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...