Reflections on wheels

Riding is one of those things that I find naturally, instinctively appealing. It’s not so much something that defines you, but something that lives within you. The characteristics that define me as a biker are there, have always been there, I think, in me. The physical act is just something that opens the door to those parts of me. It lets me do what I want to do and be who I want to be.

And yet, when in conversation someone refers to me as “a biker”, I find it vaguely distasteful. It immediately serves to brand me with a certain stereotype. A rebel perhaps, or a braggart, or a wannabe cool dude, and more often than not something of an oddity. None of which is true. Biking is no more an unnatural act than, for instance, gardening, and is no more rebellious than watching a play is rebellious.

It’s not all about high-brow philosophy and Pirsiguesque thoughts, of course. I love all of the little things, starting from the envious little sideward glances I get from fellow commuters as they check out my Royal Enfield (a bike that for some reason has its fair share of myth and lore in India), the pride of ownership of a bike that I thought beyond me for the most part of my youth – my size and stature being more suited to a gently purring moped than a gleaming chrome behemoth, and the questions, unfailingly asked “Kitna deti hai?” and “diesel pe chalti hai kya?” I love the wind in my hair (what little I have) when I rev my bike on the open road, the joy of leaving most others behind at a traffic signal and the thrill of viewing the world at an angle that’s closer to sixty than ninety.

But beyond all of that, it’s not about the image or the adrenaline, or even about the bike itself (many a time I’ve given my Splendor a pat on the head after yet another safe trip home surviving the chaos that’s Bengaluru traffic). As anyone who’s ever ridden a bike outside the confines of the city will attest, it’s about the freedom. I first felt it, delicious and heady, as I took the Splendor for a tentative ride on the highway. I experienced for the first time the complete sense of bliss and abandon. No ropes to bind me and no schedules to tether me down. Nothing limiting me but the petrol in my tank and the length of the road. I was hooked. In the years that followed, I’ve been drawn back to the open road as irresistibly as a sailor to the sea. And not once do I fail to experience that sudden surge of exhilaration.

Where there’s freedom, solitude isn’t too far away. All bikers are, I believe, creatures of solitude to an extent, biking being one of those pursuits where you’re fairly alone even in a large group. My rides allow me what I like to think of as my time with myself. When you’ve been on the road a few hours instinct takes over. The bike takes you where you want to go and your mind is free to wander. There’s something about the constant sense of movement, being a blur on the landscape, passing through everything without being a part of anything, that frees the shackles on your mind and causes it to soar. Your worldly concerns, the daily grind, your fears and follies and thoughts and worries are suddenly trivial, insignificant, as fleeting as the images that are passing you by. So long as the wheels are rolling, you’re as close to heaven as you can get.

To take the road less travelled, to discover the hidden delights of nature and culture, to explore on two wheels all that this beautiful diverse country has to offer, that’s what every biker lives for. With each revolution of the wheel, all I’m reminded of is that there’s so much yet unexplored, so much more to see than is possible in this one lifetime. I’ve slept on a deserted hill, staring up into the vast cathedral of the night, the rich velvety purple of the sky pierced by a million twinkling stars. I’ve seen gushing waterfalls caper joyously down vast heights, holding shimmering rainbows captive between crashing down into the depths of a cave. I’ve ridden past lush green carpeted hills and into quaint villages whose grimy roads, flanked by wooden houses with little whorls of dust spinning along the ground give me the feel of a real-life western. I’ve been rocked by gusts of wind so strong that they’ve swept a stationary Bullet to the ground. All these memories and plenty more as yet unformed, I owe them all to biking.

No less moving is the human factor. So used are we city-dwellers to the cynicism and mistrust that govern our daily lives that random unselfish acts of kindness from those far less privileged leave you spellbound. And they infallibly occur on a ride. A “puncturewallah” on a lonely road who offers you food, drink and shelter because it’s too late in the night to fix your puncture, a fishmonger who while returning from his day’s work, travels kilometers the other way to find you a mechanic on a Sunday, and then calls unbidden the next day to inquire after you, an old lady who takes you in and then prays for your safe journey like you were her own son, they serve as a reminder of what all human nature should be like.

And for those that spend their lives in this journey of searching, seeing, experiencing and hopefully learning, somewhere along the way they’re rewarded with achieving the elusive quality that is stillness. Although it may seem the antithesis of travel, it’s something that only prolonged movement can bring. Stillness of heart, mind and soul. The ability to be unmoved by life’s vagaries and accept all it has to offer. I’m fortunate enough to know people who’ve achieved this. And although I have yet miles to go and years to travel, I hope that one day I will too.

The above is my entry to the Castrol Power1 blogging contest. Details can be found at www.facebook.com/CastrolBiking