"Time to embark upon another journey with a bunch of fellow riders. Our bags are well stacked to sustain our clothing needs for 3 days in the monsoon hit western ghats of Karnataka. We are a residual bunch of 7 riders, from the original group of 14. 4 Riders from Bangalore and 3 from Mysore. Many seasoned riders have opted out, not willing to take on the Monsoon."
DAY 1:
The rendezvous with the 3 Mysore riders was at Hassan City. Three Royal Enfield Bullets chugged, while one KTM sped like a rocked let loose, as we headed west out of Bangalore City. After riding for about 2 hours, we stopped for a small break. The sky towards the south west was dark grey with occasional lightning flashes. The thought of Mysore boys below those clouds, made us imagine their plight by the time they would reach Hassan. We had stepped upon our own fate as we laughed out loud conveniently ignoring the fact that the clouds were heading straight towards us. As the rubber hit the beautiful tarmac, cool evening wind sent gentle shivers up my stomach,chest and back. Within a few minutes, we were on the soft green grass, just off the national highway, busy pulling out rain wear. To prevent my riding gloves from getting soaked in rain, i stuffed it into the saddle bag. We were back on the road in a few minutes, but the tarmac looked darker, so did the sky and the surrounding air.
The rain drops hit my knuckles like blunt needles, as we pushed into the pounding rain towards Hassan City. A fellow rider had to stop and readjust his luggage which had slipped off the back seat. When I reached him to help he said,
" The bike is not pulling the way it should. Something is wrong".
The only possible place to get the bike checked was Hassan, and we were an hour or more away from it.
We took the full brunt of the Monsoon rain and finally entered Hassan city. Some how, water had entered into my jacket from the neck region and everything inside was wet. We stopped at the rendezvous point, waiting for the Mysore boys to join. The bike which needed help was accompanied by another rider and they went in search of a Enfield Bullet mechanic. I went in search of a suitable place to take a leak, and another rider called the Mysore boys for their status update.
When i came back, i was taken by surprise to know, that the Mysore boys had not encountered any rain. They had reached Hassan and were happily sipping hot tea while we were battling the bursting clouds above and the glassy road below.
The next 20 minutes passed very slowly, as we waited in the drizzle, with the street lights taking over the duty from the Sun. Finally, our Mysore comrades arrived and we moved towards the workshop where the troubled bike was being treated. Apparently, the mechanic removed a small piece of wire from the troubled Bullet's carburetor, which was sitting there for over 2 years. It was inserted into place at a workshop somewhere on the way to Leh and was supposed to have been removed from there a long time ago. We paid the mechanic and moved on.
Our next destination was just beyond Chickmaglur Town, where we were to halt for the night, at a coffee estate. Though the rain had subsided, the problem of making up for the lost time could not be solved, as it was dark and the road was not the broad highway anymore.
Chickmaglur town, was preparing to sleep when we entered. We bought the needful party material for the night and headed out quickly, towards the foot of Mullayanagiri, the tallest peak in Karnataka. After checking in to the estate stay, i freshened up using ice cold water. Excellent, Hot Malenadu style food made my day, a well lived one. Dinner was accompanied with screaming and laughing like the waves of a turbulent ocean. I had one more smoke for the night, listening to the soothing sound of the pouring rain. I hit the bed without seeing the watch. It must have been midnight.
DAY 2:
At dawn, we strolled around in the damp green coffee estate. The sun smiled down upon this little earth through a misty drizzle, bestowing it with endless hope and energy.
At dawn, we strolled around in the damp green coffee estate. The sun smiled down upon this little earth through a misty drizzle, bestowing it with endless hope and energy.
Packing up and leaving was more than complicated for my lazy mind. Finally, when we pulled out of the estate, it was 9.30am. The terrain between the estate home and the exit gate was like riding straight in and out of a steep valley. I seriously wondered how we had managed to do this terrain the last night in darkness, rain, with closed helmet shields and the only visual aid being our bike headlamps.
We were back on our journey, climbing up the winding roads towards Datta Peetha, a holy place of worship for Hindus and Muslims. It rained no more upon us, as we we were right inside the clouds. Soon we took the deviation and entered another....
...beautiful road that led us towards Kemmangundi, a hill station. I had traveled this road several times in the past, but none of my fellow riders had. Hence none of them knew the condition of the road that lay ahead. Our 7 bikes chugged around the curves, halting from time to time to see the coffee estates, water falls, undisturbed landscapes and colorful birds. It was the last 15 kms to reach Kemmangundi, that troubled my mind.
As i had anticipated, the monsoon had taken its toll. At several places, land had slid and rocks had rolled on to the narrow road. Where ever i saw a red wall instead of greens on to my right hand side, i knew that the land had moved out of that place and was now, somewhere at the bottom of the valley on to my left. The road must have been blocked several times over the past two months and cleared by the forest department. The alternate route to reach Kemmangundi was a State highway, more like a State Government Sponsored Race Track. For now, i was waiting for that one curve after which, the paradigm of our ride would change drastically.
"Here we are, we have negotiated The curve, the road is now full of ankle deep pot holes."
I could not, even vaguely imagine, the effect of the previous night's rains. The bikes in front of me suddenly stopped and i was stunned to see that the entire width of the road was a reddish brown colored pond. One of the bikers, known for his daring acts, rode into it and was surprised to feel the water touch the side of his feet. Panic struck and he accelerated. The bike sliced through the pond like a hot sword, steam emerging all over the sides, as the splashing water came in contact with the burning hot cooling fins and the silencer. Without a clue, he pushed the bike further. Luckily, he crossed the pond. The tall KTM sailed through while Bullets ploughed across powered by iron muscles.
We were now relentlessly getting into and out of red ponds of iron ore rich water. Some ponds were dangerously deep, but the bullets managed to come out without much trouble. Adrenaline had replaced most of the contents in my blood.
We finally reached the view point 'Plateau' where we parked our bikes and recovered. Excitement filled the air. Humour finally returned back to life.
Green mountain ranges had clouds hovering over them. The scenic beauty of this place was indeed enchanting.We spent some time spotting far away objects on the mountains, some which moved like slow ants and some unmoved for several centuries. The 7 bikes, rested like tired beasts. A couple of drags calmed my nerves and brought my feet back on earth.
We started riding again, and the road damage worsened with even larger ponds and potholes. After a gruelling, arduous ride, we reached the check post 1 km from Kemmangundi. While most of us rode up to the top towards Kemmangundi viewpoint, two adventure heads, took another narrow road covered with thick vegetation, only to come back and tell us that the water covered almost half the Bullet's height. The KTM, had sailed through the off-roading experience.
What i had in front of me were two different genres of bikes and bikers. For me, the Bullet, with all its weight, the short rider (whom we shall refer to as Mr. Farmer henceforth), average tyres, went into hell and came back victorious, covered in red. For some of the other riders, the KTM, with ABS, tall well build rider, tremendous power, special tyres, tough shock absorbers, built for this kind of work, went in and showed what hell is all about, and emerged victorious.
As we started our descent from the hill station, the Engine thumps were reduced to gentle drumming sounds produced by the noisy hydraulic tappets. All our bikes were gliding down the intense curves, except the KTM, which had now gone ballistic. My dear friend who is known to be a Speed Demon on his other bike, The Suzuki Hayabusa, was nowhere to be seen. Guess he was letting out all the accumulated steam from the relatively slow and back breaking ride so far. For me, the toughest part of the entire route that i had planned, was now over.
Finally, our heavy gliders landed at the Indian Oil Petrol station, just before Lingadahalli. Riders regrouped, and we took the right turn which would take us back to Chickmaglur town. This was the same road i had referred to previously as the State Sponsored Race track. The flat road is narrow for a few kilometers, after which it becomes broader, winds like a serpent and invites you to bank and bend the bike to your heart's content.The same rider whose bullet had encountered problems with its carburetor, was to be troubled again, not by the carb, but by cows.
From a distance of about 25 meters i saw Mr. Carb Man who had half overtaken a truck from the right.
"the truck slows down. Carb Man thinks the truck is letting him pass and accelerates his Bullet, only to realize the truck was not letting him pass, but letting a cow cross the road. All hell breaks loose, Mr. Carb Man stamps the rear brake pedal under his right leg, the bike slides and bends to the left as the cow just walks across. The rear of the Bullet gently caresses the rear of the cow. The impact puts the Bullet back on track and the bike stands up with Mr. Carb Man hanging on it".
If that impact was not there, Mr. Carb Man's "Carb" would be in a sling. Carb Man slowed down and so did I to check the damage. The cow continued to walk, shrugging off the Bulls move. Mr. Carb Man raced and vanished into the next curve. Must have been quite embarrassing to stop and let us all have a hearty laugh right there, at that moment. Eventually we did that with added interest. Events continued to happen in quick succession. About 5 mins later, i caught up with Mr. Carb Man and was cruising about 7 to 8 meters behind him.
"Again, there is a truck in front of Mr. Carb Man and a car coming from the opposite direction. Out of nowhere, a sub-adult cow, jumps onto the road, exactly in front of the approaching car, the car brakes and swerves off the road with a jolt. The sub-adult cow now gets even more excited, and does a victory dance and springs in front of the truck. The truck driver, having witnessed the car and the cow, just miss each other, is already moving away from the dancing cow towards the shoulder on the left hand side."
"What the driver has not seen on the left, is the pole with a couple of telephone cables. The Truck goes off the road, circumvents the dancing cow and gets back on the road. The left top of the truck, gets the cable and both cables snap. Mr. Carb Man sees the cable whip across quite helplessly, and in no time, it belts into him. Further, it whips around again, missing my bike. Mr. Carb man's jacket saves him from a whip mark on his chest and neck and a tough question from his wife to answer. I have no memories of the dancing cow after missing the whipping cables".
"This time, Mr. Carb Man slows down, instead of racing away"
All of us went ahead as the road started to climb and curve, banking and bending the bikes. We enjoyed pushing the bike through the curves to get as much adrenaline as possible, into our blood streams.
What a kick it was ... Splendid weather added to the rider's mood and a friendly race had begun. Mr. Farmer, on his ugly brown bullet, went chasing every curve and came out on the perfect racing line to ensure minimal loss of speed. As expected, Mr. Speed Demon was not to be seen. The bullets roared at every curve when the gears were shrunk down, and pulled the riders like a locomotive engine, out of each curve. By the time we reached Kaimara, another junction point, we realized one of the riders was missing. None other than Mr. Carb Man. Guess the events had shaken him up, but as narrated to us later (after our half hour wait for his arrival) 'he had stopped for a call from a business associate...' ..What could we say.!!!
We entered Chickmaglur by 3.30 PM and headed for lunch at a small, open air hotel, who served, excellent Fried rice, hot Parathas and curd rice.
With our stomachs full, we went to the nearest petrol station, fueled the beasts and slowly rumbled on, towards Horanadu.
Horanadu, a small pilgrimage place nestled in the midst of the mountains of Malenadu, is famous for Annapoorneshwari Devi Temple. We reached our destination for the night halt, just before sunset. After a quick fresh up, we went to visit the temple and finished a late dinner at the temple. Rice, Sambar, Rasamm, Payasa & Buttermilk was like heavenly nectar for hungry bees, like us.
On the way back to the lodge, me and Carb Man were on my bike. As i parked, i realized that it was not our lodge premises that we had entered. Instead it was a neighboring lodge, which looked like a replica of the lodge where we had unpacked. Slightly embarrassed by my mistake we quickly left.
We were not the only ones to get stumped by the replica lodge. In fact, we were not even stumped. Our dear riders from Mysore, also pulled into the replica lodge, parked the bikes and went to the hotel reception.
The man behind the desk: " No Rooms saar"
Mr.Bolt (one of the riders): "We already have booked the rooms" and further adds one room excess for reasons unknown and says "4 rooms booked"
The man behind the desk is baffled: " What room numbers?"
Mr. Bolt: "208, 207, 209...
The man behind the desk Interrupts: " our hotel does'nt have those room numbers Saar"
Mr. Bolt (and company) baffled: !!!! Pulls out the room keys and flashes it in front of the desk man.
The man behind the desk: "Those don't belong to our lodge Saar"
Mr. Bolt and company: Double baffled.
The man behind the desk: "That is Durgamba lodge, the one next to ours"
Mildly embarrassed at what had happened, Mr. Bolt accompanied by the other two nuts walk out silently to reach Durgamba lodge.
What happened after the rest of the riders got to know the story from Mr. Bolt, ? ....... i leave it to your imagination.
DAY 3:
After an undisturbed night's sleep, we thrust into ourselves, hefty quantities of hot Idlis, Kharabath, Mangalore bajji, Mangalore Buns and consolidated it with coffee.
One of the Riders, slightly constipated, went for another attempt, as we waited outside the lodge, ready to start the day.
"Feeling restless, The farmer takes the KTM for a spin and comes back gleaming. The instant power, superior balance, ABS, makes the bike follow the rider's command with instant results. He almost decides to buy a KTM on the spot."
Not to bring out the pros and cons, but, pulling the Bullet out of those relentless curves, is like trying to turn an old timber loaded truck without power steering. The KTM would feel like a Volvo in the same curves, though i have never driven a Volvo. Anyway, who cares about the pros and cons of the bike when the riding happens inside the mind of the rider. Cruising, banking and bending a Bullet is for my taste buds. KTM is for his, and it works just fine for us, respectively.
"After a small discussion, Mr. Bolt takes the KTM for a spin and comes back with his teeth shining from ear to ear. The 390cc engine seems to have made a mark on his heart. Following the cue, the third Mysore rider, known as Porn Peddler (The Farmer, Mr. Bolt and Porn Peddler complete the Mysore riders group) takes the KTM. Compared to his Royal Enfield Thunder Bird, the seating on KTM is quite the opposite in it's feel. After several minutes, he is back, but with a dissatisfied look on his face".
As i got to know later, Speed demon at that point thought, "may be the 390cc engine power was insufficient for this man. The 690cc KTM would be suitable for him".
"So, the Porn Peddler parks the bike, and stuns all of us as he pulls out the foot brake pedal of the KTM from his jacket pocket and hands it over to Speed demon and explains his fall".
I am still, unable able to figure out what happened, and how the brake pedal of the KTM broke by the fall, without a scratch on the body of the bike.
"As we all gun the engines on, Mr. Carb struggles to get his Bullet thumping. After a lot of efforts, the bike starts, but then, the problem returns to haunt again. The bike doesn't have the expected pickup. We ride on to the small town of Kalasa, the temple town of Lord Kalaseshwara, hoping to find a Bullet Mechanic. At Kalasa we are directed to go to Sringeri, another pilgrimage town in the western ghats of Karnataka."
As per the planned route, Sringeri was the pit stop for lunch. However, we had planned to reach Sringeri, via the picturesque ghats of Kudremukha. In spite of the carburetor problem, we all moved on.
Rain had been our companion, but not troubled us like it did on the first day. The flat curvy roads and beautiful weather were complemented by a gentle drizzle. This added to the flavour of nostalgia in my mind as we passed along the abandoned buildings of Kudremukha. These buildings once housed the staff working for Kudremukha Iron Ore Corporation Ltd. We stopped on a bridge to see, the far away silent factory roofs, and conveyors, standing still, with chopped mountains on one side, and untouched mountains as the backdrop.
I wondered, what would have been the scene if these mountains were not mined for iron ore.
I hoped that one day, Tigers would return to this vast wilderness permanently, as the mining had stopped many years ago. I was to get good news about this very soon.
The scenic beauty on this road was such that, the group broke into fragments. We rode at about 20 Kmph, just absorbing the timeless beauty that his place presented to us. Mr. Bolt spotted six Sambar Deer, grazing along the side of a mountain.
As we stopped at a place to take some pictures, one of the riders who lagged behind rejoined the group. He had stopped to have a chat with a forest department staff and was informed that five different tigers had been spotted using camera traps in the forests of Kudremukha. With a smile on our face we continued our ride. The road and the weather complemented each other as we glided under the forest canopy, down the damp curvy roads.
The sun appeared once in awhile from the the gaps as the cool monsoon wind carried the hint of rain, somewhere far ahead of us. We stopped at yet another viewpoint for a while to take pictures.
We continued down the serpentine damp road. The slope added a lot of momentum to the bikes. With the engines gently drumming without the heavy Bullet thump, we reached the junction where we had to take a right turn, which would lead us to Sringeri. It was a very neat road, full of hard curves and the mood of the riders automatically switched over from cool gliding to heated racing mode. I remember Mr. Bolt overtook me and another vehicle simultaneously at a curve that turned left, only to encounter a vehicle from the opposite direction. Mr. Bolt's reflex was like that of a wild cat, as he casually slipped the bike in the narrow gap without braking at all. He instinctively shifted down to lower gears in no time and accelerated into the small window of opportunity that was there. I could hear the 500 cc engine of the Thunder Bird roar as it supplied the rider with sufficient power and traction to pull off such a manoeuvre, effortlessly. By the time i came out of the next curve, having overtaken the slow moving vehicle in front, Mr. Bolt had vanished into oblivion. I assume he had gobbled up at least the next 2 curves, ahead of me.
Except for Mr. Carb who hung around in the back of the group, most other riders had let loose all their riding desires. We entered Sringeri and got directions to a mechanic who would repair the virus prone, cow loving Bullet. It took more than an hour as the carburetor was completely cleaned and refitted.
While this open heart surgery was going on, some of us went to another bike showroom hoping to find a can of chain lubrication spray. I was surprised to see the KTM being mounted on a small 3 legged stool, to roll the rear wheel for lubrication. I was a little perplexed and casually discussed the lack of center stand on KTMs with a fellow rider, who wore a red waterproof shoe protector,... without wearing shoes inside. The Devil in the Red Shoe spoke to The farmer and decided to prank the Porn Peddler. When we returned back to the workshop,
The Farmer: (With a very serious look and a hint of anger)" The KTM Center stand has also fallen off when you fell this morning"
Porn Peddler: "What? How?"
The Farmer: "How come you could get the small brake pedal back and miss such a big Center Stand man?'
Porn Peddler: "It wasn't there, where i fell"
The Farmer: "Do you know the cost? Its a part of the gear box casting at its bottom.The entire gear box has to be changed and it has to come from Austria."
Porn Peddler, looked blank and stunned. His eyes reflected his mind replaying the scene where he could get the brake pedal, but not the center stand..
( ..he still thinks the center stand of the KTM fell off.. as i write this travelogue.)
After the surgery on the bullet, we moved on to visit the temple. After the temple visit, we found ourselves punching our bear fists into large quantities of Rice, Sambar, Rasam, curds, pickle, vegetables and pappad, at a well know Brahmin mess in that small humble town. The lunch was heavy and we took our own time to walk out of the humble food serving home.
Our plan was to reach Shimoga City by sunset, via Koppa & Tirthahalli, with a stop at Kuppalli, the village where the great Kannada Poet Kuvempu's house stands as a Museum, safely nestled in which is time and light from a bygone era . For a moment i caused confusion about the direction of the ride as i had led the group on the wrong road. Luckily we were back on track and the entire group rejoined Mr. Speed Demon, who was already waiting for us on the correct road. Again, the riders went on a high speed, sweeping and banking mode, this time Mr. Carb Man included. He out performed all. Nothing held him back now. Our positions kept changing every now and then as we overtook each other several times.
Though the brake lever on the handle of the KTM controls both the front and the rear brakes, psychologically, not having a brake lever below the right foot is enough for a rider like me to fly off into a valley. I was amazed at the mental adaptability of the Mr. Speed Demon, who, so quickly, was back in his racing mode.
Though the brake lever on the handle of the KTM controls both the front and the rear brakes, psychologically, not having a brake lever below the right foot is enough for a rider like me to fly off into a valley. I was amazed at the mental adaptability of the Mr. Speed Demon, who, so quickly, was back in his racing mode.
As i banked right at one of the curves, a bright, shining, Green Vine Snake was desperately crossing the road. I signaled to Mr Carb, who at that point was tailing me, to slow down and pointed the snake. We turned back and tried to take some pictures of this beautiful reptile, but could not get a good one. We were more concerned about a car running over the snake, which we had overtaken a couple of turns behind.
"What a mesmerizing beauty this little snake.!!"
Once off the bitumen road the Green Beauty shot like an arrow towards the nearest bush, halted for a moment and shot upwards into the higher creepers and vanished without a trace. Having spotted this wildlife spectacle, we continued our ride and headed towards Kuppalli.
Me and Mr. Carb Man caught up with the group at Koppa town, from where we had to proceed towards Tirthahalli, via Kuppalli. I started off as the others riders followed. Mr. Porn Peddler seemed like he was high after the fantastic lunch. He overtook all riders, and as i honked at him to stop at the deviation to Kuppalli, he vanished into the horizon towards Tirthahalli. All riders stopped at the junction, waiting for the prodigal son to return. I could not believe how anyone could have missed the large green board on the right and a huge stone masonry structure on the Left, both indicating the deviation towards Kuppalli.
We waited for about 20 minutes and we headed towards kuppalli.
The tour of the poet's house ended, when the prodigal son returned and joined the group. We left the house and headed to the place where the great poet used to sit, meditate, and find inspiration for this works. It also happens to be his final resting place, known as Kavishaila. As I started my bike and unwound down the road from Kavishila, my heart was filled with mixed feelings of happiness and nostalgia. Fleeting glimpses of the characters and the lifestyle of the people who live in this region, (as explained in one of the Poet's books called "Malegalalli Madhumagalu") filled my mind. It began to rain and everything came together to create an emotion that silenced my mind completely, for a few minutes.
Once back on Tirthahalli road, in this state of blissful silence, i could hear my bike making a slightly different noise. The normal thump of the silencer was now accompanied by a subtle"pitch pitch" sound from somewhere below the fuel tank. The sound was familiar as this was the second time that the silencer gasket had developed an issue. Previously it had burst into fragments due to an impact. I caught up with Mr.Porn Peddler and The Farmer, updated them about the situation and told them to go ahead as i preferred to ride it slow. I cruised at a safe 50 Kmph and after some time saw the whole group waiting for me at a curve. I was shocked to hear that the Possible "blown silencer gasket" was conveyed to the other riders as "the blown exhaust gasket fan" by Mr. Porn Peddler. No wonder all had stopped, to find where the fan was on my bike, which was not there on any other Bullets. After a hearty laugh and a brief chat, we resumed our ride.
Somewhere deep inside our Rider hearts, we all knew that the next day would be homeward bound on a boring National Highway. The desire to absorb as much as possible from this last curvy road lined by pristine forest on either sides, over came the desire to reach the destination for the night. We rode as a group, including Mr. Speed Demon. After Tirthahalli town, the ride was even more graceful, enough of twists and turns. The dusk set in gracefully, just leaving enough light to see the forests turn grey from green. The curvy roads gradually straightened as we passed by Mandgadde Bird sanctuary and stopped for a while to see huge flocks of Egrets, roosting on trees. The Gajanur Dam was filled with water due to heavy monsoon, and the lands next to the road leading to Shimoga were filled with water to just about a few millimeters below the road level.
When we entered Shimoga, the city lights were bright. I requested the group to proceed towards Samrat Ashoka Hotel where we had planned a grand party. I took directions from a local mechanic to find a Bullet specialist. Within no time I was in front of the workshop. The silencer gasket was intact, but the silencer itself had come loose, off the engine head, resulting in the "pitch pitch" sound of the leaking exhaust gases. The mechanic saw my saddle bags and voluntarily checked the chain tension and adjusted the slack in the clutch. This man had a golden touch as the bike felt very different, especially the clutch. I was truly overwhelmed by the way the the bike moved and the gears shifted. When i reached the hotel, the riders were at the reception, taking the room keys and pulling the helper boy's legs without mercy. The party mood had set in earlier than expected. After a quick cleanup, we all settled in with some nice vegetarian food. Liquor flowed that night like there was no tomorrow. We were so noisy that the hotel management had posted 2 of their staff members as sentinels at our room door, to control us if we went over board. I hit the bed and passed out by midnight.
DAY 4:
I woke up with in a few hours, scratching my arms and legs. Apparently, a mosquito which had tasted my intoxicated, sweet blood, had invited its entire settlement in that area, to a party. I guessed, by now all of them would be in coma, sloshed by the brutal kick that my blood would have delivered into their tiny systems. I cursed them, drank a liter of water, and hit the bed again, only to wake up by 7.30 am. Most of the riders were partially awake. No one was in a mood to leave for the day. Shimoga skies were filled with dark clouds and it started pouring by 8.30 am. 2 hours later, after finishing breakfast, tidying up, packing our luggage, we rolled out of Shimoga, and headed for the nearest petrol station. The rain continued all along and that was the only relief for my sore mind, which was in no mood to go home.
In that rain, Mr. Speed Demon vanished again. I thought about how differently each one of us rode. Some liked speed more than anything, some liked cruising, some liked bending and banking. No matter what we liked, what was common was that we rode together and respected each other's riding space. Never did any of the riders provoke or react to each other's moves. We respected the rules of the road. I had seen many different styles of biking on display throughout the ride and each had its own charm. The concept of riding was not limited to one model or type of bike in my mind, anymore.
The last stop for all seven riders together would be at a small town called Arsikere. Mysore riders, Mr. Bolt, The Farmer and the Porn Peddler would deviate from here, southwards towards Mysore. The rest of us would head straight east, to Bangalore via Tiptur and Tumkur. With heavy hearts, the group split and moved towards their destinations. The south west sky was again dark grey with flashes...LOL.
The ride after Tumkur towards Bangalore was a torture. Heavy sunday evening traffic handicapped us and we were now on a curvy uphill task on straight flat road. All the freedom that was bestowed upon us just a couple of days back, was now slowly being stripped and taken away. After two gruelling halts at the entry and exit toll booths, we passed out of the toll free gate as if freed from a jail after serving life imprisonment.
One last bit of riding and a surprise was yet in store for us. Quickly we reached the NICE road toll booth, with a heavy drizzle taking over Bangalore city from the South west. (The NICE road heads South from Bangalore - Tumkur road and helps people reach South Bangalore easily, avoiding heavy traffic).
As we stood in line to pay the toll, a group of 5 to 6 bikes were also in line. Youthful exuberance brimming, the foolhardy chatter they created was a nice scene to look at. Most of them were in shorts, no helmets and they looked at us like we were aliens. But their respectful gaze told me that it was the Bullets with the pilot lamps shining, well stacked bags on the back seat and fully covered riders, that held their attentions.
We paid the toll, crossed the automated gates and halted for a while to check the bags and zip up our water proof jackets to shield ourselves from the heavy drizzle. Our bikes slowly started southwards, with our headlamps On, through a drizzle, like a translucent curtain. The setting sun from the west, managed to shove in some light from under the clouds, which made the concrete road shine. Within a few seconds of getting into the 3rd gear, 4 of the new age puny bikes zipped past us with the pillion riders holding their iPhones, making videos.
Before i could imagine what they were shooting, a grand old legendary bike of the 80s and 90s, the Yamaha RX 100, whizzed passed from the right, with the front wheel up in the air and the pillion rider casually hanging on, at the back. He just kept going on one wheel while the video makers chased in vain to get a good footage. The road was like glass and this bike was on one wheel with two riders on it, perfectly balanced, handle gently turned to the left as if saluting the tarmac. As he pulled away from us, Mr. Speed Demon, by his old habit, had also shot off on yet another high speed ride. As told to us later by Mr. Speed Demon, the KTM was clocking 75 Kmph when he overtook the wheeling RX 100. From where i saw, the front wheel landed on the road for a couple of seconds only to get back at its original position, pointing at the sky. Another RX 100 did the same behind us as i saw this on my mirror. But this one did not sustain long enough like the one who had just vanished into the drizzle, leaving only the scream of the 2 stroke engine behind. What a legend this bike was in our college days? What a crazy rider this chap was, who had such unbelievable control over this little devil of a bike!! Again, i thought about the different kinds of bikers i had seen on this ride. From the cruisers to Speed crazy to gutsy off roaders to stunt masters.
The sun was beaming his last rays for the day from behind the clouds, leaving the road with a grey shine. The drizzle was strong and steady. I looked to my left at the Red shoed rider, who looked back for a moment. With no words exchanged, the three Bullets shifted a gear down, one after the other. For one last time, we went ballistic. As i can imagine now, the red tail lamps of our bikes must have dimmed and vanished into the greyish blue, drizzle filled cloudy evening, leaving a trail of thumping echos as a parting gift to the tarmac.
No comments:
Post a Comment