Morning Extractions

I can say without any hesitation that my most favorite times of riding a motorbike in India are the morning hours that witness my departure and the golden hours that follow. The wonderful marriage of natural beauty and personal optimism reaches its height during the two to three hours following my first kick start of the day. There is a perfect serenity and simplicity to Indian dawns on a motorbike that I’ll always long for. The country coming to life bathed in morning rays is a sight I’ll never tire of. Add to this a personal satisfaction and excitement for what the road ahead might bring and you have the sweet spot of every ride. 

The first two to three hours of each riding day play out in recurring fashion. Dressed in my now standard yet recently washed riding suit, I lash my gear to the rear frame with the rapidly deteriorating green, red, and yellow bungees. Following a check of the oil, tire pressure, and a general once over I kick start the engine…or I should say attempt to kick start the engine. Two thousand kilometers ago the beast fired up after five kicks. These days the Tuna requires a good thirty kicks before roaring to life. After igniting the beating heart I let the bike run idly for five minutes and warm up.

I try to extract myself from any town (McLeod) or city (Jodhpur) or megacity (Delhi) by 7:30am at the absolute latest. Seldom does activity on Indian streets amount to much before 9am so during the 7 o’clock hour I enjoy free reign. The stark contrast between the empty morning streets I exit from and the reliable chaotic afternoon gridlock in which I arrive always puts a smile on my face.

After an hour of riding I begin scouting for potential chai stands and brake when I find one that calls to me. The pleasure I get from that first cup of chai set in the rural Indian countryside well beyond the urban reaches is immeasurable. I sip chai comfortably seated in plastic lawn furniture while the Tuna catches his breath.

When the bottom of my cup signals it’s time to move on the real meat of the day begins. With the bike and driver now warmed up it’s now time to put some kilometers under the tires. Before mounting I usually reach for the familiar left ear plug and begin the day’s soundtrack. There will be a time when my morning routine consists of unfolding a newspaper or packing kids for school, but right now my morning routine is exactly what and where it should be. 

There have been thirteen morning departures since that fateful first ride out of Jaipur bound for Pushkar back on February 4^th and each one is unique in both feeling and scenery. I’m going to use this space to describe the last two and typical life on the road as experienced during my last 48 hours in a breakneck east-west sprint across the green state of Uttar Pradesh.

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Day 119 (Extraction: Agra)

The bike fully loaded and engine humming nicely, I noted the time and pulled away from my hotel at 7:14am. The streets of Agra were as devoid of human beings as the sky was of clouds. There was no guess work in my route out of town as I retraced my steps north along the west bank of the Yamuna River, Agra Fort towering over me to my left. I just felt it that morning and whatever It is, it hung in the air. Call it a great sense of excitement.

I had viewed the Taj Mahal from almost every conceivable angle I could find. Head on. Up close and personal. From the side. From the other side. From the opposing river bank. From a rooftop café. But it was my last glimpse that took the ribbon. Shortly after joining the four lane northbound road that hugged the Yamuna River I threw my head back and to the right to spot any traffic, but before my eyes could inspect the road they found a holy silhouette outlined by a rising and blinding sun. The sun, rising directly behind the Taj and just over the tree line horizon, gave the iconic structure a ghostly white glow. A moment later three young boys rode up alongside me on a motorbike and eclipsed my view. I pointed to the apparition in the distance and let out a euphoric high pitched “WHOOOOOA” at the top of my lungs. I didn’t care what they or anyone else thought. It was one of those spur of the moment actions fueled by great inspiration and pure adrenalin. An unforgettable natural high and it wasn’t even 7:30am. It was in the air alright.

Random recollections from the road that day…

• Motorbikes are exempt from paying road tolls and so I always get a kick from saluting the uniformed toll guards as I weave around the line of cars. Inevitably they smile and salute back.
• Having downloaded the Into the Wild soundtrack at a friend’s direction I felt very Chris “Alexander Supertramp” McCandless heading east into the rising sun as Society played in my left ear. Good call Wood.
• If the primary traffic concern in Rajasthan were heifers and livestock, the primary concern in Uttar Pradesh would be on-coming vehicles going the wrong way in the wrong lane. Picture this: two lanes of east-bound traffic separated from west-bound traffic by a significant earthen medium. Now picture a massive lorry (i.e. truck) coming at you head on going the wrong direction on the wrong side of the medium. Frustrations are further exacerbated when you see traffic flowing normally on the opposing side of the medium. I’ve encountered this phenomenon dozens of times and still can’t formulate a sensible explanation. Every time I see one of these coming at me in my lane Walter’s road-raged voice leaps into my head: “Really!?!? REALLY!?!”
• Very often I find myself boxed in and surrounded by slow moving, exhaust spewing lorries. Inevitably a gap or window will materialize into which I shoot and pull away from the deafening noise. There is a split second moment after passing the last truck when all the intense menacing noise goes silent and you’re left alone with the hum of your own engine. As crazy as it sounds those as very satisfying moments.
• I’ve seen enough roadkill throughout India to feed the Beverly Hillbillies for years. Uttar Pradesh tragically introduced something new. I counted fourteen canine carcasses over the past 616km. Several of which had literally been turned inside out.
• Either cows are mind numbingly stupid and have no concept of the personal risk they take in wandering the highways of UP or they are brilliant beasts that fully grasp the level of carpe blanch they enjoy in India. After passing one mammoth male comfortably seated smack dab in the fast lane and one female standing on the medium to his right I considered what if the latter is the case and they have conversations like:

“Hey Paula, I feel like being a jerk today and messing with traffic.”

“Go for it Charlie. I’ll be here watching.”

I clearly need more things to think about on the road.

• The means with which the massive movement of people across India takes place is humbling. As I see it there are four buckets into which every traveling Indian falls. The most privileged class find themselves traveling in cars & SUVs. These vehicles are far and away the fewest yet fastest on the road. The next class transport themselves by motorbike. It’s this bucket that would surely draw the largest shock from a western audience. See it’s not uncommon to see the following family riding together on a small 150cc motorbike: father driving…young son seated in front of father with hands on handle bars…mother sitting side-saddle behind father and holding infant child. Not a single helmet between the four. Traveling 40-50km/hr on the highways, any mishap whatsoever would certainly end in tragedy. The next and largest class move by bus. Buses move with complete disregard for all other vehicles and pedestrian safety, and move only slightly slower than cars. The final bucket gets around India by overcrowded motor rickshaws, lorry rooftops, and truck flatbeds. I’ve passed thousands of vehicles over the last twenty-five days and have exchanged looks with thousands of passengers. Sometimes we trade smiles but the majority of the time we trade nothing. Just blank looks and a silent understanding that despite momentarily occupying the same highway at the same time, we couldn’t be living further apart in this world.

It is 616km from Agra to Varanasi meaning an overnight stop was inevitably. After spending time on Google Maps playing out various scenarios I selected the city of Kanpur, 286km from Agra, as the day’s destination. A word on Kanpur. I’ve now traveled what I consider to be extensively throughout Southeast Asia and now India (in addition to Australia and New Zealand back in 2001). And not once during all those days did I ever spend a night in a town that wasn’t at the very least mentioned in a guide book. Not to mean I don’t stray from the well beaten path, but rather the coverage zone for guide books has grown that much more extensive. There are sadly fewer and fewer places on the globe where a review doesn’t exist somewhere for a hotel or restaurant. Kanpur apparently is one of those places however. My Lonely Planet guide said absolutely nothing. Not a word. So when I pulled into the outskirts I did something I hadn’t done before. I found some guys and said the words hotel and sleep and mimed using my hands as a pillow. A few twists and turns later I found myself in a room, on par with that first room back in Mumbai, which will without question go down as one of the worst hotel rooms of my life. I didn’t even need to look at the sheets to know I’d be sleeping in my bag that evening and putting my jacket over the pillow. The walls were dirty and stained and I didn’t want to know why. The air conditioning system pumped stall recycled air until I turned it off. The shower served its purpose but I’ll spare a bathroom description. Oh, and the room was windowless. I find a number of proud and thrilling moments traveling, but this was not one. It did make setting the alarm for 5:45am a no brainer however…

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Day 120 (Extraction: Kanpur)

I didn’t even need to wait for the alarm that morning. My internal body clock told me it was time to escape when I awoke up at 5:40am. There was no shower and after a quick packing job I was kick starting the Tuna at 6:00am. The ride from forgettable Kanpur to Varanasi is 330km. I knew the roads would be straight and flat and smooth…which happily meant 40km/hr…which worked out to eight hours of riding time. Splash in the required rest stops (aka Stoppage Time) and you have a nine hour day ahead.

As I had no map for the town of Kanpur, finding my way out and back onto National Highway 2 in the pre-dawn light was a bit of an ordeal. After fifteen minutes of riding and half a dozen “this way” finger points I finally made it to the highway just as the sun was breaching the horizon.

Warning: emotional description ahead. With the bike cranked up to 5^th gear and the sun rising directly in front of me I definitely experienced one of those early morning emotional highs. This one was not the serene-lone-tear-in-the-eye kind but rather the fist-pumping-expletive-shouting kind. It was just so breathtakingly gorgeous and perfect given the motorized means on which I was experiencing it that the magnitude of the moment immediately hit me: I was living and breathing one of those rare moments that I’ll inevitably recreate in my mind and recount to others time and time again throughout my life. And then I did it again, but this time I really knocked the cover off the ball. I let not one, not two, not three, but four or five high-pitched eardrum popping “WHOOOAs” accompanied by a handful of HoF caliber “YEE-HAWs” at the top of my lungs that bushy Sam Elliot would have tipped his hat to. It may sound pretty cheesy but that’s the feeling I got at those moments. Another unforgettable natural high and this time it wasn’t even 7:00am.

Yet more random recollections from the road…

• Not long after dawn an album that accompanied two friends and I on an inaugural road trip across America back in the summer of 2000 came on the box. Sometimes there is no better album to compliment beauty and pavement then Moby’s Play.
• I stopped at the obligatory chai stand before noon for some chow. While shoveling rice into my mouth I couldn’t help but notice a tiny young boy crossing the field behind the stand. I also couldn’t help notice when he dropped his drawers, pooped on the ground, scooped up his waste, and proudly redeposited it in a little mount in front of him. The rice ceased to be appealing.
• Just before noon I passed an old timer riding a brand new shiny Enfield Bullet who would have had trouble counting more than 10 teeth in his mount. I honked as I passed him by and he quickly caught up. No words were exchanged but I think we both felt pretty slick riding side by side on our Bullets through the next two small towns.

 

Situated on the western banks of the Ganges River, Varanasi is one of India’s holiest cities and a pilgrimage site for millions of Hindi. My entrance into Varanasi unseated any previous destination for Most Unforgettable Arrival. Not once did I get out of 1^st gear as I crawled into town. When I finally arrived at a tiny roundabout, recognizable on my map, I stopped to get my bearings. I quickly eyed two towering and bearded Western backpackers lugging heavy bags and rolled over. Moments after asking if they had secured accommodations yet an Indian approached us and set into the usual hotel pitch. We all kind of shrugged our shoulders and set off following this man down the oppressively crowded street. After ten minutes of inching after them in 1^st and drawing stares from every direction we made a right turn and cut into Varanasi’s famous labyrinth of riverfront alleys. So narrow are the alleyways that no car can enter and just barely could I fit my luggage rack through. It was a scene of complete madness and total pleasure. Every pedestrian ducked into doorways and yielded to my bike. I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of my tight surroundings as we went deeper and deeper into the dark maze. I already decided to myself that regardless of the hotel’s quality I was staying there since there was no way I could extricate myself from the puzzle I was in.

After securing the bike and making my way to the front desk I learned there was apparently one room left, and after climbing the five flights to room #502 my hotel search and arrival into Varanasi was complete. The corner room was spotless, cozy, and offered one of the prettiest late afternoon views one could ask for after a nine hour day on the bike. And so it was that for $15usd I dropped my bag and settled into my last stop in India…