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During the monsoons,
I occasionally tempt fate and tall, dark cumulous nimbuses with
a ride on my loyal Enfield Thunderbird. Perhaps it is because
I believe in television commercials that promise that even the
institution known as the Indian Railways will stop for people
astride a 350 cc oil dispenser.
Chasing the monsoons on a bike is an acquired skill, one that
cannot be mastered in this lifetime. I must therefore thank
my lucky stars that my creed relies on reincarnation to take
care of unfinished business.
It was a Thursday evening, and while the skies relented over
Bangalore, the rest of the country was swimming down Flood Avenue.
And as the West Coast was being swept off its feet, Satish Gopalakrishnan
invited a few friends to spend the weekend on a beach in Mangalore,
and watch him get hitched.
With the jewel of the West Coast the destination, and 350 km
of virginal roads in the offing, I willingly obliged.
Mangalore even finds a mention in the writings of traveler Ibn
Batuta. The name itself has its origins in Sanskrit, Mangala
meaning ‘auspicious / happiness’ and Ooru ‘place.’
The Portuguese colonizers on the West Coast were no different
than their tongue-tied English cousins, and Mangalooru became
Mangalore. They conveniently forgot that the natives referred
to it as Kudla, the meeting place of two rivers.
Anyway, my odyssey began at 6.40am the next morning. Along with
a pillion rider who would sacrifice his posterior for motorcycling
Zen, I rode across town to deposit my luggage (including for
the first time in my riding experience, a suit) with friends
who would be meeting us in Mangalore.
And then the ride began. As always, it involved my 350 cc Royal
Enfield Thunderbird, a Tiruvottiyur, Tamil Nadu-made single-cylindered
thumper, a bike that hasn’t changed much since the first
one came out in 1935. Royal Enfield did make a concession to
modernity by transferring the gear-shifter to the left in later
avatars, attracting newbies to the cruiser segment, but in the
process, leaving veterans to unlearn 70 years of unnatural brain-hand
coordination.
On Indian roads, an Enfield is your safest bet against marauding
trucks, suicidal dogs and deaf villagers. They can see, hear
or feel you coming, and unlike the television commercial, will
immediately plump for discretion over valour. And besides, no
machine can handle high-speed stops and heart-in-the-mouth offroading
sessions like an Enfield.
National Highway NH 48 took me outside Bangalore and in the
direction of Hassan. The skies were bleak all the way, but since
enthusiasm levels were at an all-time high, 100 kilometre of
roads that used their toll fees wisely were consumed for
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breakfast. Then,
aching muscles and bleeps of anguish from Srikanth, riding pillion,
caused the event of our first stop, Café Can Coffee,
a little coffee shop outside the Adichunchunagiri College of
Medicine.
It was then that I realized that waking up very early can cause
severe memory loss. Like forgetting to carry wet-weather protection.
After several rounds of blame were heaped on my hapless pillion,
splendid masala and cheese omlettes followed by steaming mugs
of hot chocolate and cappuccino helped lessen my aggression.
So the occasion was right to boast of our mastery of the conditions
to the guys in Bangalore, who by dint of a late-night binge,
had managed not to leave even at 11 am. Suitably elated, I clocked
another 80 km on the odometer thanks to the brilliant Bangalore-Hassan
highway. After another 20 km of dodging dark rain clouds near
the Hassan bypass, the invincible Thunderbird eased itself into
the bustling town of Sakleshpur.
And then Lady Luck lost her game of Russian roulette with the
rain gods.
But I digress too soon. The surroundings were picture-postcard
material. Summer had long been exiled to the plains to tan and
torment the unfortunate, so the foothills had developed a profound
affinity for green. Acres of mist swept down the mountains to
romance red tile-roofed huts strewn all over the landscape.
About 120 km west of Bangalore, you can make a pit stop in Sravanabelagola.
The little town rates highly on the Jain pilgrim’s Lonely
Planet with its colossal 58-foot monolithic statue of the monk
known as Gomateshwara, looking serenely out at the rocky landscape
in all his naked virility.
But with more than 250 km of roads waiting, and having already
visited it once earlier, Sravanabelagola was dumped in favour
of Sakleshpur, which apart from being a coffee planter’s
haven, is also probably the only place in India where one can
go trekking on abandoned metre-gauge railway tracks. The drops
are pretty sheer but the views are nothing short of spectacular.
Just remember to carry flashlights for the bat-infested tunnels
on the way, good hiking boots since part of the track is gravelly,
and salt or snuff to deal with bloodthirsty leeches.
We chose road over track and smelt the coffee as we rode through
Sakleshpur, passing a riotous symphony of birds on the grounds
of the Munzerabad Club, established in 1893 as a planter’s
way of repose.
A little drizzle and a shy sun, however, were fair enough warning
of upcoming misery.
Tradition says that one should enjoy the monsoons at home with
a cup of hot coffee. By daring to defy it, we succeeded in inviting
the wrath of the rain gods. As the bike reared into the hairpin
bends of the Shiradi Ghats, they let us know how they felt about
our transgressions. |
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Our clothes and enthusiasm were immediately dampened as the sluice
gates of heaven opened right above us. As we frantically searched
for cover by the wayside, my clothes became the source of mighty
rivers. It occurred to me that standing in a thicket in a forest
said to contain elephants was a mammoth risk not worth taking. So,
it was decided that braving the rains was a better option than indulging
death.
That was when the long-suffering Thunderbird developed indigestion,
popping and backfiring in protest. Thankfully, that was just a momentary
lapse of reason on its part, and having coaxed and cursed it back
into form, we sped away in pouring rain.
Then the Ghats took the wind out of Srikanth. While taking pictures
on winding roads, he successfully triggered an inherited tendency
to lose his lunch while in motion. To his credit, he had the decency
to tell me to stop first.
So the mothership rested a while, while we refueled with coffee
at a roadside shack. All around, trucks overloaded with hay melted
away in the rain. A squawking rooster was enlisted for the Mangalorean
specialty kori rotti – crisp rice wafers, boiled rice and spicy
chicken gravy with lots of coconut milk.
At Uppinangadi, 45 km from Mangalore, the rain finally ran out of
steam. The wind took care of the drying up, and we finally stocked
up on official-looking raincoats and garish windcheaters at Bantval.
A left turn at Pumpwell Circle onto the Mangalore-Cochin highway,
set us on a course to a beauty of a beach resort at Ullal called
Summer Sands.
As the first to arrive, we checked into rooms in gorgeous villas,
their red Mangalore-tiled roofs in quiet conversation with the coconut-fringed
pathways. Alas, the monsoons had rendered all recreation that included
the sea dangerous.
The friends who had taken the safer and drier route in a chartered
bus, arrived many hours later and then the partying began. After
the wedding, which included lots of feasting and dancing, we set
a course back, kitted in rain gear to combat the malicious-looking
Mangalorean weather.
Faced with a strong wind, the raincoat gave way in twenty minutes,
and a pack of safety pins held it together for the rest of the trip,
keeping my interiors water free.
We covered the entire Sakleshpur- Bangalore route in 6 hours, with
only a single stop at Café Can Coffee, signaling the end
of what was the longest duration one can ride an Enfield and get
off without walking funny.
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ROUTE |
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NH 48 •
Bangalore • Hassan
• Sakleshpur •
Uppinangadi • Mangalore
(Approximately 370 km to Summer Sands, Ullal) |
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TRAVEL
TIPS |
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•
Raincoats and boots are a must.
• When starting from
Bangalore, fill up on petrol in the city and avoid the petrol
stations on the way.
• The roads on the Ghat
sections have deteriorated, but are still maneuverable. Riding
at 50 kmph or less is advisable. Heavily loaded lorries, blind
hairpins and flowing water on the roads ask for concentration.
• Food is only available
from small eateries catering to truck drivers.
• For information on
buying or renting Royal Enfields in India check the forums at
www.royalenfield.com. A brand
new Enfield costs about US$1200. |
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