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.
