THE GOOD OLD DAYS

The good old days. When all that mattered was the road ahead, my beautiful and faithful Bullet 350 below me and just enough money for fuel to get home.

How things have changed, how the wanderlust has been chained and jailed. A time when 'riding kit' consisted of an MPA helmet, a weathered windcheater, a loose cotton T-shirt, a pair of faded jeans, hand-me-down buckskin gloves from my father and beat up leather army boots. But we fucking rode, and  how. Saddle time was far greater than the cock talk. We didn't watch instructional videos on how to straighten corners. But we always reached where we needed to go in one piece.We criss-crossed the country and dreamed of going beyond international borders. 

 
Our bikes seldom failed us, although some of them were older than our very selves. When they did break down, we knew how to get them back on the road. We didn't have mobile phones and so always rode within visible range. Six lane highways existed only in foreign movies. We rode on state highways that were thick lines only in the maps. We ended every day of riding with a smile and some whiskey and rum, sometimes swallowed together. Nobody grumbled, everybody only smiled. Nobody had presentations to work on or emails to reply to. We were free. 

We drank from canals and streams and ate from holes in the wall. We slept alongside the road, under trees, in trees, in random village homes. We never spoke about where we've been but where we wanted to go. Everybody was made welcome, blokes with inflated egos were kicked in the balls.

We never had 'meets' nor did we spend hours on internet forums - we spent that time where it mattered, on the saddle. We didn't flaunt our bikes wherever or whenever pussy strode past us. Our bikes were filthy with the grime only hundreds of miles of riding can accumulate. We were proud of our appearance. We didn't care what the world thought of us. We respected the law, shook hands with cops and waved at fellow motorcyclists.

Yes, those were golden years indeed.

ALL BIKES ONE DESTINATION

I never thought this would ever happen in my lifetime. Sure, Royal Enfield enthusiasts started the movement and the manufacturer furthered the cause. But till date, the only big motorcycle meet in the country was limited to Royal Enfield bikes alone.

Things are changing, however. Finally, here's a bike fest happening and it's open to everyone who rides anything with two wheels with a motor slung in between for good effect! Ladies and gentlemen, presenting the India Bike Week that's going to over run Goa between the 2nd and 3rd of February 2013.

Judging from the launch party, I can safely say that they love their motorcycles. Any band of blokes who doll up the entrance with a pristine Norton Manx 350 and an unmolested vintage AJS gets my vote. The Harleys were there and so were the Beemers and as usual, the Bullet riding boys were there too in  good strength. What seemed cool to me was that a solitary RX 100 cafe made it too, and had its own spotlight!

What's better is that the boys behind that awesome Helmet Stories motorcycle blog, good friends Vir Nakai and Harsh Man Rai, are heavily involved.

I'm going to be there. Don't know what I'll be riding though, but for once, it doesn't really matter. As long as you arrive with bugs on your visor and your jacket caked with dust, you'll be welcome! Good times beckon!

Flat line.

There's a fine line that defines a truely gorgeous motorcycle from a hideous one. And this one, unfortunately, over stepped that line by a billion miles. What you see before you is Royal Enfield's iteration (based on the EFI Electra sold abroad) of the now-in-fashion flat tracker movement - a phenomenon that's just taken forward from where cafe racers left off.

I don't know who they hired for the job, but I'm willing to bet my nads that the guy thinks a flat tracker is a non-endowed stalker. I commend the good folk at the Madras factory for trying something new with such an iconic machine, but in my opinion, this just does not cut it with me.

Think flat tracker and what comes to mind is the venerable Harley-Davidson XR 750. Definitely not this thing. Don't get me wrong, I really am a huge Royal Enfield fan and I love my Bullet to death. However, this lump of metal, nahhhh.

I like the tail end of the motorcycle but when that seat section reaches the tank, the disaster begins. Truth be told, I opine that the tail is a tad too high but I'm guessing that is because the good folk in the Madras factory didn't want to tweak the frame rail ends - economics, I reckon. 



The tank is too round for the angular rear and the front end is as disproportionate as a politician's income. The head light is too large, the mudguard too conservative and don't get me started on the cheesy 'Fury' emblazoned on the flanks. Heck even Stevie Wonder would agree that the font is too bloody garish and oversized and just doesn't blend in with the rest of the bike. It really does look like an after thought.


Oh, and as if it makes up for the rest, the bike will be priced at 5,795 pounds in the UK, sport a digital instrument cluster and twin silencers. That just makes this contraption twice as bad.


Photo source - www.motorcyclenews.com - one of the best websites dealing with news about anything two wheeled! Thanks fellas and keep it real!

The runner that never was

As I figure out how to change this goddamn page layout, I am reminded about how sticky things you thought you liked might get. A 'friend' one urged me to pick up an old Royal Enfield Bullet 350 that he had. He needed the money, he said. Sure, it was a fine old thing, dating back to 1954 or thereabout. As everybody who's selling a used motorcycle does, he told me that he had paid a packet to get the engine running. I didn't buy the latter but I picked up that bike anyway.

'Running' is a very subjective word used to describe an engine's condition, I realised. If it turns over on its own power for a second, that too after kicking it a billion times, it's a 'runner'. I still told myself, no, this bike's going to be a dream deal. Pulling out the gas tank just proved that I had been had. A crappy weld job held the steering head in place with plates tacked on to hide the hideous cover up - like white bandage over a festering sore.

I took comfort in the fact that people were selling crappier bikes for more. I could get my money back, heck, even make a profit. No such luck. The bike stuck with me like bloody herpes and many prospective buyers came and went, none wanting to get infected. Ultimately, she went to a bike dealer who sold her off for double of what he paid me. Just goes to show that when you're passionate about your goods, you rarely make a profit selling them. Oh, and that fiend I was telling you about, I got to know he bought a Merc just after he sold the Bullet to me. Ah well, lesson learned.