Being taken for a ride Part 6

Going on a bike ride teaches you many things about going on a bike ride, understandably, but it also provides the opportunity to learn many other 'life lessons', whether you want them or not. Day 6 was such a day and it taught me the lesson of patience, extreme patience, patience when you feel you will scream with frustration and impotent rage.

Today we planned to go to see another waterfall and a fort, both surrounded by yet more beautiful countryside. Notice the use of the word 'planned'? In India, plans have to be large, stretchy, elastic things that must stretch, fit and mould themselves to the unpredictable, the unexpected and the impossibly unbelieveable, or they will just twang off into oblivion and failure.

Coincidentally, this particular elastic plan was subject to the vagueries of actual rubber. As in tyres. Punctured ones. We set off for the waterfall, a little later than probably planned, I don't know when we planned to leave but I'm pretty sure it was earlier than the late mid-morning hour that we set off.

I was on Vishu's bike today, a lovely, beautifully-designed Enfiled Bulet with a seat not designed for my delicate Princess and the Pea constitution. It was firm and unforgiving. We'll leave it at that.

Not long after we set off, someone who shall remain nameless (because I can't remember who) developed a puncture. We waited while they started to fix it. I was getting used to this kind of thing happening now and it didn't bother me, especially when someone decided that some of us, including Vishu and me, should carry on to the lunch stop, as we had pre-arranged our order with a little village food stall and he wanted to ask them to hold it for a while.

The comforts of the village food stall when we reached it were few. A couple of hard benches, considerably firmer than Vishu's saddle, were at our disposal outside, so I made use of their uncomfortable convenience. It was hot and sunny and by now, the early afternoon sun was slanting right under the canopy that covered the benches, so there was not much shade, unless we wanted to sit in the dust by the side of the road under some trees and be sand-blasted by grit as traffic drove past. We chose the benches.

Waiting for the others was a real test of my patience. My back was very tired from the long hours of riding I wasn't used to - probably more tired than I imagined - and it had started to go into the spasms it gets when the muscles have been overused. All I wanted to do was go home and lie down but I couldn't. I had to wait for the others. We all had to wait for the others. The other guys I was with seemed to be fine, lounging around and chatting. They were used to this. If there were an award for services to waiting by the side of a road, they would proably all share it for lifelong service in this field of unusual endeavours.

They knew, as I didn't, that patience was as much a part of being in 60kph as riding amazing roads. Unlike me, they had probably all had problems with their bikes in the past while out on group rides and had all had the whole group wait for them. They knew the value of waiting and knew the sense of security it must give to the person who would otherwise be on his own with his bike and his problem. One member's problem was every member's problem. They were all in it together.

I am not a particularly patient person, so extended periods of doing nothing while waiting for something to happen do not bring out the best in me. In fact, they bring out the dragon in me. Any small injustice or inconvenience I perceive during such time - queue-jumping, slow officialdom, unnecessary pedantry or form-filling - seems to be magnified ten-fold and I can flare into a growl or full-blown fire-spitting rage in an instant - just ask Aleks. This time I was calm and controlled and seething with impatience on the inside. But they did seem to be taking an extraordinarily long time...

We decided to eat while we waited for them, otherwise there wouldn't be room for us all in the tiny village shack. I sat down with Shantanu and hungrily devoured my meal. And here I learned the value of waitng and patience. As we ate, we began to talk and a very interesting talk it was too. And I wouldn't have had the opportunity to have it, had I not been waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

Shantanu was one of the Bang Gang (the members from Bangalore) and worked in the software industry. He was not the geek of stereotype but a fascinating and intelligent man. He had a bright, open and expressive face. He wore little rectangluar glasses which he would keeping pushing up his nose whenever he got excited about something. Somehow we got to talking about schools (I notice I often find myself 'somehow' talking about certain subject, as in India conversations seem to range far and wide rapidly) and he told me that, although he was Hindu, he had gone to a Catholic school. I was surprised.

'But weren't your parents worried that they would try to convert you or something?' I asked
'No, it was the best school around, which is why they sent me.' But his grandmother was the one who was concerned for the religious safety of her grandson. Shantanu told me that she would tell him endless stories of the Hindu gods and goddesses to make sure he kept his faith intact, instead of being influenced by the religious politics of his school.

This struck me as fascinating that India should also have the school lottery, in a country where faith and its demonstration and practice is so much stronger than back home. I would have thought it would be obvious that Hindu parents would send their son to a Hindu school. But then I thought again. Why should Indian parents be any different to English ones? They still want the best education for their children and if this means sending them to a school that teaches a faith that is not the faith of their choosing or birth, then it is reasuring that they can exercise that choice.

Shantanu had also exercised his religious choice but in a different way. Rather than believing in all the myriad Hindu gods and goddesses, their alter-egos, re-incarnations and their stories, which he dismissed as nonsense and fairy tales, he had chosen to pick one goddess in whom he believed. Sadly I can't remember which one it was but Shantanu was very matter-of-fact about it, saying that he believed in her because she made sense and had helped him in life. And you couldn't argue with that.

We were still waiting and eventually, after over an hour of waiting, though it seemed like more, the others arrived. The initial puncture had run into complications. When they were changing the trye they had managed to make a hole in the spare inner tube before even getting it on the bike. This meant they'd had to find a new inner tube at a nearby garage and use that one. No-one seemed in the slightest put-out by this added and avoidable delay. I felt bad. I was there for the ride providing nothing of use nor ornament to anyone else, rather inconvenience and added weight. Yet I was the one moaning - albeit internally - about something which everyone else was much more within their rights to be annoyed about. I felt suitably humbled and vowed that I would not allow future waits to torment me. As much. If possible.

After the others had eaten it was too late to go to the waterfall so we carried on to the fort to get there before sunset. The roads were similar to the off-road track and I had to get off and walk the last few hundred yards of the way. I arrived at the bottom of the hill on which the fort stood just in time to see Jaan, Vikram and Sanjou attempting to ride their bikes up the impossibly steep grassy slope. Vishu was at the bottom, urging them not to do it. This was why they did it. A biker told he cannot or should not do something on his bike will inevtably insist on doing that very thing. They got stuck about halfway-up.

Leaving the bikes there for the time being we trudged the rest of the way up to the top in time to catch the dying light. The view was worth the climb and the stuckness of the bikes. On all sides, rolling hills piled away into the distance, covered with a golden-brown carpetof gently waving grass that, in the distance, looked as soft as moss. Wooded slopes made patches of bobbled green and here and there the arc of dirt tracks cut into the side of the hills. The sky was a hazy white and the sun cast long iron shadows.

Back at the bottom of the hill Vishu and I helped get the bikes back down by watching as the other got them down. While they were still up there, a bike loaded down to scraping point with three local lads came easily up the dirt track. Bikers or not, these guys knew how to ride off-road! They stopped to chat to Vishu, who spoke Kannada and, idly listening in, I heard him saying the word 'movie'. I was not surprised. He must be saying that some movies had been filmed here. I could see why, as it was a truly beautiful location. When the others came down, Jaan looking like the archetypal mean biker in his protective gear and aviator shades, Vishu said something to him in Hindi. He nodded and said a few words to each of the locals and gave them a manly handshake. Odd!

When we got back to the rest of the group, the guys were in hysterics. My understanding of the conversation had been totally wrong. Vishu had told the locals that Jaan was famous actor who played villians in Bollywood movies. They totally believed the story and, awed to be in his presence, had asked Jaan for photos of themselves with him and wanted to know if he had a Facebook page they could join. Jaan had played along perfectly.

We had just time to go to a viewpoint very close to the fort before it got dark. Rolling out below us, as far as the eye could see, there were soft, wooded hills. At the bottom of one, so far away and tiny, was a train track going into a tunnel. What a beautiful ride that would would be - and not on a bike.

For a day that had started off so badly, I now felt amazing. I could never tire of the privilege of seeing such beautiful and remote scenery. Idly I wondered if I would have a phone signal here, as I hadn't been able to call anyone in days. As I took my phone out of my bag to look, it miraculously began to ring in my hand. It was Aleks! By pure coincidence he had decided to ring me at the one moment in the week when I was able to talk to him. Hearing his voice on the top of that hill, so far from anywhere, I felt on top of the world!

Being taken for a ride Part 5

Unlike yesterday, today there was a plan, but just because there was one didn't mean things went according to it. The plan was to ride to a site where those who dared could ride their bike off-road.

But first, we all trooped out for a tour of Vishu's plantation. Under the tall trees, the coffee was growing rich and dark, its little red beans almost ready for picking. The mood was carefree and everyone was laughing and joking, as we all posed for a group photo straggling up and over a fallen tree trunk.

Laddish behaviour burst through at the sight of a tree and soon everyone was clambering over it, vying to get to the top. Boys and trees. There must be some primal hard-wired connection that makes the sight of one just too irrestistible. Even if said tree is on its side and leading nowhere, a man in possession of two legs will feel an instinctual urge to climb it. So that's what they all did. I squeezed into a small space left over and, fists and voices raised, Vinod captured us in our giddy excitement.

We set off for the off-roading. I'd arranged to go on Dipsi's bike, as CP told me he didn't want to risk damaging his bike. In the end he and everyone, apart from Anu, came along anyway.

Like CP's bike, Dipsi's was a sports bike, but more of a scrambler, so better suited to the riding over rough ground. I climbed on, hoping it would be more comfortable than CP's saddle. It was. I knew that believing in the initial comfort was tempting fate after the first two days' experience but as the off-road location wasn't far I thought I 'd be fine.

The road there was rough enough for my liking anyway, as pot-holed and rutted and stone-strewn as the day before and I was pleased that I wouldn't be able to share the bike when we came to the place, as my additional weight would be too much of a destabilising factor.

The road wound through the same leafy-green jungle we'd passed through to get to Vishu's plantation and it was a lovely, cool, if bumpy ride. We jolted past plantations, bumped through villages, thudded by farms and bounced up and down hills. Sometimes there were miraculously smooth stretches, where we sped river-swift over the miles, but these would suddenly, unexpectedly, rudely disintegrate into dirt and dust, flecked only occasionally with patches of Tarmac.

Eventually we turned off the 'road' onto a red dirt track. It was clearly the route between two places, used by local people on a daily basis. How on earth did they manage? Last year's monsoons had cut deep grooves into the road, shifting mud and silt, to leave a rock- and boulder-littered surface that looked more like a dry riverbed than any form of surface suitable for wheeled vehicles. We went a few hundred yards up the steepish stretch of hill. The bikes in front whipped up billowing clouds of choking terracotta dust that clung to everything. Dipsi accelerated to gain momentum and tugged and pulled the bike first one way, then the other, trying to find the smoothest route up the slope. 'Smooth' is not the word to describe the experience as pillion, however. Clinging to the hand-grip behind the seat, I was thrown about and lurched from side to side, grimacing in ugly concentration. Each time I regained a modicum of comfort, I was again thrown to one side, or forwards or backwards. I was sure I was only a minute away from losing my grip completely and tumbling off he back of the bike with a loud yelp, arms and legs cartwheeling through the air, before landing with a dusty thud, a broken, bruised, wrecked creature. But it didn't happen.

The very same hill I thought would cause my literal downfall, was what saved me from it. The higher we scrambled, the steeper and more rutted and ruined the road became, until Dipsi's bike could get no further. He motioned me to get off, then he did too and pushed his bike up to a flatter, smoother area. I trudged wearily after him through the dust, relieved that the ordeal was now over for me. I'd come along to watch the others ride from a clean, safe distance amyway and had not counted on risking injury and indignity in the process.

'I'll meet you at the top,' called Dipsi, as he hopped back on. I nodded and waved him on. He roared off, dust billowing out behind him. I walked on, spitting out bits of grit and brushing off the icing off the icinf of dust he'd deposited on my hair. When I got to the top, Dipsi had gone on without me. Good! A few others were there, fixing one of the heavy Enfields that had been injured in the ascent. They weren't really suited to the terrain but that didn't stop the guys having a go. After all, what was the point of having a great bike if you didn't test it to its limits.

I sat down gratefully in the shade to wait. They'd picked a good spot to break down.On one side of the track, the ground sloped down to a still, green pool, its surface patched here and there with flat green lotus flower pads and spring-green grass. Tall, slender, silver-trunked trees grew up out of the pool, their shade dappling and dancing on the water. On the near bank, low bushes sprawled, freckled with little fire-red clusters of flowers, humming with scurrying insects and bees. For once, I was happy to wait and have nothing to do.

Some of the other guys seemed to have extended yesterday's rest day mentality. Leaning against a fence post, was Param, still wearing his shin-pads, a red bandana and sunglasses. Resting his head on Param's stomach, Biren lay in an attitude of total relaxation, while CP was stretched out beside the two of them, one hand behind his head. All three were looking on as one of the Sanjays tinkered with his bike. It was quite a touching scene. They were sort of piled on top of each other like a litter of puppies, no hint of awkwardness about invasions of personal space, just an easy familiarity that comes of the trust created through sharing good and bad times with friends.

When the bike was fixed we moved on, this time with me on the back of Satish's bike as Dipsi was nowhere to be seen. The group had somehow got broken up, as some people had stopped riding, others had gone on ahead and we were somewhere in the middle. This was the start of where things began to go wrong.

We moved on to an area by another pool where ther was a small waterfall, gushing cold and clear over the black rocks. At the foot of it, the branches of the trees overhead cut the sunlight into broad, hazy ribbons. It was a magical, ethereal place.

There were only a handful of us there, out of about 20, and every time we moved on to another area, some of the others had already moved on, so we were constantly trying to catch them up. We eventually met back up with them again back at the bottom, where we'd started, only to discover that Abinanden had gone missing. Sanjay raced off to look for him on his dirt bike, but he was nowhere to be seen. Long discussions followed while we waited, getting hotter and hotter, thirstier and thirstier in the little shade we could find. Deep in the hills there was no phone signal either, so we couldn't ring him and even if we could, we couldn't be sure he would have a signal either.

While we waited for any news we tallied up the damage on the bikes. Kaushik had fallen and snapped a wing mirror, so now his Enfield looked like a beautiful shiny butterfly with a broken antenna. I was quite surprised to find out that Satish had also not escaped unharmed. His wing mirror had cracked in a fall.

Satish always seemed to be the sensible one in the group. He had told me on the first day that right from the beginning of 60kph, when he was one of the founding members, he'd always ridden tail in any ride and always would do.

'The tail makes sure everyone is OK, but after the tail there's no-one,' he said, half-seriously, half-smiling. And you couldn't wish for a better tail. Satish was calm and composed and had infinite patience to wait for any stragglers still taking photos, or lagging behind at a chai break. He would sit quietly on his bike, just taking in the scene, waiting while the others goofed around and had the fun. Satish was the ever-present 'glue' that held eveyone and everything together.

And it wasn't just when we were on the bikes either. Satish knew eveything and saw everything. He reminded me of the wise owl in a poem my grandfather used to say:

There was an owl lived in an oak,
The more he heard, the less he spoke,
The less he spoke the more he heard,
Now wasn't that a wise old bird?

At any mealtime, Satish knew who had eaten and who hadn't without asking - even though there were 24 of us - and if one of the guys (or girls) came back for seconds before everyone had had firsts, he would quietly but firmly discourage them until everyone had had a helping. He was also vigilant on behalf of the vegetarians , or 'the veg guys' as he called them. If a spoon that had served meat was seen to hover close to a veg dish, he would carefully give the offending meat-eater another spoon to avoid contamination.

On an earlier occasion, we stopped by a mountian spring to refill our water bottles. A couple of lads brought out snacks to eat. When one of them had finished, he casually tossed the wrapper on the ground. I was a bit shocked at such blatant littering, but didn't feel it was right for me to say anything, so I let it pass. But Satish had seen too and he wasn't going to let it pass. He quietly told the person to pick up their litter, they did and the matter was forgotten. He never berated anyone or made them feel small, just calmly and quietly made sure no awkward situations arose.

Satish was sensible and responsible, so to see him with a broken mirror, having risked his bike in the off-roading was a surprise, but it showed me that he was as keen to have fun as the others and if that meant a little reckless damage then he accepted that with his usual quiet calm.

There was still no sign of Abhinanden, so it was agreed that we would all go back to the farm, in case he'd gone back there, as well as sending someone to the nearby village to see if he'd gone there. We all bounced our way painfully home and by the time we got there, to find a bewildered Anu, wondering where we'd got to, we'd had news that he'd been found safe and well.

The land we'd been off-roading on was the private land of other coffee plantations which we hadn't sought permission to ride over. Some of the farmers seeing hoardes of bikes roaring across their fields had panicked. Apparently in Karnataka state, there was a new movement for farmers' rights and the group was using violent tactics to get their message across. The farmers thought we were something to do with that, so when they stopped Nanden to talk to him, they had taken away his bike keys and refused to give them back. He tried to explain the situation, saying he would call his friends to prove he wasn't a 'farming terrorist', but there was no signal. Eventually they had let him go but not without getting very angry first. Luckily Nanden spoke the local language Kannada. If it had been one of the others, who only spoke Hindi or English, which are not widely spoekn in the state, anything could have happened.

It was a sobering lesson in the importance of keeping the group together. Safety in numbers meant safety in general. Nanden didn't seem too affected by his ordeal and the drinks were soon flowing to celebrate his 'release'.

Being taken for a ride Part 4

Today was a rest day. This meant we would not be travelling anywhere on the bikes. Image my joy to learn that I would not have to endure the pain of the saddle for a full 24 hours. What a lucky girl I was! I could snooze for hours and not worry about packing hurriedly in a state of stupor. I could have a long, languid and luxurious lie-in on my stone-hard, narrow sleeping mat. I was up by 8am. Rubbing my hip bone, bruised and threathening the beginnings of a neat pressure sore from my Sleeping Beauty bed, I stepped out into the early morning.

Actually I had slept pretty well and would be fine once I'd had some chai and breakfast to ease the mild aches. Surprisingly many of the others were up too, and milling sleepily through the dew-covered detritus of last night's fun. The two long rows of domed tents took on the aspect of a mysterious and ancient civilisation, the heavy mist threading between them and clinging damply to their sides. Carelessly uncovered boots, forlorn outside the tents were left with a soft moisture sheen.

Snuffles and great roaring snores and were being emitted still from several tents, some sounding so much like a comedy version of a heavily sleeping man that I grinned involuntarily and tried to smother a giggle of pure childish delight. Thankfully my bare 'cell' in the house had been slightly insulated from the animal gruntings and splutterings of the last few hours, but some had still filtered through. I had drifted off to sleep with it as a strangely comforting sound, rather than an irritant, the proof of a good day's journey and the reward of sleep honestly earned. The bellows that issued (and some of them were bellows, I don't exaggerate) were those of satisfaction, of deep contented unconsciousness. By the end of the week I rather liked them.

When most of us were up, Gauruv emerged from his tent, hair askew, glasses also, looking like he had slept in them be mistake. In his hand he clutched a blue plastic bag. He dipped a hand in the bag began handing out a small packet to each person. I took mine and studied it. It was about an inch square, made of foil and covered in an Indian script. I had no idea what it was or what I was to do with it.

'What is it, Gauruv?' I asked.
'It's just a little ayurvedic medicine, something herbal, nothing dangerous. Just to give you a little trip, as it's a rest day.' I have not fallen for the spell of the ayurvediuc in India, as many people have. To me - and I speak, I admit, from little experience and no knowledge - it seems to be the science of a bunch of weeds and dubious barks, mangled to a bitter, vile pulp that one is either forced to drink, eat or - in my case in Goa - have massaged into the skin via being pounded loudly and hard on the back with hessian sacks filled with an oily mush that smelled like mouldy grass clippings. But the 'little trip' bit I was interested in...

'What do I do with it?' I asked.
'Just put it in your mouth and chew it and eat it.'
'All of it, or just a little bit.?' I didn't know if this packet was one dose or more than one.
'Just eat it,' replied Gauruv, not helpfully. 'It's not illegal or anything. Just a herbal thing.'

I opened the packet to find a flat olive green blob of mushed up weeds and dubious bark. It looked unappetising and smelled of mouldy lawn clippings so I was reassured that it must be ayurvedic. I put it on my tongue and nearly gagged. The first sensation was one of extreme saltiness, followed by a gritty, grassy, nasty vegetable flavour. It was simply inedible. I could feel my stomach heaving and my throat constricting in a reflex to rid my body of it. But willpower is a wonderful thing. In my desire and curiosity to experience Gauruv's promised 'little trip' I forced myself to keep the foul mixture in my mouth. Gagging and nearly choking, I kept it to one side of my mouth, so that the full horror of the flavour would not invade the whole of my mouth. Bit by infinitely small bit, with the aid of glugs of sweet chai (never before has syrupy sweet, sugary tea tasted so good), I dissolved the paste and managed to swallow it and keep it down. Tiny flecks of greenery remained stubbornly in corners of my mouth and every so often my teeth would crunch on a morsel of grit. I felt nauseous. Never before or since have I tasted anything quite so unbearably vile, so gut-churningly awful. When the final bit was gone, I tried to wash away the taste with cup after cup of water but only the taste of something else could rid my brain of the memory, so freshly imprinted on it, of that terrible paste. I found a piece of chewing gum in my bag and sighed with relief as its cool minty balm washed over my tongue and cleansed my mouth and my brain of its recent ordeal.

I sat back and waited for something to happen. While it didn't, I wandered off to see what was happening for breakfast. It seemed to be packets of biscuits, to tide us over until the proper Indian breakfast was ready. Dry, sweet and crumbly, Indians do biscuits very well and that morning their benign familiarity was a bright blessing.

The plan for the day seemed to be that there was no plan for the day. A rest day meant just that. We would stay at the farm and just chill out, relax, sleep and chat, whatever we wanted to do. This would be the perfect opportunity to spend some time with everyone and get to know them better. I was looking forward to it.

Dipsi appeared from round the side of the house and motioned me to come over.
'Me and a few of the guys are smoking some grass if you want to join us,' he offered in a low voice.
'Ok, sure,' I said. It might help me relax and bond with them, and somehow it seemed the thing to do. And anyway Gauruv's ayurvedic trip seemed to be having a rest day too, as I still wasn't feeling any different.

Round the corner, Jaan, Archit and Aalok were standing round waiting for us. Dipsi took out his tiny metal pipe and filled it with a mixture of grass and hash. After he'd lit it and got it going he passed it over to me. I inhaled quickly and deeply, the embers glowing bonfire orange, and nearly coughed as the hot herby smoke filled my lungs. I held it there for a few seconds before blowing it out in a slow steady stream. Just the action of releasing the smoke was relaxing. I rarely smoke anything and am not really used to it, but this felt like the right occasion. I trusted the guys and felt safe with them. I began to feel a little light-headed and tingly but it was a pleasant sensation, almost like the mild, burning warmth you get in your muscles after a stretch.

The tiny pipe didn't go far between the five of us and Dipsi lit another one. I was going to pass on that one, thinking I'd had enough, but as he passed me the pipe again I automatically accepted it. I don't know why I do these things but I do. I felt better now, my body adjusting to it's mildly altered state of consciousness. I didn't feel very stoned, just relaxed, warm and fuzzy. It felt good.

Breakfast proper was now ready and the huge pots of food that looked like the Magic Porridge Pot that would never empty were soon depleted as hungry bikers dug in and took their share. The food (although I can't remember what it was) was good and the spiciness warmed me satisfyingly. It was still cool outside and the heavy mist clung to our clothing, seeping through to give a delicate but perceptible chill. The pale sun was struggling to break through the mist and in a hour or so it would have burned off but for now it was still cool.

The effects of the grass seemed to have worn off already and I felt normal, as I rinsed my plate and cup with water from one of the huge plastic barrels that we filled with water everyday pumped from the well. Now what to do with the rest of my day. It was decided for me when Dipsi again came over and told me that he and some of the others were going to the well and would I like to go and see it? It was just a short walk away, so I agreed.

We turned right out of the plantation and down a grassy track slope in the direction of the well. On either side were low thorny hedges, behind which grew coffee bushes, their berries almost ready for picking. Fat blood-red beads in big heavy clusters along the branches, they glistened under the shiny thick green leaves. Dipsi plucked one.

'You can eat it,' he said. I put the whole thing in my mouth. It tasted slightly sharp, not as sharp as a sloe, but similar. The red casing and a thin green layer of flesh under it was soft but the green coffee bean inside was hard and cracked under my teeth. I chewed, spitting bits of the bean that were too tough.

'Mmm, it's ok,' I said, 'but the bean is a bit hard.' Dipsi laughed.
'You're only supposed to eat the bit around the outside.'
"Oh, I didn't know that,' I said with a sheepish grin.

By now we'd reached the well, a circular concrete structure about waist height with a metal grille and winch over it. As the guys struggled to get the grille off, I looked at the countryside around me - and was very surprised. It looked exactly like England!

The grassy track sloped down to a tumbledown Constable-country gate, made out of three wooden poles and below it a meadow spread out, dewy green and flat. Behind that rose a wooded hill covered with trees that looked just like the broad-leaf forests of England. Through the meadow a little stream wound its way and on both sides of it, a handful of grey buffalo grazed idly, looking, but for their long curved horns, just like gentle English cows in their pasture. The low early morning sunlight and the dew-soaked grass gave it a cool northern hemisphere light that completed the picture. I couldn't believe it! It could have been a country scene taken from somewhere along the banks of the River Cam and dropped complete in every detail into the centre of the Indian jungle. I was totally and utterly stunned out of all proportion to what was in reality a mild coincidence. How could India - wild, exotic and vibrant - possibly mimic the exact contours, subdued tones and shades and of my beautiful England? It didn't seem possible. It was amazingly, magically strange.

As I looked on at my 'English' scene in sheer wonderment, I began to notice that the edges of my vision were a little bit fuzzy and that everything sounded a little muffled, as if heard through a blanket over one's head. I lifted my hand and through the fuzzy tunnel of my vision it moved slow and languid, as though underwater in slow motion. My body felt slack and heavy and every movement was a slow, long sweep that trailed off into stillness. I realised with a sudden, appalling, sickening clarity that cut through my fluffy state that I was now totally stoned! The vile herbs and the grass combined were, an hour after taking them, finally having an effect. I was high and it was only 9am!

I looked over to the other guys, mortified to see if they had noticed me behaving strangely, if indeed I was. I now couldn't be sure. They were all busy peering into the well and seemed to have forgotten me. With relief, I began to explore this new state I found myself in. The fuzzy-limbed feeling and the slow movements felt similar to being drunk and I suddenly felt so tired I didn't think I could stand. I sank down exactly where I stood and sat cross-legged, the sharp grass prickling my legs through my trousers. My brain was empty of thought except one: that the guys should not know how stoned I was, as they didn't seem to be affected by it at all and it was mortifyingly embarrassing to be the only one so hugely, catastrophically tripping.

In a daze I looked unseeing at the vegetation in front of me. As I stared, a vine that was hanging down from one of the trees, seemed to lift out of the scene and stand out in front of everything else like in a 3D film or a Magic Eye picture. As I scanned from left to right, it stayed there, hovering above everything, perfect in every detail. I was quite impressed. Now I set my eyes on a patch of small scarlet flowers and, after a few seconds staring, they too rose from the background to meet me, dancing like tiny butterflies, their colour glowing and unreal. I heard laughter from the guys looking into the well at something, but it was loud and unreal, sounding as though it was in my head and reverberating long after I am sure they had stopped laughing.

Someone called me over to have a look at how they were drawing the water. With a huge effort of concentration, I unfolded my leaden limbs, arranged my face into what I guessed to be a natural-looking smile and walked over, negotiating the uneven ground through my fuzzy-edged vision. Peering into the well, I could see a neon green plastic water carrier bobbing up and down on the surface, as someone tried to submerge it. I couldn't' think of anything to say, I was without a single word, just experiencing.

But reality was intruding. The lads were going to have a wash and Satish didn't think I should be there. Brightly and ever so tactfully he said, 'Bridget, I think they're making some really nice food back at the camp, you should go and have a look.' My brain was so dulled I didn't register the subtext of what he meant.

'Oh no, that's OK,' I replied. 'I'm not really interested. I'll just stay here with you guys.' He looked at me carefully and said slowly, 'No, I think you'd find it really interesting.' Now the penny dropped.
'Oh,' I said, with a laugh that seemed to come from miles away, not inside me. 'You're trying to get rid of me.' Even as I said it I was appalled at my boldness. Where had that come from? What was I saying? I had to get out of there before I said something even more stupid.

Satish laughed. 'Well, I was trying to put it tactfully and subtlely.'

I turned to go, dragging my heavy limbs with me. The other guys seemed completely oblivious to this exchange and to me, so I thought they wouldn't even notice that I'd left. The walk back up the slope to the plantation was a trek of a thousand miles. The faster I willed my legs to go, the slower and longer they seemed to take every step. It was only a couple of minutes but it felt like hours. All I wanted to do was lie down and try to stop the whirling in my head.

When I got back to the plantation everyone else seemed to be occupied and didn't notice my return. I slipped away into my little room and lay down on my sleeping bag. As I lay there totally immobile I realised I couldn't even feel the hard mat underneath me or the floor or the sleeping bag. I was enveloped with a sense of total and utter relaxation, the like of which I've never had before. My body felt like fluid, moulded to the ground in the most comfortable position I had ever held in my life. I couldn't and didn't want to move a muscle. I lay there for a while, I don't know how long, eyes closed but not sleeping.

During this time, several people came in to the house, where they had stored things just outside my room. I could feel them looking at me for a few moments, but I ignored them all, not wanting to leave my blissful state. Eventually Anu came in and asked softly, 'Bridget, are you OK?' I was forced to answer.

'Yes, I'm fine. I just took that thing Gauruv gave us and I felt a bit strange so I came to lie down.'
'Are you  sure you're OK? I came in a couple of times and you didn't move, so I was just checking you were alright.'
'I'm fine. What was it anyway? Do you know?'
Yes, I think it was bhang, but I'm not sure.'
Bhang! Now I understood. According to my guide book bhang is a strong form of marijuana that is legal in some areas. It can have quite a strange range of effects and the Lonely Planet said it should be used with caution.

Anu had taken some too, but not the whole packet and she seemed to be fine. Later that day found her curled up asleep in my room too, the effects having taken that bit longer to work on her. I'd taken the whole lot and smoked extra grass to boot. No wonder I was tripping so strongly!

I thought maybe some fresh air would do the trick so I went outside. Only about half the guys were there, all sitting in the shadow cast by the building, the only shade in the place. I sat down next to Dipsi.

'That stuff Gauruv gave us was really strong. I feel really weird.'
'I know. Everyone is tripping too,' he said with a grin and went back to listening to the music that Vinod was playing out on his speaker. It was some 70s prog rock or other and I nearly laughed at how stereotypical it was for stoner music. But I sat there with them too, just staring at my 3D flowers and trees, my mind an empty box. I felt nothing and thought nothing.

Most of the day passed in this way, with the only respite, joining a couple of the guys on a brief trip to a nearby village shop to buy chai. Most of the members had gone off to sleep in their tents at some point and I felt a sense of relief that everyone seemed to have been affected in a similar way to me.

The effects began to wear off about 5pm and preparations began for dinner. Today was the anniversary of the founding of 60kph, and after dinner, we all sat around the campfire. Gauruv wanted to know what everyone thought of 60kph, what it meant to them. Everyone took it in turns to say their bit. The answers that stuck with me were the ones given by Jaan and Anu.

Jaan I had found a little intimidating at first. He seemed quite serious and unapproachable, and certainly at the beginning of the ride, he seemed never to be without his sunglasses so I could never see his face or read his expression. Over the days I got to know him better and found he was a very intelligent and thoughtful man - and good fun too. Not at all the mystery I'd originally thought him to be. Being a member of 60kph, he said, had given him the confidence in himself to ride alone. He had ridden on his own before but always worried about what might happen if things went wrong. He told of a time when he was supposed to go on a ride with two other members but they both had to drop out for some reason. Instead of giving up the ride, he decided to do it on his own anyway and realised that he could do it and didn't need to worry about everything as they had taught him what to do if things went wrong and now he had the confidence to do it. He said this with such honesty and humility, admitting to the vulnerability of his fear, that I warmed to him a lot that night.

Anu, as the wife of a member, had a different perspective. For her 60kph was a revelation in the personalities of the members. She didn't really know any bikers before and had been surprised at their humility. No-one, she said, tried to outdo anyone else or boast about their achievements, they were all very humble people, whatever their background. I totally agreed with her. Everyone seemed to get on well with each other - rare in such a big group where frictions are always likely to surface eventually - and I can honestly say that there was not one person in the group that I didn't like. There were some I got on better with and spent more time with, but everyone was kind and friendly to me and accepted me for who I was, no bike, no experience and all!

Everyone had different answers, but the theme that kept coming up was that of a family. As a group they did everything together, they supported each other and they were there for each other, just like a family. I was pleased that they all thought that, as that had been my overriding feeling about the group too and it meant I had found a common link with them. As a non-member I didn't want to say anything as it wasn't my place, but their answers gave me great reassurance that they already knew how special their club was, that it wasn't an ordinary club just based around riding a bike but that it was a network of support and friendship that went far beyond a shared love of riding. If they had asked me, that is what I would have said, but in a sense I didn't need to say it. They already knew...

The family feeling was reinforced even more when, after everyone present had said their bit, they started calling members who wren't present and asking them what they thought, using the speakerphone, so everyone could hear. Even though they couldn't come on this anniversary ride, they were no less a part of the family and their opinions were as important. Still a bit sleepy and spaced out from the bhang, I lay down on one of the tarpaulins and drifted in and out of sleep while the guys called member after member. At one point I was woken up when everyone started shouting out to one of the members on the other end of the phone 'We love you!' and getting the response back, 'I love you too!'

I smiled. It was lovely to hear. I had not expected such open displays of emotion from a bunch of tough bikers and, although there was alcohol lubricating the emotional pathways - as always with 60kph! - I knew  the sentiment was still a just and true one.

The night ended after midnight with loud and rowdy hugs all round as everyone wished each other 'happy anniversary' in high spirits and the warmth that comes from the camaraderie of real and genuine friendship.

Being taken for a ride Part 3

Despite the late night and aching muscles, I pulled myself out of bed to take photos of the sun rising over the hills.They were no longer the grey of yesterday, but a misty blue. The jungle and the coffee plantations were still quiet but the clicks and chirps of insects and the crow of jungle fowl was bringing them to life.

One by one, sleepy bikers emerged from the plantation house rooms to take photos or shuffle over to the dead fire from last night, brushing off the dew and specks of tree pollen that had fallen on the chairs overnight. Chai and breakfast followed and the golden light of the sun swept across the scene. CP brought his bike over to the outdoor tap nearby and while the rest of us sat and yawned, watching him and slowly discarding sleep, he cleaned every inch of it meticulously, gently pouring water over it that hung like diamonds from the gleaming metal before dropping and sinking into the red earth below. He wiped every surface dry, as careful as if he were bathing his own child. It hadn't really looked dirty to me before, but now it shone.

Today I wanted to be sure of a softer ride, so as we loaded the bikes, I tucked a wadded sheet over the saddle of CP's bike. I didn't know if it would work but it had to be better than the butt-numbing seat I'd endured the day before.

We set off at 9:30am.Gingerly I lowered myself onto the saddle and tested my new, hi-tech padding system.Success! It felt very comfortable. Just as the unpadded saddle had yesterday. morning. If it remained so after another gruelling day's ride, I would consider it a miracle and patent the idea instantly. For now, all was well...

The day, like us, was fresh and bright and all round us the jade green jungle sang with life. The peppercorn vines were thick scarves of heart-shaped leaves around the elegant, elephant-gray palm trunks and the low sunlight splashed the floor with pools of buttermilk yellow. I longed to stop and watch it. It seemed such an enchanted, magical place, I felt sure if I sat still enough, tiny jungle nymphs would tiptoe out from between the soft damp leaves.

The road soon turned to a blood-red dirt track, snaking through the forest. Storms of fine dust boiled around us as we rode on and I could almost taste its earthy flavour. Riding with my visor up, the cool air stroked my face, carrying its jungle fragrance to me. It smelled of moisture and green and life, peace and calm. The sound of our convoy was a soft roar, muffled by the greenery and coming back to us as the sweet purr of a thousand cats.

The road was getting harder to navigate now, but CP rode it expertly (I think!), missing the biggest holes and bumps.With precision aim, he would take a narrow ridge between two craters, that seemed the only viable course. He controlled the weight of the bike with total calm, and I never worried that we would slip and fall. Because of this, the ride was comparatively smooth and my expert padding was doing its job. CP was in his element too. Holes in the dense tropical foliage framed for us sweeping panoramas of misty, tree-covered slopes, rolling back to the undulating blue horizon. As we passed one of these spots, he let out an involuntary whoop and shouted over his shoulder to me, 'I'm loving it!' His mood was infectious. I couldn't help smiling too, a wind-dried grin. The mountains rose up tall and bold on all sides, wooded slopes or bare scrubby yellowish grass and damp black rock outcrops. We were now in the Western Ghats range.

Curling round corners, we leaned satisfyingly low into the bends, me attempting - but not always succeeding - to move as one with CP as he'd told me to, before flipping back upright, each successful corner a tiny victory of strength over gravity. Higher and higher we climbed, each turn another achingly beautiful vista, as the hazy hills dropped away below us. The air practically shone with freshness and my tired, dust- and pollution-choked lungs drew it in like the most expensive fragrance in the world. You couldn't bottle it, because it wouldn't be the same without the view that created its purity.

Mid-morning we reached a spectacular viewpoint and parked the bikes in a horseshoe on its flat top. Vinod took more pictures, everyone punching the air or pointing skywards, big grins of pure joy on our faces. We all knew how lucky we were to be seeing this place in this way. Opposite the viewpoint, a huge, steep grassy hill rose up with a narrow track up to its summit. Some of us scrambled up to the top.Every few metres, I stopped to turn and look at the view, our horseshoe shrinking smaller and ever smaller, perched on a precipice it seemed, with the hills and mountains rising and falling all around it.

Sanjay had brought along his dirt bike and now he tried to ride up the hill. It seemed impossibly steep but Sanjay was a professional. Quiet and slight, and greatly respected by the others, he had been a stuntman and competitive rider in the past, so of anyone could do it, it would be him. Taking a run-up from the flat viewpoint to gain momentum, he roared up the hill, pulling and twisting the handlebars to zig-zag back and forth. But the ground was much more bumpy and uneven than its grass covering made it look. His first attempt got about a quarter of the way up. Back at the bottom, he tried again, watched by the others, all shouting advice, instructions, encouragement. Gauruv, standing near me said, 'He'll be fine if he just follows the track,' and hollered his advice to Sanjay. The engine bellowed with the strain of the acceleration and puffs of brown dust kicked up behind him. This got him halfway up, to cheers and whoops from everyone. We couldn't see his face behind his visor, but the set of his shoulders showed his determination. Again and again he forced his bike up the hill, the chunky tyres trying to gain traction in the loose dirt and stones. Eventually he managed about three-quarters of the hill's height, which was as far as he got. This was still an impressive achievement.

I continued to climb the hill, reaching the top breathless, legs shaking. The view was beautiful, with soft mountains as far as the eye could see, fading to mist and nothingness. Birds of prey circled languidly on rising thermals and insects chattered, hidden in the long grass. Otherwise there was silence. Pure, stilling silence. I was filled with a sense of total contentment and gratitude. I would never have seen this place if it weren't for CP and his friends. I felt so privileged.

Back at the bottom of the hill we got ready to leave, when someone's bike was found to have a flat. I went to sit in the shade of a nearby tree to write while I waited. I'd been there about 10 minutes when it was decided that the group would split up and a few bikes would stay back while the rest of us carried on. We rode on through postcard scenery on all sides, dwarfed by the mountains all around. Ever upwards we rode, until we reached the top and began to descend the other side towards the plains again. Hairpins flicked back and forth, CP leaning lower with every curve, whooping long and loud with happiness. I held my breath, excitement tinged with nerves. I love riding the curves and bends, maybe because there is always for me a grain of doubt that we will make it, always a fear that the bike might skid out from under us. It's a fairground ride of quick prickles of anxiety, rewarded with long highs of relieved elation. There's nothing quite like it!

The trees had changed now and we tunnelled through dim arched greenery, slim black trunks, iron bars against the lime-green sunlight. Down on the plains, dry fields spread out, studded with large rectangular mounds of straw, big as houses. But for the palm trees, it could have been an English summer scene.

But the scenery, beautiful though it was, was not quite distraction enough for the discomfort of the saddle that pierced my contentment. As I'd predicted, my saddle padding was no longer enough to shield me from the constant punishment of bouncing over such rough roads. Gripping with my legs and heels to cushion the impact, they were now starting to cramp up too. I was beginning to come to the realisation that long-distance riding is as much about mental endurance as physical and if I could ignore the pain it would be fine. Sometimes this was possible, as the landscape, towns and village scenes distracted my attention and the pain faded. Other times it was not.

Soon we passed the town of Chikmangalure and I knew this was near our destination. I knew nothing. On and on we rode, minutes dragging into hours, each jolt the tick of another agonising second. Three hours after passing Chikmangalure, we turned off the rutted, potholed hell that called itself a road and down the red dirt track leading to Vishu's coffee plantation, where we would be camping for the next few days. I could have cried with relief. We had covered 180km and I had felt every one!

But there was no time to rest. It was getting dark and we had to pitch the tents, never mind start the cooking. Vishu's place was a working farm and not somewhere he lived, so the plantation building was nothing more that a simple white building with a few basic storage rooms and water that had to be pumped from a nearby well. There was electricity but power cuts were common, so everyone had head torches.

The ground sloped down steeply to one side of the building, planted with coffee bushes shade-grown under tall trees. To the other side, a flat grassy area had been excavated.This was where we would pitch our tents.

To give CP some privacy and space in his tiny one-man tent, I found a corner in one of the empty storerooms and spread out my new sleeping mat and bag. I lay down to test it and found it to be as comfortable as a solid plank! I padded it a little with the useless sheet I'd used on the bike, but it didn't make much difference here either. I wasn't too concerned. I was so tired I knew I would sleep anyway.

Meanwhile the boys had pitched their tents and Aradhana was directing prep for dinner. Under her direction, mounds of onion, chilli and tomatoes had been taken from one of the storerooms and were being chopped by hungry volunteers.Someone else had lit a wood fire in a little stove outside and was brewing up chai for everyone. In the shadows away from the light, a surprisingly sleek, golden stray dog with sad brown eyes watched and sniffed hungrily, cowering with fearful flattened ears when anyone approached.

As the food cooked, the drink came out and we sat down to relax and discuss the day's ride. During the day, several of the guys had started to come over and talk to me during the breaks in the ride, asking me about my time in India, and now everyone seemed more open and relaxed around me. I felt at ease flitting from group to group, joining in the conversation where I could. After a delicious and powerfully spiced dinner, we pulled out chairs and tarpaulins to sit on. A thick swirling mist had formed as night fell and now it dampened everything with a fine, cool coating of moisture.

Suddenly, without warning, my induction was to take place. Gauruv called out and asked me to stand in the middle of the circle.

'We want you to tell us a bit about yourself, but first you have to have a drink.' Well, it came as no surprise really.

'OK,'I laughed, 'but what is it?'
'It's 60kph holy water,' called out Bhuvan, who was in charge of mixing it.

Of all the members, Bhuvan was the one who most closely resembled my image of a biker. A huge barrel of a man, he had close-cropped hair and a thick, slightly greying handlebar moustache. The only detail that didn't match were the little pearl studs he wore in each ear. He was one of the ones who wore 'serious' biking gear, rustling protective trousers held up with braces stretched tight over his stomach. But I came to know him as a very gentle, kind and patient man. He was always the first to volunteer for the cooking duties and quietly chopped or sliced for what seemed like hours.The first night at the coffee plantation house, he had quietly watched my useless attempts to photograph the flickering bonfire, before showing me how to do it, by using many of the settings on my camera that I didn't even know I had. He was a skilled photographer and throughout the ride I would see him crouched intently over an insignificant plant or insect, taking beautiful close-ups, while the rest of us clicked away at the more obvious scenery.

Bhuvan's 'holy water' was a strong tea-coloured brew of neat rum, vodka and whiskey, presented in an elegant plastic cup. He handed it to me to drink in one go. Knowing this to be a test, I threw it back to whoops and cheers from the lads as I shuddered and raised the empty cup triumphantly to the sky. Mercifully the rest was not so bad. They asked me questions about myself and asked if I had any for them. Naturally none would come to mind, but one: 'Now I've had my induction, I asked, 'does this mean I'm a member of 60kph even though I can't ride and don't own a bike?'
'No,' replied Gauruv, with a smile. Fair enough. The way everyone had treated me so far, I felt like a temporary member anyway for that week, so I was happy with that.

Anu was subjected to the same grilling, squirming awkwardly in the spotlight. They asked her to say something in French and she turned to me for help. Suddenly, somehow the conversation turned to the greeting that spoke when Vinod switched on his portable speaker. It said in English in a seductive female voice, 'I'm on and ready to go.' They wanted me to record a translation in French. Vinod disappeared to get his mobile and speaker and soon I found myself surrounded by them all, lit by their head torches. Vinod held up his phone to video me saying it. The guys roared with laughter at my first excruciatingly bad attempt but Vinod was not happy. It needed to be more sexy.

'I want your bedroom voice,' he grinned. Mortified I put on the most cheesy, mock-sexy voice I could muster and looked directly at the camera to deliver the line. This was what he wanted. The guys whistled and cheered and my face burned with embarrassment. Suddenly it was a new game.There were so many regional Indian languages spoken by so many of them that they decided it would be a great laugh to get everyone to record the same line in a different language. Hindi, Kannada, Tamil, Rajasthani, Assamese, Ladhaki and many more. My time in the spotlight was over, I thought thankfully. It went on for ages, some guys' brilliant versions leaving many of them practically crying with laughter.

By now it was after midnight and I thought we would soon be off to bed but tomorrow was to be a rest day so no-one had to get up early, so no-one cared. And Gauruv had been creatively inspired. A single street lamp on the hill above the house was shining through a spindly tree shrouded in the damp, swirling mist of the mountains. It cast a white glow that looked exactly like moonlight, filtering softly through the leaves, casting misty bands of grey and silhouetting the tree to perfection. Gauruv decided he wanted to use it in a Bollywood-style movie with me as the heroine. Right there, right now. Oh dear. I knew I should have gone to bed!

Gauruv was director, Vinod producer and Shantanu was choreographer. I hoped I wouldn't have to dance, Indian-style. There are few things more ridiculous than a white woman trying to ape Bollywood moves. I know. I have been that person on Christmas Eve in Goa. I looked ridiculous, I knew, everyone else knew, but the drink didn't care. Here in the mountains it looked as though there would be a repeat performance.

Time for my first scene. Shantanu showed me how to do a 'searching-for-my-lost-love' move where, silhouetted in profile against the 'moon', I should languidly bring my left hand from a position against my forehead elegantly down in front of my face. That was OK, I could do that. After a few false starts, I got the move as they wanted. Then I had to do it again for a mid-length short  - and again for a close-up. The guys crowded round behind the 'camera' (Vinod's phone again) and jeered and joked at my efforts. But it was fun and taking part, even if I looked more like a crippled hunchback than an Indian princess, was part of that fun.

When I looked at my rushes I was amazed. It looked beautiful! My profile, beaky nose and all, was perfectly silhouetted against the 'moonlight' with the delicate, unearthly tree to one side. As my hand dropped you could even make out the detail of one of the charms on my bracelet.Gauruv was a talented man to be able to make this with nothing more than a ham actress, a mobile phone and a streetlight! I was excited and not tired anymore.

Now it was time for the bikes to come into the frame. We shifted location to the side of the house where three of them were parked in a row. Using only their headlamps to light the scene, I was to walk bouncily across in front of them, smiling, my face the only thing seen in the dark.

The guys were still jeering and joking, mostly in Hindi, so I didn't know what insults were being heaped on my shambolic efforts. Vinod was shouting directions, Shantanu mimicking the moves I was to do - to more derision from the spectators - and Gauruv was tutting over my expression that looked more like I'd just smelled an Indian public toilet, than was happy in love.

After a few takes I got it to their satisfaction. Gauruv had done it again! My inanely smiling face, sadly the only thing visible, was softly side-lit by the bike lamps as I moved through the scene. Even lit up, he'd managed to make me look OK.

Then the moment I'd been dreading happened. I had to dance.

'Just move as you would if you were dancing naturally,' said Shantanu, 'but it needs to look Bollywood.' Poor Shantanu was not aware that my natural dancing looks more like I've been electrocuted multiple times in the back, arms flailing like a crazy jellyfish. I couldn't subject them to that. The only thing I could think of was to make a circle with thumb and forefinger and splay the rest of my fingers out, similar to the hand positions in some classical Indian dance - I hoped. Then swirl them round above my head, while snaking my hips back and forth in a vague approximation of salsa moves I'd once known. I felt like such a fool! Amazingly it seems to be something like what the guys wanted.

'Yes, that's good!' they shouted eagerly. 'Now just move from headlight to headlight quickly, so you're always in silhouette,' With no planned steps on ground I couldn't see, this wasn't easily accomplished. Trying not to stumble on the uneven surface, I threw myself about wildly across the headlights, in a blind panic to reach the other side quickly, elegantly and unscathed. I'm sure I had a deep frown of concentration on my face but the silhouette hid it if it was there. Again and again I staggered in front of the bikes.

'Too fast', ' too slow', too flat, 'too static'. Every time something new wasn't right. Eventually I got it acceptably right by which time, in my concentration, I'd forgotten all about the spectators. With this, Gauruv called it a night - it was after 2am. As I wandered off to bed a couple of the guys came up and said that I was good and a natural actress. They must have had more alcohol than I'd thought!

The rest of this budding Bollywood epic was never finished. I'd like to see it again sober, just to see if it was really as good as it seemed at the time...

Being taken for a ride Part 2

In India no-one need have an alarm clock, as you can be sure that a helpful temple or mosque nearby will ensure that its chants and devotions begin approximately one hour before you wish to get up. In Bangalore, we seemed to be on top of said temple, so there was no fear of oversleeping.


I lugged my backpack downstairs to find someone who's bike was not already fully laden who could take it for me. Abhinanden and his bike had been kindly 'offered' for me and once he'd strapped my pack on with yards of bungee I had nothing to do but wait for the off.


All around me big men dressed in serious biking gear that squeaked or rustled as they moved, or in scruffy jeans and leathers, were doing many lifting and packing and strapping. Like a lost dog trotting around, looking for its owner, I went from bike to bike asking if I could help. But they'd all done it so many times before and single-handedly too, so they didn't need me 'helping' to mess things up. All offers were politely declined.


Woefully unprepared as I was, people had kindly lent me suitable clothing, as my baggy traveller pantaloons and flip-flops would not cut it on a serious bike trip like this. A pair of CP's jeans fitted me perfectly but for a few inches of turn-ups and Dipsi had also lent me a thick jumper to keep the wind out. With Biju's borrowed helmet and my box-fresh hiking shoes I was ready to go. Stifling hot, but ready - or so I thought. Then Anu, the wife of Kaushik - one of the Bang Gang - came over.


'Do you have another jumper, Bridget? You might be cold on the bike.'
'I think I'll be OK,' I said breezily, thinking that this is India, so how cold could it be?
'I really think you should wear another layer and some gloves if you have them.' Gloves?! I left England to avoid the wearing of such articles. As I didn't have any gloves I couldn't add them to my already sweltering bulk but I did have a thick hoodie, so I glumly put it on.


The bags were now packed and with a shout from Gauruv, the guys started their bikes and we clambered on. As the sound of 20+ roared and throbbed in the confined space of the basement garage, my heart leapt with excitement. This was it! We were off! I had no real idea who these guys were, where we were going, how fast wed get there or what we'd find when we got there but I was bursting with anticipation. As we streamed out of the garage in the vibrating air with the sound of 20 excited bikers revving their engines and the smell of petrol fumes spinning around us, I felt a lump of happiness rise in my throat. People from neighbouring apartments had come out to see us off and all around us faces grinned as they took photos of us on their mobiles. It felt like we were famous. Then with a humming, throbbing howl and pillows of dust in our wake, we streamed out into the road.


Tucked up behind CP, we swooped in and out of the traffic in the cool early morning air. I was glad Anu had been firm with me about the extra layer, as my hands, one placed on each knee, soon began to cool. I tucked them into the sleeves of Dipsi's jumper and once they were covered I felt utterly comfortable and at ease.


We flew westwards along the highway with the steadily rising sun warming our backs. The wind was cool and I could feel it snipping at the back of my neck and around my ankles - the only parts of me exposed. The road was smooth and all around me the new day was opening up to greet us: the sky grew paler, the light brightened and the wind on my neck lost its chill feeling, until it was just perfect! The straps on the bag of the rider in front flapped wildly like flags of victory. The sense of freedom was immense. The world folded out like a lotus flower beneath our wheels and we could pluck any petal we chose.We each had everything we needed, bagged, packed and strapped around us and we could stop whenever and wherever we wanted or we could go on forever.


We stopped sooner than anyone expected. One of the bikes had a problem about half an hour after we started. When one rider has a problem, everyone stops until it is fixed, so we all pulled over onto the side of the road. In the sudden warmth of the now-still air, my layers felt hot and I took off my helmet to cool down.


Gauruv, CP and a few others buzzed around the faulty bike, unfurling glinting toolkits as they worked to tighten the chain. It didn't take long and was soon fixed. Then, just as I thought we would set off again a shout of ,'Chai break! Chai break!' went up and tiny cups of sweet tea were passed around. It was a chance to talk to the others a bit more. Anu came up to me again and we started to talk in French, In conversation with her on the first night, she told me she'd given up her job in accounts to learn French as it would help her career in the long-run. She wasn't going to come on the ride because she had to study but her husband Kaushik - and Herself too, I think - persuaded her to come so she could use the opportunity to practice speaking French with me. I was thrilled she'd changed her mind, as it meant another woman on the ride to lighten the load of testosterone and anyway I sensed we would get on well. I was right. Over the next few days we became good friends. Anu seemed to be a timid, shy girl who was happy to stick around me as she didn't know most of the guys either. But under her quiet exterior she had a strength and certainty and a quiet self-assurance that everyone came to respect. Unlike me, she didn't try to impress to be accepted, saying to me one night, that people had to accept her as she was. Her honesty and straightforward nature meant that they did. I admired her greatly for this.


Back on the bikes, we began to leave the towns behind and found ourselves slipping through a landscape of banana plantations. Dead straight trunks strobed past us on both sides, their leaves dipping in the breeze. The heat and dust of the roads seemed somehow cooled and freshened by its proximity to this limpid green. Mile after mile of trees flowed past and the huge sky overhead was a hard, hot blue. The bikes, always together, flashed through bands of scent, barely caught before being lost again: and unidentified flower or plant here, a bonfire there, as drain, the thick greasy waft of a food stall, a wandering cow, a rickshaw's exhaust. There was always a new sensation to inhabit our noses. 

Eventually it was time to stop for lunch at the side of a shady plantation. Sitting or standing on the fragrant red earth , we ate small spicy pancakes - teplas - direct from the packer with hot green chilli pickle. Behind us farm workers cut the fruit clusters from the top of tall palms with sickles on poles metres long.


There was a total of 270km to cover that day so we were soon back in the saddle and pressing on. Now the landscape began to flatten out into the Deccan Plateau, flat, sun-baked ground, covered in palm trees, a dense bristling green doormat.


The open road beckoned to CP and moving to the front of the group , with a signal to the lead bike, he asked if he could rode on ahead - fast. As he gathered speed, the pressure of the wind on my closed visor pushed the slightly-too-big helmet up so the wind rushed against my neck. It also pushed the front down until the visor was forced  against my nose. The strap of my bag pressed into my shoulder with the air pressure. It was slightly uncomfortable but I still didn't want him to stop. The speed was a thrill, both in its hint of danger that stopped my breath and knotted my stomach and in the trust I placed in him. His confidence on the bike left me in no doubt that we would be safe. It was a thrill of controlled fear. After a few minutes he sloed again and let the others catch up.


Meanwhile the long hours riding pillion were now starting to make themselves felt. CP's bike was a sports bike and not really designed for riding hours with a passenger. The seat sloped down towards the rider, so every bump had been jolting me and pushing me forward towards CP with the force of gravity. The first few hours were fine but by mid-afternoon my seatbone was feeling decidedly bruised and tender and the friction of the motion caused by braking, accelerating and shifting when banking round corners was definitely chafing. It reminded me of my agonising camel safari in Rajasthan and I did not want to go through again the several days of perching uncomfortably on the edge of seats that had followed it! It would be OK for today but tomorrow something would have to be done. 


Throughout the day, several of the guys came up and asked how the ride was going. My replies, which began from a highly positive, ''It's great!' gradually dwindled in positivity through to the understatement of 'The saddle is just a bit uncomfortable', as the hours passed.


As the sun began to drop in the sky and the shadows lengthened their bars of shade across the road, hills and mountains began to rear up in the distance. The yellow light fell right into my visor and everything began to take on that golden 'magic hour' glow. The distant hills were shades of milky grey, fronm steel to the lightest dove, cardboard cutouts in a child's collage, placed one on top of the other.


Riding into the hills gave me a new burst of energy and revived my aching hindquarters. Lush, thick green vegetation spilled from every slope and the air seemed to hum and buzz with life. Palms wound thick with creeping peppercorn vines lined the dirt roads or towered over low coffee bushes and flecks of golden sunlight filtering through left hazy planks of brightness angling between the trees. We passed through villages in paintbox shades, the roads getting ever narrower, ever bumpier. It was so fresh and beautiful that I didn't want it to end, but my rear end felt otherwise. Gripping on and trying to shield myself from the constant jolts and lurches, my legs and heel had tensed up and were crying out for release. Eventually, as the sun slid behind the now slate-gray hills, we reached the coffee plantation where we would be staying for the night. The relief at being able to leave the bike for thenight 10 hours and 279km after we set off was heavenly! 


Later, we sat around a bonfire and the alcohol began to flow. Two new members of 60kph were given their induction. Boyish pranks such as jumping over the fire and dancing around it and being forced to dance with me (poor boys!) were all considered necessary and important rituals of membership. It was like a big bunch of brothers teasing each other. 

When the inductions and silliness died down and the embers too, I had a chance to find out what some of the guys liked so much about riding. Freedom, being one with nature and self-reliance were all there, but Param expressed it best when he said (words to this effect), 'Being in a car moves your body but being on a bike moves your soul.' I'd only been riding - and only pillion - for one day and I could already see what he meant. On a bike I feel both huge and all-powerful, yet also tiny and insignificant - no more than a moving speck in the vastness of creation, lost in the expanse of nature. Yet I feel, in that moment, as if I own the world.

Being taken for a ride Part 1

Note: To any 60kph members reading this. If I get any names or other details wrong, my apologies. It is not an intended slight. Just remember there were 20-odd of you and only one of me - and my poor memory!


Making quick decisions is not very Me, and when I make them at speed it often leads to unforeseen consequences that I would have preferred not to happen. Such was the case when I found myself celebrating New Year's Eve lying prone and alone on a sleeper bus, on the way to Bangalore. Having decided to go with CP and 60kph on their 7-day motorbike ride, I had to get to Bangalore to meet them all there by the morning of 1st January. I had to take this bus or forgo the ride entirely. Not happening! Carrying CP, me, his luggage and my backpack all on his bike was not feasible, so the only option was the bus.

Day one
I arrived in Bangalore a couple of hours late and poor CP had been waiting for me since 5.30am. After a few searches and circlings and phone calls, we found each other on the station and he rode me to the apartments they had rented for a couple of days.

I was dulled from lack of sleep and thrust into a room with some 15 or so Indian men (one woman only so far). All were in either a state of excitement having not seen each other for some months or a state of extreme stupor: their NYE party had apparently lasted until 6am! You could see the evidence of this all around. Empty glasses lay scattered on the floor, half-eaten plates of food perched on all available surfaces and ashtrays sprouted forests of cigarette butts. I was so tired all I wanted to do was hide away, as they chatted away loudly in a mixture of Hindi and English. CP had told me that I should talk to people to get to know them, so they would feel comfortable with me, so I braced myself and put on my best sociable face.

He was right, of course, but it was easier said than done. I felt rude butting in and asking questions, forcing them to speak in English (which all of them did). Also, any question I asked had the embarrassing effect of halting the conversation everywhere else as people listened in to what I'd asked. Everyone was very polite, of course. After all, I would have done the same with someone I didn't know, but I didn't want them to be extra polite, I just wanted them to accept me and not treat me any differently. But it was only the first day and they were all still getting comfortable around one another again, let alone a strange foreign female hanger-on who'd come along for the ride but neither rode nor knew anything about bikes.

Using all my limited social butterfly resources I pressed on. I'd hit on the formula of asking where each person was from and how long they'd been in the club, so that, at least, I could have a chat with everybody. I felt like a broken record, endlessly repeating myself, but at least I was doing the homework CP had set. Whether I got good grades or not remained to be seen...

Nothing much, other than smoking and chatting seemed to be happening (big groups, whoever they are, take an excruciatingly long time to actually do anything as every decision is discussed and discussed again) and eventually CP told me that they had decided to leave tomorrow instead of today. I was secretly relieved, as it meant I could have a good night's sleep to catch up before being thrust out into the wilds.

Then suddenly a decision had been made. We were going out for lunch. Sat at a big long table in a Keralan place, food was ordered without me really knowing what I would be getting. I knew I would have to fit in and eat whatever they ate for the next seven days. So I did. Seven days of spicy Indian food and non-bottled water later, I am fine. As I knew I would be.

I believe that a great part of the Delhi Belly myth is psychological. If you think and worry that you will get ill, you probably will. If you just accept and eat what's put in front of you your body will deal with it. I'm sure medical experts would disagree with my wild theory, but I stand by it. On my travels the people I met who got ill were those who were forever wringing their hands with sanitiser and wiping or checking every surface before they ate, sat, lay or did anything else on it. I have shovelled handfuls of food into my hungry mouth with fingernails bearing two days' worth of grime and not suffered. My theory is not borne of the smuggery or gloating at having evaded such suffering, but of my own experience - three times in India - fact not fiction. If I get ill in the next few weeks then I may revise my theory...

The next stop was a huge Decathlon store, home of all things outdoorsy and therefore a totally alien place to me. I would need hiking shoes, a sleeping bag, mat and various other things. CP disappeared to stock up himself, leaving me with Dipesh who promised to help me out. Dipesh - or Dipsi - was 28 and a big bear of a man with an impressive full beard and moustache. He wore a T-shirt advertising Ink Tribe, his company which makes and supplies products for the tattoo industry. He had a couple of tattoos I could see on his arms but not as many as I expected - especially for my stereotypical image of a biker.

'You don't have many tattoos for someone who works in the industry,' I remarked boldly.
'I have 15,' he said with a laugh.
'Oh.' I felt foolish. 'They must be mostly hidden, then.' Idiot! That sounded even worse. But he didn't seem to mind.

We spent the next half-hour or so, choosing things for me and for him. He was very patient and helpful with my lack of a clue about that would be suitable and I started to relax and get to know him. He was, like CP, something of an entrepreneur. As well as Ink Tribe, he worked for a company he'd helped set up called Ride Of My Life, organising motorbike tours across India. He also managed to find time to be 60kph's administrator. Although he was very self-confident, he was not arrogant but very attentive, friendly and chatty and I quickly felt at ease with him. If he was starting to relax around me, I hoped the others would follow suit.

Back at the apartment the talking and smoking continued but I was flagging. The food had made me drowsy and the bad night's sleep on the bus was getting to me. I could feel myself shrinking away from everyone so I slipped off quietly to CP's room for a nap.

When I woke up a couple of hours later nothing much had changed, except that great bags of Indian 'takeaway' had been brought in and people were starting to help themselves. Everyone grabbed whatever plate or utensil they could find and just dug in. If I wanted to be part of the group I would have to do the same and not expect to be waited on by CP, Dipsi or anyone else. First come, first served was to be my watchword for the week.

The kitchen sink was a war zone. Stale food was trapped between used plates, clean and dirty cups snuggled inside one another or lay side-by-side and empty whiskey and beer bottles poked out of the overflowing bin. Rummaging around in the debris, I found a usable plate and with a quick rinse under the tap I was ready for battle. Foil tins, plastic bags, bundles of newspapers, were all ripped open revealing their fragrant and delicious contents. I don't know what half of it was but I ate bits of everything. I seared my mouth on innocuous-looking dishes, or was surprised when sauces I thought would explode my tongue were unexpectedly mild. All around me the guys stood or sat wolfing down the contents of whatever plate, bowl, or mug they had managed to find with fingers, forks or spoons, talking and laughing the whole while. It felt good. It was one huge big bedlam of a mess but no-one cared, so I didn't either.

Dipsi came over and thrust the spoon part of one of those camping knife-fork-spoon kits into my hand. I was already using my fingers but I gratefully accepted.

'Do you drink?'he asked.
'Yes, sometimes,' I said, thinking that tonight was not the night to get drunk in front of people I barely knew.
'Try this.' He gave me a refillable plastic drinking bottle. It was black so I couldn't see what was inside.
'What is it?' I asked.
'Just try it.'
'But what is it?' I protested, with a laugh.
'It's whiskey and coke,' he said. 'Go on.'
'I don't really like it, ' I said with an apologetic laugh, 'but I'll try it.' I've got such strong willpower, have you noticed?

It tasted as horrible as I'd expected and with a grimace I told him so. He laughed.
'Do you want a beer instead?' he asked. That I could do and it wouldn't be too powerful for my weedy alcohol tolerance.

The bottle of Kingfisher he brought me was huge! I was expecting one of the neat little green ones that most places sell, not this big brown monster! If I drank it all I would be drunk, despite my best efforts. I'd just have to take it slowly.

Now the other guys were drinking, they were beginning to loosen up and come over to me to chat. CP had warned me that Indian guys can be quite shy, so it was nice to see that alcohol has the same effect on inhibitions the world over.

Gauruv came over first. In his 40s, he was one of the founders of 60kph. He was probably over 6ft with a big round belly and a shock of wild, electrocuted-looking curly hair, a grey-speckled beard and little round glasses that perched halfway down his nose.

'Bridget, do you smoke grass?' he asked in a loud, gravelly voice. I was amused at such a direct question.
'Very occasionally, yes,' I said cautiously. 'But I don't smoke cigarettes.'
'That's good, that's good. You should smoke more often - it's good for you.'
Boldened by my few sips of beer I felt that a gentle disagreement might be a good means of making friends. Don't ask me why.

'Hardly,' I said, 'Smoking is really bad for you. We all know that.'
'No, smoking grass, I mean.'
'Why is that?'
'Cigarettes are full of toxic chemicals to make them addictive and that's what gives you cancer. That's why they have a filter, otherwise you couldn't smoke them.'
'Ok, so why is grass any better? You still smoke it, so it must be bad for you.' I said, with a smile.
"No, it's all natural stuff that grows wild so it has no chemicals in it and it doesn't contain tobacco.' Gauruv was starting to warm to his theme. I sensed this was a conversation he'd had before.

'In places where it grows wild, they use it all the time. It's not to get stoned, it's part of their way of life. It's part of their rituals.' As he spoke, he waved his hands around and curls of his hair flopped in front of his eyes. He brushed them away distractedly.

'Ok, but you still smoke it and draw the smoke into your lungs and that can't be good, as your lungs were never meant to breathe smoke,' I persisted.
'Ok, that's true, but it's still better than cigarettes because there's no tobacco in it and tobacco is full of chemicals that are toxic.' I sensed that the argument was going round in circles, so I relented.
'Right, I see what you mean,' I said.

But Gauruv wasn't speaking as a simple stoner who was trying to get me to see how amazing and 'important' a trip was. He was a very intelligent man and his ideas probably came from his own personal experience. CP had told me a bit about him beforehand. Gauruv is a documentary film maker who makes films about extreme motorcycle travel. During one experience he spent a whole year (or was stuck there, due to winter weather conditions, I'm not sure) with the far North Indian tribes in the Ladakh region of the Himalayas.

Over the next few days I discovered that Gauruv wasn't someone who just talked about amazing experiences, he'd done them. Over the 10 years of 60kph's existence he had been on rides all over India and travelled widely elsewhere too. I also discovered that he was immensely respected by the other members. Whenever they mentioned him it was with a mild sense of awe, telling me I should watch his documentaries as they were amazing and he was really talented.

But for all their respect for him as founder, Gauruv was just one of the lads too and never kept himself aloof from everyone. During the long drinking sessions that were to become a feature of the ride's evenings, he was always in the centre of the action, fooling around, play-fighting and joking with the others, instigating inductions for new members (me included), sleeping late and waking last.

I introduced myself to and chatted briefly with most of the members that night. Many were from Bangalore and were the organisers of this year's ride, as it was in their area. Charmingly referred to as 'The Bang Gang', most worked in the software industry. Others had come from places further afield, such as Delhi, Kerala, Rajasthan and Mumbai. All were middle-class, well-educated people from different walks of life, but all found a shared passion in their love of bikes and riding.

It was really heart-warming to see the friendship - expressed in big demonstrative hugs and casually placed arms around the shoulders - that existed between these men. I don't know if I expected it to be different because they were Indian, but I was strangely reassured that their affection was so open and casual. I knew I could feel safe with these men. I could see that they wouldn't hesitate to help each other out and I felt sure that my temporary inclusion in their scrum of masculinity would include me in that 'brotherhood'.

While we'd been chatting, the action had moved to the apartment CP, me and a few other would be staying in. Several of the guys were sitting round playing cards, drinking and smoking. I brought my beer along, put it on the table and sat down to watch. I couldn't really join in, either with the game or the chat in Hindi, so I quietly abandoned my bottle and slipped off to bed in my new sleeping bag. Outside the room the roar of drink-lubricated laughter and renewed friendships continued. I reached for my trusty earplugs and dropped into a dead sleep. We had an early start in the morning...

Man and machine

Interesting people come thick and fast when you travel but CP touched me more than most. I met him when I arrived in Hampi. He was sitting alone at the table next to me and the two people I'd arrived on the bus with, Alex from Canada and Michele from Australia.

I think he and Alex started chatting about motorbikes and before we knew it, he was sitting at our table and agreed to come out with us the following day when we hired scooters to see the surrounding areas of Hampi.

CP (short for Chandra Prakash) was 28 and was in the middle of a long bike ride from his home in Rajasthan in the western India to Bangalore, where he was due to meet some other biker friends. He was slight man with neatly cut hair and a clean-shaven face. He had huge, almost feminine eyes with long lashes and a beautiful, perfect white smile. He was quite striking, but it was his personality that drew me to him. He had a quiet, slightly serious demeanour and sometimes said very little in our conversations, preferring to listen to me and the others chatter on. At other times though, he opened up to me and was lively and chatty, joking and even teasing me.

Over the next two days I spent in his company, he slowly, gradually revealed little bits of information about himself here and there. These fragments of his life soon built up into a picture of an intriguing and determined man who really fascinated and won me over.

CP was born and raised in a town called Barmer in Rajasthan. At an early age it became clear that he was destined for great things when he set up a business at the age of just 12, exporting cooking utensils to the Middle East and Africa. I didn't get round to asking him how he came to decide this was the thing he wanted to do at such a young age, but he spoke of it casually and with no hint of boastfulness, as if this were the most natural thing in the world for a 12-yr-old to do! Later he told me that his father never took holidays and always worked on his businesses, so I suppose he had grown up with an exceptionally good example of a strong work ethic, such that it was never too early to start work.

Sadly CP had had to close this business a few years later, to take over his father's work after he suffered a brain hemorrhage. Now, at 28, he'd moved on from this and is now the owner of 18 farms in Rajasthan, along with various other business ventures, the details of which I can't remember.

CP never boasted about his wealth but just mentioned little details casually  - and only when necessary - during our many conversations in and around Hampi. I asked endless nosy questions (my favourite thing to do with new acquaintances), fascinated by this quiet, modest man, and he just answered them honestly. I can honestly say I have never met a man who appeared to have to much in the way of material wealth but who cared so little about it. It was such a refreshing change from people who tell you all about how great they are because they need your reassurance of their worth and value. With CP it was different. He just told me what I'd asked him because I'd asked him.

His quiet, impassive face was rarely without a halo of cigarette smoke curling around it as he talked. The irony was that this self-assured, confident, successful man had been smoking since his college years, yet neither his parents nor his wife know that he smokes!

But CP was far from being all work and no play: when he's not overseeing his many strands of business, he loves to indulge his passion for motorbikes. He owns six of them, including an Enfield and the Honda sports bike he'd chosen for this trip, as well as several cars. He told me that he loves to ride and takes one of his bikes out every day and rides for miles and miles, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. When he's sufficiently far from home, he lights up those secret cigarettes and smokes and drinks the endless cups of coffee he was also rarely without during our time together. But far more importantly he rides for the pure pleasure of it.

'Sometimes people don't understand me,' he said, after the day I rode pillion on his bike through the countryside around Hampi. 'They say, "CP you have so many cars and so much money, why don't you just travel in a car?" They don't understand the pleasure of a bike. I love to ride my bike. When I am on it I am in the nature and I am part of it. I can feel the wind and the sun and I can see everything. When I am in a car I am like in a little box. And I love to go fast,' he said with a shrug and a laugh.

I knew what he meant. Although I don't claim to know anything about motorbikes, since being in India, I have discovered a new love of being on one - mainly thanks to my rides with CP. The freedom you feel and your physical presence in and connection with nature and the weather, adds another dimension to the experience of being outside that you can't get from a car journey. You feel the wind and sun on your face and - if you're not careful - the grit in your eyes and mouth. You see the weather as you feel it and you smell it as it touches you. You ride through the sights and sounds and smells of the outdoors at speed or at leisure and you are always enveloped by the scenery around you and the sky above you that feels so close you are sure you can touch it. Riding liberates you, it frees your mind to think and reflect and it soothes and excites you all at the same time.

But CP's love of riding was so much more than a hobby. In 2006 he was accepted into an elite Indian motorbike club called 60kph. The club only ever has a maximum of 60 members of India's top extreme motorbike travellers. Members travel long-distance journeys by bike all over India in some of its most demanding terrain, from the freezing Himalayas to the scorching deserts, sometimes alone, sometimes in a group.

'How did you become a member?' I asked, fascinated by what the criteria should be. 'You can't just join,' he said. 'There are certain things you have to do first. You have to know someone who is already a member and they have to recommend you to the other members. The members then decide if you are suitable to join.' I asked what 'suitable' meant.

'You have to be serious about riding, know all about bikes and how to ride and repair them. You have to be a good person morally but most of all, you have to have a passion for riding.'

But this was not all. In characteristically understated fashion CP told me that every potential member, once initially approved by the other members, is invited to ride with them on two or three group rides, including one of their annual group rides to mark the anniversary of the club's founding.

One of CPs rides was a 15-day anniversary marathon across the Great Rann of Kutch salt desert of western Gujarat. He and some of the other 60kph members set off across this arid and desolate region carrying everything they needed for the journey, including food, water and fuel for the bikes, as there would be no towns from which to buy supplies. They rode across mile after mile of endless scorching desert, camping, cooking and fixing any problems by themselves, totally self-reliant. Sometimes the bikes would get suddenly trapped in sinking sand pockets that they couldn't see before they rode over them. A man could sink without trace to his death, along with his bike, within minutes. On many occasions they were forced to stop to help each other out.

All went well until they managed to get lost part way through the journey. For three days they rode, lost under the burning sun, looking for a road but finding none. They had no compass and were forced to use the sun to navigate. As the days passed their supplies of food, water and fuel began to run low and fear set in. According to CP, once-confident, grown men began to break down, panic and cry.

'Did you cry?' I asked. 'No,' he replied with a frown as if this were a ridiculous suggestion. 'You just have to accept the situation and find a solution.'

Eventually they came across a road and a remarkable act of trust occurred. Each rider drained a little of the fuel that remained in his tank and put it into the tank of one bike. This rider and his bike was then entrusted to ride alone with all the empty jerrycans 200km to the nearest town to buy and ring back fuel for the others.

After this ordeal of a ride CP was accepted into 60kph. When I met him he was on his way to Bangalore to join the other members for another of their annual anniversary rides. This one was to be a 7-day trip through jungle terrain in central Karnataka state. As before, CP explained, they would be riding, camping out, cooking and fending for themselves in the jungle, miles from nowhere.

But things were not looking good. A typhoon that had hit Chennai on the east coast in the last few days had left Bangalore soaked in torrential rain that was forecast to last for the next four days. As the members were coming from all over India to participate it was too late to cancel the trip. They would have to ride and camp in whatever conditions they found when they got there.

I do not know why, but CP asked me if I'd like to join him on this ride. I also don't know why but, God help me, I accepted!