THE SMALL DICK SYNDROME : a 350 cc disease?

This one has been a really long time in coming. Legend has it that one of my uncles had a ducati 916 poster in his room when I was about 2 or 3 years old.ducati was probably the first word I could spell, speak, pronounce without mistakes. Till date, if I see one tearing down the road, I feel the hackles on my neck stand up in salutation and absolute wonder. I’m not much of a tech freak and a regular average Joe as far as mechanics are concerned. I currently own a bajaj pulsar DTS- I 180, 2006.

This one is an ode to all the dipshits who, roughly over the past six years have been trying their level best to explain to me what real biking is about. Its just about time I told them a little something from my side too. I have had a Royal Enfield Bullet STD, 1973 for some time too. I was in love with it, still am to an extent. But my mistake was that I’d bought it as a student from the money that was doled out by a measly summer job. Inexperience prevailed, I lost a lot of money, sanity prevailed later and I took the most practical and heartbreaking decision of selling her off. Providing for her maintenance and mine proved to be quite impossible in my meager allowance of three grand a month. Nuff said.

Sorry about the needless bit of detail. I’ve heard that the bullets and the T – birds have become quite a rage among the rich and/or the adventurous. You’re supposed to be a dunderhead if the only thing not on your mind is tripping off to some far off location on the machine. And that too, not alone but in hordes much like the armies of Anubis hunting down a single madji. And they shall take their cameras along too. I modestly call it the Memento / Ghajini effect. They’re so busy with the shutter speed and ISO and lighting and angle to catch that opportune moment that they miss the moment altogether. They say that the pulsar is a plastic bike. This plastic bike can do two rounds of the city before the decompress starts to work on the bullet to just pump it up. They prep their bikes for days to do a 500 km trip. The pulsar does it just fine in a tankful and ten hours of a straight ride. First hand experience. They talk about endurance, durability. I have four examples to put everything to rest. The Bajaj Chetak, the Kinetic Honda ZX, the Pulsar, the Karizma have all been to Leh and back. I’ve seen the impossible sight of an M80 taking the weight of two rotund women (100 kg each at least) and mind you, the sputtering whelp managed just fine. There was a friend who could manage a sustained wheelie, change gears and change or maintain altitude on a Caliber 115.yes, the Hoodibaba. Another enthusiast who took off on an 11 year old battered splendor and had all the flash that these new age kids can dare to dream of. The Royal Enfield is a brilliant machine. Its just sad that these freaks of nature are the last bastion of hope that it has. I’ve heard that the Bullet doesn’t leak oil, it marks its territory. Bullshit. With some whipped cream and a cherry on top. My pulsar then, farts daisies and craps blueberry muffins. But then, an ego based on a 350 cc piece of metal couldn’t be asked to come up with something better now, could it? They ask me to get a Bullet because my Pulsar is really inconspicuous in the parking lot. I take it all with a very Sean-Connery-shaking-his-head-saying-kids.

I had always thought that biking was about not proving the thump to the world but having the thump inside. Till date, when I rip the machine open late night on prithviraj road, she responds with a growl as throaty as ever. Maybe the Bullet is better. I really don’t care. That is good enough for me. I don’t ride like my tail is on fire. I find it to be quite stupid and puerile. I cannot ride in a herd. I hate classification. I hate plans, maps, cameras, and compasses that work. The horizon is the destination when you’re out for a ride. A ride is not a photo op. it’s not a race either. It’s a journey inward and outward. It is about the spiritual confluence of the rider and the ride, the moment of revelation where they both realize and revel in their unison. Solitude is a boon for that precise moment when you’re lost and the only thing that fills your head is the beast growling between your legs waiting to be unleashed and swallow the road for a well deserved meal. As long as its even a 50 cc Scooty coupled with the insanity to go off into the sunset, its all good.

I’m not Valentino Rossi.

I’m not Eddie Zero either.

I’m me.

And I love my bike.
Keep yer balls safe next time you think of trashin it.
I’m not the best rider.
But I’m better than a Lebanese chef with a cleaver.

Lets ride.