The motorcycle diary - redux

For most people, there comes a time when they realise that the only adventure they're going to have is deciding whether they want to dine al fresco at an Italian cafe or more formally at a five-star. Whether to do yoga in the morning and suffer through a score of excruciating surya-namaskaars, or hit the gym apres the marketing meeting to burn off the frustration of unachievable targets with a cardio workout. Kochi for a holiday or Cannes? Brogues or moccasins?

There are a few others who defy their age, such as my no-longer-kid brother who’s got a tapestry of tattoos across his body – all manner of snakes and birds and other twisting creatures too horrific to look at – and who, even as you read this, is on his way trekking to the Everest base camp. Because he intends to be gone for a while, he’s parked his Hayabusa in our garage. My son takes it to his office, but only occasionally because it isn’t the chick magnet he had hoped it would be. Girls enjoy looking at the bike with the kind of horrified fascination a boil or a pimple might evoke, but they’d rather not ride it, thank you.
 

That had been pretty much my approach, too — that is, till the other evening when my son said he’d like to take his old man out to dinner to a Khan Market bistro. His mother was out of town, his sister was partying elsewhere, I’d been sipping my whisky at home, reading a book and not inclined to go anywhere, but clearly my son was restless – maybe his friends had ditched him – so in a moment of foolish affection, I agreed. That I’d let myself in for more than I’d bargained for became evident when my son suggested I might prefer to get out of my shorts and flip-flops into jeans and shoes. On the way out, he handed me a helmet. And though I argued, he used his lawyerly skill to persuade me that I hadn’t lived till I’d ridden a sportsbike.

Riding pillion on a bike might not seem strike this paper’s younger readers as a big deal, but it isn’t a trip for the faint-hearted if you’re middle-aged. The Hayabusa has a mean growl when it accelerates, setting your heart thumping. There isn’t anything to hold on to, and even though I risked losing limb, life and dignity, I refused to cling to my son, holding on to a rod behind my seat instead, which must have made me look a frightening – frightened? – sight. Putting on the jet-age but too-snug helmet had proved an exercise, and it meant the end of imagination in which one’s wisps of hair blowing in the wind might have morphed into dreadlocks, but were now safely confined to timidity.

But that was the only thing timid about the ride as the Hayabusa surged through the city streets, scaring away other road-users while I was almost blown away by the onrush of wind. It was probably the scariest, most exciting experience of my adult life. Carrying the helmet nestled in the crook of my arm through the market, I felt like an ageing rocker, though my son laughed and said I probably needed a swig of beer to get the colour back into my face. Years ago, I’d had the “motorcycle” arrogantly removed from my driving licence. Maybe it’s time to have it restored — driving the superbike might be rather more fun than merely riding pillion.