the waiter at the dhaba when we enquired why our 4 scrambled eggs look like two. Then he shows us the egg. It was about the size of a pigeon’s egg.

We stop at the Kargil War Memorial, which is just outside Dras. With the Tololing ranges & Tiger Hill in the backdrop, where some of the fiercest fighting that took place, it makes quiet a spectacular view. It’s a grand and solemn tribute to the Kargil war heroes. Being here makes the stories of Capt Vikram Batra and Lieutenant Vijayant Thapar seem more real. And yet, it’s difficult to imagine how in an environment where even walking is strenuous, these guys accomplished what they did in probably the most hostile and stressful of situations. Being here, does a lot for one’s perspective.

Onward to Zoji La pass, the last of the Himalayan gateways on this journey. We ride across some of the most surreal landscape here. The gray-green, snow-capped mountains on either side of a black top road snaking across the wide valley floor, and an azure sky above is a sight which is probably going to stay with us till we die. This is biking Valhalla.

The road to Zoji La however, is complete crap. This is probably the second toughest climb we’ve had, but now riding through water, rocks and rubble has become second nature. It’s an awfully long climb, closeted by rock on all sides. At the top, the mountain is just black rock and dust. I get the same ‘route to Shangrila’ feeling.

We cross the bracket of black rock, that is Zoji La, ride around the shoulder of the mountain and are greeted with a spectacular view. That of the wide open and extremely green Sonmarg valley, a few thousand feet below. It’s almost a sheer drop and it’s a very steep and narrow road descending into the valley. This should be fun.

We are stopped by a group of soldiers atop a boulder by the side of the road for some random checking. They’re really courteous, offering us water and chai while making small talk to check if there’s anything suspicious about us. Though I doubt potential trouble makers in the valley would pick as conspicuous a mode of travel as Enfield motorcycles.

The descent into Sonmarg is incredible…as the altitude drops, the oxygen levels rapidly rise. It’s dramatic, what happens to bike and biker alike here. While our lungs fill up, after almost two weeks, the engine also gets a fresh, clean burst of oxygen rich air. Suddenly, power that you had forgotten, surges forth on twisting the accelerator grip and the bike lunges like a caged cougar set free. Fuckin’ Brilliant…is all I can say.

This reintroduction to BHP, is all it takes to make short work of the otherwise tedious journey to Srinagar from this point onward. The road is good, but there is huge traffic so we zip past, weaving in and out of the endless rows of cars. After what we have ridden through, this seems like a cakewalk.

Srinagar is still a lovely city, but there are some sort of police or paramilitary personnel every 40 yards or so. There is some nervousness, especially around the only place we buy alcohol from. The Govt. hotel with the only licensed liquor shop. Tourism has revived a bit here but nothing compared to the past glory. We stay at lovely, relatively plush hotel, called the Akbar International which looks like an old converted mansion. We get our own valet and room service etc at rates, even fleabag motel owners in Delhi would scoff at.

As we unload our bikes in the hotel driveway, an old car with an old Sikh couple pulls up beside us. As the lady makes her way indoors, the old gent guesses I’m a Punjabi as well since he asks me, in Punjabi, where we’re coming from and where we’re headed. I give him the 3 minute download of our journey.

He looks at me, eyes sparkling, yet wistful and tells me…”changa hai beta..khoob aishaan karo. Ae bada rangeen time hunda ae zindagi da..” (this is great son, have a blast…youth is a really colourful time of one’s life). Not something we haven’t all heard before, but something about the way he said it, really made an impression.

As we settle down and start the daily drinking ritual, I feel lucky to be able to do this now and know it won’t seem terribly long, before I’ll be the old man, reliving this trip, telling some guy to really make the most of his youth before family, mortgages, medical bills, grocery shopping and incessant and frequently trite social compulsions rob him of it.

Tomorrow, we would be heading to Pathankot and this was our last night in the Himalayas. This ride was almost done.