Of clavicles and cowls; and the demise of weeks

I guess it's normal to look back and curse one's luck,
if one has been in an accident.

But no, I am not doing any cursing, though its been a
slow / boring / painful / incapacitating stretch of days
adding to weeks (and one whole month) since I broke my clavicle
somewhere on the road to Kolkata and Rider Mania 2011.

For one, when I look back I wonder how I have managed to stay
lucky so far, without being involved in a serious accident or
even breaking a bone; considering the "active" way that I have
lived.

I could have broken this (or some other) bone in my largely
unsupervised childhood (a very Huck Finnish one) days scampering
up and down hills, or jumping from tree to tree.

Or I could have broken it in some wild west saloon / setting,
catching a cosh meant for the ear, stopping a stray bullet or
getting thrown by a horse -- in all my repeated readings of
assorted cowboy westerns in my extended childhood.

You can imagine me in similar scenarios / situations / settings
from combat comics / Alistair Maclean novels. Breaking a bone is
pretty common in adventurous / active scenarios.

So, I guess it isn't exactly mind-boggling that I broke my collar
falling from my Bullet one cold winter evening some 40 or so kms
from Kolkata. I mean, maybe it wouldn't have happened if had
stayed at home instead of answering the call of the road, but
then again, it isn't that strange right?

No, I am not being facetious or mock stoic. After all, as per
the law of averages I had to crash sometime and I am lucky to
get away with neck and head (and everything else) intact. And just
bust my collar bone.

Having said that, it has certainly been a bitch -- sitting on my
behind and watching time add up the days and eat up a month, while
I wear a sling for my right arm and a brace around the shoulders and
cultivate patience; waiting for the spot-weld on the bone to
strengthen enough to pick up a pen to write.

Or for that matter, wait for the mind to move on from the hurt, pain
and ignominy of having to come back home leaving a ride incomplete
(my original idea was to ride long into February and wander around
over the North East). Or wait and learn how to deal with the wretched
feeling of watching my trusted Bullet gather dust, parked motionless,
missing its headlight cowl (part of the minimal damage to it due to
the fall) and urgently needing a service.

I am seeing my Doctor in two days (to know when I can stop wearing
the brace). Incidentally, I have got back to "writing with a pen" a
week back. So I guess I am healing, in a slow, more or less steady way.

But it doesn't mean that I will forget or ever get over the ignominy
of leaving a ride incomplete (and I hope I never have to do it again in
my life). Nor does it mean that I will forget my un-kept date with the
North-East.

For whatever my Doctor says, healing for me means being able to ride again.

After all, there are some hungers that time can't sate (or heal).

Far from the madding crowd

Far from the madding crowd?

Oh yes.

Far from the effed up city traffic?

Oh yes, very much yes.

Just around 10 days back, I finally took a call and got the barrel
and piston on the Bullet replaced. I have been a bit around this
country on that barrel and piston and done close to 90k kms on it.
But still, technically speaking it shouldn't have
failed / ceased / seized. My current mechanic is soft-spoken,
highly skilled and very very wise (he's touching 60) and
according to him the piston overheated and failed. Incredulously,
not because I was racing at 130 kmph on the highway,
throttle locked and hunched like a jockey on my iron horse.
But because, I had negotiated a 55 minutes long
crawl -- Basheerbagh -> Liberty -> Tank Bund -> Sindhi
Colony -> Paradise X Roads -> Vikrampuri (where the engine
conked out), largely in 1st and 2nd gear on yet another
forgettable evening when the city's traffic was well and
truly fucked.

In other words, I got trafucked.

Is that a word (yet)? I don't know, but I am sure
Hyderabad's traffic won't get better, rains or no rains.
There are just too many people and too many cars to give
the city's roads any chance to be orderly.

So the thirst to be far from the madding crowd...

Another reason is that I am now running in the aforementioned,
"new" barrel and piston, a task that is not exactly easy,
requiring as it does inordinate patience, a nose (literally)
for the smell of over-heating, a total disregard for the passage
of time and so on and so forth...

Whatever some of my other biker / rider friends may say,
somehow the idea of running-in the city doesn't make sense
to me, after all I don't want to get trafucked again...

So I have been riding around on the highways and man, oh man,
have I been tripping or what?

Two of my status messages (from Facebook) to illustrate
what's on my mind while on the road


Then – a single lane, sunlit
dapple ground for mango, banyan and neem.
Now – a wide carriageway, to hurtle or airstrip,
in antiseptic speed. With a median that's a country
road – of grasses nodding sagely,
riding breezes and slipstreams. What remains
of that sunlit dapple ground – like a single leg
of worn blue denim, still catches sight.
Here light puddles bright,
as golden shelled maize, tanned brown paddy.


(This was after an approximately 250 kms -- to and
fro -- ride on NH 7, one of my familiar haunts for
most of my riding days in the Deccan)


The roads belong to no one,
but S.H.1 remains mine –
blessedly alive
as a beating vein on the back
of my right hand
– like my throttle wrist.
For 78 kms under a mellow November sun.
To a bit before Siddipet (and back).
Through a rain-soaked Deccan bursting
with colours – yellow-flowering gram,
“oh-so-white” cotton, wildflowers
I know not the name of and
the good, green earth.


(This was after a traipse on the road that leads
to Shamirpet Lake and a lot beyond, again a familiar
haunt for as long as I have been riding
in the Deccan)

There's a lot more of running in left and to make things more
time-consuming I also finally bought a Nikon D-90 (an impulsive
purchase using the only credit card I have) so I am hoping I will
traipse around some more and compose something poetic with my eye.

Somewhere far from the madding crowd.

The Road to Medhchal

(For Adrian)

We spreadeagled and pinned down
half a summer night
into conversations
-- soaring noon high --
of you and I, the roads in and out of life,
of you and I and throttle-fulls of speed and smoke.

We spreadeagled and pinned down
questions for time
-- the need to just ride, the need to just be --
mirroring the soul in the machine,
the engine in the being, agreeing
-- we write even as we ride --

In throttle-fulls of speed and smoke
book, chapter and verse
stories of metre and mile
the metre of miles....

Wasn't Born to Follow

Oh I'd rather go and journey where the diamond crest is flowing and
Run across the valley beneath the sacred mountain and
Wander through the forest
Where the trees have leaves of prisms and break the light in colors
That no one knows the names of

And when it's time I'll go and wait beside a legendary fountain
Till I see your form reflected in it's clear and jewelled waters
And if you think I'm ready
You may lead me to the chasm where the rivers of our vision
Flow into one another

I will want to die beneath the white cascading waters
She may beg, she may plead, she may argue with her logic
And then she'll know the things I learned
That really have no value in the end she will surely know
I wasn't born to follow

Written by Carole King and Gerry Goffin, performed by The Byrds (from the cult motorcycling classic Easy Rider)

Ballad of the Easy Rider

The river flows
It flows to the sea
Wherever that river goes
That's where I want to be
Flow river flow
Let your waters wash down
Take me from this road
To some other town

All he wanted
Was to be free
And that's the way
It turned out to be
Flow river flow
Let your waters wash down
Take me from this road
To some other town

Flow river flow
Past the shaded tree
Go river, go
Go to the sea
Flow to the sea

The river flows
It flows to the sea
Wherever that river goes
That's where I want to be
Flow river flow
Let your waters wash down
Take me from this road
To some other town

Written by Roger McGuinn (on Bob Dylan's initial sketch), performed by Roger McGuinn (from the cult motorcycling classic Easy Rider)