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.