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.
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