Ruman
BLINDING LIGHTS
An open-top Thar was a fixture in Slush Fests of the early 2010s and, in 2013, I drove one with oversized tyres, which, among other things, sprayed the windscreen from the inside. A few ‘yumps’ later, the headlights went bust and I drove sandwiched in a convoy from our off-road trail to Lonavala city, at which point Rohin benevolently volunteered to escort me home, leading in an LR Discovery. This arrangement lasted exactly 5 minutes, after which he, rather inconveniently, simply scooted. That left me and a lightless diesel Thar to discover motoring nirvana on a very rainy night, as we dawdled home at 60 kph.
SLOW SHUTTER
Kartik decided to ride his father’s 1975 Bullet back to where it was born — the old Royal Enfield factory in Chennai — while I tailgated him all the way in a Honda City. I had Kartik Sadekar, our erstwhile photographer, for company and that got immensely boring about 15 minutes into the journey. We were on the road for days, looking out attentively for signs of trouble on the Bullet (there were many, including the time it tried to self-immolate), simultaneously hoping a miracle would cause it to, at least, hit 80 kph. Didn’t happen. Would I rather have skipped it? No. Not for anything in the world. What a story to be a small (and slow) part of!
SCIENCE FRICTION
My ex-colleague Priyadarshan ‘PD’ Bawikar saw it fit to present me with a copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide To the Galaxy on my birthday and, of course, I was grateful. It’s a classic I’ve never read and, for this thoughtful gesture, I thanked him profusely. Until I didn’t. I’m no sci-fi freak and I honestly can’t tell between Star Trek and Star Wars, so reading this book was quite the challenge. In the five or so years I’ve owned it, I’ve struggled to go past the first 20-odd pages and, by the look of it, it’ll stay that way for another five years, at least. Should have just gotten me that camping machete, PD!
AMERICANA
Harley-Davidson had paired up the Heritage Softail and Fat Boy Special and sent them over to us for a few days. Pablo and I rode to Mumbai’s outskirts, did pretty un-Harley things with those bikes (that Fat Boy was super easy to get sideways for the shots) and, I think, we fell equally in love with the Heritage Softail, which I rode to Pune after the shoot. I’d carried an extra helmet (a modular one) for that ride and what followed was the slowest 150-odd km of my life. I really absorbed every little detail along the way, took every available detour and cruised at ridiculously low speeds. Fortunately, after that 5-hour ride to Pune, I still had the ride back the next morning to look forward to.
NUMB AND NUMBER
I was born allergic to numbers. Early wanted nothing to do with them and so, in unavoidable circumstances to this very day, I try very hard to I was born allergic to numbers. Early enough in life, I had discovered I wanted nothing to do with them and so, in unavoidable circumstances to this very day, I try very hard to look the other way. A lot of what we do to put this magazine together involves asking the HQ in New Delhi to send small sums of money, in exchange for which we are meant to submit bills. It may appear as a straightforward transaction but, as a matter of preference, I would much rather swim in a shark-infested sea — and I don’t even know how to swim. Needless to say, our accounts department and I aren’t the best of friends. Let’s keep it that way, okay?
Yash
RACING SIMULATORS
As a child, all I wanted to be was a racing driver. The closest I got? Hammering rental karts around a tiny track in Powai, helmet slipping, ribs bruised, and brakes that felt like suggestions. Pure chaos, pure joy. Fast forward, and I’ve ditched the fumes for a sim rig in my bedroom. Now I can jump into a Ferrari at Monza, then a Toyota at Suzuka, all without leaving my chair, or my pyjamas. Slip on headphones, crank the AC, and suddenly I’m Verstappen with a laundry basket in the background. It’s incredible… but also a trap. The more realistic the pixels get, the less I miss the kart track. Which is tragic, because no simulator crashes smell like burnt rubber.
DOOMSCROLLING
No lie, the only reason it took me this long to write this is because I was busy doomscrolling. Sorry, that’s the sad reality. We’d rather scroll endlessly than use our brains for anything remotely useful. Hours just vanish while we watch videos that barely make sense, but somehow feel ‘essential.’ Welcome to the golden age of wasting time. And it’s not just me, it’s all of us. Attention spans? Gone. Imagination? On life support. We can’t even sit still long enough to daydream anymore because there’s always another clip, another meme, another rabbit hole. And here’s the kicker — I openly condemn doomscrolling… while also being absolutely terrible at quitting it. Hypocrisy never looked this relatable.
MAPPING DEPENDENCY
Some of my earliest family road trips were defined by getting lost. I still remember one drive from Mumbai to Kerala, marked by torrential rain in Karnataka, with no clue where we were, and endless stops to ask strangers for directions that never quite made sense. It was chaos, but that was the adventure. Today, things are very different. Every time I hit the road, I’ve got a quiet but powerful co-driver — Google Maps. The world shrinks into the palm of your hand, one tap, and you’re suddenly gliding through shortcuts locals insist don’t exist. Lost? Not really. Late? Maybe, but at least you know how late. People joke about our reliance on the blue arrow, but honestly, what’s wrong with a compass that never lies?
SENSORY OVERLOAD
I know I sound like a broken record, but seriously, what’s going on with cars these days? I recently drove the Volvo EX30, and it literally scanned my face to tell me when I looked drowsy, like some overprotective babysitter. Then, in the Mahindra BE 6, every lane change made the steering wheel vibrate. I get it, car, you care, but maybe don’t nag me like a backseat driver built into the dashboard. Look, I’m not against tech, but haven’t we evolved enough to know when we’re tired, or, I don’t know, how to look before switching lanes? Sure, give me 360-degree cameras and parking sensors, but everything else should be a suggestion, not a lecture. Call me old school, but when tech starts driving for us, it doesn’t make us safer — it just makes us lazy.
Manaal
UN-RESTORATION
It’s just over a decade old, with 78,000 km on the clock, and has collected enough hilarious — and occasionally near-fatal — stories to fill a book. My KTM RC 200 now rests in a friend’s garage, but despite the persistent (and utterly unwarranted) suggestions to sell it, I refuse to let it go. This motorcycle is the reason my life shifted from air-conditioned cubicles and lines of code to open roads, lifelong friendships, and stories I never dreamed I’d get to tell.
For the past two years, I’ve been plotting to turn the RC into a near race-spec machine. In reality, all I’ve managed is to find out prices for the required parts, crunch some numbers, and figure out how to convince my family that an ageing motorcycle deserves a fresh avalanche of cash. Today, I have the luxury of choosing between a commuter, a scrambler, a naked or a supersport. Back then, this RC was my do-it-all weapon — and I know it still can be. I’d just save it for crisp Sunday rides and the occasional track day. That dream build is still far away, but now that I’ve put it down on paper, it’s time to make it real.
UNSHARPENED SKILL
I’ve always loved a good trail ride, splashing through puddles, wrestling through ruts, but the hardcore enduro stuff? I’ve dodged it, not because I don’t enjoy it, but because of the sheer effort it demands. Picking up a fallen bike for the fourth time, yanking it out of deep mud… yes, I’ve laughed at myself at the end of those days, but I’ve never exactly looked forward to them. That’s why I’ve remained an off-road novice — happy with the basics polished at a couple of riding camps, but never pushing further. Now, with a dirt snorting weekend at ProDirt on the horizon, I know I’ll need more than enthusiasm to survive Nelly and Sunny’s (they run the place) warm-ups — I’ll need stamina, strength, and a few less kilos to haul around. Yes, the gym shoes are laced up; the first step is already taken.
UN-DEADLINE
The embargo was lifting in less than twelve hours, and I was yet to reach home. Two hours of downpour and heavy traffic later, I reached home. Hastily, I freshened up and brewed up some caffeine to power myself through the night. An hour into writing, I was still struggling with the first paragraph, while my mind was forcing its body to stay up. Fighting this for a few more minutes would have dragged me out of that half-asleep state, but I chose to take a ‘nap’ which ended up becoming what my wife called a ‘snorefest’. I got up four hours before the embargo ended, which meant not only did I have to finish the story, but also prep the images for the website and captions for the social media post. Did I make it? Yes. Do I want to be in that spot again? No.
UN-DAWN
With most motorcycles, the time I get them for never seems enough, but I guess unless they loan it to me for a year or so, it never will be. Nonetheless, I make it a point to ride them as much as I can in those days. Heck, I’ve gone grocery shopping on a Multistrada and touring on a Freedom 125… making the most of what I could. But the one day I’ve regretted so far is when I had the Ducati Hypermotard 698 Mono. After a long day of meetings and shoots, I went home and set an alarm for 4:00 am with the plan of hooning around the town and grabbing breakfast before returning the bike. The next morning, I didn’t realise I had been snoozing the alarm for two hours. By the time I hit the road with the Hyper, city chaos had already begun. It has been over eight months since then, and every now and then, thinking of the Mono reminds me how ease robs you of the fleeting things you can’t get back.
Kaizad
THE MARC CHRONICLES
We are witnessing perhaps the single greatest MotoGP season in history, where there seems to be no force to counter the steamrolling Marc Marquez. And yet, it is so damn BORING. Ducati knew that Marc would not just be dominant but unbeatable on a Bologna bullet. But Marquez is making Pecco look like a rookie who jumped up from Moto3, not like the double MotoGP world champion he actually is. My Sunday afternoon naps have increased as there seems to be no remedy. Heck, even F1 is a lot more interesting nowadays, and that is saying something.
FAILING ABS (NOT ABS)
I sometimes wonder why I still go to the gym. Sitting in a car for hours after an extremely satisfying shoot only to end up being ensnarled in Pune’s pothole-ridden gravel-strewn indisciplined streets to reach home kills all motivation. The mental toll is too much to bear as I try to avoid the idiot coming the wrong way on a banged-up commuter, only for him to hurl abuses at me for expecting him to do the right thing. And it is not calm on a motorcycle, either. My Scrambler 400 X’s suspension brilliance seems to give me no zen, even on weekends when I take to my favourite set of twisties. If only I could drown my sorrows in Goa every other weekend.
Kartik
SHAKE OR BREAK
Yes, many thousands of people had ridden their cast-iron Bullet 350s all over the country, long before I even thought of doing it. In fact, my father rode this damned thing down from Delhi to Mumbai in the ’70s after he’d bought it, sidecar and all, when I wasn’t even a wisp of a thought in his mind at the time, and I bet he never imagined I’d ride it from Mumbai to Chennai one day. Today, I look back at the slowest ride of my life with wonder; I never thought that I’d ride a motorcycle as mismatched to my overall personality for more than 3000 km across the country. Oh, it was slow going — more so because it felt so hectic. The old 350 single’s death-rattling engine, the fear of a possible mechanical failure, among other very certain mechanical inadequacies, kept me well within 80 kph all the way there and back. It was slow, it was painful, but it was not boring for one minute. I learned more in that ride than I have since, I like to think. Sloth isn’t always as bad as it’s made out to be. As far as tributes go and I’m concerned, my father owes me one.
BOOK ME
I’ve bought hundreds of books of all kinds. In fact, that’s the only kind of spending spree I can bring myself to indulge in. And I don’t really have a constricting ‘genre’ that I can be arrogant enough to call my favourite; on my sagging bookshelves, I find the happiness of looking at graphic novels (nope, not those, but the drawn ones), fictional works (fiction is truth without fact), non-fiction books (these are sometimes hard to believe), and many covers that contain within them topics meandering between literature, science, human experience, flights of fantasy, straightforward technical advice, humorous takes on life, and f l at-out poetry. So many geniuses, and their lives distilled into eternally guiding words I’ll always keep with me. The problem is, I haven’t actually read all of them yet. I keep waiting for the perfect moment for the right book. Of course, I know there is no such thing. Still, that hasn’t stopped those pages yellowing from my procrastination. Then again, no human being has ever been on the right side of the tussle between everyday life and a bookshelf.
THE WORLD
I am sure you feel it these days, that overwhelming sensation. Everything comes at you so fast, it feels best to just sink into your favourite comfortable spot and commence melting your brain with a screen of your choice. The fact that my team, which has people in their 20s all the way almost into their 50s (Pablo), goes through the same thing — that means it’s not a phenomenon isolated to the latest generations. The world is changing, of course; it’s always been doing that. I mean, even I have fuel injectors sharing garage space with carburettors, and two strokes parked next to the things that killed them. And I only look at nostalgia with respect and for learning, not for a lamenting longing. However, having seen the days of cleaning cassette-player heads to ‘chatting’ politely with ChatGPT, I see how life has gradually lost its tactility. And I, for one, think that we should look back and see where we once lived — in our world. Who knew an overabundance of speed could cause sloth?
