It’s early in the morning, the kind where the cold nips at your neck and you wonder if bed would have been a saner choice. The mist wraps Coonoor in a familiar embrace, threading through the tea estates with a quiet I’ve known since boyhood; I grew up in the Nilgiris, having gone to boarding school here. I’m astride the Royal Enfield Classic 650, a bike that’s been loitering in my head since Kartik rode it in the UK last year, the lucky so-and-so. Back then, it was all cows-and-meadows and ye olde pubs — an English idyll that perfectly suited its retro swagger. But here, in the Nilgiris, it feels like the bike’s come home to a place it didn’t quite know it belonged. Coonoor, with its colonial bungalows and roads that meander like a drunk uncle, feels like it’s been saving a seat for this bike since the Brits left their teapots behind.

Now, I love big, retro bikes and I cannot lie, the kind that make you feel like you’re starring in your own 1950’s movie, with a soundtrack of crackling vinyl. The Classic 650 is that bike. It’s not about numbers and sundry specifications — those have been dissected to death after the UK ride, and I’m not here to bore you with horsepower or torque curves (but, just in case, the bike makes 46.4 bhp and 5.33 kgm; that’s all you really need to know). No, this thing is about the cliched ‘feel’ of it, the way it settles into your life like a well-worn bomber jacket. Its looks alone are enough to stop you at twenty paces: that teardrop tank, with a melancholy curve to it, the stunning chrome that catches the sun just so, the round headlamp that could’ve rolled straight out of a 1950s Redditch workshop (in fact it did, because the famous casquette first appeared in 1954), the pea-shooter pipes. The finish on this bike is really something else – it’s by far the best I’ve seen on a Royal Enfield – and I’m glad the firm has kept things simple with the instruments (and everything else). Sure, the exhausts could have been a touch straighter, but heck, there’s two of them and that’s pretty much all I want on a motorcycle.

I set off from the edge of Coonoor, the engine burbling its reassuring twin-cylinder tune. It’s not the thump of the old 350s — those were solitary bass-drum beats, where this is more of a duet, smooth and unhurried, loud but not raucous. There’s power here, enough to make you grin out loud when you twist the throttle, but it’s never in a rush. That’s the beauty of it; the Classic 650 doesn’t demand that you prove anything. It’s content to lope along at its own pace, letting you soak in the view. And what a view it is — Coonoor’s hills unfurl in shades of green, dotted with the red roofs of colonial-era homes that look like they’ve been plucked from a Merchant Ivory film. The bike fits right in, its silhouette blending with the ghosts of Sim’s Park and the old British planters who once called this place home. I half expect it to tip its hat — or its headlamp — and murmur, ‘Jolly good show, old chap.’

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Riding it feels like coming home, which is odd for something that weighs as much as some of the hillocks that are passing by. At 243 kilos, it’s the heaviest Royal Enfield you can buy, a motorcycle with the gravitas of a minor deity. I half imagine it demanding a temple of its own. But once you’re moving, that weight simply melts away, or at least it pretends to. In a straight line, it’s effortless, determinedly planted, the kind of ease that makes you wonder why you ever rush anywhere. The upright riding position is spot on, at least for my 180 cm frame; it feels like the bike is saying ‘Relax, mate, we’ve got this.’ The wide handlebar does take some getting used to at first, but it’s still a doddle to steer, even when the road dips and rises (which is pretty much all the time, in these parts). I nudge it along at a leisurely 60 kph, the tea bushes blurring into a soft green haze, and it’s… bliss. No need to fight it, no need to wrestle — just point and glide. I’m not riding so much as drifting along, carried by a machine that understands the art of letting go.

The real test comes when the road starts to twist a little more. These Nilgiri hairpins are no joke, be assured; they’re tight and steep, with gravel sometimes lurking like a prankster waiting to trip you up. I’ll admit, I wondered if the Classic 650’s bulk would turn it into a small apartment around corners. But no — it surprises you, in that quiet, understated way it has. Tip it in, and it leans with a grace that belies its size. The steering’s light enough that you’re not arm-wrestling it, and the suspension, while firm, keeps things composed. It doesn’t beg for speed, just asks for trust. It’s not sharp or agile, not a bike for chasing red-line thrills; you won’t be scraping pegs unless you’re showing off for Instagram, but it holds its line with a dignity that feels… regal. I catch myself smiling as I sweep through a bend, the trees parting to reveal a valley that stretches forever. Something catches in my throat. This is what riding a retro bike in the hills is all about — time slows, and the world feels right.

I weave through stretches of road flanked by eucalyptus trees, their scent mingling with the heady smell of tea gardens; at one point, I exit a corner to find a wild bison trotting across the road. The bike’s weight makes itself known when I slow to a crawl — manoeuvring it around a stray goat feels like parallel-parking a small elephant. But that’s part of the 650’s charm. It’s not perfect, and it never tries to be. The ride quality’s decent, not plush, but enough to keep you comfortable as the kilometres tick by. Potholes jolt you a bit, a reminder that this is India, not the UK’s manicured tarmac (although I’m told the bike felt stiff even there). Still, it’s forgiving in a way that makes you shrug and carry on. This isn’t a bike for burning up the tarmac — it’s for ambling through life, for chasing sunsets instead of speed records.

As the ride winds down, I pull over near a viewpoint, the Classic 650 ticking softly as it cools. The sunlight bathing the bike makes it look so captivating that Kaizad machine-guns it with his camera, exclaiming ‘I just can’t stop!’ This is it, I think, as I trace the curve of its tank with my finger — the only bike I’ll ever need. It’s got enough grunt to keep things interesting, looks that could launch a few movie stars, and a nature that’s as easygoing as a Sunday nap. Sure, it’s more than a handful to lug around when you’re not rolling (and to get on and off the centre stand), but that’s its truth, not so much a flaw. It’s a small price to pay for something that feels this alive. Coonoor’s colonial past and the bike’s retro soul are made for each other, two old souls drifting through time together. I could probably ride it forever, through these hills and into the dusk, chasing nothing but the feel of it beneath me.