Considering all the things I’ve written on this page for over 11 years, not once did I think of those wellsprings that bring much happiness to the world — motorcycle showrooms. And I’ve been to more than my fair share of them, I assure you, even if just to pick up test bikes; going from a Hero outlet to a Ducati one, I may as well have been travelling between different planets. Admittedly, those occasions were downright impersonal compared to the regular goings-on at these places; eager potential buyers fussing over a new bike or those awash with the emotions of taking delivery of a new one. And regardless of whether I agreed with the motorcycle or not, it was always a happy sight.
The external structure of showrooms today has become a homogenised affair. All of them uniformly feature glass facades and rectangular sign boards above them; after all, I suppose there’s only one feasible way to simultaneously maximise physical transparency and ensure that the air-conditioning is running on full blast all the time. I used to wonder why the climate around showrooms was a fair few degrees hotter than the tropical average. Speaking of hot air, inside most showrooms I’ve also found people who seem to believe in a hitherto undiscovered adjacency-osmosis, as if just being around motorcycles somehow turns them into Luigi Dall’Igna. But never mind them.
A showroom is the second-best place to gaze at a motorcycle, the first being your own garage, of course. There’s just something about a well-displayed motorcycle that gets me every time. Not a speck of dirt anywhere, surfaces polished to within an inch of their lives, and light falling on the bike from all the right flattering angles. Not for nothing have I overstayed my welcome in a showroom or ten. So, it’s a bit ironic that I’ve only ever bought one new motorcycle in all these years. And I bet it was the most matter-of-fact buying experience ever.
The only reaction I’m capable of to an enthusiastic greeting from strangers is a suspicious frown, so I quickly pointed the sales chaps to the bike, and before long I was signing documents and making the payment. I was asked if there were any auspicious dates I preferred, to which my reply was ‘chocolate-covered ones’ which thoroughly confounded them. A few days later, I picked up the bike and that was that. But not before they bullied me into posing with one of those giant cutouts of a key. I almost sent that thing through the window.
A showroom is a place where hopes and dreams grapple with deals and discounts. And you’re certainly better off entering the place like you own it or it can easily become the other way around. Anyway, long before any of this happened, there were the bus rides for the sole purpose of gawking at motorcycles through a big window. In my early teens, perhaps even earlier, I used to sneak away, usually with a friend in tow, and make my way to Alibhai Premji, a motorcycle showroom at Grant Road in Mumbai that must now be a hundred years old.
Mind you, this was still in the ’90s, so there wasn’t much to look at except the usual lineup of Bullets, RXes, Hero Hondas and so on. But the sight of a spanking new motorcycle was all I wanted, and even a new colour was reason to celebrate. All sorts of motorcycles were crammed together, handlebar to handlebar, with the occasional one wheeled out for PDIs which were never more than a few glances at the machine. At the time, I was convinced that the first bike I’d buy would roll down that very showroom’s narrow and steep concrete ramp. I didn’t even come close to it. And even though we’ve all certainly come a long way since then, I bet the feelings remain unchanged. The joy of seeing a motorcycle hasn’t changed one bit. Then again, why would they?
