The Monsoon Ride 2016 : Varshada Sparsha 3.0

VARSHADA SPARSHA 3.0

“ A cold blue dawn has gently illuminated the dark cloudy skies of Bengaluru. I roll the KTM silently out of the gates, trying to keep the noise to its residual minimum. Outside, the street lights looked drowsy, without a single insect to fish under it's dazzling orange color. With my saddle bags firmly fixed on the rear seat, I sit on the silent cold motorcycle and wear my good old, worn out gloves.

After a short wait, …I turn the ignition key, to see something that puts my heart into a lake of honey, butterflies flutter in my stomach and my eyes have suddenly become razor sharp. The Heads Up Display on the bike displays...

                                            READY TO RACE                                  ”

Day1: 

Our monsoon ride 2016 had started like a rocket launch on a cool morning in the middle of August. We were three of us who had burst out of Bengaluru, like three laser guided missiles with orange wheels, cutting around the mild traffic on the fresh and damp NICE road, leading us quickly out of the city towards Nelamangala. Our target was to hit Hassan city, and unite with the four riders from Mysore. That would complete the full formation of us Pluviophiles.

After feeding on some Jasmine soft Thatte Idli and spicy Chutney at the “Shark Hotel” after Nelamangala, we continued on the explosive ride to reach Hassan city. Despite the dreadful name, “The Shark hotel” served some lip smacking breakfast. (A very good pit stop for a Sunday morning breakfast ride from Bengaluru)

We halted just before Hassan and waited for our comrades from Mysore ....and as it always happens.... we waited.... and waited...... and waited.

After 45 mins, we tried calling in vain as none of the them received our calls. Leaving a message that we would wait for them at our next way point, we headed on the Hassan City Bypass, towards the hill top town, Sakaleshpura. But then, less than a kilometer into our ride, a dramatic coincidence was awaiting us..

“ Speed Demon sees a bunch of 4 riders join the bypass from his left. He realizes that the Mysore riders have joined in. The Saint and me weave into the group one after the other and the full formation has fallen into place, quite dramatically”  

This was indeed an amazing coincidence, taking into account the time we had wasted waiting for the Mysore riders at the wrong location, and the delay caused by The Farmer in starting from Mysore.

Once out of the bypass, we parked our bikes and gave each other bear hugs. After some fool hearty chatter, we started again towards Sakaleshpura. Mr. Bolt's Kawasaki Z800 sounded like a Bazooka as I rode along with him at the tail of the group.

The beauty of the Z800's Engine Acoustics was quickly drowsed by something ridiculously obnoxious. I over took Mr. Bolt and was not less than 50 meters behind The Porn Peddler when my helmet began to resonate with the sound of a bass drum. Getting closer to The Porn Peddler, my blood began to boil and my skull was filled with a high pressure liquid explosive called “Anger”. The new PIPE (Can never be called a silencer for obvious reasons) fitted to The Porn Peddler's Thunder Bird amplified and spat the internal combustion explosion straight into my face, at unbearable decibel levels. I made a decision at that very moment, never to let this chap overtake me throughout the ride.

Sweeping up the curvy roads to Sakaleshpura, I remembered my Maternal Grandmother. More than 7 decades ago, when this town was much smaller and more nestled in the forests, my Maternal Grandmother was born and brought up around this town.

“There must be someone even now, in these regions, who could be my “nth” cousin, whom I have never met”

We halted at a lesser known hotel for some fresh Akki Rottis, Mangalore buns, coffee and other light refreshments. It was just over noon, and the city of Sakaleshpura was slowly enveloped by a beautiful Sirimiri. We slipped into our rain wear and started rolling. We passed the Old Manzirabad fort (built by Tippu Sultan), peering through the helmet shield which was now hit hard by the cold monsoon rain. We were heading straight into the belly of The Monsoon lands.

The fairly broad highway to Mangalore was full of curves and Oil Tanker trucks. We sped through the curves in the pounding rain, enjoying each bend and halted at one of the innumerable waterfalls, some of which spilled on to the road to form delicate streams. The KTM's ABS let me brake late and hard, without skidding. The Slipper clutch added to the pleasure of gaining instant uninterrupted power and traction, delivered flawlessly, On Demand.

At Gundiya junction, Speed Demon suggested a small detour to a bridge for some visuals of the river and far away mountains.

Our destination for the night was a little town called Nitte. The rain protection cover over my saddle bags had fended off the heavy rain, but had failed to fend the Tyre spray. The bottom parts of the rain covers were now small puddles of mud infused water. The bike when parked on the side stand resulted in a deluge of these puddles on to the road. I had no choice but to remove the rain protection covers and empty the puddles as the bags continued to drip. Drenched to my innermost crevices, I prayed for dry clothes for the evening. It was the same with all the riders, but we could only laugh at our plight. After fueling up our sidewinder missiles, we continued our high speed ride and reached Nitte town by 4 PM. But before that,.....

“After carefully looking out for traffic, a little dog attempts to cross the road. Few steps into its attempt, its skull is filled with sounds of heavy, disorienting drums and by the time it realizes what is occurring, something quickly passes through its realm. The little dog spins, skidding back on to the muddy road side and turns to see what just happened. Silence has been restored, nothing visible in either directions. Nothing seems to have changed, except for the fact that the packet of food, that it was hauling has been dropped, but not to be seen anywhere on the road. The little one looks at the road once more (perplexed), and moves on”

Several Kilometers later, we found an almost empty packet of sambar sticking to the side of the Porn Peddler's Royal Enfield Thunder bird. The little fellow was safe, but was left with no supper.

The Porn Peddler has been officially re-designated with a new call sign...

                  “The Pack Snatcher”.

Arriving at Nitte, we parked the bikes outside “Hotel Rathna Forever”. (Interesting name, very neat rooms and fantastic food).

We stripped all our rain wear outside the hotel and hauled our dripping selves quickly to our designated rooms.

I was allocated a single room as I am blessed with the Art of Symphonic Surround Sound Snoring. This turned out to be good for me,for an entire room was mine to unpack all my wet clothes. Not a single cloth in my baggage was wet. Packing them in plastic covers before placing them into the saddle bag had worked well. A quick bath in warm water, fresh dry clothes, and I walked down to meet the others. All looked happy and tired at the end of the day. We spent some time outside the hotel looking at the endless drizzle take over this quiet little town.

A great party followed for the next few hours and we hit the bed before midnight. I could hear the only sound in this town, the sound of the pouring rain, before losing my consciousness.

Day2:

I was shocked for a moment when I entered the hotel room where The Farmer and The Pack Snatcher had holed up. The ceiling fan was a merry-go-round, ridden by several wet clothes. The same scene repeated in The Saint and Speed Demon's room. I woke the drowsy, tired chaps, whose faces looked like one of those water soaked clothes in their room.

The morning was cloudy. The flat wide National Highway was occupied only by a rare 2 wheeler or a truck. Famished, I walked towards a small hotel.

Ordered myself a plate of hot Poori served with mouthwatering Potato and onion side dish and fresh coconut chutney. Such small hotels in the western ghats are simple, clean and present some very tasty fresh food. All I had to do was upload a picture of my breakfast onto our Whats-app group. 
Sleepy fellows must have suddenly felt the deep desire to feed. By the time I had finished my breakfast, boys had started trickling down from their rooms. Our small breakfast hotel owner, who also doubled up as the cook, was a happy man when we left.

By the time we loaded our bikes, the gentle sound of the monsoon rain hitting the tarmac invited us towards Karkala. We took the longer route to join the Mangalore-Panvel NH. We sped past small villages and schools where kids waved at us, the replicas of robo-cop, wearing the riding boots, knee and shin guards, heavy jackets and helmets.

Special attention was always garnered by the Kawasaki Z800 where ever we halted. The Pack Snatcher's, Dog Robbing Royal Enfield Thunder Bird too attracted enough attention by the humble people waiting at the little bus stops. The kind of attention that involves people shutting their ears tight and regurgitate their sputum. But the Dog Robbing Thunder Bird, just Thunder Belched back at them and left.

The rain had stopped when we entered the town of Manipal. The small brass shoe, attached to the side stand of The Saint's KTM had become shaky and needed to be fastened again. The pretty girls of Manipal held our attention intermittently and we held a Police Constable's attention constantly. For reasons I could not understand, he found us very intimidating and kept nudging us to leave the place. We were by no means obstructing traffic, nor were we causing any trouble to the onlookers. Finally, when he walked down and started noting the registration numbers on our bike, we left slowly, but bewildered by such a strange cop.

Most of the riders removed their inner waterproof layer of the jacket as the sun was up and burning bright. I let my inner stay on, and paid for it by getting cooked from inside. Every time we stopped, clouds would form inside me and I would drench my self in my own sweat.

The Mangalore-Panvel highway was wide and fast, and we were the fastest, zipping past most of the vehicles simultaneously from all directions like a swarm of bees. The road continued along the coast, but the sea was not always visible. After riding for an hour, we halted under a big tree for a break. At this point, all of us agreed that the ride was quick but not challenging. Some quick thinking by Speed Demon and we decided to ride a kilometer back and enter the hills, towards the temple town of Kollur.

Just a few kilometers into the hills, the weather was cooler and the roads curved hard. This section of the ride was exceptional as it presented to us some very challenging stretches. Some of the curves seemed never ending and when one did end, it would plunge us into another curve turning the other way, resulting in series of swings. The bikes were quick and agile, but we had look out for the quick on-coming buses. Just before entering Kollur, we deviated and were now heading towards the little coastal town of Byndoor for lunch. By the time we reached Byndoor, I had almost lost all the essential fluids in me. We stopped at a restaurant which served simple fish curry rice, veg meals and spicy fish fry along with life savers like lime juice and butter milk infused with large quantities of ginger, mustard and green chilies.

After a slow lunch, we rode down the coast to the picturesque Maravanthe, where the road is flanked on one side by the sea and the other by a river. The ongoing construction of a Bridge has largely defaced the scene for now. Nevertheless, I believe the beauty will be restored after the bridge gets installed.

We rode our bikes off the road and hit the beach. I was careful not to get my bike into the sand, and stayed on a firm piece of land, while most of them parked their bikes on the beach. The late noon was warm and we spent some time on the beach. I carefully turned by bike and rode back to the Highway, and waited looking at the group on the beach. Speed Demon got his bike out by shear force. Mr. Bolt's bike needed a bit of help and it churned its way out too.

The Saint, Mr. Kidney and The Farmer ploughed the beach for a while but finally plucked their bike out and were safe. The Pack Snatcher was now in deep sands. The Dog Robber fluttered and yelled like a devil who had pinched his own bollocks, spraying sand all over. But not an inch, did it move. Finally it took 3 more riders to return to the beach and drag the beast out of the deep well it had dug itself into. From the highway, The Farmer, The Saint and me helped them with Bursts of laughter and cheeky comments.

We now headed up the highway, to reach the coastal town of Kumta, after a visit to Byndoor beach. The calmness of the small temple on Byndoor beach just held us there for a while, and some of the riders took a small nap on the benches, listening to the sea. A very serene place indeed.

The late evening sun fried me further in my jacket. The highway was indeed very dragging, in spite of riding fast. To make it all sour for me, I had expected this coastal section to be totally monsoon hit. What a disappointment it was...!!!

At one place where the road climbed up a small hillock off the coast, we could see dark clouds ahead of us. Speed Demon and me headed straight into it. There was respite for a few minutes in the quick heavy sprint of a rain, but we were all dry by the time we reached Hotel Panduranga International, Kumta. A quick bath freshened me up and tired me down simultaneously. We ate well at the Veg Restaurant and spent time chuckling. Some of us fed on some good ice creams along with whiskey for the evening. 

Day3:

“Saar, kindly list out all the items you have had as I have lost track of it...”

….was what the humble waiter told me with his innocent smiling face. Our breakfast started with Mr. Farmer, Mr. Pack Snatcher and me, joined in by The Saint and Speed Demon and by the time we had finished, Mr. Bolt and Mr. Kidney ordered their breakfast. We had occupied that table for more than an hour and at the end of it, the waiter was lost. I carefully listed out the items that we had devoured and washed it down with coffee, paid up and left.

We were now speeding towards a Geologist's haven, an architect's inspiration and a rock climber's nemesis (if rock climbing was allowed here).

“Yaana.... a time machine that can take you back to a time bygone, long before civilization was born, when life probably was at its very early stage of evolution, when the landscape of this little blue earth would have been very different,....”

I remembered the first time I had visited this awe inspiring place several years ago, we had walked up to watch these unique rock formations, hundreds of bee hives, stench of bat droppings and the play of light and shadow.

After deviating left from the Kumta-Sirsi highway, the road to Yaana is a narrow, very neat bitumen road, that runs like a vein in the middle of a dense forest. Small gravel roads take off once in a while, to deeply nestled settlements of not more than 2 or 3 homes with small farms. The rains were intermittent now, but we enjoyed cruising on this road absorbing the fresh air and the beauty of the forest.

We reached Yaana under a strong drizzle. At that point, we realized that the planned trek to the rocks had hit The rocks.

“How do we carry our baggage as we trek and how do we trek up with the most walking-unfriendly attire we wore?”

I realized that the dress code I was in, was not meant to take up this trek. Hence I was willing to stay back and let those interested to carry on with the trek. As the discussion on this was in progress, The Pack Snatcher restlessly decided to park his Dog Robber....

“The Dog Robber rolls on from the tarmac on to a wet clay tiled surface, and both wheels slip into a low slide. The bike crashes to the right. The Pack Snatcher screams aloud and quickly Mr. Kidney runs to help him. Mr. Kidney's boots have no grip whatsoever..., and now Mr. Kidney is butt sliding straight into the Yelling Beast's exhaust. Mr. Kidney manages to halt just before copulating the Dog robber ”

Seeing this happen in a span of less than a few seconds, none of us left the comfort of our bike seats. I controlled the exploding desire to laugh out loud, got off my bike and slowly walked up towards the fallen angels. When I stepped on the slippery surface the thought of laughter left me instantly. It was at that moment I realized that this surface was covered with a layer of some kind of a moss which was in it's early stages and made the surface extremely slippery. Some how I managed to reach the fallen bike, under which The Pack Snatcher was packed tight. The engine guard had saved his right leg from getting roasted under the burning exhaust pipe and the cooling fins. Mr. Kidney by now, had managed to stand up, with a nice patch of algae on his butt. Another gentleman from a small shop ran to help us. With a good amount of effort, we managed to pull the bike out and park it aside. Then came the bout of laughter anyway.

Eventually, Mr. Bolt and Mr. Kidney were the only 2 who decided to go to the rocks and the rest of us took refuge at the small shop till their return. All the things that were kept in bottles, hung from the ceiling, sealed in packs, cashews, Lemon soda, Cocum juice, coffee, tea, omelet, almost every thing that was edible was consumed for over the next 2 hrs, with echoes of laughter flying into the mild rain. Our heroes returned, tired and famished and some more of the juices and edibles were ordered. Luckily this time, the shop keeper remembered every thing that was consumed by us, for the final bill. He wished us a good safe journey with a great smile that is endemic to the people of this region.

We rode through the jungles and swung in and out of the green canopy. Back on the Kumta-Sirsi highway, a race was in place. The extremely steep curves and the shining wet concrete roads are a pleasure to take on, with the KTMs engine, ABS brakes and the slipper clutch working in tandem, without a glitch.

It was late Sunday afternoon when we reached the small silent town of Sirsi for lunch. A small hotel with gaudy sign board invited us to its upper level wooden mezzanine floor.

Our destination was to reach Shimoga for the night. Hotel Ashoka was to be our abode for celebrating the 3^rd edition of the monsoon ride.

“Speed Demon, as the call sign suggests, is the fastest among us. He is used to riding a much bigger super bike at much higher speeds. No one would dare take him on for a race, especially on these roads.

However, constant exposure to very high decibels of sound for hundreds of Kilometers and a good kick on the butt because of a recent catastrophic event, seems to have rattled the brains of Mr. Pack Snatcher, who decides to chase Speed Demon”

My rather unsuspecting KTM with me in my own melancholy, was shoved off the road by the Dog Robber and took over the road. Now I was in grave danger of exposing myself to severe brain damage.

“I try but am unable to over take The Pack Snatcher (as i had decided never to tail this bike throughout the ride). The Dog Robber Belches away beyond my reach and I give up quickly as the sound intensity reduces. I see from quite a long distance on this fairly straight stretch, that he quickly over takes The Farmer, The saint and is now gunning for Speed Demon.”

As told to me later by Speed Demon, he let The Pack Snatcher pass and played around for a while, only to realize the possibility of his Central Nervous system taking a hit by the noise. The Pack Snatcher and his Dog Robber were allowed to vanish into the future.

Mr. Bolt and Speed Demon, even saw a couple of dogs that ran helter skelter for dear life, upon hearing Dog Robber's death metal style arrival. A human victim of this torture, “it seems”, attempted to bring down The Pack Snatcher by hurling a stone at him, but it was a near miss... ;-) ….

Thanks to Mr. Bolt's advice, we stopped just after a small town called Talguppa, for feasting on some sweet succulent pineapple slices treated with a thin layer of salt and red chili powder. We reached Shimoga just before dusk. By 7PM, the party had started. Mr. Bolt rolled out some exceptional old songs in Kannada and Hindi. Mr. Farmer was at his best with his porn poetry. The friendly duel between The Farmer and Mr. Kidney which was filled with exceptionally crafted combination of abuses, was indeed unforgettable.

Day 4: 

“On this day of India's Independence, we are on the last day of our ride, home ward bound. We, being a bunch of proud Indians, wish each other and start our journey. But deep inside, we know, that we are losing our freedom that was blessed upon us 3 days ago. A busy, cramped up city life awaits us, just a few hours from now...”

The last day of the ride was a day of mixed emotions. We forcibly detached ourselves from Shimoga city. The rains had completely abandoned us this day and we rode on the plains, heading homewards. My mind desperately wished for a burst from above.

The group split at Channarayapatna bypass and the Mysore boys headed South. We headed west towards Bengaluru. A few kilometers before Nelamangala, rain god smiled upon us and stayed with us for some time,

“gently soothing my abruptly silent mind”

                                                                ---------------------

At the end of this travelogue, I remember that for a week after the ride, we were busy sharing images and discussed many memories from the ride. An early nostalgia had set in i guess...

“What is the result of this early nostalgia? Well,...hmm,.. it stays for a few days and vanishes for another few days. …

…..And then, suddenly on a weird Sunday afternoon or a rainy Tuesday evening, it comes back..

…..Not as memories of the bike ride(s) we have been through, but in a very different form......

…..................In the form of a new Itinerary,.... for the next ride” ;-)

                                                                   -SLr

http://hrishikenatravelogue.blogspot.in/2014/08/the-monsoon-ride-2014-varshada-sparsha.html

http://hrishikenatravelogue.blogspot.in/2015/09/the-monsoon-ride-2015-varshada-sparsha.html