Exhaust Pipe Dreams….
“The guys who used to ride the Splendor are now buying a Bullet! What do they know about bikes?! Bas, petrol daala aur chalaya”
There is helplessness and contempt in his voice. The “Bullet” has been reduced to a mere tool of transport by the people he’s accusing. He is a passionate biker. I smile at him; I think I can understand. He’s just come back from a trip that clocked over 3000 km on the odometer. As we stand there talking bikes, rides and riding gear, I wonder how some people LIVE while the others live. The romantic, unpredictable biker – a present day Bedouin; wandering from waterhole to waterhole – who wouldn’t dig that? Soon we’ve exchanged numbers with the promise to ride together someday. Oh! The pity I feel for those who’s day-off is spent watching TV, shopping….. Or -God forbid! – working!!
It’s my first ride – I’m cruising down relatively slowly to break in my engine. I’d been listening to Take Five by the Dave Brubeck quartet over dinner the night before and now the tune is stuck in me. I try wishing it away but it forces its way back and bounces around in my head. I finally give up and start humming along. I break my journey every few hours to rest the machine. My peripatetic tribulations evoke the curiosity of the local populace. There is a palpable sense of respect, but it’s more of a mash of jealousy for the insane (at being oblivious to reality) and contempt for the extremely weak of mind (“How much mileage sir?”. “I’ve never checked – the manufacturer says 35-40 per liter” “Oh! You should have bought a car then sir!!”), that I sense from the curious strangers whose monotony I had broken that day. But hey! I’m sure not a soul would have bothered if I was making the trip in a 4 wheeled cage. I suddenly feel like Robert Frost’s Bear:
The world has room to make the bear feel free.
The universe seems cramped to you and me
Man acts like the poor bear in a cage,
That all day fights a nervous inward rage,
His mood rejecting all his mind suggests.
The free bear of course, not the one in the cage!
Maps fascinate me. The squiggly lines of unpredictable experiences beckons me, each time I pour upon these cartographer’s poems. Maps are such a wealth. Foreseeing my ride on a sheet of paper with red, blue and black lines for roads, rivers and railway tracks, sprinkled with unpronounceable (to my unpracticed tongue) names, fantasizing the wind on my chest as rider and machine eat up the miles…. Ah! I could redefine anticipation twice over; for tomorrow, I would be the locus that defines that line on the paper. Map makers – May their tribe increase
Motorcycling is very contemplative. It makes you look inwards as you are often left with yourself to make conversation with on a ride. I am perched upon my seat, riding down the highway, trying to keep my mind on the road and the traffic but it is difficult. Like a hot air balloon tethered to the ground, my mind wanders. Thoughts scream for attention within. “I’ve got to get home and do the laundry”. “How ridiculously self-important are we all”. “Hope my tappets are in tune”. “Damn! I’ve got to learn that guitar, if it’s the last thing I do”. “Oh! I love her so”. Each vying for primetime in the head. The eyes take in the scenery while the demons within fight it out. Just when I am about to dismiss these with my favorite Bogie line in Casablanca “….the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world…. “, a looming speed breaker (The authorities sure have a sick sense of humor about their placement) yanks the balloon back.
The hills of Krishnagiri have been cut through to make the highway. It reminds me of chocolate cake somehow. I stop at a small shop to make a phone call. I am greeted by the usual concern about the mileage as we (the bike and me) take a breather. “Where are you coming from?”, “Where are you going?” – What could I tell him? Our greatest philosophers haven’t been able to figure that one out. And me – I’m just a biker.
Growing up a single kid can be boring sometimes – trust me. I play a game I invented then. A-day-in-the-life-of. I am chatting with the vendor of tender coconuts, but I’m wondering about his day, his life…. He asks me if I am married. (Ha! You prudes of society! Personal question?! my foot) When I answer in the negative, he’s got his reason to what he thinks is a crazy journey….. When I could have just taken an overnight train! I’m only surprised however, when I evict the same response from some colleagues (read educated, intelligent individuals – well, at least our Human Resources folks think that!). This makes me wonder. If marriage is so restrictive and the people who are married seem to so envy my “freedom” – why remain chained? What keeps such people still married? Is it the sex? – doesn’t that get as routine as brushing the teeth? Is it love – for if this is love and love binds so, I’d rather remain unloved! Makes me wonder if Mendelssohn pictured pirates making hostages walk the gangplank when he composed the “Wedding March”! Taa-taaa-tada – SPLASH!!, you see! It would take genius to pull off so huge a prank. For all you know, “The Wedding March” should be supplanted by the first movement of Beethoven’s 5th with the ominous sounding “Tada-da-dum” proclaiming doom. Oh, hell.
The skies suddenly open up. The sound of the raindrops on my helmet, begins softly, like far off tom-toms. Slowly the crescendo builds – now snare drums, punctuated by thunder like crashing cymbals, on and on the music builds…. Soon it’s a stampede, cacophony, chaos. I pull over. I am now drenched and visibility is low. The setting sun and the lights of the oncoming vehicles don’t help too much either. I am drinking a cup of hot tea, watching the water drops sizzle and evaporate as they touch the engine. My bike looks stoic - so tolerant, so very dependable. The rain hardly ruffles its composure. I try to look at this picture stepping outside myself. The rain is incessant. The night is getting on. Rider and bike, they seem to look at each other and understand without a word being said.
I check for oil leaks and correct the tension of the chain. I start up the engine and listen for any odd noises. I wear my helmet and engage the gear. It is a long ride home and I seem to like it that way.
There is helplessness and contempt in his voice. The “Bullet” has been reduced to a mere tool of transport by the people he’s accusing. He is a passionate biker. I smile at him; I think I can understand. He’s just come back from a trip that clocked over 3000 km on the odometer. As we stand there talking bikes, rides and riding gear, I wonder how some people LIVE while the others live. The romantic, unpredictable biker – a present day Bedouin; wandering from waterhole to waterhole – who wouldn’t dig that? Soon we’ve exchanged numbers with the promise to ride together someday. Oh! The pity I feel for those who’s day-off is spent watching TV, shopping….. Or -God forbid! – working!!
It’s my first ride – I’m cruising down relatively slowly to break in my engine. I’d been listening to Take Five by the Dave Brubeck quartet over dinner the night before and now the tune is stuck in me. I try wishing it away but it forces its way back and bounces around in my head. I finally give up and start humming along. I break my journey every few hours to rest the machine. My peripatetic tribulations evoke the curiosity of the local populace. There is a palpable sense of respect, but it’s more of a mash of jealousy for the insane (at being oblivious to reality) and contempt for the extremely weak of mind (“How much mileage sir?”. “I’ve never checked – the manufacturer says 35-40 per liter” “Oh! You should have bought a car then sir!!”), that I sense from the curious strangers whose monotony I had broken that day. But hey! I’m sure not a soul would have bothered if I was making the trip in a 4 wheeled cage. I suddenly feel like Robert Frost’s Bear:
The world has room to make the bear feel free.
The universe seems cramped to you and me
Man acts like the poor bear in a cage,
That all day fights a nervous inward rage,
His mood rejecting all his mind suggests.
The free bear of course, not the one in the cage!
Maps fascinate me. The squiggly lines of unpredictable experiences beckons me, each time I pour upon these cartographer’s poems. Maps are such a wealth. Foreseeing my ride on a sheet of paper with red, blue and black lines for roads, rivers and railway tracks, sprinkled with unpronounceable (to my unpracticed tongue) names, fantasizing the wind on my chest as rider and machine eat up the miles…. Ah! I could redefine anticipation twice over; for tomorrow, I would be the locus that defines that line on the paper. Map makers – May their tribe increase
Motorcycling is very contemplative. It makes you look inwards as you are often left with yourself to make conversation with on a ride. I am perched upon my seat, riding down the highway, trying to keep my mind on the road and the traffic but it is difficult. Like a hot air balloon tethered to the ground, my mind wanders. Thoughts scream for attention within. “I’ve got to get home and do the laundry”. “How ridiculously self-important are we all”. “Hope my tappets are in tune”. “Damn! I’ve got to learn that guitar, if it’s the last thing I do”. “Oh! I love her so”. Each vying for primetime in the head. The eyes take in the scenery while the demons within fight it out. Just when I am about to dismiss these with my favorite Bogie line in Casablanca “….the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world…. “, a looming speed breaker (The authorities sure have a sick sense of humor about their placement) yanks the balloon back.
The hills of Krishnagiri have been cut through to make the highway. It reminds me of chocolate cake somehow. I stop at a small shop to make a phone call. I am greeted by the usual concern about the mileage as we (the bike and me) take a breather. “Where are you coming from?”, “Where are you going?” – What could I tell him? Our greatest philosophers haven’t been able to figure that one out. And me – I’m just a biker.
Growing up a single kid can be boring sometimes – trust me. I play a game I invented then. A-day-in-the-life-of. I am chatting with the vendor of tender coconuts, but I’m wondering about his day, his life…. He asks me if I am married. (Ha! You prudes of society! Personal question?! my foot) When I answer in the negative, he’s got his reason to what he thinks is a crazy journey….. When I could have just taken an overnight train! I’m only surprised however, when I evict the same response from some colleagues (read educated, intelligent individuals – well, at least our Human Resources folks think that!). This makes me wonder. If marriage is so restrictive and the people who are married seem to so envy my “freedom” – why remain chained? What keeps such people still married? Is it the sex? – doesn’t that get as routine as brushing the teeth? Is it love – for if this is love and love binds so, I’d rather remain unloved! Makes me wonder if Mendelssohn pictured pirates making hostages walk the gangplank when he composed the “Wedding March”! Taa-taaa-tada – SPLASH!!, you see! It would take genius to pull off so huge a prank. For all you know, “The Wedding March” should be supplanted by the first movement of Beethoven’s 5th with the ominous sounding “Tada-da-dum” proclaiming doom. Oh, hell.
The skies suddenly open up. The sound of the raindrops on my helmet, begins softly, like far off tom-toms. Slowly the crescendo builds – now snare drums, punctuated by thunder like crashing cymbals, on and on the music builds…. Soon it’s a stampede, cacophony, chaos. I pull over. I am now drenched and visibility is low. The setting sun and the lights of the oncoming vehicles don’t help too much either. I am drinking a cup of hot tea, watching the water drops sizzle and evaporate as they touch the engine. My bike looks stoic - so tolerant, so very dependable. The rain hardly ruffles its composure. I try to look at this picture stepping outside myself. The rain is incessant. The night is getting on. Rider and bike, they seem to look at each other and understand without a word being said.
I check for oil leaks and correct the tension of the chain. I start up the engine and listen for any odd noises. I wear my helmet and engage the gear. It is a long ride home and I seem to like it that way.
Nice guide! thank you!/I love it ! Very creative ! That's actually really cool Thanks. Custom Exhaust Pipes
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23:18