On the road. Again.

"I smiled. Long. Hard. With cheeks paining. With tears streaming. Shades gleaming. Wind screaming. I smiled.

I shouted. Gulped down an insect. Maybe he wanted to share my joy. He's a part of me now. Changed gears. Top gear. Top joy. Top dog."

A miserable attempt at writing in a style that's not really mine. Why I attempted it, I can't say. The thing is that I went on a long and tiresome but fulfilling motorcycle ride yesterday. Just thought I'd write about it differently. Didn't work I guess.

8 O' clock on a Sunday morning and I'm hungover as hell. The bottles of beer are still clinking in my head. Wait! There was a quart of Rum too. That explains the nausea. I know I shouldn't mix my drinks. But I end up doing just that. Always chasing that elusive high.

I need grease. To settle my stomach. Bacon sizzling on the pan. Shouldn't have bought it from Nilgiris. Too less fat for it to stew in by itself. And bird flu eggs. Hah! Wouldn't it be a laugh to die of an avian influenza after living a life of booze and dangerous living. Just the twist God needs to complete my sick fucked up story.

The bacon did some good and the beer did a lot more. Hair of the dog. Do you know what they call it that? Apparently in the olden days, it was believed that the very thing that causes the problem, could cure you. So if a dog bit you, you'd pluck a few hairs off the dog, burn it and rub it on your wound. Hah! Good luck with a Cobra bite.

I seem to spend more time preparing for a trip than on the trip itself. Flash light. Check! Tinned food. Check! Swiss knife. Check! Towel. Check! I think I'm stalling. I love travelling. But I hate starting.

I force myself on the bike. My backpack trussed up behind me with some bungee cord. Now wait a minute and look at the bungee. It's supposed to set someone free. It just tied my pack down. That's life for you. You invent things for some noble purpose and others come around and fuck it right up. Nuclear power. Dynamite. It's the same with everything.

Full tank and I'm off. Sunday morning traffic. Sparse and well dressed. People going to church to sin. Stare at the girl in the front row with a wedgie in her skirt. Visible panty line. "Give us today our daily peep. And deliver us our trespasses!"

Knopfler's in the air. "The Lord is my shepheard. He leadeth me through pastures green. He gave us this day. Our daily bread and Gasoline!." That's so rich, I hum it. Over and over. Untill I'm fucking it up with my own version. Sorry Mark.

I wear my new 900 Rs. sunglasses. I've lost count of the number of shades I've bought and lost. Police, Ray Bans, DKNY. They've all been procured, used and left behind at some obscure place within a week. This time I buy some cheaper brand called Miami Blues. In fucking Bannerghata road. That's rich.

I'm heading for Mysore. Making good time. The road's good in parts. Some places it's just fucked up. The bike feels good. I borrowed it off a friend who also owns a Santro. Imagine that. Poles fucking apart. That's life again for you.

Am I philosophising too much? Maybe it's the road. I get like that when I ride solo.

Reach for a cigarette. Couldn't find Classic Regulars. Had to settle for Milds. I don't like Milds. It'll kill you slowly. Not "El Macho" enough for me. I've perfected the art of lighting up while riding. A dangerous maneuver, but then so is crossing the street. Statistically more people around the world would have died crossing roads than lighting a cigarette on a motorcycle. I'm sure of it.

Reaching Mandya. Some fucked up town on the way to Mysore. The funny thing is that the road's pretty good all the way till a town limit. Then the road disintegrated to a mish-mash of gravel, slush and pebbles. If they could maintain the road for 30 kilometers between the towns, can't they just do a few more kilometers within them? Maybe some kind of bureaucratic fuck up. The road inside the town probably comes under the purvey of some town planning commission, while the road outside probably belongs to the National Highway Authority. Just the sort of idiotic thing that's bringing this country down. I swear. Give me the job of the Prime Minister for a month and see what I'll do.

Not fucking likely. Anyway I'd probably pish away the taxpayers money on some rave parties. But there's one good think I'd do. Legalize Marijuana. That alone should make me hugely famous. Almost as much as Gandhi I'd like to think.

Reached Srirangapatnam. Tipu Sultan's summer palace. Now it's just a few boulders and sections of walls by the side of a river. They say he was sold out by his own kin. A pretty fucked up way to die. No wonder the kings always kept their relatives at an arms length. My parents did that with me too. But that's whole new can of worms. Let's not even go there.

I find a nice spot by the river. Disembarked and disrobed I wade in. The water's perfect. Also perfect for the crocodiles that inhabit this area. This place's not really crocodile country but Tipu Sultan had them brought here to lend more sting to his moat. Now that their services have been dismissed with, they'r left free to prey on other animals and not humans. Only they don't know it. They still eye the visitors who come to eye them. "Do not eat the exhibits" they should be briefed.

I climb one of the large rocks in the river. I'm feeling vary. "My spider sense is tingling". Suddenly I don't want to be in the water anymore. But there's a 20 foot body of water between me and safety. This is not good. But what's the worst that can happen. I'll be dinner. My clients eat me for breakfast everyday anyway. Fuck it. I jump in and swim back to shore.

A can of baked beans and garlic bread later, I'm feeling good. I'm dry. Contented and feeling good about myself. I hear laughter in the distance. It's bunch of college kids. Perfet timing. They can't see me now but they will any moment now. I'm naked. I reach for my trousers and then let it go. Serves them fucking right for fucking up my day.

I lie back in my naked splendour and wait. The boy sees me first and stops. The girl next. Another girl and boy round the corner and see me and stop too. Faces flushed, they turn back. They can't see my eyes for my shades. Thank you Miami Blues. They leave. Talking in hushed tones.

I doze off again. When I wake it's 5 O' clock. Need to be getting back. I head back to the road again. I see a Qualis parked some distance away. The kids are there. They giggle as I ride by. I don't care. I'm on the road. Again.