The Great Indian Coast to Coast Dash: Chennai to Mangalore

No. I dont mean along the coast. I mean coast to coast, through solid indian heartland.
Well, about the trip.
I have always had this urge, this twitch, to do things that others have not. I spend considerable amount of time trying to figure out such out-of-routine items that would lead people to think that i am not, as aforementioned, ordinary. Some people do go a little out of line and try to suggest that i am mad, but i should remind them that its the abjectly poor that are mad. I, fortunately, am merely eccentric.
Well, about going away from the routine. I was sitting one day, wondering about everything when i realised that going out for long distances on Indian roads is not something people do very often. Especially if the aim is not to reach a destination, but to merely ride. So that settled it, and i decided that a ride from one coast to another would be a wonderful way to get some more eccentricity points.
Being stuck in Chennai, on the Eastern Coast of India, i had a viable starting point to hand. When Shivaditya, a freind from my MBA days moved to Mangalore, i knew that this was more than a stroke of luck. For me, it was divine intervention forcing my hand into the Coast to Coast ride. Of course, while buying a bike, i had also considered the away from ordinary logic and bought a bike that was not a routine bike. Having bought an Avenger 200cc liquid cooled cruiser bike, i now had all i needed to embark on this rather historic ride.
Except, that even in my wildest dreams did i not believe that i would be able to complete the trip inside one weekend, driving alone. So i wanted another driver. Or and extra day. having scouted all around for a driver, i had had no luck till now. So i decided to take the extra day and announced my intention to leave on the Independence Day weekend. Luck intervened and sent some Tanzanians my way, who i had to chaperone around, forcing me to postpone my ride by a week. Next week, unexpectedly, Maheep announced that he would join me. Now i had every ingredient for this trip.
The plan was to leave on Friday night, ride up to Bangalore, which we knew was a 5 hour drive at the max, rest a while and then ride on to Mangalore, arriving hopefully by early evening. Stay the night there, leave late in the morning and arrive Chennai early in the night. Well, atleast that was the plan.
Come the designated day, i prepared myself with the general maps and driving directions and waited for Maheep to turn up from his job as a Bandhua Majdoor. He turned up at 2AM and by 2:30 AM we were off.
Riding out of Chennai through Poonamallee was smooth, very few drivers venturing out so late at night. We had one scare near Porur when i, driving, failed to notice a truck turning into our lane. Panic braking and some good luck ensured that we kept both wheels on the road. As we left Chennai behind and moved into the lovely 4 laned NH4 with good lighting and sparse traffice, i offered the driver seat to Maheep. My next memory is of observing the fuel gauge at near empty, and the speedo indicating a steady 60kmph. On asking Maheep, i realised that the bike had gone into reserve a few miles back, he had slowed down, pulled the bike over to the left, changed to reserve and the driven on. All this, i have no memory of. Safely, then, it can be assumed that i had slept throught the better part of the last hour. For another 40km, we rode on at a steady, fuel conserving 60kmph with diminishing fuel and increasing heartbeat, keenly looking out for a petrol pump. We reached one, and just when our heartbeats had subsided to more manageable levels, we realised that the attendent had locked himself in and was not going to wake up, never mind our hammering and barging on the doors. We took to the road again, me rying calculate and recalculte the range that we had in the limited amount of fuel. Just when my most conservative calculations were telling me that we'd be running dry in another 5km, we reached an active petrol pump, and i realised then how the travellers of the desert felt when they reached an oasis.
Having quenched the bike's thirst, we moved on, having entered NH46 somtime between my bike sleep and increased heartbeats. The roads are a pleasure if you intend to get from Point A to Point B. Well laid, no potholes, well marked lanes, and you can go at your maximum speed for most of the time. For me, out on a ride, these roads presented a sanitised and boring aspect that had to be done. NH46 upto Krishnagiri and through Vellore is excellent for commuters, enabling a Chennai to Bangalore dash in less than four hours for a determined driver in a capable car. We did the stretch in 5 hours, riding and sleeping in turns. By the time we had reached Hosur, taking NH 207 from Krishnagiri, i am certain that we had both managed 2 hours of precariously perched sleep.
Through Hosur and upto Silk Board in Bangalore, the road is in rather bad state, no markings, pothloes nad loads of construction. We reached Koromangla by 7:30 AM, 388kms on the odo, average speed 75kmph. Bhagat as always was hospitable and invited us to his house, gave us a bed to sleep in for the 2 hours that we had decided to stay and supplied us with Aloo Paranthas and Chai.
9:30, time to leave and Maheep refuses to come out of his sleep. "Is this the end?", I Think. Determind to push on with or without him, i give a final try, jolting him awake by mentoining the Aloo Paranthas. He slumbers up, and i heave a sigh of relief. By 10AM we are on our way, looking for Magadi road as the normal route via Tumkur road is also under construction and bound to be slow. We crawl throught the traffic, bouncing from autowallah to another, asking for directions. It is when a brash looking fellow with open shirt, saffron headband and furiously driven econo-miser bike pulls alongside and says something in Kannada which i think is a threat. Realising that we dont understand his language, he asks us "Bikeaa Chennaiaa registration?". I realise then that driving a TN registered bike in Karnataka is not the greatest ideas on earth, considering the animosity between the people. Anyway, the situation ends, and we move onto the Magadi Road, which has some amount of traffic near the city but clears out as we leave the city limits.
Heading towards Kunigal, we enter pure motorcycling Nirvana. Excellent roads, not the sanitised, arrow straight affair, but some well paved roads twisting through some beautiful scenery, carrying sparse traffic on an overcast day. I do not think that things get any better than this. The open roads egg me into entering 'sport' mode, going through the turns and trying to recall the basics of fast cornering and extremely pleasurable riding. Check curve for oncoming vehicle, slot into the perfect gear, move to the outside edge, lean in, power up, apex the curve. Slow in, fast out, flip the bike cornering from one corner to another. Heaven.
And then, sadly, Kunigal. NH48 was under sonstruction for most of the stretch that we traversed, frequent diversions and oncoming traffic kept us at moderate speeds as we crossed Nalligere. The bike was thirsty and we hungry when we spotted, on a desolate stretch of road, next to nothing at all, a petrol pump with a Cafe Coffee Day outlet. Maheep got the bike refuelled while I checked the CCD, not sure what this outpost of coffee brewing would have to offer. Surprisingly, a neat and well kept outlet, with fresh food on offer greeted us. The CCD seats gave welcome relief and change from the bike seats as we ate and de sensitized our posteriors. We asked for a tankful of petrol and got more, with the bike dripping petrol from the fuel tank cap when we put it on the side stand. Scary images of the consequences of dripping petrol on a hot engine restrained me from slinging my leg over for a little time.
I should have waited longer, as the best part of the outward journey had ended by then, even if I did not know it then. The riding conditions deteriorated continuously from then on, the road being the first factor. Potholes appeared, lane markings disappeared and traffic increased as we moved closer to our destination, only half an hour off our target schedule. One hundred and fifty odd kilometers from Mangalore, we rode into some lovely surroundings, Ghat section roads twisting downwards through some lush forestry. Coffee plantations with tall green trees with green ferns growing on their barks. Apart from the furiously twisting ribbon of black road, everything was covered in green, including the sky that was clouded by the canopy of the huge green trees. Maybe this is what rainforests look like. The weather also contributed to the effect, the overcast sky giving a dampish feeling of the imagined rainforest. We went down through the Ghats, and kept on going and going and going. The descent seemed to be unending. Traffic deteriorated, with the Government and Private bus drivers thundering down (and up) the road, banging their vehicles through potholes, taking the turns using both lanes, nary a thought for oncoming vehicles. I sent out a silent prayer for the poor soul sitting in the last seat of that ramshackle bus. I had gone too soon. I should have saved the prayer for myself. The roads just kept getting worse, riding through the potholes got more bone jarring, and the descent did not show any signs of ending. Kilometers ticked by extremely slowly, the twisting, broken road starting to take a toll on my mood, which, till a little earlier, had been extremely exuberant. Then came the rains, filling up the potholes and reducing visibility, and the speedometer went lower another ten. From then on, it was a race against the clouds, which seemed to be travelling at a steady 15 kmph. We would hit a bad patch of road, and make progress at 10 kmph and the clouds would catch us and drench us. A stretch of good roads (comparatively), speeds up to 20 kmph and we would leave the rains behind. We would be proven wrong later, but at that point of time; we thought that this was the absolute slowest we could do on an NH. After an eternity spent going down and down and down, and through potholes, my joints started shaking in their sockets. It was through my bone vibrations that I felt a slight wobbling coming through from the rear wheel. I had not crossed any kind of repair shop for the last two hours. What happens if the bike develops some serious problem? Should I stop and get help? Faced by a situation where I really could not do much, I did what the ostrich does. I buried my head in the sand, hoping that if I refused to acknowledge the problem, the problem would cease to exist. Maheep felt the wobbling too and asked me about him. I gave him some BS about high and low speed riding, continuing my well thought out policy. The bike did not break down. But I did. After seeing signboards showing Mangalore still some 60 clicks away, I abdicated the hot spot and gave the handle to Maheep. We set off again, already contemplating the ride back and if we would be up to it. And then, we hit the bottom. Of the decline. The roads straightened up, no more twists or declines to negotiate, and road conditions improved sufficiently for us to increase speed to 60-70 kmph (I had been riding at 20 for the last 2-3 hours), and the rains ceased. Luck. Maheep had some good time riding through the scenery, and we started making good time. We were trying to reach M’lore in the natural light, and it seemed then that we could do it. It started raining in a while, and we stopped for some chai, having not had a break for quite some time. The rains caught up again, but this time, we decided to push on, still trying to make M’lore by nightfall. We drove through some lush green scenery on small unmarked country roads with a few potholes in between, and managed to keep the speeds up to 60 kmph. I decided to take the handle, trying to throw away some of the frustration encountered earlier. Luck. Potholes crept up with alarming frequency, traffic increased as we neared the outskirts of M’lore. Soon, the potholes disappeared, but that was not good news, as the road disappeared with them. All we could see was a river of grime, ugly brown-black in colour, through which waded and bumped along vehicles big and small. Speeds were below 10 kmph and irritation tops when we saw civilization and the beginnings of a town. M’lore! We thought. Ha Ha! You wish! Thought Someone Else. An auto wallah informed us that M’lore town was still some way off, and off we set, trying to make the best of the limited amount of light remaining. We still were hoping to minimize travelling in the dark. Construction, horribly bad roads, extremely aggressive and rash drivers, the rain and the fading light made up for the worst riding conditions through the ride, making this our time thorough Hell, removing all memories of the Heaven we had encountered, it seemed, in a different life and in a different world. We started switching riding the bike soon, trying not to get too flustered by the conditions. The mind blanked out soon, only to be jarred awake by the harsh horn of an approaching bus. Evading potholes, puddles, broken roads and murderous buses, we doggedly rode on, hoping for the ride to end, for the bike to die, or just about anything that would force us to stop. Another hour and we did reach M’lore, the real Mc Coy this time and headed for the shelter that Shiv had promised. With some difficulty we managed to find the location, and met up with him. We rode on to his flat and parked for the night.
Sofas, chairs and hard floors invited us, and we accepted all their hospitality, resting our Tashreef on each of them in turns. We were contemplating a return by train or flight. A shower, fresh clothes, some hot food and a few phone calls later, we had decided to ride our way back, taking a alternate route out of M’lore to avoid Hell. Some chit chatting and dinner followed, and then, welcome relief as we stretched out on the warm beds, readying ourselves for another day of hard riding.

Pardes: The Beauty

It’s beautiful. And harsh.
It reminds me of a battlefield, the warring clans of the piercing sunrays and the biting gusts of cold wind scarring the lesser beings, forcing their presence on the hapless audience that has no option but to watch on, occasionally being caught in the crossfire.
Both sides fight ferociously. The cold, biting and piercing, has the ability to creep in through layers of clothing, sending a constant chill up your spine. It has the uncanny ability of homing in on the slightest bit of exposed skin, making you feel as if it is concentrating its entire might on that small patch. The sunrays, piercing and determined, make their presence felt in a most pretentious manner, forcing you to seek shelter in abject surrender. Defiance means sunburn, no matter how many of the cold wind troops are present. Where the cold tries to win by sheer omnipresence, the sunrays dominate every inch that they can reach.
Thankfully, you don’t always have to be in the field of fire. Cars with heaters and sun visors do give the required amount of cover while you are scurrying from one building to another.
It’s beautiful. And inspired.
As you drive towards Jozy, as the city is called by those who have chosen to make it their home, you can’t help but wonder on the brilliance of the British. Driving on the R21, the skyline of the city, dominated by skyscrapers, peers at you from between two hills which seem to have been placed there to make the city comfortable, and not the other way round. While in the suburbs, you look around you at the clusters of quaint little cottages, some nestled in the side of hills, some surrounded by dense greenery, some dwarfed by the huge commercial buildings, and some, like a defiant bunch of Red Coats, standing all alone in the middle of nothingness.
It’s beautiful. And wasteful.
On the roads, you realize that most cars around you have one or two people in it. In the few, but increasingly common traffic snarls, you see a line of cars ahead of you, in single file per lane, you can’t help comparing it with India. We’d have fit five times the number of people in there. It’s 3 on a Friday, and almost half the cars are headed out, with a trailer latched on, carrying either quad bikes, trail bikes, camping equipment or entire caravans, headed for a relaxed weekend at one of the many camping spots or activity centers around the cities. Yes, they work only four and a half days here. In the residential, as also in the commercial areas, you see millions of lengths of barbed and electrified fences sitting atop high concrete fences. You are aware of the various private ‘Armed Reaction’ cars that are sitting in the corners, waiting for some sorry guy to cross one of the fences into the motion detected homes and trigger off an alarm. You can’t help but wonder about the desperate state of the ones who attempt to outluck the security system. And then, you stop at ‘Robot’, which is what traffic signals are called, and you realize the desperation.
It’s beautiful. And practical.
You know that from the way the city is designed, with major areas spread out on all sides of the city, connected by well thought out roads and intersections. You know it from the wheelchair friendly sidewalks, from the easy to use and maintain devices fitted in the houses, from the small but powerful cars that they use in the weekdays, and the big trailers that they bring out in the weekends. You know it from the traffic rules, the clearly laid out directions, and from the people.
It’s beautiful. And cruel.
You see the woman, inadequately dressed for the weather, with the hopefully conscious child on her back standing in the open battlefield, being caught in the crossfire. Yes, there are beggars here too. You see the guy in the T shirt who runs to a random car with a small bucket of dirty, sudsy water and proceeds to clean the windshield with before the lights turn green and with time to spare for tips. You park the car at any shopping mall’s parking lot (and that’s where you have to park, as all shops, banks and even post offices are located inside one mall or the other. This is where you realize the meaning of Mall Culture), there comes along a guy in a yellow traffic jacket, making sure that his presence is felt, ensuring tips when the car leaves. And you also see the big expensive cars pulling in and out of the lot, and you realize that even here, it’s just some pockets that are lined with fleece, while many others are, well, empty.
But, it’s beautiful.
You know it from the people. From the many cars that have the ‘Proudly South Africa’ stickers on them. You know it from the traffic manners, you know it from the fact that in the restaurants, hypermarkets and cinemas, you can comfortably talk and joke with the waiters, ushers and attendants, without them taking offence to it.

Pardes : The Cold

It is different, then again it is not.

Its bloody cold here. I know, it does get cold back in Darbhanga too, but this is another kind of a cold. Its omnipresent & omnipotent (whoa! have i found God?), and its terribly persistant. You wake up, you know its cold, so you put on your trusty old sweatshirt that has served you well in the near freezing Ahmedabad Sports Nights. Its still there. So you pull over a sweater over the sweatshirt. After a while, you realise it is still there. So you bring out the big bulky jacket and put it over everything else. You feel warm, happy that you have won this battle against the cold. Then you step out of the blanket. No, it doesnt end there. Its the morning, and in mornings you have to do the morning things, and suddenly, this fine morning, you are cursing the crcodile meat you had the night before. Note to self: No eating in SA till the summers. Till then, only fluids (the after effects require less skin exposure to the cold, after all). Then, you remember that you were playing cricket with the Tibetans next door, and you really cant postpone the shower any longer. Another note: (No physical activity till the summers. That means no cricket, no football, no running away from the black guy who i think intends to mug me, no more standing in the kitnchen and cooking food. That should insulate me from everything. So, thats settled.

Naah.

The Tibetans are SO easy to bowl out. And they bowl like girls (to all the great sportswomen reading this, i did not mean you, i meant the other girls around you who cant throw a ball, and please do not challenge me, i have been out of practise, and i accept that i bowl far worse than you, and by the way, i will be in Chennai in a few months, so what do you say we get together for a ball?). Its too difficult not to go play with them. And the meats here! Its almost like they killed everything that moved, and then they made the microwave and the electric oven to make it edible. And so much of these meats are so enticing, it would be difficult not to taste them. By the way, next on the list is Impala meat. They look so cute, must taste nice. And even though i am rather experimentative, getting mugged is something that i certainly want to give a pass by.

And anyway, they make nice and warm sweaters and jackets here, and the guy who was here has left all of his clothes for me. So lets go out for a walk among the beautiful brown trees, walking on the lush green grass, battling the bitingly cold wind, and hoping for an early return of the burning sun that hasnt been around for the last few days.