Imagination and inspiration are ethereal concepts, both infinite. And the pair of them are ejected in smoky abundance by each of a Yamaha RD 350’s twin pipes. Everything you pour into the bottomless pit that is an RD — petrol, 2T oil, blood, sweat, tears, your very self — is returned a hundredfold, in the most chaotic white-knuckled way. Even today, 42 years later, the RD’s far from being just another old motorcycle — it’s a wide-eyed powerband-detonation of a revelation. And I knew that this issue would be incomplete without an RD, so I decided to bring one along one last time.
In the past 17 years, I’ve written more about the RD 350 than is probably decent; comparisons to new performance bikes, modded-RD features, wishful thinking, drawn-out laments, and then some. And I’ve thought about it a great deal more. That’s only because the motorcycle keeps drawing me to itself, one way or another… actually, it’s just that engine — all the other parts merely surround that barbaric parallel-twin to disguise it as a motorcycle. Make no mistake, there are litre-bikes that feel decidedly tamer than this 350cc unit of two stroke hair-raising fury.
And that’s probably why, the day I hit riding age back in the day (as soon as one foot reached the ground on a bike. I was 12… different times, you see), my father promptly sold his RD 350. Ten years later, I sneaked an RD home, one running contact-breaker points and an original single-caliper Yamaha front disc brake; I had that bike for all of a week before my father found out and made me return it to the dealer. I still remember the veins in his forehead popping, and those threats still haunt me on occasion. Before that, I wasn’t aware that he could sound as guttural as an RD at low rpm himself, although he smoked as much as one.
Some five years later after that life-threatening incident, I joined Motoring and Pablo entrusted me with his RD for a brief period. I got the carbs tuned for a pair of pod filters, but didn’t really ride it all that much; a TN-registered roaring white-and-red RD was simply too much of a cop magnet, and I was always too broke to satiate its appetite. Then, Bijoy, eternal boss of all things Motoring, bought one; almost immediately (or maybe not), he said that the bike would be mine one day. That threat seems like it’s coming true any day now. What is it about RDs and threats?
Forgive me for that autobiographical digression; it’s probably the longest I’ve taken to come to the motorcycle of the story. But the RD, after all, is a machine that tends to consume whoever pays even a sliver of attention to it. And our friend, Shivdutt Halady, knows that more than most. The taintless silver beauty you see here belongs to him and — I kid you not — I haven’t seen a cleaner and more original RD as this one. Now, I’m not much for originality and authenticity when it comes to a motorcycle — it should just ride as best it can — but even so, I was taken aback at the obsessive level of restoration performed on this one. That explains why it won first prize for the best restored Indian heritage motorcycle at (well…) the VCCCI Annual Vintage Car Fiesta 2025.
This silver medallion of a motorcycle had original parts that I’d never heard of before, let alone seen. This RD looked like it’d rolled out of a time-warp showroom that very morning. That day, it’d been around two years since I’d last ridden an RD; at Bijoy’s behest, a complete engine rebuild ensued and I duly ran-in the engine, returned the bike to him, and never so much as sat on an RD again. But I’d still gaze at one and even touch one if I could from time to time, especially since two of my friends kept getting a steady supply of RDs to restore. I wonder how, though, since Halady informed me that only around 7000 RDs were ever made in India. The damn thing always seems to find me, sooner or later.
And after staying away from it as much as I could, there I was, kicking this one to life — and even at idle, every follicle of hair on my body stood up in sheer awe. No other motorcycle sounds like everything else on the road is wearing diapers. And even after all these years of brief flings, the RD transported me straight to permanently imprinted high-rpm memories. If I was paying it anything other than undivided attention, it’d straighten my arms and snap my hands clean off the handlebars. And when I mindfully attempted to be liberal with its throttle, it’d rage ahead in the most disconcerting manner which brought to mind the opening stanza from Welsh poet Dylan Thomas’s immortal poem — ‘Do not go gentle into that good night; Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.’ Not that an RD is ever accepting any night, good or bad, or the dying of any light. It will always burn and rave.
At least for me, an RD’s rider is forever a mere passenger who dared to mount a two-stroke tiger high on an unholy mix of hydrocarbons and challenging fate. If anyone ever tells you that they’ve ridden a stock RD absolutely flat out for any length of time on a road, you are duty-bound to inform them to f**k right off. Let me paint you a picture — sure, I had a 350cc two-stroke between my legs and I firmly decided to have fun with it; a roar surrounded me as my brain tried to keep up with what I’d just committed to; I properly went through four of its six gears before remembering that at some point I’d need to slow down as well; and when I tried to arrest that runaway mayhem, I was cordially presented with inadequate brakes that still somehow managed to make those thin tyres squeal like an inmate of Guantanamo Bay. And all of this while Halady was watching. Sorry.
Even if you do indulge it knowingly, the RD will surprise you. In all the eternal truths about motorcycles, the greatest ones always have a flaw — in the RD’s case, the flaws are all the things that attach themselves to that engine — but most of all it’s the person sitting on it. And that’s one hell of a way to straighten out your priorities in life, I’ll tell you that. In any case, the RD never cared and still doesn’t; it was a middle finger to all that is ‘proper’ and forever will be. With my eyes closed, the lingering smell of 2T smoke was the anachronistic catalyst that brought back memories in intense high speed flashbacks. Nothing to do with an RD can ever be boring or slow, you see?
All the times the RD and I have crossed paths happened at all the wrongest possible times. Now I see that it has always been lurking in the back of my mind. Once upon a time, Motoring had an RD 350 fan page; one enthusiastic subscriber sent in a printed photo of his ‘clubman’ RD that I’d pinned to my office desk’s soft board for years, and I still have it. Perhaps that’s a hope, or a reminder of many more memories that I don’t have the space to recount here. Then again, as with any motorcycle, you won’t know what I’m on about until you ride it for yourself. And if you think you don’t have an RD-shaped void in your life, well, you just haven’t located it yet. I thought I was done with the RD… but now I think I’m just beginning. I think I should call Bijoy. Wish me luck.
