up
Lights flashing, horns honking, radios blaring — the truck drivers, oblivious to it all, sat cross-legged on charpoys, engrossed in their steaming mounds of dhal, rice and chapatti, washed down with the obligatory spicy chai.
Between the parking area and the restaurant stood the open-to-the-world shower block. By now, I’d lost all my inhibitions. Much to the amusement of onlookers, I stripped off and ladled ice-cold water over my head. It felt good to remove grit from my eyes and ears and wash away the day’s filth. But I did wish I had a larger towel. The one I carried barely covered my bony white arse.
Next morning, I woke to the usual cacophony and smell of spices and diesel. With an early start, I was to cover 160km, but not before I had become lost and frustrated. I wasted an extra 20 kilometres searching for NH112, but my mood lifted briefly when a truck passenger handed down to me a couple of mandarins. No point in being pissed off because I couldn’t read instructions.
Valve spring failures happened regularly, and I became adept at sensing the change in sound when something was about to die. Rounding a bend, I saw a railway barrier lowered and a train disappearing from sight. As I slowed gingerly, clutch disengaged, I heard the familiar miss of the engine as a cylinder cut out. Bugger!
When the barrier was raised, I pushed the bike across the tracks and parked against the guardrail. Within minutes, a swarm of people descended, everyone keen to be part of the action. As one tested the horn, another inspected the tools, and, as usual, there was the barrage of questions.
Surprisingly, no one ever said to me, ‘Wow, you’re riding around the world. Now there’s an idea! Can I join you?’ Where was their sense of adventure!
Despite the circus, I managed to concentrate and put the valve spring back together. My audience gave the bike a push and off I went. But, because of a rough road, I was travelling at the speed of paint drying, and only managed a miserable 53 kilometres for the entire day. I wondered how long the bike could endure the bone-shattering conditions, and questioned if I was as mentally prepared as I’d led myself to believe. Each kilometre was more exhausting than the one before, and although I usually fell into a deep sleep come nighttime, there were times when I would wake with the day’s events churning through my head. I’d question my decisions and wrack my brain for solutions to each new problem. The week had been a series of minor mishaps. Seems I was saving the big ones for later.
I thought about how I had once considered moving the bike across India by train. I’d read in the 46-page Indian Railway Claims Manual that motorcycles had to be ‘tightly wrapped in straw, sewn in sacking and manually lifted’ onto trains. I could see all sorts of problems arising from that practice, especially if the back wheel accidently turned and the engine started.
And there were a few gems in the manual, for example, the statement that ‘bidis’ (cheap Indian cigarettes) had to be contained in bitumised waterproof paper. Surely that didn’t include the old biddies that live next door!
And another: ‘Raw liver must be placed in a plastic bag and packed in ice in a wooden case with a conical wooden lid. The lid will prevent the case from being turned upside down, and avoid pilferage.’
It troubled me that, if raw liver was in danger of being knocked off, an old motorcycle could also be pretty tempting. Given that the extent of the railways responsibility for a motorcycle is only one percent of its declared value — while for an elephant it is Rp 60000 — I opted to ride the FN across India while Lynne took the train.
Thankfully, Hotel Devi Bhawan, the accommodation at Jodphur, was easy to find. There, with Lynne, for the next three nights, I was able to unwind and recover from the gruelling challenge of keeping the bike and myself going.
Rakesh, the manager, kindly pointed me in the right direction of an aged upholsterer, who had a face like a crumpled paper bag and a disarming toothless grin. He was happy to make a new seat for the bike, the original having grown increasingly uncomfortable. His vinyl creation, with ample padding, was not a work of art, but it was fit for the job.
The next task was to find an engineering shop where the crown wheel and brake drum could be unscrewed to replace broken spokes. I would love to have found a quiet corner to work unhindered, but the reality was that I was a curiosity and an audience was inevitable.
Before leaving Jodhpur I washed the panniers, cleaned my gear, stocked up on oil, and checked and tightened every nut and bolt. Devi Bhawan staff gave me a hearty send-off as I began what turned out to be a monotonous ride through a dry desert landscape.
I’d been told the road was sealed all the way, and I managed to cover 200 kilometres in good time. Then, just before Bikaner, the highway turned into a minefield of potholes. Just keeping the bike upright was a battle as I bashed and crashed my way over the lunar landscape. Then the pannier straps broke and the bike fell over. I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve fallen off the FN. This time, it was simply fatigue that saw me laying in the dirt and cursing the dreadful conditions. The mirror broke, the pedal was destroyed, and the pedal crank was bent.
I desperately needed a 15-inch crescent spanner to straighten the crank, but I didn’t have one with me and most garages had only a few basic tools. There’s usually no shortage of bicycle repair shops in India, but I had trouble finding one in Bikaner. When I did, I arrived pushing the bike with a throng trailing behind me. I must have looked like the Pied Piper.
The hyperactive manner of the wiry little owner was unnerving to say the least. But he was the only one in town with a Stillson wrench big enough to straighten the pedal crank. He replaced the right-hand pedal, but refused to replace the other.
‘If I sell you the last one, then I won’t have anything for my next customer,’ he rationalised.
This cracked me up. I understood his sentiments, but it didn’t help that I now had mismatched pedals. The luggage straps would have to wait until I reached a bigger city. For now, all I could do was reposition the load. A new Indian mirror replaced my broken one and would suffice until I could have new glass fitted.
The only highlight of my day was a haircut and shave at a tiny stall, with one plastic chair, in the middle of nowhere. Not surprisingly, a crowd materialised.
That evening, the manager of Tata Trucks provided a room for me next to his workshop. Before bed, I woofed down a meal of stuffed tomatoes, dhal, rotis and a bottle of cola. All-up cost: 125 rupees (about 25 cents Australian).
When Lynne and I talked each night via Skype, I’d relay entries from my diary. Fortunately Lynne’s laptop had reasonable internet connection most of the time. Phone cards are cheap and easily procurable throughout India. Even the poorest people I met had mobile phones, some several, which enabled them to take advantage of cheaper rates at different times.
‘How’s your day been?’ Lynne asked. I told her how pissed off I was at dropping the bike. And that the Dry Rider gear bags weren’t holding up as well as I expected. She shared my sentiments and asked if I was okay.
‘I’m fine. I just put a hole in my jacket. In fairness, the bags are under a lot of stress and are probably are carrying more than the recommended five kilos. The problem is that I need to carry extra fuel, and that’s so damned heavy. What gets me most is that I was told the road was good, but it turned out to
