I could tell you that I don’t remember when I fell in love with motorcycles. But then I would be lying. I fell in love with them when I was at school in Pondicherry, when the roads were clean, traffic was non-existent, and fuel was 33 rupees a litre. When older kids started bringing out their Dad’s Yamahas or their brother’s Suzukis, I couldn’t take my eyes off them. I was in love. And the appeal was not just visual. It was also what being on a motorcycle represented. It seemed like the greatest way to signal that you are young and happy and that the world is your oyster.
It took me some time to get used to actually riding them in earnest, especially in those packed school and college years, but once I did, I took every opportunity to get on one.
Which is why it’s so surprising that I actually bought my own so late. In fact, it was just 3 years ago. But, I realised as I started going on longer rides, the why of the motorcycle hasn’t changed for me. It was never about speed, it was the tactility of it, the sound the engine made when I gave it just a little more juice, the feeling of rubber on road and the wind in my hair. Always, the wind in my hair.
Plus, it is still old-school cool.
I was thinking about these things as I started going on rides between Bangalore, where I now live and work, and Pondicherry. This takes about 6 hours or so, and going from Bangalore to Pondicherry is much easier than coming back. Why? Because the last hour and a half of the way to Pondicherry is on butter-smooth roads, by which time I’m usually quite tired. The roads help. On the way back to Bangalore however, my tired body has to cope with the traffic and the roads of this broken city. It's annoying, but something about motorcycling I have come to appreciate is the very intimate relationship between you and your environment. If it’s cold, you feel the cold. If it’s hot, you are sweaty and itchy. Your body feels every inch of the road, every puddle, every pothole. The pain in your back can be traced back to a particular metre of blacktop. All of this is part of the why you do it at all, I think. In a car, you are insulated. The world is a window. On a motorcycle, you are part of the elements. There’s nowhere to hide. No shade, no protection. It’s probably one of the final man-machine relationships to exist that's this raw.
I had more surprises. In the aftermath of the pandemic, in what was a confusing, scrambled time in my head, I was struggling to actually find the focus to do anything. My concentration had short-circuited. This is something all of us struggle with in the age of the smartphone, but it terrified me. Being able to read and write words is the only thing I have that is both a skill and a pleasure. It was then that I realised that when riding a motorcycle, I seemed to be back in the flow. My head seemed suddenly where it needed to be. I wasn’t thinking about anything else. Just the road, the friction between my glove and the accelerator, the brakes, and traffic. Riding demanded my full attention, I had no choice. I was so thankful for this, because I wanted my attention back so much. And once I had it, I indulged myself.
This was the time I took it to Yercaud for the first time, riding to Salem first, stopping for coffee, and then heading up the hills. I have done this stretch a few times, but there’s a particular part I adore. On the highway from Bangalore to Salem, there is a stretch of highway that goes through a reserved forest, a protected wilderness. You will know it because there’s a board that says so as you cross it. And there’s a visual demarcation too. From right next to the board, the bushes dense up, the tree cover becomes thicker, and the fog lies above them in the early morning. But on a motorcycle, you don’t need any of these cues. As you cross, the temperature immediately, instantly drops at least 3 or 4 degrees. The cold hits your body like a shock wave, especially if you are going above 80 kmph, which I am. I find myself gasping, my teeth chatter, I have to zip my jacket up to my neck. But I love it. The planet is saying hi.
2025 has not been a riding year for me. It has not been about anything other than work, really. There’s nothing to be done about it. Monotony, routines, and ennui aren’t bugs, they are features of our lives. And that’s fine. For now. At least that’s what I tell myself. But I hope I still find time for short trips in the winter and in the new year. Even if not for me, I have to keep riding for the schoolboy I once was.