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.