So, I did 150km yesterday, the first full day of Battlecat III with me. It is 1600h IST today, and I’ve already put another 105km on the odo. By the way, Kym loves the two wheels and prefers them to four now. She refused the car to go to her training club this morning and insisted that not only do we ride, but that she chat with me the whole time.
For a person who drove only cars for the past 15-20 years, the transition from a reasonably-sized car to a large-ish-sized motorcycle was interesting. Here are (some of) my learnings:
Life’s like a circus. And we are all performers.
Apparently, motorcycling is like riding a cycle. Or swimming. You only have to learn once. You never forget. Of course, I thought it was a cliché. But like most clichés, seems that it is based on a modicum of truth. When I first beheld the 220kg metal behemoth encapsulating 47 horses and requiring the 6-feet me to stand on my tiptoes just to ensure that my legs did not get crushed under the weight of an unbalanced bike, I was apprehensive (and that, my friends, is a euphemism right there; I was terrified) that I may be shaky (another euphemism; I was shitting bricks, to be perfectly honest) at first, and that I need to give it time (or maybe sell the bike and retire to my air-conditioned sedan with haste). But, and this shocked me more than anyone else, it took me all of one minute to turn it on and ride as if I just got off Battlecat II. I must have been an elephant in my last life. An elephant that used to ride a bike. Like I remember seeing in ‘Rambo Circus’ in my childhood. Maybe I was that elephant’s father or something before being reincarnated as me. And now I have given you all a visual that should bring a smile to your face every time you see me on that machine.
I guess you guys aren’t ready for that yet.
When you switch from a car to a bike, space and time start meaning something else altogether. I spent the first quarter of the day (and perhaps the first 30-35km) riding cautiously (and somewhat frustratingly) behind large trucks, cars, and even other motorcyclists, waiting for an opportunity to overtake, only to realise that my estimation of how much space I needed to pass them was grossly over the par when it comes to a motorcycle as compared to the car I was used to driving. Ditto time. The difference between the throttle response of my 650cc twin as compared to my Maruti Suzuki Ciaz is the difference between how I used to wake up in the morning at 25 and how I do at 50. You ask the bike to go faster, and before you can finish the sentence, the bike. Just. Goes. It’s almost like magic. That said, 25-year-olds won’t understand this at all, but that’s besides the point. Anyway, the point is that manoeuvres that could be considered downright dangerous, if not suicidal, in a car, are perfectly normal and regularly conducted on a motorcycle because the time it takes to kick the gear lever down and release clutch as you twist the throttle (and the instantaneous surge that pushes you back as the vehicle leaps forward) is simply unimaginable in a car (perhaps in a race car, but not your run-of-the-mill road cars). Suffice to say that once I had the time and space equations recalibrated inside my brains, it took no time for the muscles to bring themselves up to speed in terms of time-to-react, and soon enough, I was weaving in and out of peak-hour traffic yesterday afternoon like a pukka Puneri that I am.
A giant game of Tetris.
A traffic stop in a car means one just stops about half a car length away from the car ahead of you. And waits in one’s lane for the light to turn green, and the aforementioned car to move, before even beginning to commence to think of moving ahead. Not so on a motorcycle. Apparently, like cats that live by the dictum of ‘if I fits, I sits’, there are numerous gaps between vehicles that are exploited by the bikers to make their way forward so that by the time the light turns green, they are on the leading edge, so to say, of the stop, and can vroom off without having to wait for their irritatingly slow 4 wheeled counterparts. It is like a giant game of Tetris, with each biker looking for the perfect gap, large enough for the bike, too small for a car or a rickshaw, and then using their acrobatic skills to manoeuvre through it to the front, not unlike threading a needle. Dexterity and creative thinking is involved. Keeps one awake too.
Every day is leg day.
Owning a motorcycle does not mean parking goes away. Contrary to what I thought, having a small bike as compared to a large car does not make it any easier to park. This is mainly true of this particular motorcycle, which has a tare weight of 202kg and a full-up of around 220kg. Add my 90kg to it, and you have a 300kg+ mass being attempted to be moved over uneven ground by a 50-year-old man with atrophying muscles. So, while finding a parking space was a problem with the car, finding one for the bike seems the easy part; it is pushing and pulling, tugging and coaxing that metal monster into that space that is the problem. Of course, unfortunately, most motorcycle parking spaces in Pune are afterthoughts while cars get more attention. That means that many of these parking spots are on uneven and/or sloping ground, which means moving that hulk of a machine to & fro with your legs is such an exercise that I doubt if any Interceptor 650 owner can legitimately be accused of skipping leg day. Every day, as it turns out when you own one of these 2 quintals+ metal giants, is leg day.
Maverick & Mother Teresa.
One would have thought that given that in a car, it’s like watching a movie through one’s windscreen, mirrors, and all the parking cameras and sensors while on a bike, it is more like being in the picture yourself (not my words, Robert Pirsig’s), one would automatically have more situational awareness as a rider. That, I realised, is not the case. I did not realise how insignificant a motorcycle is on the road, regardless of how large the machine is, and how invisible one is to not just larger vehicles but actually even to other motorcyclists and, believe it or not, pedestrians. It is almost as if everyone forgets how much momentum a rapidly decelerating 200kg motorcycle at 40kmph has when met with an obstacle. It can hurt, and even kill. But if you see how other motorcyclists overtake you (from both sides, without indication or warning, and at speeds that would make a cheetah’s eyes water), how car drivers ignore your presence (presuming, mistakenly, as if it would turn out all peaches and cream should their vehicles meet in a mid-road hug with a motorcycle, or even a little brushing kiss for that matter), and how cyclists and pedestrians basically think you are made of incorporeal or ethereal stuff that will just pass through them or they can pass through without there bodies, their life insurance, their doctors, and their next of kin taking rather startled notice, you’ll realise what I speak of when I say that one needs the heightened spatial and situational awareness of an ace fighter pilot with the patience (with other motorcyclists, cars, cyclists, and pedestrians) of an ordained saint to be able to ride a motorcycle in Pune (perhaps in all India, but I can’t be sure of that yet).
Bagwati is a constant pillion.
Being used to a car means I did not care what and how heavy the stuff I was carrying with me was. Laptop and charger? Sure. Water bottles? Why not? Some snacks? Throw them in. Books? Bring them on. Stationery and other things? By all means. Something my mother wants me to deliver here or pick up from there? Yeah, OK. However, when it came to riding, I realised that just to carry a stupid box of pedhas (have you noticed that the pedha is unique in the fact that it is only associated as something someone else gives as part of a celebration of some achievement of the person who gives or their relatives, and never eaten as a standalone dessert or even bought from the shop without a reason to celebrate, much like the mind-space the cake occupies in Western civilisation?) that I was expected to hand over when I went about showing my new acquisition to my friends and relatives, I had to carry a backpack! And then, I need to keep my sunglasses, my reading spectacles, my wallet, my handkerchief, my house keys, my water bottle, and so on. So, suddenly, I am now getting used to lugging around a bag that was wholly unnecessary, or even if carried, could be just kept on the passenger seat in the car and forgotten about until needed. I call this the GST of biking, something you have to accept as compulsory along with the entire motorcycling experience: ‘मान न मान मैं तेरा मेहमान’.
The key to confidence.
At 50, I remember a time when you had to turn off the key in a car, pull it out, and once you have disembarked, insert it into the door-lock and lock the parked car before walking away. When keyless entry came, it took some time for people of my generation to get used to it. But at least we needed the key to insert into the ignition to start the car. Later, even this was done away with, and the push-to-start generation took over, getting us to re-learn and adapt once again to the new way of doing things. Unfortunately, now that I am used to (starting and) turning off the car without the key, opening the door, and kind of walking away (yes, after pressing the small button on the door handle to lock the car, but more or less, just walk away), with the key never leaving my pocket, it took some time to get used to the old way of doing things again: shut the engine and lock the bike using the key, then extract it from the ignition, keep it safe, and then walk away. When you come back, you are going to need to do the entire process backwards once again. I kept leaving the key in the ignition, walking away, and coming back to find it there instead of in my pocket. One of the probable reasons why no one stole my motorcycle when it was such easy pickings could be that I was looking so smart and confident and professional in my kit with such a happy demeanour, and the bike was looking so shiny brand new and intimidating (the Interceptor 650 does have a look about it, I must admit) that any wannabe thief probably thought I was running an experiment or even laying a trap and stayed away from mischief. Or at least I’d like to think so.
Sweat & blood. But mostly tears.
I bought the entire kit even before I took delivery of the motorbike: safety jacket, gloves, helmet, and so on. I even got the knee guards, given that they are a mandatory part of the kit required to be part of motorcycle clubs in Pune. I have been told by my more experienced biker and ex-biker friends that I must make it a habit to wear everything every time (they even have a catchy acronym: ATGATT, meaning ‘All The Gear, All The Time’). Now, while I have never, in my entire riding life, ridden without a helmet, the whole kit weighs perhaps 4-5kg in all (maybe I am exaggerating, but it sure felt like that), and that, in the summertime, takes superhuman effort to wear. And keep on. Also, the entire kit is black and made of synthetic material, and while the jacket has holes for ventilation that make it a bit airier than a normal riding jacket made of, say leather, the fact is that in the 40°C heat that Pune summers have become home to, courtesy man-made climate change that will one day make our descendants ashamed of us all, if I had kept parboiled potatoes (with a little oil, butter, cheese, and salt & pepper) in there instead of my own self, I’d probably be having Rösti for lunch every day for the past 2 days, and all the way till I owned and operated this motorcycle in this city for the foreseeable future. My friend, Amit, said that it is better to keep the kit on and suffer discomfort than be disabled or killed in a freak accident. Sweat, he said, wipes off easier than blood. He’s got a point. But I think hard as I might try, I will forgive myself once in a while if I forgo the prison of the kit (except the helmet, without which I feel naked while riding; and just like that, I have given you another visual, which may need a therapist now to get rid of) once in a while.
These boots are (not) made for shifting.
The one thing I had not expected (I do not know why, because the first Battlecat was a 1969 Jawa, and it had its kick to the left, and that also doubled as a gear shifter, which you had to use your toe or heel to switch up: it was one up, three down if I remember correctly) was the gear shift lever to be so designed as to mess up my footwear’s upper in the process. I could never figure out why there is a separate class of products on which bikers are made to spend even more money: riding boots. Well, now I know. You live. And you learn. Or, as the great Douglas Adams says, ‘At any rate, you live.’
Hubris and the art of motorcycling.
Given that 15 or 20 years after riding my last motorcycle, I just swung my legs onto the new bike and went off riding like not a day had passed, it is but natural that a bit of overconfidence steeped in slowly, km by km, aided by the smug feeling of comfort and safety that all the gear, the jacket, padding, the plates inserted in the clothing, the helmet, the shatterproof visor, the gloves with reinforced knuckle protectors, and the easy way in which I could thread through traffic without a care in the world. In the world of aviation safety, there is a time when an intermediate experienced pilot acquires enough swagger and overconfidence to make an accident a very real possibility. This is called ‘The Killing Zone’ by experts and can occur at anywhere from the 40 to 250 hours flying hours mark, though it has been suspected to occur at as high a number as 2000 hours of flying experience. Anyway, without labouring the point, let me say that I had the scare of the month, if not the year, on a particular turn, where I banked more than the motorcycle’s designers intended the bike to be banked, and came face to face with a cow, standing and staring in a manner that would have made Wordsworth proud. I managed a save, but was shaken to the core, though the cow was nonchalant about the entire encounter. And I learnt that I am still around 24 hours old as a biker, and I better start treating that damn machine with some respect if I do not want to end up as a Greek hero.
Big bike fraternity.
An interesting aside is that unlike car owners, motorcycle owners are rather helpful people and want you on the road, biking and enjoying the two wheels. How can I tell? Well, how many car owners actually look forward to a weekend thinking they are going to go driving about (no, not reaching any specific destination, though that is part of the deal, but generally just driving) with 200 other car drivers just for fun? That’d be a crazy thought, given that it is exactly what (driving about with 200 other car drivers) they have been doing all week as they go from home to work and then back home. On the other hand, bikers…they love their weekend rides. And the more, the merrier. By the way, there is another reason why I think they are helpful. I was chased down and stopped by at least 2 other bikers during the past 24 hours and told that I have a lovely machine. They wanted to know the price, the specs, the mileage, the horsepower, the problems, everything. One of them even asked me if I could allow him to take her for a spin (I refused, of course, and he was very nice about it, too!). Indeed, I, too, flagged down a chap with a mint-green GT 650 and complimented him, and he immediately took down my number and sent me details about a great place nearby to get a ceramic coating done on the cheap. On the net and social media, I found friendly bikers pulling my leg, inviting me for rides, asking me to join their clubs, helping me out with my queries, and basically being nice folks. I even had a young girl on a KTM look at me on a signal and exchange the universal sign of ‘Nice’ (the thumbs up) after pointing to the bike (me to hers and she to mine). In fact, it won’t be wrong to hypothesise that motorcycles make people friendly. Or maybe friendly sort of people get motorcycles. Or maybe it is just correlation and not causation. One way or the other, I am glad I met so many genial and cheery people in this community. Lucky me.
Home stretch.
Everyone must live in an area where the last bit of road just before they reach home is beautiful, uncrowded, cool, and easy to ride on. Let me explain: You see, one can have traffic jams, or bad roads, or irritable fellow-road-users, or noisy surroundings, or polluted air, or many of the ills that plague Indian road users at the beginning of one’s journey, or even in the middle. But at the end of it, when one is about to reach the final place where one rests one’s head (ideally on a nice cool, soft pillow), that last bit, the home stretch, must be the part which brings peace, which recanters things, which balances you, and shoots dopamine into your bloodstream. It must be travelled in silence, without much changes in gear or clutching-declutching or braking. It must be like a cool-down after a heavy-duty workout. Like meditation. Like a splash of cool water on your face on a hot summer’s day. It must make you sing inside. I cannot understand how people can live in ultra-crowded, noisy, polluted, denuded (of trees or shade) areas (I won’t name them for fear of hurting sentiments) that are a hell to get into or get out of in traffic. I am sure they have their reasons. I would rather have the final stretch to my home and hearth a smoother ride than any other part of the journey.
To end, just look at Battlecat III. She’s a sight to behold, right? That’s joy right there. I look at her. I smile. I am happy.
P.S: Here’s my latest earworm, courtesy my soon-to-be ex-wife (and hopefully, my always-to-remain-friend)
दिल को मेरे ये है पता
के मीलों का ये फ़ासला है
अलग आसमां भी है तो क्या?
ये दिल ना माने
