HOLD YOUR HORSES! GenY RIDES WITH A RETRO DRIVE

Notwithstanding technical, logistical and monetary issues, Lucknow's youngsters are doing their best to keep legendary motorcycles alive.
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Sunny, 23, is in deep love with someone twice his age. Find that surprising? You wouldn’t when you come to know that this love affair has lasted for 13 long years. And by the way, she may be old, but when she moves the streets, all eyes are glued onto her.

She is Sunny’s ’63 Royal Enfield Bullet.

Indian motorcycles are one of those things that serve as little memoirs of a changing civilization. Democracy and a necessary increase in access prompted the deluge of pocket-friendly commuter motorcycles. Busier lifestyles and decreased risk-taking of the day led to the introduction of electric start and disc brakes. West-induced style consciousness resulted in chiseled tanks and an unprecedented emphasis on styling. And the depleting ozone layer meant the death of two-strokes.

But wait. When one’s in the city of Nawabs, one realizes that there’s something that overrides this shift to convenience and utility, and that’s passion. The streets here still resonate with the roaring engines of innumerable RX100s, Non-UCE Bullets, Jawas, Yezdis, and even some RD350s and BSAs, motorcycles that went out of production years ago. And what’s interesting, and laudable, is that many of these machines are kept alive by youngsters barely in their twenties.

Sunny says his grandfather passed on the Bullet to him, and he fell in love with it at the juncture that puts most people off two-wheelers. Escaping notice of his parents, he had taken the bike out for a ride at the age of 10, and crashed it into the front door of a parked ambassador car.

“What got me hooked to the bike was the fact that it emerged unscathed out of the accident even as the car’s door came off,” he says. This ‘iron horse’ nature of the bike as well as its characteristic ‘thump’ and reliability are what Sunny swears by to date.

Kushal’s Yezdi CL II too came into existence before he did. The 23-year-old merchant marine has an emotional attachment with the motorcycle, for it is the machine that his late father rode. “Also, I love the bike’s characteristic ‘metal throat’ sound, twin exhaust, and gear-cum-kick lever that make it a real attention magnet on the road.” Even though spare parts are extremely hard to come by and the bike spends more time in the workshop than on the road, there’s no way Kushal would consider disposing it off.

Similarly, Adnan, 18, forewent the glitz and ease of owning a modern motorcycle and bought himself a Yamaha RX100 with saved up pocket money this year. A student of BCom at Christian College, Adnan is a dirt-racing enthusiast and is thus always on the hunt for arid patches of land in the city. RX100’s high power-to-weight ratio, distinct two-stroke power band and the low cost of used bikes make it a favourite amongst thrill-seekers like Adnan.

THE FINAL DECISION

I have always preferred bikes over cars primarily because of the great disparity in the feelings they evoke in the rider. A car invariably makes me feel boxed in and disconnected with reality. On a bike, unlike in an air-conditioned car, one tends to be more tolerant towards slower and smaller vehicles. You can even feel the slight difference in temperatures when you enter the greener areas of a city. I have also found bikers to be better able to see beggars as inherent parts of a flawed system, and not objects of pity or scorn.
Most importantly, I think bikes have had great influence on major decisions of my life.
A two years’ masters course in film-making from an elite institution had only helped me realise that I did not want to be a film-maker. Thus, when college ended, I applied for all kinds of jobs so as to be ‘on my feet.’
Now, disillusioned and drilled to believe in a necessary ‘struggle period’ for freshers, you can say I was a bit desperate as I sat outside the HR office of a real estate website for my first job interview. I sheepishly sent in my CV, a one-page document in font size 14. I cleared the written test and was sent inside a cabin for an interview with the MD, a stout middle-aged man wearing a horrendously thick gold chain and a condescending smile. He told me that my job involved writing and telling people how great their life would be if they bought the luxurious dwellings made by ‘us’. They could lazily play golf or lie in the Jacuzzi while the happy kids played with ice cubes taken out from designer wall-mounted refrigerators. I was informed about the important nature of the work being handed to me despite my inexperience, and that the work timings would thus be 9 to 9.
All this while, I wasn’t expected to butt in. But then, he asked me what my salary expectations were. The figure I quoted, now I think, was clearly a manifestation of my desperation to lose my unemployed status, and very small by any standard. Yet, on hearing it, Mr gold chain just laughed and laughed till he claimed his stomach ached. “But what do you need money for? You writers can just sit under a tree all day and write,” he said. He made his offer, only slightly lesser than my demand, and said I’d be told about the company’s final decision to take me would be communicated to me.
I had to start somewhere. I thought I’d act important for a day and accept their offer when the confirmation call came.
Slightly numb, I walked down to the parking lot, shoved the CV in the bike’s toolbox, and set out for home. Somewhere en route, the tucked-in shirt started feeling slightly uncomfortable, so I pulled it out. The tie now looked odd, so I put it in my pocket. I wondered why a tie is worn at all, when it neither helps cover one’s modesty nor keeps out the cold. I wondered if individuals exist for organisations or the other way round. I wondered if, during the interview, I’d known more about the company than they about me.
It started to drizzle and to make the most of the occasion, I took off the helmet and let myself get soaked. I wrung the throttle till the raindrops felt like icy needles and splashed through the puddles. Somehow in this seemingly mindless risk-taking, I experienced freedom and joy.
I suddenly realised my cellphone was vibrating. I parked the bike by the roadside and took the call, only to realize that the rain had busted the phone’s speakers. So I asked the unknown caller to text me his message. When I got the sms, I realized it was from Mr gold chain. It read, “Congratulations. You’ve been hired. Come in with the relevant documents tomorrow.”
I texted back, apologising for wasting his time. I thanked him for the offer, but told him that since his office had no trees, it would not be possible for me to work in his company. He told me I’d be blacklisted by the organisation. “My pleasure,” I replied.
Looking back, I still do not think I would’ve been so audacious if I wasn’t on the bike that day.
A week later, while on vacation to my hometown Lucknow, I got the kind of job I had been looking for. Well, I still get peanuts, but this time around, the peanuts are ‘branded’ and coated in corporate comforts, and that’s some solace. I get to learn. I work to ride and ride to work, and this, I think, helps me stay conscious of what I’m doing and what I ought to be doing. That’s important, and that’s what makes it all worthwhile.

OF ‘THE BIKER LOOK’ AND FAT AUNTIES

We live in a society where words like ‘intellectual,’ ‘scientist’ and ‘traveller’ are more likely to be used as cuss words than as praise. A child disassembling an emergency flashlight to have a look at its insides will often be told, “Zyada ‘scientisty’ mat dikhao.” A person who does not take things lying down and raises questions when in doubt, will eventually be silenced by the remark, “Oh, you intellectual types!”
For most Indian families, the ‘normal’ and ‘respectable’ way of traveling is achieved with a large picnic basket, several varieties of pickle, an extra pillow, an ailing grandmother and a couple of irritable kids. A guy in flip-flops, a convenient rucksack and a stubble will either get suspicious stares or condescending smiles.
In short, we live in a society that looks down upon risk-taking, discourages curiosity, and is wary of freedom. No wonder bikers and their ways are so misunderstood.
I remember getting my first bike during college, a cruiser with a tiny engine yet lots of chrome. It was made for those who wanted a comfortable, flashy ride without inflated petrol bills.
Now, I had grown up watching American biker films and thought I knew how a biker was ‘supposed to look’- leather jackets, torn jeans, broad goggles, a rather snide countenance and a pretty woman on the pillion seat. So I carefully worked on this look. I convinced an elder cousin to part with his aviators telling him they didn’t suit him at all. I went to Kanpur and procured a couple of leather jackets. The open-face helmet and bandana were couriered in from Delhi (The latter was to be worn only in areas where police checking was unlikely).
I was never to be caught on the bike without the complete look. In fact, when I once refused to ride to a certain place because I couldn’t find my shades, some wise guy quipped sarcastically, “Now we understand! Your bike runs on goggles, not petrol!”
I ignored his remark, but then, there were other things that were hard to ignore. Being a ‘responsible’ member of the family, I was expected to partake in the household chores. So, I would be all ready to cruise in my leather jacket et al when someone would hop on to the pillion seat with an empty gas cylinder that had to be refilled. Disconcerting.
Protest was not an option. “What? Getting vegetables for your own house is shameful for you, eh?” I would be asked when I’d point out the ridiculousness of lady’s fingers dangling from the handlebars of a newly polished lowrider.
Moreover, the pillion rider I had hoped for was the kind who would make the passersby wonder, “How is it that such gorgeous women fall for weird vagabonds?” What I got in my share, however, were fat aunties whom I was frequently asked to transport from one point to another. They would make the suspension make frightening sounds every time we hit a speed breaker and then feign amazement, “Oh dear, what is it with your bike?” I must admit that there was an instance or two when I intentionally gave them such a harrowing ride that I was sure they’d never ask for me again. But it didn’t stop. The world is full of fat aunties and one replaced another.
However, even though Freud would predict otherwise, my ‘traumatic early experiences’ did not put me off biking. In fact, I still don’t find wearing thick jackets in 40°C too uncomfortable. But with time, I have learnt to wear them for their protective potential and not just to complete ‘the look’. And my only advice to future riders is this- whether the world around you understands you or not is irrelevant. What is important, is that like me, you don’t get biking wrong. Love it for what it is, what it ought to be, and what it can be, and not just for what it appears to be.

GETTING READY FOR A WEEKEND GETAWAY

When was the last time you saw the sun climb up the sky from behind a lush mustard field? When was it that you breathed the fresh air atop a hilltop or roasted sweet potatoes over a bonfire? When did you truly feel free and connected with the world around you?
Even if we skip the profundity above, it is a fact that such experiences aren’t as unattainable and distant as they are made out to be. We live in a world where economical and fun ways of commuting, called ‘motorcycles’, exist. And whenever you think things are getting too monotonous and pointless, all you need is half a tankful of fuel before you can think straight again.
Riding motorcycles in India, where landscapes and people change with every few kilometers, can be a really enjoyable experience. However, motorcycles can be unpredictable, and the following tips may help you ensure that the ride is what its supposed to be- refreshing and memorable

RIDING GEAR: While open face helmets look nice, always go for a full-faced helmet that is a lot safer. In case of a fall, most riders fall face down, hence the chin area takes the maximum impact. A full-faced helmet with a visor also offers good protection to the eyes, which can otherwise turn red and itchy after a ride through polluted or dusty areas. Wear bright clothing so you can be easily spotted by other vehicles on the road. Consider a rugged, full-sleeved jacket, denim pants and protective gloves as bare essentials during any ride.

PACKING FOR THE RIDE: If you’re riding solo, a large rucksack should be able to contain most of the things that you might need during the trip. You can tie this on top of the pillion seat with the help of bungee cords that are now easily available at hardware shops. If you have a pillion rider, the luggage can be evenly distributed and tied to the sides of the bike. If all the weight seems a bit too much, be sure to loosen the chain a little and allow some play in it. If its too tight, the excessive friction and heat produced during the ride can damage the sprockets.

IS THE BIKE READY? Get your bike serviced a day or two before the ride and ride it in your surroundings to make sure there are no glitches. While general service usually takes care of major things like engine oil levels, carburetor adjustment, tyre pressure, chain play, etc, it can sometimes unknowingly introduce new problems-like shot electricals or poor braking. Get these fixed.
At the same time, beware the rider who says a well-maintained bike never breaks down. When you set out even on a short ride, be prepared for absurd and unexpected situations despite all the precautions. While you can’t carry all the spares and tools with you, there are some things that are more likely to fail than others. Carry extra bulbs for the headlight and backlight, a spark plug, and clutch and brake cables at the least. If your bike has tubeless tyres, you can take along a puncture repair kit that is compact, inexpensive, and easy to use.

KEEP IT UNPLANNED: While most travelers advise planning your route well in advance, short rides are generally more fun when you only have a broad idea of the places en route and do the major part of the exploring yourself. If you precisely know the roads to be taken to your destination, it will only be a matter of transporting yourself from point A to B through point C, and that’s boring. You will also miss out on the variety of answers people give when asked for directions. However, in situations when getting lost is getting irritating, free and downloadable mobile softwares like google maps can come in very handy.

Happy riding!

A THRILLING FRIENDSHIP

Despite the advancements man has made over thousands of evolutionary years, there are still several questions that he has no clear answers to. These include questions whose solution lies in life-threatening experimentation, and questions that no one ever thought important enough to ponder over. One such dreaded yet often mistakenly ignored question is- Why do dogs chase bikers?
At this moment, an intelligent reader is tempted to think that this writer is trying too hard to be funny, and that deliberation over this question really isn’t worth any print space. But you’re likely to take me more seriously when I tell you that I have personally carried out several experiments in this regard, and that, if you follow some of these tips, not every dog on the road would evoke fear inside your soul.
First, understand the dog you’re going to meet. With experience, you can distinguish between a rowdy dog and an intellectually occupied one just by looking at the two. The rowdy one, the one that takes pleasure in watching a man crazily shift gears to escape the scene, will often have large, inexpressive eyes, an upright tail, and a certain air of superiority about it. Avoid these guys.
However, most dogs like to present themselves as ‘man’s best friend…blah blah’ because that gets them glucose biscuits and loving pats. To preserve this cute image, they would almost never chase you in public. The chase is most likely to occur in a lonely place early morning or late night.
You must also realise that even though a pack of hounds chasing you is somewhat horrifying, usually the goal of this group-chase is not a piece of your leg. The entire exercise is either just show-off, or a lesson in teamwork. Also, contrary to popular perception, dogs are more Swiss in their political outlook than American. So while they’d defend their own territory fiercely, they would not use the chase as an excuse to get into someone else’s area.
If you’re still scared, there are two useful methods you could employ to cut a chase short. The first is ‘timely distraction’- Carry some edibles like leftover chapaatis in your pockets when you’re venturing out during odd hours, and fling them at the chase party when it gets too close. A friend tells me that shouting at the dogs in a voice louder than their barking also works, but I’m yet to test this idea for fear of receiving a slipper from some human dwelling’s balcony.
The second method, called ‘the royal ignore,’ works on a similar principle, but needs a bit of courage. It is to be used when you think you can’t outrun the hounds, or when speeding away would be too dangerous. In this, as the dogs approach, casually park the bike at the roadside, look upwards, and appear to count the stars in the sky. Then, take out your cellphone and nonchalantly send a message to your girlfriend. All this while, pretend not to have noticed the howling beasts at all.
Believe me, this little act confuses dogs to the edge. In fact, if you slyly look at them from the corner of your eyes at this juncture, you’re likely to find them embarrassedly staring at each other!
All said, be a sport and never try to run a dog over or hurt it some other way. Some people even contemplate poisoning dogs on the streets, but that’s cruel and cowardly and un-bikerlike. Even If all the above methods fail, being chased by a dog at least gives you a chance to test your bike’s acceleration and top speed, doesn’t it?

TRAVELLING WITH A BEARD

As news of Osama bin Laden’s death spread, the Indian mainstream media, in its attempts to give a ‘local angle’ to the story, could only think of asking Muslims about their opinion on the event. Even though I was as indifferent to it all as an ordinary citizen is to mafia gangwars (bad guys killing bad guys), this took me back to an incident that occurred during my travels.
It was December 2008. Mumbai had been attacked by armed infiltrators the previous month and the country was experiencing a surge of insecurity and revengefulness.
I and Surya were, however, unfazed. All we could think about was our long-pending trip of Rajasthan that was now luckily coinciding with New Year. In an attempt to make our poor financial condition as students appear glorious, we decided to travel by the cheapest means possible-only unreserved passenger trains, stay at dharamshalas, and local commuting by hired motorcycles.
And the extraneous conditions helped us stick by our resolve. The passenger trains had sparse occupancy, especially in the western parts, the local food was cheap, and Jain dharamshalas accommodated us even though neither of us knew the J of Jainism.
The most expensive, yet the best part were the bikes we got on rent. For about 300 rupees and an I-card as security deposit, you could take away a leaky, grumpy, embarrassment-inducing commuter motorcycle for a day. It was on such bikes that we negotiated the majestic Sam sand dunes near Jaisalmer, visited the beautiful Jain temple at Nakora, and sped along the winding roads to Pushkar.
At Jodhpur, we were lucky to bump into an old acquaintance who gladly lent his 100cc bike to us, choosing to commute in the suicidal city buses himself. Leaving our rucksacks with him, we went about exploring the city- not the typical touristy spots, but the ordinary marketplaces, parks, and restaurants which the locals frequented.
Jodhpur, incidentally, is a major training centre for the Indian Army and has a sprawling Cantt area. So it wasn’t just a matter of chance that our aimless riding made us stumble upon one of the many army clothing stores in the city.
We were about to get totally impressed by the coolness of rugged army sweaters and blankets when I suddenly noticed a pair of eyes staring coldly at us from a distance. When I realized that the eyes were particularly staring at Surya’s beard, I must admit, that for some strange reason, my blood froze. Before I could nudge Surya and prompt him towards an honourable exit, the eyes, attached to a seemingly drunk armyman, came too close for comfort.
“What’re you doing here?” he asked Surya in Hindi, who being a Keralite and unfamiliar with the language, just looked blank in response. The armyman stopped me when I tried to intervene, and thundered, “Show me your I card!” Surya fished out his wallet and showed him his identity card. The man couldn’t read, so he called the shopkeeper to assist. “Suryanarayanan. MA Economics. University of Delhi,” the shopkeeper read out aloud.
The inquiry was over. While leaving the shop, the armyman asked me, just in passing, what my name was. “Ali Rizvi.” No, the inquiry wasn’t over. In fact, it continued for a couple of hours and consisted of the most ridiculous questions imaginable until a couple of phone calls by well-connected people known to my father assured the armyman that I wasn’t a spy.
The incident troubled us for many days. We were not the ‘citizens of the world’ that we thought ourselves to be. We were only a beard and a name.
Surya and I meet rarely these days. Whenever we do, this incident invariably comes up in our conversations. It was the incident that prompted Surya to retain his beard for life, and made me prouder than ever, of my name.
ali1.rizvi@hindustantimes.com

3 LESSONS FROM A FALL

There’re two major reasons why I’m fond of my job. First, I get to sleep till late, much after the rest of the world has irritably dragged its feet towards sordid workplaces. Second, by the time my work hours are over, the rest of the world is too tired or convention-bound to stay outside home- giving me and my motorcycle the chance to act as if the streets belonged to us.
It was one of those particularly silent nights. By that, I mean the kind of nights when the sound of the motorcycle engine is a lot like Shahnaz Husain’s make-up- the louder it is, the more fun it seems to be.
So, I wring the throttle harder, harder, harder, and the bike goes faster, faster, faster, until I suddenly discover myself lying under a heap of twisted metal. My clothes are torn, and my hand hurts when I try to move it. So I lie on the road, stare at the starry sky, and make three quick observations:


1. Everyone hurts: None of us imagine ourselves being part of accidents, but accidents happen in scary numbers everyday. I was a regular guy (Who, like regular guys, wants a loving wife and intelligent kids to go back home to) returning from work and trying to have some fun on an almost empty street. But then, as sparks flew from my bike’s handlebars’ scraping against the concrete, I was regretting getting the paintjob done but leaving the wheel alignment for later. Don’t wait for such sparks to enlighten you about the need to keep your bike in good repair and the saneness of riding responsibly. You can’t predict accidents, but you sure can minimise their probability.

2. Be smart. Ride safe: I always thought protective clothing is for wimps and the ‘real fun’ of riding motorcycles lay in feeling the wind in your hair and letting your loose shirt flutter in the air like Superman’s cape. But the month-long bruises and cuts after the accident taught me that even if you’re a worthless good-for-nothing, you’ll repent hurting yourself if it means not being able to do what you love the most- like riding a motorcycle. Remember this golden rule-Accidents hurt, safety doesn’t.
And by the way, one doesn’t always need to buy an Alpinestars riding jacket or DSG racing boots to show concern for one’s life. A full-sleeved jacket, gloves, durable shoes and an ISI/DOT marked helmet will save you from most ‘road rash’ during minor falls. This is the least you should have on if you claim to love biking. Don’t worry if the helmet spoils your hairstyle. The ‘messed up’ look is in.

3. Save some friends on the road: “Bohot sahi,” the lone rickshawpuller on the street remarked as he lazily pedalled his rickshaw away from the spot of the accident. In retrospect, I think anyone would show the same apathy towards a person who puts others’ life at risk simply for experiencing a moment of rush. Every time we swerve dangerously from one lane to another or overtake from the left side of a vehicle, startling the driver, we lose a friend on the road- people who would, if nothing else, sympathise with us when we take a fall.

BORN A BIKER

It is interesting, but irksome over time, to come across the popular representations and notions of a ‘biker’ in a world obsessed with definitions. For most people, a biker must be a rebel. This rebel could be the ‘bad rebel,’ guys who snatch gold chains, race illegally at midnight or pull wheelies to scare old women crossing the road. Or it could be the idealistic, rebel de misfit- the biker who rides to the Himalayas in search of peace, wears his hair long, despises a nine to five job, and owns a bullet.
But how is a doodhwala who swears by the hardiness of his Rajdoot any less a biker? Or a young boy who wishes to get bigger just so that he may be able to ride his father’s motorcycle?
We all, in fact, are born bikers, if you ask me. It’s societal conditioning that later drills misplaced ideas of ‘practicality’ and caution into us. Then, we avoid getting wet in the rain, dread speed, and are wary of freedom. The aim of existence becomes a smooth and comfortable journey to the grave, with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body.
But then, some day, we realise there’s something wrong with this arrangement. So we set off for pilgrimages to holy lands, try some yoga, or seek the guidance of a spiritual guru. But gentlemen, there’s a better way of putting things in place- ride a motorcycle.
That’s because riding a motorcycle is not just about the thrill of speed or the pleasure of the winds caressing your face. A motorcycle is a wonderful teacher. It constantly reminds you of your mortality even as it lets you feel invincible. It teaches you that a good hairstyle would not stay for long, or that no matter how expensive your Levi’s is, it will retain a grease stain for life. It is a memoir of the young girl’s soft hands from the time they held on timidly to the backrest, to the time they arrived on your shoulders for support.
Motorcycles tell you you’re alive, alive to experience all the beauty and rush this world has to offer. And as a popular saying among professional bikers goes, “You don’t stop riding because you’re getting old, but you get old when you stop riding.”

ME AND MY MEAN MACHINE

I sincerely believe that 2°C doesn’t get interesting enough until it is mixed with 80km/hr on a motorcycle.
But it’s not something that everyone understands. So when I put on my riding jacket and boots and set out on a 200km solo ride from Lucknow to Allahabad, I noticed a variety of emotions in people around me--- surprise, amusement, anxiety, even anger.
Now, my ’95 Royal Enfield can embarrass anyone who vouches for Bullets being reliable machines. It truly has a mind of its own that isn’t governed by any principles. There will be times when a half-kick would bring the engine to life. On other days, no amount of kicking, rejetting, spark-plug cleaning, prayers or pleading would work. And it is this unpredictability that makes it beautiful.
On this freezing, misty, foggy morning too, I couldn’t see it coming. We had gulped down 160kms in three hours and done it with such panache that I called up my host in Allahabad and told her to put the chicken on the stove. Seriously, I had absolutely no idea that only 40 kms away from some delectable chicken, the bike’s characteristic ‘thump’ would suddenly turn into a gentle purr and the engine would die as calmly as a proud soldier.
The only thing I sense then is that something is seriously wrong. So I don’t even try starting the bike. I coolly take off the luggage, keep it beside the sleepy owner of a seemingly flop dhaba and wave down a tempo. I ask the driver if there’d be a mechanic on his route.
The tempo driver doesn’t say much. He just smiles, hands over his tempo to one of the passengers, gets off and starts dragging the bike down the road. Somewhat getting his point, I ask him nervously “What all bikes can you fix?” “All-rounder,” he replies nonchalantly as I trudge along.
A couple of kilometers and several smiling passersby later, we reach his ‘workshop,’ a large room with a few tools arranged symmetrically on the floor. I figure how much of an ‘All-rounder’ he is when we discover that the engine has seized and his ‘Chhotu’ keeps bringing me endless cups of tea just to keep me busy as he struggles identifying correct spanner sizes.
Well, he gets the bike to start, but Mr Allrounder does something that makes the battery conk off barely five kilometers later, in an even more desolate little town. And in case you didn’t know, the great thing about Bullets is that they don’t start without a battery.
By some strange stroke of luck, however, I spot a mechanic working on a Rajdoot inside a tiny workshop and see him fit to leave my bike with. I take the battery which I replace at Allahabad later, board a tempo, then a bus, then a rickshaw to an irritated host and cold chicken seven hours behind schedule.
When I reach the workshop the next morning, I’m in a hurry to reach my Lucknow office on time. But the mechanic insists on a smoke and buys me a cigarette out of the money I give him. I don’t smoke, but somehow avoid bursting into cough as I puff the smoke into the mist. As we try the new battery, he tells me about the strange day when both the bikes that had been brought to his workshop had caught fire and turned into ashes the moment he tried to kickstart them. He tells me about there being no deaths in his family for 45 years straight, then five people, including two brothers and three children dying over the past three months.
The battery is fine. The fog has cleared. I put on my jacket and take to the open road again, knowing that life would move on, both for me, and him.