Is Raat Ki Subah Nahi

And so out we went of the restaurant.
Onto the bikes, and rode through the city. At a signal, we stopped and asked a policeman for the road to Amba Ghat. Who duly directed us towards one of the exits from the city.
And so we passed from the city, into the outskirts and finally out of town. Large buildings gave way to small buildings, and small buildings gave way to large warehouses. Large warehouses finally ceded way to scraggly unkempt hedges, that revealed,at long last, large rolling fields of sugarcane.
The countryside had come.
On a bike, on the long rides, the cities are the worst. There's a sense of uncertainty to the traffic, and you have to keep your eyes peeled for the expected surprise. A tractor going the wrong way, a small kid running onto the road, dogs who can't make up their mind, people who don't have one - all kinds of idiots abound.
And you end up concentrating on the traffic, on the road, on the signals.
But out of the city, with a tiny white line dividing the road, you don't focus on much of anything. You keep an eye out for traffic, but there isn't much of it. You fall into a slow trance, and the miles eat themselves up. And you sing songs to yourself, you think of pretty girls, of cold bottles of beer, of hot home cooked food, of your buddies and you think of the road up ahead.
Ride on.
And on and on, past the fields, up and down small curving roads that gently undulate themselves for miles on end. Little rivulets flow below the road in irregular intervals, and green hills, now low, now low slung, fall over each other as one moves from the plains towards the ghats.
The Yamaha is now on reserve, stop at the nearest petrol pump, tank her up. And ride on.
The Amba Ghat is one of the most beautiful places there is. Lovely long roads soar and dip in regal abandon, from the Deccan plateau onto the Konkan. Do visit.
But not if you want to go to blooody fricking Goa.
Then, from Kolhapur, go to Amboli Ghat. Not Amba Ghat.
Am-bloody-boli ghat.
Because Amba Ghat goes away from Goa.
At 4.30 in the afternoon, in the middle of Amba Ghat, we didn't quite know where we were, but expected to hit Goa in about two hours.
At 6.30, we realized that Panaji was about 350 kilometers away. Another eight hours or so.
Umm, whoops.
Quick call. Halt for the night, take a good nights rest, and ride on the next morning. We were tired, it had been a long day, and Ketan couldn't see at night, because he was blind as a bat without his spectacles, but the specs reflected the light of the oncoming vehicles.
Basically, he couldn't see.
So, yeah, stop for the night.
But then I wouldn't be writing this, and you wouldn't be reading it, now would you.
And so for the sake of the blog you're reading now, we rode on.
From a grassy embankment, on which we laid to rest our weary butts, and where we decided to ride on, bhaisaabs rode on.
Beyond Rajapur, beyond Kharepatan, beyond Kasarda, and beyond Kankavli and Kudal.
A little before Sawantwadi, we stopped for a cup of tea, where Ketan bhaisaab revealed to us his blind as a b. status.
So from now on, with no lights on the road, we rode thus.
Kulkarni up front, praying away to glory, and agnosticism be damned.
Girish behind Kulkarni, craning his neck to check if the hirsute bear is safely astride the Splendor.
And the hirsute bear that was Ketan Kulkarni would, without his specs, focus and peer, and squint to make out the hazy rearlamp of the Yamaha.
And follow it.
Look, I'm pretty old now. And as horrified as you are.
But back then, it seemed a good idea.
On and through Sawantwadi, on through to Banda, down the Insuli Ghat, and finally, the Lord be praised, into Goa.
Where we were promptly stopped at the border. And since I did not have my insurance, we paid a bribe of 200.
And then followed the worst part of the journey.
Because beyond the Goa border, and until you reach Mhapsa, there lies a long stretch of road that never ends. And with heightened anticipation, you ride on and on and on.
Until you finally reach Corvorim circle, from where you ride on towards the beach, and reach an extremely sleepy Baga village.
Which wakes up, frowns, shakes its head and offers from it's recesses a room with that modern miracle - a blessed bed.
But we men are made of sterner stuff.
At three in the night, dog tired and beaten to the bone, Ketan Kulkarni and self stagger out into the night, find a Chinese restaurant that serves abominable food, and buy from him six bottles of the best that Goa has to offer.
And in our rooms, we make use of the opener, and sip on King's beer.
Because if one is to ride for 22 hours to reach Goa, it is with a purpose in mind.
Kings. Because.
Same thing.