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The biggest apprehension in all our minds when we buy a bike, is the cross fingered attitude towards a crash. We all know deep down, 'no crash' is an impossible probability, sooner or later we all fall. Some more than others, some more often than others, some fall with grace trying to avoid an ignorant jaywalker on the road, some fall from grace trying to pull off an impossible overtake. We all fall brothers...but the fall from an Enfield is the one that hurts most...not just physically, but emotionally and sentimentally also. It’s not just a crash of your dear bike, it’s not just a loss of a right indicator or a mirror...it’s a crash of your self respect. Its one of those hellish moments when with a bleeding palm and every ounce of strength in your aching body and bruised knees, you pick up the fallen beast from the ground, while the jealous onlookers have their 15 seconds of sadistic orgasm. All those who couldn’t afford to ride one, because they were too scared to even sit on one.
A fallen Enfield looks at you and says, "Boy you are still not man enough to put your hands on me". You feel a pang, worse than your girlfriend walking off with another guy; and that’s where the lessons lie for bullet riders...to not give up, not throw in the towel, not go for another character less, sticker loaded, hairdryer sounding Japanese 100cc toy...that’s how we grow. That’s the philosophy of a bullet rider, that’s how we learn to handle the problems which our bullets give us...no matter what. We have a relationship with our Enfy, its heart is beating for us...it gets hurt when it falls...and in its own thump it tells you to give it more respect if you want it to be around for good. Its this never say die attitude of riding our special vehicles; the vehicles which are more than 'just a machine' to the one with a heart...which drives us on.
So when was the last time you fell from your pet beast? Don’t tell me you don’t remember it, because each of us does. Each one of us remembers that one time when you were more worried about your precious vehicle than yourself; here is the fall I had. The worst fall because it wasn’t even a fault of mine. Now you'll say 'nobody every accepts their mistake', well trust me...the only mistake one can make is to stop on the side of the road in Khar at five in the morning with the parking lights and indicators on...I just call it bad stars.
It was five in the morning, there was not traffic around; I was coming back from my friends place in Parel. My thunderbird was reliably chugging in the by lanes of Khar and as soon as I came out on to the Linking road...I felt a cold blast of wind hit me...the kind which you face of wider roads. I crossed across the lane and parked my Enfy on the side of the road with all the lights on. I fished out the wind-sheeter from my Janesport and put it on with almost a second riding nature. My hand went back onto the decomp and my right leg on the kick paddle, Just when something happened. Something which wasn’t meant to be...I heard a sound like a cracker burst. My waist bent back with a jerk as I started staring into the sky as I still remember that moment in slow motion. A nauseous feeling came into my nostrils as my head hit the back rest of my thunderbird. I was in air when I saw my TB going off from under my legs when I was thrown up six feet in air and landed on the road. I rolled for a few meters and figured that I am still alive.
Cursing the worst of the words which my mother tongue supports I got up. With a murder on my mind I got up on my two feet. That Angel of a Cab driver didn’t stop after banging the daylights out of me and scooted past in his gas driven metal shit. Through my tinted visors I tried to make out his number...but couldn’t limp up to my bike. It had fallen onto the top of an open gutter. I tried to pick it up, but the moment it became vertical the rear shattered half went straight in.
So here was I stuck at five in the morning, with a thigh which I wasn’t sure off and other aching body parts; hanging on to the love of my life...my three month old thunderbird. With every ounce of strength in my aching body I dragged her out and perched it onto the stand. It was all wet and twisted, wasn’t even sure if the chassis was intact. The rear looked like 'Draupadi's suhagrat', with my madly hurting right thigh I tried to start it. The kick peddle had slush all over it, and I wasn’t ready to give up. I had to go all the way to Parel. I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave her there.
With Gods mercy the engine roared even after spilling so much of oil from all the parts. I bent across and tuned it 2k rpm, I had no strength left to kick start it again. I brushed off the slush from my bruised and bloodied hands and jeans; perched on the bike and with whatever was left of the gear knob...I managed to reach Francis's garage at dadar, just using the first gear, and Left my TB there with a badly handwritten note.
The next day, when the detailed report came, my thigh was fine in the Hinduja X-ray, but my Bike wasn’t. Even Santosh the mechanic was surprised how she even managed to come till the Garage. The repair bill came to a staggering 10,000 bucks.
My bikes back from the garage now, but now I take care of other’s mistakes on the road...one simple reasoning...on an Enfield you cannot afford an accident. It hurts. You just can’t. Ride safe, because as spidey says ‘with great power comes great responsibility’... to others as well as yourself. **by the way the paper work for claiming the insurance is another story. Will tell you what happened at the Khar police station! But that’s for the next blog.