NH :: No Halts on the National Highway

My dreams of riding the Unicorn in 2008 were scuttled by my balance-sheet. January saw a surge in the classes I was giving at various places. This obviously puffed my passbook but smoked my stamina as well. The demand of distant institutions requiring my services was to be met professionally. I wasn't opposed to the idea of commuting 80 kms a day, though I hadn't done this earlier. Many factors participated in taking this experience to the list of my accomplishments. 

The colleges where I train B.Tech graduates in GDs and PIs are at a distance of 20-25 kms from KiiT where I stay. The classes were at 930 AM at college A and 130 PM at college B with a duration of 2 hrs each. This wasn't an issue but for the fact that I also train KiiT's B.Tech job aspirants in the mornings and evenings. The class at KiiT that is supposed to take place between 730 AM to 9 AM is regularly shifted by 15 minutes. Thus, I get a 15 minute window to make it to College A where I am scheduled to deliver a session at 930. The fact that I have to battle it out with the office-going, shop-keeping, school-studying commuters over a stretch of 15 kms is of little help. This justifies the Need for Speed.

The saving grace is the solid quality of the road and the girth to let 3 lanes of automobiles move each way. The part between Patia and Jaydev Vihar is good enough. But, all hell is let loose once you pull into the highway. Trucks, buses and other heavy vehicles spew smoke by the tons. They either charge at you from behind or stop abruptly ahead of you. Since, there are no functional zebra crossings between Acharya Vihar and CRP, pedestrians make suicidal moves at will with impunity. The jams at CRP are the worst. A hotspot for highway traffic and commuter volume, chaos is as common as oxygen. 

The absence of any office or residence after that due to the CRP cantonment and Baramunda projects and Khandagiri hills, relieves you considerably. But, the danger is always there. After wild motorists and wily pedestrians, the fatal slot belongs to jaywalkers who would cross the swirling motor river without a moment's thought. They probably believe deeply in the vehicles' braking system. In fact, these numbnuts cause so many accidents that insurance companies ought to sign them up as patrons. They dissect the tar-path at every angle conceivable. 

Now, about me. With just 15 minutes to walk down to the parking lot, pick-kick-flick your bike into life, steer clear of thousands of people on as many metal-monsters along 20 kms, park again and walk into the classroom is.. well.. laughable. What follies men commit to fill their bellies. What forms of death do they face in order to live. What pressures are they subjected to before they can relax. What risks must they take to realise their passions. And what thrills they pocket in the process.

The first challenge to the time crunch consists of the jams at CRP, NALCO,Firestation and Khandagiri squares. Smaller jams are experienced at Nayapalli and Damana squares. You have two options: 1. Bend(not break) the law by taking the detour around the unguarded, shorter divider-less left flank. 2. Wait. The simple four-letter word is the longest in a biker's dictionary and nor is its fruit sweet enough to drown the bitterness of watching the seconds slip by. So, often, I take the left; go a few metres; legally take a right U-turn and cover the 'few metres' on way back and continue on the way ahead. On luckier days, the jailbirds ahead part to give me the big break. 

So, why do I do it? More importantly- HOW do I do it?

Well, easier said than done. I have two options. Option A is so common that it kills the 'Me' in me. It reads- 'Start in advance. Pick your colleagues. Ride at senile speeds. Obey the cops and their lights. Reach in advance. Wait like gentlemen.' Duh ! Option B is simpler- Zoooooom ! And I do exactly the same. I live life as I would have it without putting others' at peril. If you don't like it, you can tag it my weakness. 

Once in the office someone offered me a cup of tea. I politely declined. Perturbed the guy inquired if I am into other 'normal' habits like betel-chewing, coffee, gutkha etc. A person who 'knew' me sated his curiosity with a single statement. 'Sir has only one habit- Speeding.' Imagine my stupid glee on hearing the acknowledgement of my passion. The music of that minute is still moist in my ears.

A highlight of this risk-trip is the stretch between Baramunda and Khandagiri squares. There is a flyover to by-pass the voluminous bus traffic. The structure bows and ends in a trough before rising to meet the Khandagiri hills. It is on this incline where one can exceed one's bike's max speed. My Discover 125 can officially touch 110. I saw the needle beyond 117 while hurtling down at break-neck-back-leg-head momentum. 

There is an occaisonal police jeep just at the end of this tyre-slide to apprehend irregular truckers. But, I am wary of them; for my record is TOTALLY clean of traffic-police encounters, till date. Once, you clear the borderless Khandagiri Square, you are tempted to scorch the semi-race track that rolls out in front of you. But, if you close your eyes to relish the rush of fresh air.. chances are that you may not open them again. 200 mts from the square- unmarked and unmanned is an exchange; where people wishing to switch sides glide carelessly at acute angles.

The curve that beckons the racer in you to tilt and swish happens to begin at a passenger halt. On days, when you are in a mood for it and won't oblige bipeds to supercede your moped, there is the horn. Blaring like mad, you can safely tear through the confused crowd. But, there is a category named 'clueless' who lack the faculty of reason. All they can see is the other side of the highway. The fast-trucks and the cars on a high are but pariah. They shall bow low before this Emperor Superior on his way to the Land of Parking. Smash. Crush. Flush. Stupids deserve this.

The way to College A splits before this curve towards the left and then another left to serve me with vanilla-flavoured tar-cream. Lane-switching across dividers and jumping over potholes are done at 80. The way to College B continues for 4 more kilometres on the highway which gradually loses patronage to an unwilling limited populace who choose to stick to their shops instead of flocking to the capital. Here, though there is no slope or slide, I still manage to smoke 115 kmph at the cost of my engine's exhaustion.

I am not a swash-buckling, RayBan-ned jacket clad roadrunner. Still, when I pull into the college's parking lot, I seldom encounter indifference. May be my outlandish attire, may be my mannerism os simply my biking style puts many necks at strain. Whatever may be the public's perception, I ride for my pleasure and I'm quite OK with it.  I do yearn for a faster, smoother bike; but am disturbed by the possibilities of a violent ending. Highway, you give me a high.

Unequal Sprints..

What the hell was I thinking - when I sprinted alongside a 24-bogie long Anaconda thundering away at 64 kmph, whipping up a hundred tornadoes? Perhaps, it was my attempt at blogging economy. Trying to blog on Biking and Train travel at the same time. I'll relate the fiasco as soon as I regain my senses.

SENSES REGAINED::

Well. here is what happened. In the days following Bakr-Eid, I had a guest. He was a visiting official of my mission. A friend of mine conducted him from Katak to KiiT to meet me and discuss some developments. After a lunch stop at Udupi and a prayer stop in the locality behind, he was ready to move to Khurda to board his train home. The best mode to get there was the passenger train Katak-Palasa. It touches Patia PH(Passenger Halt) which is 2 kms from our campus around 5 PM. So, we proceeded to that under-construction yard of a 'passenger halt' to put our guest on the train.

IST's closest expansion-sum-translation is Infinitely Stretchable Time though it is interpreted as Indian Standard Time. The train must have been lazying at Barang or Kathajodi river for it was yet to hoot its presence by 520 PM. A motley crowd of students and employees returning home dallied on the crude platform of gravel and stone blocks cemented in a rough fashion. Swarms of mosquitoes moved about looking for heads to hover over. The cellular-ed class flashed its range to impress the bystanders or initiate handset-centric discussions to kill time. While Your Sincerely's  gray matter was getting fermented with Mars-ish ideas of humouring my circle. 

Every 15 mintues or so, trains- express passenger or goods-laden, would thunder by. They weren't suposed to stop till Barang, or worse- Cuttack. This arrogance of non-stop progress was reflected in the non-chalance it exhibited in passing us. Horns on full-blast, engines on max and throttle (or whatever monster machinery reguated the speed) turned to full; such was the temperament of the dragons howling past the stricken passenger mass. These trains were rushing in both directions  and on the immediate tracks. Each was in a terrible hurry to beat the clock perhaps. Needless to say, the unlucky bystanders never need a clock again.

Despite the perils posed by a multi-mega-metric-tonne iron factory on steel wheels, some people are addicted to adrenaline. When an express train passed us whipping up a storm on the platform, I made up my mind to pit my bike against it. An apt comparison would be that of a worm facing an anaconda. Platforms of such minor stations are unpatrolled, unguarded and unfenced. We had taken our bikes up there. The southern side of the platform was relatively empty. The few that were sauntering there beat a hasty retreat when they saw me gesturing out the stunt in mind to my comrades.

I planned on racing with the trains. I had read that the fastest train was the Satavahana Express with speeds upto 67 kmph (information out-dated with Habibganj-Delhi Shatabdi touching 161 kmph). I reasoned, that since I regularly drowned 67 kmph, what are the odds of the train winning the race ? I obviously ignored a helluva other factors. For example, I didn't incude the wind rush in the face due to our movement in opposite directions. Plan shelved. Again, the train was already on that speed and I need 6 secs to achieve that. No use as by that time, the train was out of the station limits.

After the long pause... here's the remainder of that mental grinder !

I was tired of challenging members from the homo sapiens species. And there were a few scores to settle with Indian Railways. It had once left my friend behind in collaboration with Department of Highway Delays and Azzole Autowallahs Association. On certain occaisons, it had sardined me on sultry summer stretches in smelly & suffocating general dibbas. Finally, because after having our 'kind attention', it had conveyed the cruellest of communications in the form of delay announcements. OK ! I was just hunting for excuses. 

I handed over my cellphone to my friend and explained the working of the camera. The entire event would never make to anyone's memory without images. Mere descriptions doesn't excite the Youtube generation. Again, it had to be a video to prove that I actually made the dash. The sticky, tricky and slick functioning of the touchscreen asks for familiarity to be handled. Taking his headshake as a nod to question of whether he understood the system, I proceeded to the extreme end of the platform. The warning blares from the express train approaching foretold a no-holds-barred fly-by on the locomotive's part; but nothing much about the possible negative outcome.

Having settled at the starting spot, I started sensing the odds stacked against a successful stunt. the stone-block, non-slippery part was only 3 feet wide and that too towards the tracks. Vrooom. Should I not just get down, park and sensibly back off to the safe zone. I should have; sadly, I didn't. I stood there revving my engine, waiting for the bigger, louder, faster engine to speed by. Instead, it exploded away. Bursts of sound, smoke, shakes and shocks surrounded me as the avalanche of metal roared by. Umm, why was I there? Oh, race.. Damn ! Go wash your face. 

Putting the inferior machinery into gear, I feebly tried to accelerate against the sandstorm. Buddy, are you recording this? If yes, stop yaar ! 60 kmph? Getting on to 16 was an ordeal. It was already suicidal. I couldn't see beyond 5 mtrs and the suction of this linear tornado kept clutching at my sides. A closer sway and I could have shamed the Bofors projectile in distance/elevation range. Doubtless, death was but decimetres away. Scraping through 40 mts of this combat zone, I met my friend who had managed to click the photo option instead of the video. Funtastico !

Decisions: 1. Won't race with a member of Indian Railways. All previous scores settled

2. Won't bike on an under-construction railway platfrom / on tracks.

3. Shall get an accident insurance policy at the earliest. (Purchased on 27th Feb 2009)

4. Shall use a more basic phone for recording stunts. Hire professional cameramen if necessary.

5. Shall buy racing gear: night-vision lens, ear-buds, shock-proof helmet and a good bike.

Epilogue: People didn't read this blog to learn racing safety and are dying in increasing numbers across Orissa in train-related accidents. Play safe. Use only one at a time- The Train or the Brain.

Dark Races: The Brighter Side

Last night changed it all. The smoke screen of self-satisfaction spread out. The fog surrounding types of races cleared. I realised that I was not a museum specimen in the university- there are other rabid racers as well. I discovered that my Discover isn't the quickest kid on the block. The dynamics of the official (yet illegal) races were experienced first-hand. And that- on the top of a more powerful engine, a full fuel tank and a healthy braking mechanism- you need to be smart. Last night, I learned a lot. A lot.

Before I narrate yesterday’s chain of events, here’s a brief backy (background). I was invited by Anshuman Sir (In-charge-Arifin) for his wedding reception at Hotel Swosti Plaza for the evening. I started scouting for supporters to shoulder the sum of the ceremonial souvenir. Rohan (of 1st Race, 1st Post fame) was willing. We synced to meet at Big B, Patia at 5.15 PM. When he wasn’t there on schedule, I called him up to offer pick-and-drop services. When I covered the distance of 500 mts in 20 secs from Big B to Campus 1, I clearly shocked him into a volley of compliments. ‘What? Do you travel at ‘c’?’ ‘What?’ ‘C= speed of light’ ‘Naah! It’s just… you know… chalo.’ Spirits rose. Good Evening.

Later, at the party venue, I filled myself with every delicacy available- coriander soup, Dahi-Vada, Gup-Chups, steamed rice, noodles, Manchurian knobs, live sabzi, Paneer Pasand, Kesar ice-cream and Aquafina. I was looking forward to a blissful nap and a hectic morning. In the middle of all this socializing, two anti-socialists made their entry- Trinoy Hazarika and Shoaib Khan- Rohan’s friends, my students. Most teachers get away with bragging. But I grant my kids a good deal of FoS- Freedom of Speech. So, when I was rattling off my tales of conquests over Pulsars, Shoaib’s pride was hurt. Any 150 cc fan/owner would have been. With the legacy of being a born Cuttack-y (one who can cut corners and be cocky), he was adamant to have a contest. No amount of warning, coaxing or dissuading by Rohan or Trinoy could budge this 6’6’’ lanky giant to retract his challenge. It was settled. Four People. Three bikes. Two racers. One goal. Zero tolerance.

“Ho Jaye” is a phrase of religious importance to a racer. It is like everything is on stake- wife, kids, life, weeds and your daily quota of gutka. We came out of the serene, social settings of Shaadi into the wild, wacky and wicked world of wheels. Since Rohan had some partying left in him, the race was shortened from Type-I (Distance) to Type II (Drag). Two variants are common to both- Traffic (Rush Hour) and Free (Midnight). The clock showed 2250 hrs. Shoaib was astride a well-maintained 2002 black Pulsar 150 DTSi. I had my trusted Discover 125 DTSi. This was injustice. Still… Trinoy aka Troy gave the Get Set Go for a false start. A lady had emerged from the hotel with a wobbly kid in tow. Civilians form the bulk of the casualty list in heats like this. Restart. The moment it was GO, fact and fiction fused into illegal street racing. Roar.

People dressed elegantly for a wedding function jerked their heads, stepped back and clutched their kids as two bolts of black howled past them. Legally: we should have gone towards Jaydev Vihar, done a U-turn near Pal Heights and completed the lap skirting Nalco square to return to Swosti Plaza. I went for it. The smarter ass took a detour and saved 3.7 gms of adrenaline. I refused to cooperate and stalled near the CCD exchange. Few secs later he rode in- all smiles. I threw up my hands and followed to overtake him at the finishing line. Chaos.

Columbus could not have been more excited on discovering Amrika than this kid who was on Cloud Nineteen for finishing second in a botched race. ‘You’re done, Sir’ ‘Comprehensively defeated’ ‘Accept it, Sir’. Slow down, chum ! Point One: The route was misunderstood. Point Two: I called off the race. Point Three: I overtook you at the D-Line. ‘No way.’ ‘ I did it! I did it.’ ‘Pulsar rocks.’ Troy tried to cool him down to consciousness. But the chants continued. ‘120 kmph, I touched it.’ ‘I ran out of fuel, yet I win.’ ‘Victory is sweet.’ I proposed another race. While they went to procure fuel, I started thinking. The max I can touch is 95-100. Plus there is no traffic to trap him. Heck! How am I gonna win this race? Shoot.

Rohan was called upon to make Race 2 happen. This time, it was to take place on the main road. No confusions. CCD exchange to Nalco square and back to the zebra crossing infront of Liquid. 11.10 PM. The traffic was a minimal 70 vehicles per minute. 3 lanes to zip through. There was a chill in the air in addition to one in the spines of Rohan and Troy who had figured out that things were getting ugly. I flipped my helmet’s visor open and gloved up. The superior CC smiled silently beside me. Race 2- GO! He surged ahead confidently on his 5-speed transmission to his max. I tailed him till Nalco square where I took the inner edge while turning and gained distance. Gotcha.

My bike shook under the demand for more power. I led him till RCM opening. He crossed me and danced ahead till Police Ground gates. I ducked to cut air resistance and stayed on the pole till Fortune Towers. He followed suit and left me behind to cross CCD in celebration. Hands in air, off the throttle. I was yet to give up. I maintained my posture to finish 2 secs ahead of him. My turn to celebrate, buddy! Judges declared me the champ. Shoaib won’t relent. ‘Sir, you know I was ahead.’ ‘Tell them how I overtook you.’ ‘I lost because I freed the accelerator.’ While starting, I had grumbled- ‘Yaar, this is not fair’ My worthy opponent had predicted ‘Ho sakta hai, aap jeet jao.’ Thanks.

For this fox called Shoaib, grapes aren’t just sour; they are genetically manipulated as well. He was offered a race on a later date on equal machines. ‘No way.’ ‘Tonight shall decide the better rider’ ‘Right here! Right Now!’ I agreed in spite of my misgivings about the equations. I agreed, but I asked for a Pulsar. Replying to his taunt about the better rider, I said ‘It’s all Pulsar’s weight. No credit to you.’ He fell for it and offered to switch bikes. Rohan had grown pessimistic beyond the remotest black hole and won’t agree to another round. I then took a test-ride of the powerhouse Pulsar and came to the start-line. Rohan kept saying- ‘Don’t take it personally, Guys.’ ‘ Come back alive’ ‘You don’t have to do this’. Reluctantly, he handed me my helmet. 5… 4… 3… Twoooo. ONE !

Pulsar 150- I have rode but never raced on it. I kept him at a distance of 25 mts at all times till Nalco square where I lost him. I could now enjoy the sight of the speedometer hitting 115. My, my !! I bowed my way to victory and glory. He homed 30 secs later having lost power while turning. Race 3 in my favor again. This time his protests were weaker. How long could he keep his brain and blood on boil? This night was etched in the history of culpable suicide. The tremors of speeding beyond 90 on Discover. The blurring of vision due to the wind-induced tears in your eyes. The clouding of mind with the dark premonitions of loss of life. Avoid it or Avail it- Decide.

Epilogue: Troy has initiated his quest for the perfectly matching pair of bikes. Rohan is deeply depressed and disturbed; he intends to leave for Amrika to seek spiritual solace. Shoaib is planning to take Excitement Management Therapy. I? Will continue to blog… Ciao for Now.

Homecoming...

1. Bad habits die hard. Mine, refuse to die; even if my life is at stake. I don’t know when I’ll rectify myself; may be I should, after this incident. May be I should quit relishing the rush of excitement of leaving 140 4-wheelers behind. May be I should deprive myself of exhilaration of breaking my own records. May be I should. May be I should not. What say? Naah !

2. This thrill was thrust on me. Trust me. I was to catch the 1925 Bhubaneswar- Raipur Express for home on Sunday evening. This time ity was not a KIIT-station dash. I was in a village Mukundaspur 26 kms away from Bhubaneswar on the Konark route. I could have got here earlier but for a sermon-y which I had expected to be over by 6.15 PM. Similarly, my optimism had exceeded its limits of decency by assuming the 26-km stretch to be free of vehicular traffic. Sunday. Bhubaneswar-Konark-Puri highway. Empty? You must be nuts!

3. Nuts, I was. The session at the mosque dispersed at 6.26 PM. Some packing, transfers and farewells took up the next 9 mins. Take-off at 6.36 PM. Quit village periphery at 6.39 PM. Was I watching the watch? You bet, I was. Mainroad at 6.44 PM. Pipli at 6.47 PM. Then, Nimapara chowk (square) is traffic cop’s living nightmare. Sundays and holidays are hell. From a distance of 80 mts, I could see a choked stalemate. None of the aggressors was willing to yield. Guys, break up! A long coach was trying to turn towards BBSR and was holding up traffic on all three sides. What the hell!

4. Optimism. It sucks at times. Made liberal use of my horn to shoo the rustic cyclists, circled the bus and bullied the dumb bystanders to find an open NH-214 in front of me. Revving up, I cleared the remaining hurdles by alternating the high beam and the dipper. Adios Pipli. 6.52 PM. Thereafter it was weekend overtime for my nerves as I negotiated my way out of three car rallies and numerous bike clusters. All this in the face of a chilly wintry wind and blinding high-beams generously unleashed by mad buses and Goliath-like trucks.

5. I stopped patting myself once I passed Uttara; reason- it was 7 PM now. This was the deadline which I had set for myself to be in my friend’s office in Bhubaneswar to pick up my railway ticket and here was I- 11 kms away. I broke the safety limit of 60 and kissed 80. Something urged, ‘Better late than never’. I replied, ‘Better be there or you won’t have another ever.’ In fact my bro-in-law was the reason behind all this rush. He was at my home and I being his sole sala had to be there. That was the deal. Be there or be dead.

6. You know people have a knack for dumbness. I will give you instances. A: A middle-aged couple occupying 50% of our lane talking to some blokes on the road- forcing scores to bend around them, putting the oncoming traffic at peril. B: Brainless greengrocers who had set-up shop on the rise at the bend between the Dhauli Peace Pagoda square and the narrow Daya bridge. With prospective shoppers parking half on both sides, it Destination Disaster. C: And finally, the jaywalkers- along the entire stretch of road from 90N to Penguin Paradise.

7. Bhubaneswar is a planned city. It is a partial truth. To quantify ‘partial’, 25% would be too much. The tourist circuit adds to the woes of squeezed bridges, bombarded roads and squares like ants-junction. Ants are better organized. As I approached Bhubaneswar, bike-maniacs like me, made themselves visible. There was this Pulsar duo in hoods who were regularly hitting high-octane levels. We had a brief undeclared race from Krupajal Engg college to Ravi Talkies square. I had to beat them. It was my weakness. I can’t resist winning.

8. The mother of all traffic jams started at a point 1.2 kms from Ravi Talkies Square. Revelers who had been to Puri etc had decorated this zone with headlights, tail-lights, indicators, brake-lights and fountains of dust, smoke and dirt. Please forgive my lack of humility when I claim superiority in wriggling out of such apocalyptic evacuees’ crowd. I learnt a point (or was I just lucky?) that you get ahead fastest in a jam- on the right-side (given you are biking and there are no dividers). On several occasions, I sped forth on the illegal left-side too.

9. So, at 7.12 PM, I had broken free of all jams, squares, clusters and hold-ups. I evaded the traffic police on 4 occasions ( no offence) and avoided mowing pedestrians on 3 (they were either blind, deaf or plain stupid). I turned towards Rajmahal square at Kalpana and smiled and sighed to see the motor-mass ahead emptying at the green. But, I had to turn towards Bapuji Nagar to pick my dress-parcel.( Yup, I had some pending chores; normal Yaar!). 7.15 PM. I exited B-Nagar on the Sishu Bhavan road and rejoiced at the green for my channel. 7.16 PM. Hello, Bhubaneswar Railway Station.

10. Bad habits die hard. And so does bad luck. The parking lot attendant was enjoying a phone-chat and leisurely issued me the ticket. Plus, my ticket was not yet in my possession. I called up my friend who had it but could not bring it as there was no one else at the office ( Yeah, I was supposed to go there.. Sorry). So, after having lodged my bike deep in the parking lot and making my way to the station proper, I found that I had been graced with 10 extra minutes. About turn. Recover Bike. Rush to friend's office. Pick the ticket. ‘Is it necessary to travel like this?’ my friend provokes, handing the ticket. ‘Wrong question, ill-timed. Ciao’)

11. Rush Back. Park Again. Walk back. Board the train. 7.35 PM. Perfection and precision personified. Thanks to my friends who booked, printed and delivered the ticket for me. Thanks to the 140-odd cars for granting me the thrill of over-taking. Thanks to 80-something incoming monsters for training me in night-time war-period biking. Thanks, ye all hapless waiting holidayers for witnessing my ride-by. Thanks Pulsar OR 02 AL 6054 for racing with me in those conditions. Thanks, all cops for giving a biker what he deserves- a ‘What the hell is he up to?’ look! And thank you my readers, for making a mountain out of my molehill exploit. Take Care. Don’t Bike.

Big Brother's Wacthing, Sadly.

I love it when bikes with engines of higher CC than mine, fall behind in a race. In the unofficial, unsaid, unflagged drag races- the winner recieves nothing, and the loser gets a few broken bones (or at least a broken pride). There is no audience to cheer, no attendants to water you or service your machine and no para-medical staff to stitch your pieces together. But, since it is unofficial.. one can take a left swing into any street- signalling the end of the race. No questions asked. The aspect that hurts is the upsetting the orthopaedic set up of your being. An utterly un-asked-for stint in the OT is booked when you skid, slip or fail to stop.

The first Thursday of November 2008 was a meticulously planned day in my organizer. I had to attend a wedding reception at Barabati Palace in Cuttack. And then proceed to Pipli bypassing Bhubaneswar. My trip was to begin from KiiT campus and follow the Nandan Kanan trail through Barang to meet the National Highway at Gopalpur- a railway crossing and ex

-toll gate point. The stretch was the favorite hunt for dumpers, ore-laden trucks and dust-friendly heavy vehicles. By the time I set the Highway coals burning, I was already caked by a unholy layer of red dust. I took the smoke-filled (but dust-free, unclogged) path that took me through OMP, Railway station, Ranihat, Howrah Motors to the Barabati stadium.

Arriving there, I stopped to assess the damage to my appearance. Having un-dusted myself, I wiped my face with my white scarf. Wrong act. I was appalled to see the amount of grime my face had picked up inspite of the helmet. So much for 'feeling the wind in your face'. I was in for a stun when I saw a patch of yellowish dropping on my left shoulder. That I wear whites worsened the case. In the spotless length of my robe, there was this ugly scar. This was a meeting of the elite among Cuttack's Muslims. What an occasion to sport a wildlife insignia ! I painfully conversed with the scores that saw, salaamed and socialised with me. All the while, trying to hold their gaze from straying to that no-so-far away shame-sign on my shin. 

I welcomed the release and sped towards Kathajodi after making a brief stop at Nimchouri to pick up some articles from my depot. Once I was beside the wide river, I cooled to some sense. Near Puri Ghat, I felt some disturbance in the rear. It was a heavy-set person on a 220cc Pulsar trying to push his way out of the usual cow-car-cycle corner. I was breezing at my usual 55 kmph. When this bloke horned his way around me, I let him. I respect Pulsars. They are Big Brothers to Discover- my blue-eyed babe. The higher the CC, the stronger the esteem. I tolerated his overture and let him pass. The traffic stop near Jhangrimangala stalled him. I customarily sneaked to the frontline. A glance at him told me- The Race is ON.

I was at a disadvantage. A document bag flapping in the wind, a long shirt that blew here and there in the draft and a cellphone that kept ringing incessantly. All these were detractors who should not interfere in a serious joke called- Street Racing. The moment it was a GO from the traffic-guy, I screamed ahead. It is always a heartening sight to lose your co-riders in the rear-view mirror. Tells you what a jackass you appear to the normal creatures with your insane elopement. He overtook me near Khan Nagar and I repaid in kind within 200 mts and enjoyed the adrenaline rush of staying ahead of a pack-leader bike in a idiots-full zone. 

When climbing onto the highway, I took a shortcut (risky since you might flip over given the gradient of the incline) and hence attended a call before resuming the madness on a handicap lap of the F.01 Motobike. On this smooth stretch of seamless racetrack called NH-5, the higher bike has an upper hand. I dismiss all tips of pessimism with the recital of the quote, 'It is not the machine that matters, it is the Man'. Who that Man is, would be clear after 19 kms at Rasulgarh in Bhubaneswar (i.e. if this Goliath goes that far). As for the moment, I turn the throttle to max and zip across the bridge on River Kathajodi. He is not too far ahead and I quickly regain my lead. Something snaps in him and he unleashes the remaining CC on the road. Smoke.

After trailing him till the decommissioned toll-gate at Gopalpur, I dig my heels in for a protracted tussle. Forgive me, my frail frau- you've to forbear the force of this fight. Not heeding the implorings of my bike's engine, I glare past him near Bhanpur Pirabazar. I bow low to salute the saint resting by the road- Chand Shah Baba. With his blessings, I keep in him in my rear-vision; dodging speeding three-wheelers and maniacally swerving cars. The dwellers of the fringe villages on this route are saner than their interior counterparts. They look twice and sideways before hazarding a road-cross. And when they sight a biker on boost like me, they call it a curfew. Telengapentha and ADRI saw me the leader of the race. When we slowed near the halted Phulnakhara square, I let him see the glee on my face.

He knew it was a disgrace to smell a bike's smoke that was poorer by almost 100cc. He had a status to maintain, a name to uphold. So, he aggressively started when cleared. But, I can't figure out what it was in me or my bike that again left him stuck among cars and trucks. We were repeatedly side-by-side in a hold-up. But, I managed to steal my way out; once in a 2 mtr gap between two trucks who must have cursed me for trying to make my Mom sad. No way, amigos, are you going to dislodge me from my top-gun post. Pahala (a sweets stop) was sweeter this time as I pictured the distraught biker's face- wrinkled with worries and regrets for lagging behind inspite of superiority. Hanspal and Palasuni giggled when they saw me rushing towards the victory lane. 

Rasulgarh is a massive maelstrom of motorcades puring from VaniVihar, Cuttack Road and Cuttack proper. This is where the Un-race ended. The Big Brother sadly watched me ride into the whirlpool of vehicles and I was on 5th gear to lose him. The undeclared war had been closed. The vanquished had vanished and the victor was very vexed with no one to cheer at him and jeer at the loser. Such a crowd and no adulations. Inwardly, I smiled. For I had not only pulled off an unikely win, but also crushed a feeling of inferiority within me that surfaced everytime a Blackie (that's what I'm gonna call the Pulsars now) strutted its stuff. Henceforth, if any of the Pulsars vrooms by, I shall be content to let them pass. I have humbled their elder brother.

Rash Race with RS in Rush-hr..

After a regular Friday outing, my last stop on way back to the KiiT campus.. was at Arifin. I just wanted to check on the status of classes and say a few Hi's. First, I bump into our cheerful CA, Chinmay (Has a CBZ). He conducts me inside and offers to get the Net going. I agree and settle in front of the swank, black desktop. Meanwhile, a session that was in progress in one of the classrooms- dissolves into a flow of MBA hopefuls who have just been recharged with reasoning fundas by Logic Guru Rohan Sinha (RS).

Rohan is a meek looking geek whom you would pass off for a cheeky Greek. Hang On. Let me hug him. Pat him. "Hey, Long time, No C++". He replies, "Naah, not even Dot Net or ASP." We guffaw together until I noticed the reddish swelling on his upper lip. This guy is a crash-magnet. Every week, he meets with an accident that either gives him a chipped ear, a swollen arm or a black eye. And the narrations that he gives outlining the history behind the incidents are innocently chilling. More later.

After trading word-puns, I suggest shopping to be the next item on our itinerary. I am convinced to the contrary and plans fall through. Instead, the SPIC MACAY performance at our multi-purpose Campus 7 auditorium is up for grabs. We concur and decide to make it there ASAP. Today, this chap has a Bajaj FoolSir 150 to ride back. And I kick my Dicover 125 to life. Arifin is located on the NH-5 but luckily in the shadow of the flyover that diverts much of the traffic. But, a funny traffic arrangement forces you to take a detour of 300 mts before you can carry on with your trip towards either CRP or Chandrasekharpur.

I rev up as usual and zoom onto the tarmac. But, the meek geek is in his zip-mode today. He flies by me signalling a challenge- A Race ! Umm.. Mmm. I'm ready, Chum ! I accelerate and tilt to left to go ahead towards the detour turn. 25 metres past the auto stop, a greedy auto-wallah screeches to a halt in the middle of the 3rd lane to pick up an unsure passenger. I was at 60 and had barely 10 metres to negotiate my way out of peril. Brakes Locked. And the spine-chilling skid stopping centimetres from the sonofawitch's death-carriage. I had no time to curse and snaked out of the slow, 180 degree turning traffic in front of TTD Kalyan Mandap. 

After making the turn I catch up with him to tell that I just escaped an accident and let's get back to business- of getting into accidents! We scare a bunch of rustic cyclists who are crossing the busy lane on foot, trundling their bicycles lousily. A shriek from the horn and a buzz of changing headlights ensured that they scurry for cover. The race officially begins 

from Jaydev Vihar. From under the flyover. 7 kilometres of chocabloc rush-hour traffic. 5.55 PM. Town buses, SUVs, cars, autos, goods-laden lorries, mini-trucks, bikes, bicycles. Absolute mayhem of dizzying lights and screaming horns. Perfect for Me.

I know this guy was no joke the moment he overtook me near Pal Heights. Vrooming away at 75 on the torque fuelled by a 150 engine, he is out of a poor bike's grasp. But, I got other skills to make up. Weaving in and out of the stumbling bumbling four-wheelers and through the maze of scooters and stupid bikes, I leave him in smoke near Fortune Towers and take the edge till NALCO square where a big crowd waited for the green signal. I make my way between the waiting vehicles to the front-line and position myself for the take-off. Yeah, you need to fly now. The stretch between NALCO and Damana is a clean death zone with an average of 3 deaths every month, especially near Chandrasekharpur Petrol Pump.

Rohan somehow manages to sneak up behind me and grins at my surprise. We renew the challenge and set our watches. I drape the loose end of my turban about my face to avoid smoke, dust, dirt and recognition. Green. Launch Time. I fly away on an angry-sounding engine into the slow car-mass that had come from Sainik School side and had just been let off.. The landmarks pass in a flurry of seconds- Railway Bhawan, CSPur Petrol Pump, OMFED, Nigama Comp. But, all the while I can sense the struggling Pulsar on my side. Damana square is just emptying and I make up the fag-end of it. Dunno if he scrapes through or gets stuck.

The bottlenecks near Club-City and InfoCity square are a real test. Cattle conferences are in progress at all times of the year. Reebok Showroom and Koel Campus are distractions in a really lethal part of the 6-lane tar-patch. And Kanan-Vihar Phase II is the choice for the bumpkins to commit suicide for sundry reasons. Just walk into the lane- And the next moment you might be playing the harp. I don't care or dare to check on him- my fellow racer- Rohan. My concern is Magnet Square which is the ultimate bend in the road. A 7 metre-wide passage to let trucks, wagons, cars, cows, bikes, babes and as-wholes to go towards or away from KiiT. I bully my way into the mess and out of it. I have a race to win.

The lazily walking couples and friend-packs have no idea about what the bikers have at stake. They walk on the wrong side of the road and jump puddles as if they are in a park. Darkness aggravates the situation. And the crowded restaurants and shops on either side had mess up my target. Nevertheless, I go like a hot knife through a slab of butter until Chintan Square from where you turn left for Campus 7. This stretch houses the nastiest of potholes, pothills and stop-signs. 

10 seconds is all that I take to reach the parking lot where I kill the engine. 10 seconds later, Rohan grins his way in. Something compels him to scream, "I've won". I disgree emphatically and table my stats. He switches to the morbid pictures of cheating death on two occasions- once stuck between two trucks and another of almost ramming into a two-wheeler. I brush him off with my experience but was shaken nonetheless. 7 kilometres in 6 minutes. Sweeet. We compare our shivering palms and stride into the foyer of the auditorium. Seeing the humdrum drummers I refuse to go inside. He makes a classic statement: "Come on, Isn't this what we risked our lives for?". I realise, how cheaply I had bet my LIFE. I repent. But, race.. I will.