| Royal Enfield, who painstakingly put together the event 'Road to Peace,' made sure that I got a nice Thunderbird to ride and a visa just in time. I tried my best to act like someone who was born on a motorcycle, but soon realised it was going to be a tough act. |
| There were 21 other riders with me, real human extensions to Enfield motorcycles, and that meant only one thing "� I was about to have a phenomenal time. I made mental notes to take it cool and easy and try my best to reach Lahore, to catch some absorbing cricket action. And I really prayed hard for an Indian victory. |
| Cool and easy? Not when you have Sachin 'Clint Eastwood' Chavan as the leader of the pack. Let me explain. This guy was a nice motoring journalist not so long ago, who did a lot of travelling on Enfields, and ended up working for the company that makes those time-warped motorcycles. |
| Mind you, RE, led by Siddharth Lal, a young enthusiast, is making some interesting motorcycles with new-age technology these days, and no surprise that Sachin got involved with the firm. But the point is, he watched a few western movies before he crossed over. Or so I think. |
| What else can explain the serious drawl, long pauses and hand-rolled cigarettes? He told me that he was riding a 500cc Bullet with an AVL engine (AVL is the Austrian firm helping Enfield with modernising their engines) so he can go up and down and keep pace with the 'pack.' Up and down? Pack? Don't worry, you will get to hear about him again. |
| Sachin briefed the riders the night before the ride and issued orders to be ready at seven in the morning for a 10.30 flag-off from the National stadium. I was apprehensive that he also probably packed a Smith and Wesson, and I decided not to challenge his wisdom. |
| In the morning, I struggled with a cargo net and tied my duffel bag to the rear seat of my T-Bird. Once finished, I watched the rest of the gang prepare for the ride. |
| Some motorcycles were stock, some slightly modified and some very full of character. Riders differed from college students to bank officers and as I would later discover, painters, kiosk makers and coffee maker-makers "� all joined by the single strand of noisy, single cylinder thumpers. |
| There was a pool of oil under one old yet very purple motorcycle, and I tried to look very serious and pointed out the fact to its 22-something owner. He looked up and said, 'well it's an Enfield and is supposed to leak a bit of oil.' |
| I felt like clouting myself over the head, but that would have only made me look sillier. Suddenly, everyone was ready, and one by one, the singles came alive. |
| The nice, calm thump, thump, thump idle of Enfields filled the air. I struggled with my gloves, messed around with the helmet strap and tried starting my bike. |
| You see, I drive cars these days and most of the motorcycling I do revolves around bikes that are easy to start and ride. Thankfully, I have been using an Enfield T-Bird long-term test bike and that meant I was familiar with the machine "� as far as the ride involved just picking up milk from the shop three blocks down. |
| The first lesson I learnt on that day was that Enfields develop character over the years and under different owners. Essentially, my bike for this ride, I found, would never start at first kick "� it would sound very promising at first, try to break my ankle the next, gasp for air in the third and then fire up as if nothing was wrong with it. And that was the norm for the entire ride. |
| 'Clint' was already straddling his 500 and we were off to an explosive start. I tried to keep pace but almost everyone passed me as we rode to the fuel station. At the pump, Bullet experts checked tyre pressure "� some said 32 psi for the rear, some categorically stated that 34 was more like it. |
| And one guy warned me not to keep the pressure low since air inside the tyres would expand during the day. I was too confused and decided not to fill any air. Then we rode as a massive parade, in twos, to the National stadium where we were flagged off by Shiela Dixit, CM of Delhi. |
| The Road to Peace had rolled off. We had nice black jackets that made you sweat and broil the moment you got off the bike "� so, I was happy to be riding. The Delhi club members led the way and we must have made a nice and loud spectacle for morning commuters as we headed out towards National Highway One. |
| Once on the highway, speed picked up as if the Bullet riders starved for open roads to let their machines go. I anticipated that, but there was a new terror amongst us "� two cars loaded with TV crews bent on filming every bit of action, all the way to Amritsar. |
| Picture this. I would be riding up a blind crest, only to find a cameraman crouching in the middle of the road, and in a split-second I would have to make a decision whether to avoid him or give him a splendid shot of a heavy motorcycle riding straight into the camera. |
| Fortunately, by sheer luck, I managed the former at all times. Then, the cameraman would hang out of his car to capture more action. |
| On more than one occasion, I was sure he would fall off and all 22 riders would have a good time running over him. Seriously, by then, we really wanted the telly people to turn back and head for Delhi. |
| At the first stop "� some 100 km outside Delhi, a few of us decided to keep a good distance from the camera crew and enjoy the ride. The sun was well and truly bent on baking us, but the ride was getting interesting. |
| A quick tea stop at a dealer outlet at Panipat and a lengthy lunch at the Ambala dealership followed. Then on, the ride was cooler and even better. |
| The four lane highway was lined by tall eucalyptus trees as we road into a stunning sunset. It must have been a beautiful sight to watch 22 Enfields thunder down pitch-black tarmac. |
| At the quick regroup, 'Clint' announced that we had to cover another 100 km to Jalandhar where we would stop for the night. Mind you, I had not ridden at night for ages, and it was a startling experience all over again. |
| By now, various parts of my body were aching, but to be honest with you, I was enjoying it "� you know that strange, feel-good factor when your toes ache from shifting gears and hands hurt from holding the clutch and front brakes... A cool crosswind accompanied us all the way to Jalandhar with only the occasional flashbulb antics of the camera crew marring the ride. |
| After a hot shower and dinner, we retired for the night. The next day was to be a short ride to Amritsar and we managed that in quick time. The third one-dayer at Peshawar was on and Pakistan had incidentally levelled the series with a win at Rawalpindi before we started the ride. |
| We watched some action on television before riding off to the Wagah border to see the rather comical and pointless BSF vs Pakistan Army exercise at the border. |
| Seriously, I thought it was worse than any fixed cricket match. Go there only if you want to feel sorry and dance to patriotic songs played through bad speakers, well into the sunset. |
| Oh yes, there, we also got the first glimpse of Pakistan and of Pakistanis. We rode on to the Golden Temple through the chaotic Amritsar traffic, reaching our destination with well-cooked clutches. |
| At the temple I did pray for an Indian win at Lahore, since we had got news that we had lost the match at Peshawar. That meant the match we were about to watch on the 21st was crucial for the series "� a must-win situation for the men in blue. By night we parked our motorcycles in a safe garage and took rickshaws back to the hotel we were staying in. |
| 'Clint' liked waking up early I think, maybe he never slept, and that meant we were up at 5 AM to board the train that left Amritsar for Attari at six. |
| Attari, infamously featured in various Indo-Pak conflicts, was to be our home for the next nine-odd hours as we tried to clear immigration (20 minutes per person), customs (another 20 minutes per person) and money exchange (they ran out of money by the time we reached the SBI counter). |
| Mind you, there were roughly 600 people trying to cross over to Pakistan and I have to say that none of the Indian departments were ready for it. |
| So they fumbled through the paperwork and munched on time. We tried our best to enjoy the situation by organising trolley drag races and amusing ourselves with our ability to finish off whole packets of potato chips. |
| At 2.30 in the afternoon, after a protest march by cricket fans, the train (old, yet clean Pakistan Railways one with Hitachi engines and painted deep green) rolled towards Pakistan. The ride was only for fifteen minutes, and we were escorted by BSF jawans on horseback. |
| Looking at the terrain, it might be a good idea for them to trade their steeds for something more powerful, like Suzuki SR400 off-roaders, I thought. |
| The train briefly stopped at the border post and then, before we knew it, we were in Pakistan. It felt extremely good to arrive in a foreign country by train, but the elation did not last long. Let me explain. |
| The mentality that goads us Indians to jump out of our aircraft seats the moment a plane touches down, acted up here too. |
| Even though they knew that everyone in the train had to finish the customs and immigration formalities before they could board yet another train to Lahore, the passengers fought amongst themselves, much to the amusement of the ultra-patient Pakistani army men. |
| I wouldn't have been surprised if one them had lost his cool and annihilated a few Indian cricket fans who were in a tearing hurry to walk over children to reach a silly counter. |
| The Pakistani authorities, unlike their Indian counterparts, had done their homework, and that meant new Dell computers and a large number of staff to clear passengers through. The four smartly uniformed women at Immigration looked slightly out of place, like a cunning product placement in a movie. |
| The onward journey to Lahore was through beautiful wheatfields that danced to an enjoyable breeze, but we were warned by friendly cops to keep the window shutters down and not to stand next to the door for fear of kids who like throwing stones. |
| Remember, it had been a 5 AM start for us that day and we reached Lahore, a mere 45 km from Amritsar by road, at 7 in the evening. Lahore station, an architectural beauty, looked very clean "� no paan stains, no dirty railway tracks "� but outside, the traffic looked absolutely chaotic. |
| The mess constituted of lot of Qingqi (did I spell that right?) or half motorcycle-half three-wheeler contraptions that moved really fast, Toyota High Ace vans and lookalikes, hordes of 70-100cc Japanese mobiles, genuine Vespa two- and three- wheelers and the occasional bus. |
| It really took me a while to realise that they too follow a right hand drive system, though. We had lost an entire day crossing the border but that didn't stop us from checking out the famous Anarkali market and the old-food street. Before that we changed money at a local exchange where we were really mobbed by an enthusiastic crowd. |
| One gentleman was particularly pleased to know that I was from Mumbai and asked me where Bipasha Basu stayed. As for the match, some of them who had put money on India were very sure that they would eventually win the series. |
| Then our three-wheeler was stopped for entering a beautiful section of the city where it was not supposed to go, but once the cops realised that it was an Indian contingent travelling in it, they refused to book the driver. |
| The monuments and government buildings were impeccably well kept and lit for the night. The streets were wide and well marked "� in short, it all looked like a developed country with a not-so-developed traffic system or vehicles. |
| The food-street was bustling with activity even at midnight and we decided to treat ourselves to some famous kabab fare "� it was so yummy that we ate as if we were eating for the first time this year, or at least that is the impression we gave. |
| Three gentlemen sitting in the next table offered us a nice chicken dish and asked us a thousand questions about India. It was a conversation that had everyone from Shah Rukh to Sonia Gandhi figuring in it. |
| And guess what, they paid for that mammoth meal we had had! They refused to accept money and said it was not often that they get guests from India. We were stumped and the match had not begun yet! |
| Match day! Some of us reached the stadium early to collect tickets that we had booked on-line and the rest reached at around 12.20 and stood in a serpentine queue to enter the stadium. |
| Pakistanis looked at the small Indian contingent as if we had landed from another planet. Some of them reminded us that Sachin had gone for a duck in the previous match. Inside the stadium, the atmosphere was that of a carnival, minus the Brazilian dancers. |
| One Indian cricket fanatic who came to Lahore all alone and equipped with a whistle took charge of leading the Indian supporters in the Wasim Akram stand. Trust me, his whistle was equivalent to a thousand Pakistani vocal chords. Soon jeetega bhai jeetega chants reverberated through the stadium. |
| Every move, every flicker of the players was applauded. Seriously, those who were watching the match on TV missed out on the atmosphere big time. And that included all the action between the overs and during drinks breaks! The toss was won by Inzamam and it was cheered loudly. |
| The first ball bowled by Balaji was cheered too, every wide and dot ball was cheered. For every ball that found the fence, Pakistani fans danced around Indian supporters and every time the white ball disturbed timber, we made amends. Inzamam's century was celebrated well, as we stood in a long line and bowed to him. The Pak fans loved it. |
| Pakistan's total of 293 looked moderate during the dinner break, but not so when we started to lose wickets in hurry. I cheered Sachin and Sehwag so eagerly that I had some Pakistanis almost spitting on me when these players got out. It was getting to be a bit too much for my arteries as India collapsed to 94 for 4. |
| I ambled slowly back to the top of the pavilion, and to my amazement, our batsmen started scoring briskly "� the run rate never dropped below six and Dravid and Yuvraj kept at it for quite some time. |
| Then, when Kaif joined and continued the controlled assault on the unruly Pakistani bowling, my heart rate came down somewhat. |
| I discovered the superstitious side of me, which refused to let me go back to my seat "� so there I was, standing on the top rung of the pavilion, watching the match from between the heads of other Indian supporters who were now going berserk. With just ten runs to go, I gingerly came back to my seat "� one more wicket and our tails would have been exposed, you see... |
| Then, we won. Most Pak supporters, especially the loud ones, had vanished already and some very amused ones stayed on to watch the celebrations. And celebrate we did, and that too in style. Trust me, I have never danced bhangra so well and never sang our national anthem so loud in my life. |
| It was like winning a war... maybe better than that, since no one got killed here. As 'Jaya he, jaya he, jaya, jaya, jaya, jaya he' echoed off the sight screens and electronic scoreboards, each hair on my body stood up. |
| I was happy to have done the arduous motorcycle trip. The tedious border crossing was now a distant memory, my tummy groaned for another kabab celebration and more than anything else, I was glad the return journey would be even more fun. |
| I couldn't really have imagined riding back if we had lost the match! Thank you Royal Enfield ('Clint,' Vipin and Saurabh especially) and the various other club members for making this trip a truly memorable one. And thanks to those anonymous friends in Lahore "� I'll buy you guys dinner someday. Inshallah. |
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