The Thump Tale

An account of a ride from Bombay to Goa, when my father's dream bike was my ride for about a week. Read on....

I, (Gasha Aeri), do solemnly swear that I will kiss the early morning breeze through my helmet, give a salute to the first ray of dawn with my bike's headlamp, sing the songs of compassion in harmony with his thump and ride till the last iota of energy in my veins permits me to. Meanwhile, I shall obey the set of traffic rules laid for the safety of all, mankind and beyond. I shall buckle up, zip up and strap up and come all geared to meet the highway. So, be with me and help me God.

Rituals done and we, the mighty group of 20 riders (not counting 3 pillions) were ready to face all the extremes NH-17 had to offer. The commandos (the bikes, I mean) were a mix of old and new Thunderbirds, Bullet Electra and Classic 350s and 500s, some of which, being customer bikes were modified to reflect the persona of the owner. Fancy paint job, anti- rust coating on the chrome, bigger discs and modified handlebars were some of the common surgeries my fellow riders had done on their beasts. But common in all of them was the daredevil spirit, enthusiasm, aggression to show the world who they are and the roar which could put life in dead.
We met the dudes at Panvel and our motoroly (motor+holy=motoroly) alliance was to last till Margao, a partnership of six days but friendship of a lifetime and beyond. My man in black was a Thunderbird Twinspark and trust me, he looked like a deadly amalgamation of Arnold, Bruce Willis and Will Smith (for the attitude and style) to me.
The first day called for the formalities- checking the bikes, getting minor repairs done (if
required at all) and meeting the riderolahs (rider+hoolah=riderolah, you’ll have to bear with this
wacky vocabulary till the end of the story).

Independence Day, while the country celebrated the “with the stroke of midnight” speech and we rejoiced over shunning the shackles of a routine-bound lifestyle and faced south to hear the welcome songs from the highway, our bikes standing not very far and feeling the same. Enough fuel down his throat and Mr T (my TBT) gave me a loud tally-ho and signaled that there was nothing left to amuse him much, (he said this after his failed attempts of flirting with Karizma and sharing some loud guy talks with fellow Enfies) and we must bite the highway dust now. So, his order be my command. In a melancholy of thump, we grabbed every living soul’s attention and rode away to the promise land which awaited on the other side of the horizon. Mr T didn’t take long to make friends with me and it wasn’t very late that we began singing each other’s tunes. His glorious past shone bright and clear in his walk and being associated with him gave me the same panache and elan, something which he appreciated and responded to by flying to kiss the 110 kmph mark much before I could realize. I was a little hesitant, but he held my hand and we fired our way through the crowd of things which called themselves cars and bikes, but looked nothing more than some tin on wheels at that time.
Some 300 clicks down, we reached Dapoli and Mr T bathed in the gleam of setting sun, right in front of Karde beach. The next morning, as I approached him with a duster and a bucketful of
water for a bath, he refused by saying that men like to bear the aroma of their sweat. Ah, what
a man! He whistled through the ghats of Guhagar, Hedavi and then Bhatgaon, while hillocks
glanced at us like a secret whisper. He coughed away the puddles of mud and was ready to sing
for miles till we pitched our camps at Ratnagiri that night. The twisties tried playing a little hide
and seek with the mighty man and me, but no one messes with Mr T, in his own words.

Riding through the Anaskura ghats, where the leftovers of a week before’s landslide weren’t cleared and thick blanket of fog almost blinded us, Mr T showed me his own way of leaving a true man’s mark. Setting every foot carefully, we didn’t miss sparing a look for nature’s tricks of hiding the best. All that she commands from you is the effort to come and witness it in the true form. We took that chance and were rewarded with both hands.
Another such breathtaking experience was riding through the ghats of Amboli. Water knows no boundations, they say and they aren’t wrong. Sprouting from anywhere, the waterfalls in that section often left me with my mouth open in awe and it was Mr T’s job to warn me against any bugs coming in for a stroll. The roads weren’t the best ones to swear in the name of, with potholes as deep as a woman’s dirty secrets but we knew our way around them. Rains accompanied us all throughout the ride like a haunting spirit but guess what they gave us in return, slush fest! Vengurla light-house, first encounter with a python, lip-smacking Malvani cuisine, the list is unending and Mr T would agree with me that all of these pushed me a little away from my phobias and brought me way closer to him. The ride through Dandeli Bison reserve and how our senses were open and fingers ready to whack open the throttle at the very sight of a carnivore, still makes my heart pounce.

Thumping away to glory, I was nearly done with complimenting Mr T for the lovely voice he has when lightning struck upon us. ‘Goa welcomes you’. “What! The end of the ride, you mean! But we’ve hardly had enough..” was what I told him, to which he smiled and held my hand lovingly. Like all good things, this one must also come to an end. Godliness had it his way and we spent a quiet evening on Palolem beach, just discussing the ride, singing our last songs together and making plans to change the world if given a chance.

My heart bled as I bid him my farewells, but as promised Mr T, the world is just too small to be ridden around and we’re way too curious. Let’s meet again.