Motorcycle Diaries - IV

Whoever said that the Karnataka countryside is beautiful is an idiot.

I, Ashish Kulkarni, prince of the idiots, will tell you what beautiful is. Beautiful is not the sight of dawn breaking over the mountains when you're astride a bike. Beautiful is your own soft bed, with covers drawn firmly over your head.

Beautiful is not the cool early morning breeze flying past your face. Beautiful is the breeze created by the ceiling fan, speed on 5.

Beautiful is the shutting off of the alarm clock at 7, not counting the number of kilometres to Hubli.

Beautiful is sleep, you dumb dolt.

It's about seven hours since the ride has been underway, and with drooping shoulders, aching back and heavy eyelids, life is not quite so good anymore. There's no singing of songs, no contemplation of the deeper meaning of life, no meandering thoughts. There's exhaustion, pure and simple. Every approaching ditch beckons. You want to park the bike, curl up and let the eyes shut.

But nope. You ride on.

Five in the morning I'd napped for fifteen minutes, while Noel smoked a couple of cigarettes. We had a couple of glasses of chai, and a packet of Parle-G. And I've been at the helm ever since.

And now, when the zombie like situation has you firmly in it's grip, you just pray that your eyes don't shut, and you ride on.

Indian roads have this peculiarity. One knows not why, but they have two hundred meter markers. So every now and then will pop up a small stone, painted yellow on top, stating that, say, Rane Bennur is 200 kilometers away. But then you'll have four white stones up ahead, saying 2, 4, 6 and 8, in that order. Then another stone, painted yellow on top, saying Rane Bennur is 199 kilometers away.

They keep you alive, those little white stones. Pretty soon, on that even, undulating road, you are muttering under your breath, your head nodding in slow cadence, " 2...4...6...8...sigh...2...4...6...8...sigh..."

Oh, you think reading that is boring, eh?

Awww.

Poor you.

Soon, the mind resigns itself to the fact that there is no sleep to be had. The mind adjusts. It shuts off all major operations, and tells major parts of the machinery to take it easy. Hunched up, either riding or sitting at the back, you slip into a slow state of trance, and mile after mile is eaten up.

2, 4, 6, 8... sigh... 2, 4, 6, 8...

That, for the most part, is long range biking. It's not the glory and the glamour. It's just mile after desolate mile of riding.

No, don't ask. I don't know why.

And then came the fateful town of Dhavengere.

The road had roughened up. To begin with, only one side was operational, since the other side was being tarred. And pretty soon, the side that was supposed to be ridden upon wasn't a road at all. Dust and stones, and potholes, with a few large boulders thrown in for variety. Total fun and games, in case you didn't get my drift.

At around nine in the morning, we stopped for breakfast.

A small little dhaba by the side of the road, bare at that time of the morning, fog all around, and a woman to serve us breakfast.

We had two huge aloo paranthas and a plate of bhurji each.

And while we were partaking of the victuals, there came and sat next to us Satan's spawn. Two truck drivers, who chatted of this that and the other.

Friendly enough, they were appropriately awe-struck when we told them that we were riding to Goa. Gratified, we asked them about the best way to head there. Until then, the plan was to drive up to Hubli, and then head into Goa via Karwar.

But they, they of the netherworld, they advised us to head into Goa via Zamboti, using the Chorla Ghat. It would save us at least a couple of hours, they said.

And so it was decided. We would ask our way around, and we would turn off the road, and head into Goa via Chorla ghat.

Big mistake.

But yeah, rode on we did.

On through the little town of Rane Bennur, on through another town called Hubbali... but no sign of Hubli anywhere.

On and on and on. Until at around noon, the two of us gave up. I took the bike to the side of the road, and under the welcoming shade of a tree, Kulkarni and Castellino gratefully curled up and played dead for half an hour.

And on and on again, into and beyond the town of Hubli, stopping only to refuel and to fill up on side oil.

And on and on, until we finally figured out where to turn left for the famed ghats of Chorla.

And then hell took over.