Back to school

So the new bug in my motorcycle life is the racetrack. And no, that does not mean I want to be in the MotoGP. Hell, I don't even want to do the Honda or Yamaha one make cups. I just want to ride at a racetrack. Ideally every other day. What gives?

As many of you know, my first outing at the racetrack was unsettling for me. 100 per cent commitment, teetering at the edge of adhesion, sneaking one per cent more throttle is stuff I dreamt of. The question of riding that kind of hard simply doesn't arise. For the simplest of reasons.

I was a street rider then. The street is full of variables. Stuff mostly beyond your control. Weird traffic, bad drivers, bad riders, changing surfaces, animals on the road... You know the weird and wonderful list. In these conditions, I think the most I've ever committed is maybe 70-80 per cent. And when I've had to ride harder still, it's been always been a one or two corner sequence taken repeatedly, with friends kind enough to be watching for traffic to let you know in advance, on a stretch of road out of the way, utterly deserted and far away from civilisation.

So when I arrived at the track, I was utterly lost. I didn't know how to attack any of the corners. I couldn't figure out how to break years of play it safe, and then embrace the search for the fastest possible line through the corner. To bring the tyres to the point where the rubber is balling up on the edges and beginning to fall off under the severe stress you're putting on it. Everyone passed me that day, while I circled like a lost dog, going slowly and hesitantly.

I figured out that racing wasn't for me because being passed did nothing to diminish my awesome ego. I was slow, but I was still awesome. But it did pose a new challenge. How to figure out this beast? The immediate advice was simple - do not crash today. Do what feels right, ride within your comfort zone, ignore everything else. Just return home with good memories. Psycho bull? Not really, falling on the track first time out makes you more hesitant the next time around, or makes you swear off it.

But the past year and a bit have been different. I managed to go to the Indimotard track school (see this story by this guy) twice, and then attended two California Superbike Schools (see this story) as well. They tell me my riding speed, smoothness and skill in improvement terms is night and day. And I think my internal awesomeness mechanism says this is true. I do manage to hold my lines, my motorcycle isn't squirming around, I'm not breaking into cold sweats or swearing inside my helmet. I know where I am on the track and I know what to do there. And most of the time, I seem to able to manage to do the right thing, or nearly the right thing, at the very least. I'm not about to give any of our racers nightmares with blinding speed. But I'm fast enough to not be embarrassed to say it. I've become a fast track rider.

How did this happen? Lots of instruction and lots of time spent pursuing the skills rather than the speed. My understanding of it now is that speed is like a cake in a world devoid of all bakeries and pastry shops. You can't buy it whole (unless you have Graziano's genes, that is). The cake of speed is made of a number of physical and mental ingredients. And it's sort of like a treasure hunt. You have to get after one ingredient at a time, fill a bag full of it and then hunt down the next one. Each ingredient adds flavour to your cake. And one day, you discover that you have a cake. Then you can start working on making a better cake, adding flavours to it and so forth.

In my experience, most of us Indian riders cannot do this on their own. We neither have enough racetracks to figure out the components of speed on our own, nor is there enough track time available. Open days like the pay and ride Sundays at the Chennai track are a bit chaotic, the BIC is nigh impossible to access as a normal middle-class human being and the Coimbatore track I simply don't know enough about in terms of accessing it to make any comments.

But I do know this. TT Vardharajan and his Preethi crew do an awesome job of bringing the annual California Superbike School to India in January every year (for the past two years now) and the instruction and content offered is first rate. The course is logical, progressive and unthreatening. You learn, you see the logic, you practice it, you go faster. Simple. Cost? This years school was about Rs 22,000 for three levels, including a TVS Apache RTR 180 ABS rental (or you could bring your own bike, same rate). Add say, 5-8,000 to that for hotel rooms, 2-3000 for the cabs you'll need to get from the airport to the hotel and then the track, plus food and travel (say 15,000) and you are looking at spending about Rs 57,000 for the privilege. It's expensive, but I think it's worth it. And if you live in Chennai, it's half that, brilliant!

Then there is the TWO Track School run by Bangalore outfit Indimotard. This school is held over the weekend, takes two days per level and is far, far less expensive. Track cost is just Rs 4,000 for the weekend. The school ships bikes from Bangalore to the racetrack and the cost of shipping works out to about Rs 3,000. Sometimes you can also rent a Yamaha R15 from them, for about the same cost as well. Add the hotel - their deal hotel offers Rs 2,000 per room night, or Rs 4,000 total and the flights, say 10k and you have a track weekend that should cost you about Rs 20,000 all told.

Being a vastly younger outfit, Indimotard's course material is differently structured, the instructors work with a marginally large group of students per session (three at CSS versus five-six at TWO) and classrooms are less structured. On the other hand, TWO offers more riding time on track (five 20 minute sessions per day at CSS versus four 40 minute sessions per day at TWO) and has open sessions where you're technically not at school but on a trackday, a great chance to get the instructors to work with you as well as a opportunity to apply what you've learnt for a qualifying style fast lap and see what the score is.

I've seen students get significantly faster and more confident at both schools but this is not a school comparison at all. The point is, I am yet to meet a student at either school who either doesn't swear by the instructions or doesn't intend to return and do it once again. As in, all students at both schools think this is value for money. A weekend well spent.

The benefits you already know. To give my own example, my abilities have vastly, vastly improved. I never imagined that I would be keeping up with certain characters who frequent the track, one of these gentlemen, incongruously enough, is nicknamed after an extinct flightless bird (he's far from extinct, most certainly can fly and isn't a bird no matter how you look at this). He is in many ways my hero. He is cheerful and affable in the pit lane and super fast, super smooth on track.

He was also by turns, much, much faster than me the first time I rode with him. This time, I found myself keeping up with with ease. And then, magic happened. We spend a set of five-six laps at a quick clip. Not quite on the edge but close enough to it for the experience to be rich and vivid. He followed me for a few laps and then I followed him for a few in turn. And it was pure magic. It was a riding memory I will have forever. I think he might as well. I've rarely felt so at peace, so overjoyed and so proud of myself all at the same time.

And that feeling makes me want to come back and ride the track more. And to return to school at every available opportunity. And I'm hoping I'll meet you there.

Next stop

So the track bug has bitten. Hard. And also biting is the missing end of my motorcycle immersion - ownership. I don't own a motorcycle today. I've owned a few before but had to sell them since my day job gives me many, many new motorcycles and I have to ride them, allowing me little time to have my own. But now that I've ridden the KTM Duke 200, I want one.

Why? Because it is intense.

On the face of it, it's a solid motorcycle. 200cc, 25PS, 125kg dry is a potent sounding combination. But there more to it than that. There is the stuff spec sheets cannot capture. And perhaps, it is right that they cannot. For the intangible is a powerful thing.

Let me describe a quick short ride to you. Get on the bike. It's freaking skinny in feel. The tank feels so thin, but not too thin. Pegs are back, handlebar is weirdly wide and upright. I think I'll want a fist fight about now, it seems to suggest just by the riding position. Start the engine up. It settles into a blatty, gruff idle. Blip the throttle. Revs rise incredibly fast and fall just as quickly. Gulp.

Click into first, roll on a bit of gas, let the clutch out. The KTM shoots forward with a strong sense of purpose. It forces a quick reset of your performance threshold right there. And then it bounces harshly, unceremoniously off the redline. Already? The damn redline is at 10,000rpm! How the hell did it get there? Snick into second, the digital tacho flashes across the width of the screen and bam, you're back on the redline. This is really getting annoying now. Snick up four more gears and it's the same story, until you see 140kmph on the speedo, bash into the redline once more and drop to 136. Holy cow.

The exhaust note, had it been louder would make this whole drama feel more real, but there is no getting away from it. A short geared set of ratios, a weightless crankshaft and a fast, effortless engine is a breathtaking combination. I'll have another helping of that, please. This time your left foot is a blur, up shifting just in the time, making the blat go louder and more urgent. This is lovely and super aggressive. Again, please?

Then comes a corner. Slide bum off to the inside a bit, hook up the outside knee securely in that extremely well-designed recess, find it awkward to hook up the ankle, but feel solidly hooked up anyway. And countersteer. Oh crap, I'm going to go off the track. On the freaking inside! Where is the 136kg kerb weight? Where the hell did they hide it? The motorcycle is without weight or inertia. It tips smartly, eagerly into the corner with almost no effort. The tyres give a great sense of hooking up and driving forward, the chassis is just so, the feedback you receive is excellent and there is no gap between you thinking of changing direction and the motorcycle responding. A chicane is dispatched with the same effort as you would use to bat an eyelid. And just that quickly. Oh my freaking god. I'm in love. For now. Until the 350 comes out...

Meanwhile back in the present...

I have to get myself one.

I'm going to make a few mods though. There has got to be a louder exhaust on it. I need to fashion and mount a set of heel plates. And I need to figure out what all I can remove or replace to lose as much weight as possible for the inevitable track days it will have to attend with me.

I always thought my next motorcycle would be a big one. A supersport class machine. But hey, looks like the future's orange.

IS THAT ALL YOU CAN DO? And the rain finally showed its full fury. The motorcycle engine screamed in anger. Rain rippled water was rent asunder by warm rubber looking for tarmac. And for grip. The falling drops were drowned in the howl of the wind. Vaporised silently on the clear plastic of my visor. Steam curling off the radiator slipped unnoticed through the fairing. Water collected slowly in the boots. The world was a happy streaking wet blur.

Now sitting in the balcony looking at a sea of wet kit. Imagining the muck drying off leaving (hopefully horizontal) streaks on the fairing downstairs. The rain is slowly leaving my gloves, pants and jacket. The last drop gleams defiance on my helmet. The boots squelch though my toes aren't in them anymore. The cool breeze isn't laden with a million drops of water anymore but laced thickly with a fresh, wet memory.

The world is still happy. Inside my head, I'm still laughing like the maniac I sometimes become.

Let's speculate: Yamaha YZF-R15

Three years on, Yamaha is finally readying what appears to be a significant upgrade to the YZF-R15. If you search for 'R15 spy pics' in google, you will be rewarded with a whole bunch of pictures of the blacked-out spy shots doing the rounds. Now, open another tab and look up the Yamaha YZF-R125 and you'll immediately see the similarities in design. And then you will note that the mechanical bits don't match.

First, the R125 will never officially come to India. It simply isn't going to happen. Two-stroke nuts and fellow optimists, give up. The logic is simple. It's a two-stroke. It won't ever meet our norms. And if it did, it. I am given to understand the motorcycle would be too expensive for Indian customers to digest. That's not counting the fact that if it were re-tuned to meet our emission and noise specification that it would turn out so weak and so expensive that of you lot, about two would be willing to buy one. It ain't gonna happen.

What is likely to happen, on the other hand, is that Yamaha will neatly transplant the R125's awesome looks on the new R15. Which, as far as I am concerned, is a good thing. The slim, fit rear-end of the European stroker will fix the weakest link in the R15 package - the rear end. It'll gain both a fat rear tyre and a sleek rear-end in one shot. Nicely done. The R15 looks like an older R1, the R125's package resembles the tightly packed GP bike with an almost vestigial rear, it's a forward move in styling, definitely.

But what is crucial is how the performance and price moves, right? Here's what I think is going to happen. There's only two options. The harder way is to boost the performance. The R15 engine has been a pretty well-used engine in the sense of offered performance and potential performance. You have to remember that Yamaha's option to extract all of the horsepower from this engine is restrained, even strangled , by our pollution and noise norms. Can they bump up the power further? I think they can. Say you add another cam shaft (raise the redline, but lose still more ability to operate effortlessly at street speeds), some clever engineering, bump up the compression (raises sensitivity to fuel quality so you have to be careful) and so forth, and you should be to get say, another 2 horsepower out of this. Is that enough? A 10 per cent rise in power is pretty damn good I have to say. Although if you look at it as the gain over three years of a product's life, it does look weak.

You could also switch to more exotic materials as an option or in addition and lose weight to gain more performance. But there's no getting away from the fact that this is the expensive option. Unless you're willing to up the displacement.

Which is another can of worms because now you have to change the name. A 223cc R15 cannot be called R15. R22 or R22.3 is just weird. If you do an R25, on the other hand, you have to assume that the extra power means more serious chassis upgrades as well - another cost. And what do you do with the R15? Use it as a base model? Kinda lame unless you drop the price. Which in turn impacts the margins - dammit.

And remember that the price and the performance of the CBR250R hangs like the sword of Damocles over all the products in this segment. Rs 1.5 lakh ex-showroom gets you a Honda-badged 250cc single making roughly 25PS of power.

This ain't easy.

The simpler option is actually, perhaps, the smarter one. Bump up the power by half a horsepower. Bring in the slinky new styling. Localise some of the still-imported components to drop costs. And smoothly move the price down to a more acceptable, more accessible level. Yelling boo? Think about it. You get the motorcycle that is almost the automatic choice of the enthusiast - either money-down or aspirational - with updated rubber, some more power and more modern styling at less money. It might sound like the option here with less flair, but it has merit.

It's less complicated. There's no serious technology upgrades to be worked out. Styling is plastic - relatively easily to handle. A lower price point brings you closer to the buyer and makes your nearest competition (P220, Karizma et al) sweat harder. And raises the distance between yourself and the CBR250R so that something else - FZ250? - can be slotted into that space. Heck, you could do a proper R25 later if you chose this method.

It'll bring volumes. Lower price means more buyers. And Yamaha need volumes - every thing they can get - to meet their own target of market share.

It frees up attention. Which you need to focus on other products. Like the scooters Yamaha is supposed to be working on. Taking on the Activa isn't child's play, you know.

Of course, this is all my guess work. And as I write this, it makes sense to me. It may not tomorrow. What I do know is that Yamaha needs new products and that an R15 upgrade is coming. Dates? Hopefully March, but this is unconfirmed.

Winterstitial

Memories rarely arrive as fully formed sequences like an artfully directed short film. The best of the lot arrive as flashes. Flashes that offer scintillating overlays of past experience on the reality your retinas are currently capturing. The psychologists and their ilk will tell you that our senses are powerful triggers. Textures felt, aromas inhaled, things seen, taste are all capable of setting off the memory equivalents of the camera flash barrage that you see at movie premiers and celeb-dotted events.

The trip I made to Delhi recently was burnished with sweet memories. For the first time in a long time, I arrived into a bright, stunningly sunny, but ferociously cold Delhi. Thanks to the fog, I was put on a morning flight for an evening function. I'd usually pack the space in between with meetings and other boring but sometimes necessary evils. Today was different. The vagaries of the fog - ironically, the very lack of it - meant a day, literally off.

Within moments of exiting the airport, I was both cursing myself and enjoying memory flashes. Have you had them? You return to a place once familiar. You're sitting inside the car hearing the buzz of traffic around you. And just for a fleeting instant, your brain takes a sharp left at the approaching intersection. A mad two-stroke twin howls dementedly away as your right wrist just keeps rolling the throttle further and further open. In the moment, you feel the rear tyre squirming under you bum. And then with equal abruptness, you return to being within the car, smiling contentedly to yourself knowing that the straight you were on leads to two corners. The second of which is off-camber and it tightens on the exit. That's where you first heard the screeching glory of chrome on tarmac as you ground out your precious, there's-no-spares-to-be-had-exhaust. That's where the runt on the RX100 finally grasped that the RD350 was not a motorcycle to be messed with.

Then, coming back to our hotel in the night, my friend and I were sitting quietly in the car as it whirred away, appliance like, tearing a path through the gathering tendrils of the nightly mist. A hint of a rolled down window let a thin shaft of wind ruffle my hair with the attendant sizzle of the cold. It brought back musty memories of a leaky Vega HP helmet. And once more, I remembered the tireless nights I spent running in my RD350 on that very road. How I laughed while I rode that brand new engine hard-hard-hard while practical-alter-ego-me screamed in frustration - another month's salary expended on a new set of pistons, another overbore and so forth. Maniac-me retorted, "Overbore? Means more displacement and then more power." Underneath, the twin throbbed with the vitality of recently born, tearing the night apart with its brutal, all-pervasive roar. It could have been the Qatar GP if you measured the events in terms of intent and commitment.

Nothing stirs in Delhi at night. Well, it didn't in those days. The roar of the rare beast shattered the unearthly silence if at all. I should know. I was on one. I was one.

Once more the brain hangs a left sharpish at the next roundabout. Lean over all the way to the right, and hold. Lift gently out of the seat to allow the bike to aborb that nasty bump caused by tarmac that's lumped up, flowing glacially in Delhi's searing summer. Feel the sudden arrival of the wind in places it usually doesn't get to. And then remember that cold balls means more spunk - never a bad thing. Smile today at the simplistic conclusions of a more youthful time. Then lower back into the seat, nail it. And pick up the gleaming black RD and flick it hard left at an arbitrary exit, knowing that this part of Delhi is jam-packed with roundabouts. Lefts and rights in any flavour you like, in any sequence you can dream up. I see myself disappear in a blur of fog-white and smoke-blue lit balefully by the yellow sodium-vapour lamps that dot Delhi. The roar fades out, the twinkle of the weak-bulbed tail lamp finally disappears...

Drat, someone's rolled up the window all the way.

When I got back on the flight, I was beside myself with the longing for another go in the saddles of my two twins. To shatter through the night like I was twenty once more, sans care, sans EMI and sans sense. And then I wanted to come back in heat of the summer as well. To feel the 47 degree wind tear the moisture right out of my system. To feel the gaze of cagers around me as they wondered why an 'unprotected' biker would be out there in this heat. To feel the RD engine panting for a little respite. To smile and deny mechanical mercy until I was quite done.

It almost makes you want to wish that memory was a well-made long-format movie. Something you could download in 3D-HD from youtube. So you could go back and live it any time your bloody well liked.

Freedom.

We've forgotten what you have to pay for and what's free. I was reminded of it recently and I thought I do a good deed and remind you in turn. You pay for a motorcycle. The enjoyment of riding it is free. You pay for a meal. The tingle of your taste buds is free. Are you getting my drift?

There was a time when I used to complain about how some websites I liked weren't updated often enough. I mean, they were such good reads that could the author not update it every twenty minutes or so? And then I stopped. As much as I like books, I realised that some of these sites, updated annually as they were, were still free. Whereas I was obliged to pay about a thousand bucks for each book I bought. And I bought a heck of a lot of books. I still do.

There was also a time when I used to tell people to be safer on their bikes by doing this, that and theo other. I stopped doing that as well. I realised that advice was as free as your right to use your life in any way you please.

There was, further, a time when I used to wonder how old I'd get before a manufacturer would launch a motorcycle that I could dream about, and then in rapid order, afford. And then own. And then settle down with. I stopped doing that as well. I guess wobbling around madly in love when I'm sixty will still be good enough. And the bitterness of the wait simply isn't worth the gall.

There was a time, when I used to blog heavily. Don't know why I stopped doing that. And then I realised that I used to be free. Heh heh.

Learning to Ride

"How many days will it take me to learn how to ride a motorcycle?"

Wow, there's a question that stumped me. I didn't know the answer, honest. I told the young man that if he meant only the operation of the controls - clutch, brake, throttle - that would take 20 minutes. But learning to ride a motorcycle is a complex thing, no? I told him it depended on him. If he just needed to be proficient enough to get from home to work, that would sort itself in six months. But to evolve beyond that could take years!

I got to thinking about that and it's true. Unlike driving, riding motorcycles is a lot more nuanced. You need to learn a lot more to be good at it. I'm not saying these nuances don't exist for cagers, but the fact of the matter is a nuance that escapes you on a bike could kill you whereas in a car, it might mean little more than awkward looking metal, a tough session with the parents and a few rounds of insurance.

The other thing is that unlike learning to drive, learning to ride invariably depends on someone you know who is willing to teach you. Teach you all the basic points and whatever of those nuances he's figured out. And all the bad habits this person has picked up. There simply isn't a place or person you can go to learn riding from scratch in a structured fashion that aims to build you up into a serious, committed motorcyclist.

I learnt from a cousin brother of sorts, well, neighbour actually and at some level, I owe him my life and livelihood. But I don't even remember his face or name. I only recall his blue KB100, that springy feeling of a stretching throttle cable, the rising note of an urgent, if civil, two-stroke, a warm night flying by in reverse and a young heart throbbing in fascination at the experience. And yeah, I don't remember him telling me where the brakes were. Then I remember flying down a road in the Delhi IIT Campus on a brother-in-law's white Kinetic Honda. The scooter was stunned at the turn of speed - he rode it very gently - and then at the speedbreaker... both brakes pulled in hard-hard-hard and the throttle still on. And my first big air. And the strong apprehension that he will discover something broken later. Shit.

I remember riding my classmate Sachin's Yamaha RX100 down the road and being given all sorts of advice involving the battery running down if the ignition was left on for too long. I know now, that that's hogwash, but I was meticulous in the extreme with that bike's ignition. And I remember wafting about slowly on that bike too.

Then I got my Kinetic Honda and I simply cannot remember a time when the poor thing was ridden gently at all. That's the bike I realised I wanted to ride seriously. That's when the kit fixation started and that's when riding it for the sake of riding it became an obsession.

Point is that I cannot remember receiving riding advice from a serious motorcyclist until much, much later.

My riding 'style' has changed since I began riding. Rustom Patel - the motocrosser - changed my paws on levers riding style to two fingers on each lever. I remember these contributions because they're the only ones I got.

Think it's time to return the favour.
How do I do this? Ideas to rearsetblog [at] gmail. [dot] please.

Not again!

I received this anonymous comment yesteday

i have read the exact same review somewhere else.. either you copied from them or they copied from you... and i doubt you.. you could have at least noted that it was taken off from an another site.. its really pathetic

For this post.

I found that the whole first ride was posted verbatim at

• http://gudupdates.blogspot.com/2008/11/all-new-yamaha-fz-16.html
• http://motorcyclistlarge.blogspot.com/2008/12/yamaha-fz16-first-ride.html

I have to agree with the comment, this is really pathetic. But I am in no doubt at all that I did actually write that post.

Where have I been?

As I said earlier, it's become harder and harder to find the time to blog. I must apologise to all the regular readers who have inspired me to continue to write here.

Since August 1, 2008, the last real post until these, I've changed jobs, moved to another place and it's even busier than before. However, I'm expecting to end up with an even more pronounced online presence, as you shall see shortly. As an extension of that process, I'm considering integrating the blog, archives and all, into that 'online presence.' I'd deeply appreciate it if you could write back and tell me what you think of that kind of a move. My idea is that once the blog becomes part of my official duties, my freedom to post frequently will become less of an issue. Which means I can write more, and whenever I like. And no one can object, since it is, after all, official work.

I will, of course, endeavour to not let the 'rules' that come with an official blog to alter or curtail the freedoms this blog has enjoyed, or for that matter, the sort of content that I've posted here.

What say you?

Buy the best, pay more...

Here's this awesome quote on the Arai website. Neatly says everything I try to explain when someone asks me why my helmet costs nearly Rs 20,000

What to pay?
"It is unwise to pay too much, but it is worse to pay too little. When you pay too much, you lose a little money...that is all. When you pay too little you sometimes lose everything, because the thing you bought was incapable of doing the things it was bought to do. The common law of business balance prohibits paying a little and getting a lot...it cannot be done. If you deal with the lowest bidder it is well to add something for the risk you run. And if you do that, you will have enough to pay for something better. There is hardly anything in the world that some man cannot make a little worse and sell for a little cheaper, and the people who consider price only, are this man's lawful prey"
John Ruskin(1819-1900), Economist

Why is this blog so slow to update?

So, many of you are wondering if I've either converted the blog into a collection of press releases, a collection of videos, or worse, just abandoned the whole damn thing. The truth is that the last one may actually be nearer to the truth. You see, the times they are a changing. My plate at office is being loaded with more and more and more stuff almost daily, The Wife wants all the attention when I am home – a fully justified claim, I might add, and after all of that, any time left over, is time left for me to read, sleep, listen to music, watch M*A*S*H episodes or The Long Kiss Goodnight... you get the picture. Seems like everyday there's four blog posts flying through my head. But my hands and eyes are busy with something else at the time. I really haven't any idea what to do about this. I love blogging, don't get me wrong, but this is what the situation is like.

Years ago, in a job far away, we learnt something about time management. I remember little but one thing stands out. They said that before you add something to your schedule, see if there's space for it. If there isn't, prioritise and eliminate something that's less important, and add the new one. Or just forget the new one, since it isn't important enough at all. I did that. My schedule is full. And I still want to blog. Screwed.

They never learn

Came over the crest of a flyover as usual. Streetlights never work here and good headlights and a thorough familiarity with the road surface here are a great asset. On that night, it was invaluable. God'd been going nuts with his new camera for a while now and the repeated flashes could only mean one thing. A developing rain storm. And as we started climbing the flyover, the pitter patter began to turn into the surprisingly violent roar that's heavy rain. Through the roar of heavy drops on vinyl – yellow roof over my head – I heard the distinctive skreee-scrawshhhhhh that means a biker is down. We came over the crest into a rash of red tail lights as traffic braked hard for what looked like a snarl. I've seen snarls here before, they last a kilometre. Even as I began to dread the forty minutes it would take to get through, I saw the anonymous tail lamp of a Hero Honda Splendor leaning over like a MotoGP god. And then it was down, rider flapping uselessly along behind the bike, as both slid inevitable forward, down the slope.

For the umpteenth time, the first rains brought down temperatures, tempers and a heck of a lot of bikers. The rash of tail lamps, you see was created by at least four bikers who were down. Two Pulsars, one Thunderbird and another Splendor, apart from the one I saw tipping over. My autorickshaw driver was very much into rubber necking, but I heckled him into gently negotiating the fallen bikes – all the bikers were yelling about, 'Who the f**k dropped oil?' and seemed just a little worse for the wear – tatty shirt elbows and holed knees but nothing serious.

Oil? How would you trace the drops of oil left behind by literally thousands of trucks, SUVs and cars since what, August last year?

Further down the road, I got the rick to slow down to a slippery 35 kph, buzzing nervously along the pavement on the extreme left of the road. And I spotted at least another six bikes with bent stuff on them, parked on the side. Riders on the phones, 'Er... Honey, I'll be late... No, I fell off the bike... oil... f**ckers!'

It happens every single year, so you think they'd figure it out and learn. The first rains, wash up the oil and dirt on the road, before they wash it off. That means that first wet hour is properly lethal. Like riding on ice. On walking on a freshly polished floor wearing silk moccasins. As slippery as a freshly caught fish... The hour where it's probably safer to just leave the bike parked safely and take a four-wheeled thing home. But, no, they never learn.

I'm at Alltop

Alltop.com has added my RSS feed to this page. I've always wondered if there wasn't a, um, more elegant way to look up the latest news from my favourite motorcycle blogs. Google Reader is efficient, but it needed something more... well, when I saw the motorcycles.alltop.com page, I knew it was exactly what I needed. And I'm happy to report that my blog has also been added to that list.

Congratulations!

Man! It isn't mine. This is a publicly posted private message to a private individual who happens to have been possessed by this lovely Kawasaki Zephyr. Thanks to all of those of you who thought this was mine and congratulated me, and promptly demanded a ride as well. Dream on, buddies... just like me...

I must be doing something right!

Hello, hello, hello, people. I've been busy at work and the blog, obviously, has suffered from my absence. Apologies. And some more, because I'm not sure how often I will be able to post in the coming days either.

But in the meantime, look what happened!

• We discovered a bounty of items about braking technique — hard braking, light braking and panic braking. (Motorcyclist@Large)

That's a link from NY Times! Dude, that is a link from the hallowed New York Times. God, I'm so excited. Stuff like that just doesn't happen... and so forth! Here's the post where the link appeared.

Why make a silly mistake?

Okay, this is a bit of a rant, so bear with me.

I am more than a little surprised by this. In the recent past, I've had the pleasure of meeting three people who read this blog on a regular basis. One of them asked me a question about helmets which I posted here not so long ago. You know, the one about dropping a lid and 'denting' it.

Recently, I met this chap again for a drink at a lounge bar close to both our houses. The second member of the reader troika joined us there. Since Gentleman 2 turned up in an auto and that's how he went back, so how many drinks he had does not, in the least, concern me. What does concern me is that Gentleman Number 1, who lives ten minutes away, took the precaution of carrying the selfsame dented lid to the bar, and here's where it becomes a the equivalent of sand in a swimsuit... he rode back home when we were done bantering about bikes.

The third gentleman and I also met at a watering hole, and yes, we watered. I, again, was off the motorcycle for obvious reasons and cabbed it home. Gentleman 3 person rode home, wearing a helmet. And I must – I'm OCD remember – point out that this lid is the exactly the sort of item that we like to laugh at – an imitation hard hat.

Now, I know from this person's photographs that he is in possession of a fine helmet and from what I've heard from him, and read about him, sound judgement as well. On the face of it, the former was obviously missing, and the latter chose not to make an appearance. The watering hole and the cab stand are, at this watering hole, separated by a yawning gap. So the gentleman thoughtfully offered to let me ride pillion to the cab stand. Ah but you see, I've not got my kit. That's condition one and it means I cannot get on a motorcycle, in either seat. Besides, not only am I well-watered (far from inebriated, I must freely admit though), you're three drinks down as well. Forget me riding pillion, you shouldn't be riding either. You, my friend, should have left the bike at your place and cabbed it as well. If nothing else, the walk to the cab stand would have been very pleasant. And it would have given us another twenty minutes to prolong the lovely bike banter.

It strikes me as strange that two motorcyclists, both seriously into two wheels and both deeply in love with our countersteered world would make such an obvious error in judgement. As far as I can tell, both ride safely and within their limits. Both are aware enough to either already (or aspire to) own good riding kit. Both are good men, nice to chat with, knowledgeable about motorcycling and have clear logical and rational thought processes. And yet.

I don't know if Gentleman 2 cabbed it home because he planned to drink, or it just turned out that way. But the point is, that this is a serious, even potentially fatal mistake. One that shouldn't be taken lightly. That alcohol impairs your judgement and slows your reaction time is known beyond any hint of a doubt. That alcohol in your bloodstream causes other problems is public knowledge too.

Statistically, you should already know that it close to your origin or destination that you are more likely to crash. You should also know that short, routine rides figure in far greater numbers in all manner of crash stats than the odd long tour (related links: 1 | 2| 3).

But more important is the fact that the chap driving blissfully while yakking away on his handphone doesn't care. When he hits you, the damage is the same. But if there's alcohol in your blood, it becomes your fault (see this. Look at point #7 in the Claims section). If you die, your family loses all hope of getting any aid from insurance. If you live, the car driver, who was probably at fault skips away scot free because you tippled.

A long time ago, I was a lot more militant about motorcycle safety. Oh yeah, I mean that in the past tense. I used to tell everyone to be careful, to wear helmets and so forth. I used to insist, insist and when I could, I would force people into line.

I don't do that no more. It isn't worth my time and effort. I like you, and if something were to happen to you, I'd be sorry – no matter who was at fault. But I will only try to ensure that you have all the information you need to make your own decisions. I will hope that you make the right decision.

But at the end of the day, it's your life. You can strive to preserve and enrich it. Or you can throw it away.

It's All Stir Fry

My brother Kautilya and I just started our own food blog. Of course, that does not mean I won't post the eating stuff here... so We Want Motorcycle Content Only Types should not starting cracking open the fizzy stuff yet. And here is the first post originally intended for A Grain Of Salt.

Food. There's a lot to be said for it. Especially when the quality – in terms of taste and, um, presentation – and the quantity – unlimited is best, are both available in spades. Then you can really shovel it down. Okay, I'm getting a bit carried away.

To return to the neighbourhood of the point, yesterday, a bunch of colleagues decided to head out for lunch. Nothing eye opening about that, of course. But we decided by a quirk of fate (20 minutes waiting at Lemon Grass Cafe) to chow down at the Noodle Bar. As restaurant moniker's go, by the way, that one sticks out as a truly creative one. It must have taken days, failing which, a committee of thousands of creative geniuses to come up with that one.

Anyway, we duly chewed our pencils up, ticking off the ingredients we wanted for the big wok job. I've already forgotten its given formal name, but in essence, you pick the veggies, meats, noodle variety, condiments and sauce(s), and they stir fry the lot (and a lot it is) and serve it in a serious looking bowl.

The thing is, most of us, took in the first forkful (or chopstick full in my case – and proud of it, I might add (you would be too, if you were clumsy, not especially motor-coordinated and still managed a full meal with smooth, slippery fake porcelain chopsticks)) and remembered wistfully, the lovely Gordon House Hotel and its glittering star, All Stir Fry. I've been there over, and over. And I love that place. And I'm about to tell you why.

The concept is simple. They have three glassed-off stir fry counters, manned ably by a trio of wiry chefs (neither of whom are in that pic, though). Outside the glass is a salad bar of sorts, with noodles (usually ramen and flat) at the corner, veggies in front and meats on the other side. You take a bowl (red ring say you're a <sneer> vegetarian and a black ringed bowl says all's right with your world) and fill it up. Or, if you're smart, you take two noodles (yes, just two noodles) and fill just a wee bit more than half the bowl with stuff, veggies first and take it to the chefs. There's a fair number of sauces on the board classified by how strong they are and you're free to experiment with them, including asking the stunned chef to add three or more sauces together. Plus condiments if you like. The result, somehow, is always extremely hot, extremely fresh and very tasty food.

Start a meal with their most excellent crackling spinach and a beer, follow it with a quick wok. Which is involved, involving and very satisfying process I just described. You can go back for as many bowls as you like. And while wasteful, should a particular bowl turn out not to your expectation, you can always skip and get a more appealing one. I've never once visited them without hurrying to the services halfway through to loosen that belt one notch or two, and I've never once managed to put together a combination that I didn't like. Even as I write this, sunbursts of flavour are going off in my head – I've taken many a long wok in there – the devil's sauce and its fiery arrogance, or the marginally milder burn of the mongolian sauce... I think I need to go back for another fix.

I do believe they now have a much bigger menu, but frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. Didn't someone already say that? Well, it applies.

Dessert? Forget it. There's never space. And they do have lovely fortune cookies that say things like, 'You're about to get lucky.' As in what? The trouser tops will suddely turn elastic and you could squeeze in a bowl or two more? Sigh, that would be nice, come to think of it.

I do believe a restaurant review is supposed to include stuff about staff friendliness, knowledge, ambience and so forth. Well, let me see. Staff is nice. They bring the menu to you. And fresh bowls when you finish the last one. And the beer also. They know where the wok bar is. Ambience. That's good too. There's place to sit. A green wall with lots of woks mounted on it. High windows so you don't look out and focus on putting the stuff away. I cannot remember the music, but there must be some. And yeah, the Quick Wok costs Rs 300.

All Stir Fry | Online Menu
The Gordon House Hotel, Battery Street, Colaba
Council Hall, Mumbai - 400039
Phone: 022-22871122

Images mooched from mars-world.com

Domain name help

Calling out to the IT savvy among you. I purchased motorcyclist.in via registry.sify.in. However, I am unable to redirect it to the blog... how to do?

UPDATE
First of all, thanks to everyone who wrote in to help, either via email or in the comments. Here's the problem. Sify correctly redirects to rearset.blogspot.com, so part one is working. If I now follow the blogger/publishing route, the whole thing gets locked in an infinite loop. Blogger simply redirects traffic to motorcyclist.in, while that domain is set up to redirect to rearset.blogspot... Gr...

What I want simply is this.

This post, for instance, is located at
http://rearset.blogspot.com/2008/03/domain-name-help.html

I need that to change to this
http://www.motorcyclist.in/2008/03/domain-name-help.html

So, now, more help, please!

Snippet: It's just numbers...

I came through the right hander and went over the bridge that formed the apex, just like the six Bullets ahead of me. In a perfectly timed dance, the row of Bullets leaned over again after the bridge, ready to take on the interrupted corner. Then, on the brakes into the next left, I found the space I needed to promote myself up the order. The red Thunderbird rumbled down the revs as I braked hard, hard, hard. The weird handlebars responded easily and in a fraction of an instant, we flicked left, right on to the bike's ear. I felt the footpeg rubber transmit a brief vibratory good bye as it was chewed up by the merciless tarmac. Up to number six, then.

Then going into the next sweeping right hander, I made a mistake. Aiming for a promotion to number four, I entered the turn a little faster than I would normally have. A yellow warning light went off in my head along with a strident alarm. For a long moment, I was conscious only of the blank wall of rock blurring by on the outside edging ever closer, the concrete lined gutter that marked the edge of grip and the fact that I was in it too hot. Already I the Tbird was edging closer to the wall. The rubber on the metal peg was almost all gone and any moment now, I was ready for the harsh grinding of metal on tarmac. Throttle closed, leaned fully over and waiting. Relief? Or a big bang and then earth-sky-earth-sky-earth-hospital?

Uncommon sense prevailed. I tore my eyes from the wall and looked up through the corner. The bike, almost magically, began to tighten the line. I think I missed touching the concrete gutter by a few inches. As Bullets are won't to do, I laid a desperate footpeg darkie. The road seemed to on turning right forever in my head, but under that chain of dancing Bullets, it lasted a mere instant.
With my heart throbbing wildly, I smiled inside my helmet knowing that taking number five had been special. It carried the thrill of having been to edge and returned in one piece. That skill, today, had luck on its side. That the newly demoted number six would take a few corners before he started thinking about passing me.

Then, as I flicked into the next left hander, I began to wonder how number three would feel like.

Love at first sight: Casio GW-9200 Riseman

I'm in love! A 5 cm diameter digital watch that weighs 61gm and stands 1.5 cm tall on your wrist. Apart from having features that will take up 5 min of stultifying conversation at a party, gently working the left bicep through out the day and being roundly hated by The Wife (who doesn't fancy digital watches, not least one's that dwarf a stack of twelve dinner plates), I love it. If I could only find $260 to spare... More information here