Biting the Bullet

That sound; that damn sound. That's how it begins for most of us.

Motorcycling in India is broadly classified into two. The boys who ride plastics and men who ride the Bullet. This image was cultivated carefully by the Royal Enfield Company fanning masculinity as an equivalent of a huge monster that wakes up the neighborhood when it comes roaring in. Our superstars who rode it into battle the villains and the legend of how the Indian army ordered a batch of Bullets to patrol the Himalayan ridges eventually gave the bike a status of manhood.  

A typical bullet tripper

Then came the age of Indian trippers. Not the weed rolling, pot smoking type but the kind of leather clad guys who tie up huge bags, a couple of petrol cans and ride to the far corners of the country in seek of something. They invariably choose members of the RE stable, primary due to their seating comfort, high torque in low gears and most importantly because it looked cool. People frown at you if you ride into Spithi valley in a Splendor but on a Bullet you are one of the tribe. Bullet clubs popped up and soon the roads were choked with bullets. And the kind of morons^TM who swap a well-researched and built part of the bike like the silencer with the kind that deafens a rock because that makes you look hip.

No one popularized Bullet than Lalettan

A relative of mine, who lives nearby had a Bullet when I was in school. I used to wake up in the morning listening to his attempt to start the machine. Upon starting its roar used to give me goose bumps and when I ride my bicycle I used to imagine I was upon that magnificent machine. I tried my best to convince my dad to buy one but he progressed from Bajaj Chetak to Honda Activa to TVS Victor and then onward to four wheels.  Unlike me he was a practical man! My first chance to get my hands on a RE came in 2009 when I cleared my dental graduation. My parents have offered to buy me a bike and they were sure I would opt for a Bullet.

Real life cops with their ride

 Surprise! I went and bought a Yamaha FZ. I gave my reasons as it was economical, better engine, and less cost but the truth was that I was scared of riding the bullet. The guys I saw at that time riding the bullets were either policemen or the kind of people the policemen chases or occasionally chases the policemen. I being neither of them did not want that kind of albatross around my neck, hence a humble Yamaha.

Stuff the Army daredevils do with their Bullets

Couple years down the lane RE revamped their models, introduced the new efficient, economical and better constructed UCE engines. They boasted of the build quality of that of the Japanese plastics, the royalty of British heritage and as an icing on the cake RE was taken over by an Indian company. I am too much of a patriot and had grown some balls by that time so need to buy one ASAP. I began the war for a Bullet at home but my parents simply ignored me stating that I had my chance and I blew it, now if I want a Bullet make my own money and buy it. Well if I had my own money, why should I ask them? Indian parents logic!

The kind of shit I hates

It took me another 5 years to buy my dream bike. In 2016, I had saved enough money in between paying the education loans for a Bullet. As I always wanted I bought a silver Electra and fell in love with her at first sight. I call her 'The Spirit' and my wife suspects that she is more of a mistress than a motorcycle for me.  I give her regular baths, dusts her almost daily, services her on date and of recent my toddler son shows the equal or even increased vigor than me toward her. The service amounts are atrocious, the maintenance costly and the risk of stalling pretty high still every morning rain or shine, I take my time to caress her engine to start, enjoys my commutes to work and look forward during my job to ride her back. I know I am in love!

My Beauty

One year have passed, most of her rubber tubes have been replaced for failures of them means that I will be trapped on the road with an immovable behemoth. Yesterday I noticed the paint flaking off from the battery covers and rust creeping in under a few nuts and bolts. It’s just those wrinkles you get when you grow old, but on the bike all you need is to buy a new part and swap it. There as good as new. Whenever she refuses to start on a particularly cold morning, I just remember of the good time we had climbing up the misty hills of Idukky or burning the tarmac under a hot Tamil sun. I never swear at her but gently coax her to sputter and let her heart roar out her love to me. 

For another commute, for another adventure.

Stages of my life. Teenager to Colleger to a Bulleteer.