The warm-up
“Good morning, bro!”
Pretty sure that text message was his morning alarm and signal that I was up and too excited for the trip ahead.
I’m unable to sleep before long journeys. That’s how I’m wired, and I find comfort in thinking that most travelers are wired likewise.
The trip is supposed to start from Angamaly, where I’ll join Muraly for lunch, but I’m so into the trip that I have to ensure Muraly is wide awake and on the road to Kochi from Trivandrum before traffic takes up our valuable time.
I am yet to pack my bags, but the clothes are still wet from yesterday’s machine wash. Turning my fan to full speed and hoping to get things dried before long, I am rummaging through my room to find everything I might need for the journey.
There’s two pairs of underwear that’s good to go. So I’m basically all set. By 10 am, there are enough things on the bed that could help me survive the two weeks of hard riding.
Combined with my brother’s rucksack that could pack a bull in it with the right technique, I start stuffing everything into the abyss I call the main compartment.
Only very few people know about this trip. Muraly wants to keep it a secret from his colleagues, while I keep asking around for riding tips and locations to check out from anyone who could lend me an ear.
Anish came in as an unexpected help and motivation for the trip, as he lent me his spare riding gear without hesitation. I was planning to ride without gear (I forgot to buy them on time), but he was so kind in understanding my passion and was so prompt to help out a fellow rider.
So my gear—a pair of knee and arm guards, a yet-to-be-worn-in pair of gloves I bought last week, and a pair of Woodland shoes—is as comfy as it could be.
I had strict instructions from Muraly to have an ECE-certified helmet, riding jacket, and padded gloves for highway rides. I have none of that. I am preparing myself for his reproach, but he’ll understand.
Cigarette in one hand and mindless scrolling in the other, I get a text from Muraly, ”Stopped at Kottayam for breakfast. Will be in Angamaly in a couple of hours.” That’s our rendezvous point, and we had decided to speak little until we meet at Angamaly. It’s our code of keeping each other free from thinking of the destination and enjoying the ride.
It’s time for me to load my bay on the rented Himalayan, which I have no prior experience riding. The bunjee cord was rather sufficient to get my bag fastened to the back rack, which brought up a crucial question: have I packed enough?
Am I overstimating the time I could survive with a pair of jeans and a couple of thick t-shirts? Probably. But I like the feel of not having much to pack wherever I go, so let’s see what happens. Let me focus my attention on taming this beast first.
The machine
For context, I ride a Honda Unicorn as my everyday commuter. It’s reasonably comfortable for office commutes and occasional visits back home in Trivandrum. Unlike my humble Unicorn, the Himalayan feels difficult to get on, turn the handle, and pull it back in reverse. I’m starting to think this whole ride will be about familiarizing the bike and nothing else.
The bike accepted me somewhere along the road to Angamaly, and I feel free now. I can sense the sweet spots of the bike, the places it’ll go without shifting down, the patches it’ll accept with whatever gravel it’s on, and slowly I can only see the road ahead, and the bike is slowly dissolving into the whole experience.
Everyone sees my beaming face with a wide smile spanning ear to ear—not a care in the world behind those eyeballs. I am flying to Angamaly.
The road opens up at Aluva. Being a newbie to Ernakulam, every major junction that I’ve heard of in movies felt really exciting, passing from one town to the next, realizing NH 66 is still under construction. That’s the highway we’ve chosen for this ride, by the way.
At every roadblock, traffic signal, and slow patch, onlookers would justify seeing a calm and happy face riding through, adjusting his speed, checking his gear and mirrors frequently, and never once losing his cool trailing behind interstate slowpoke trucks that chose to stay on the right side of the road.
Just across the standstill traffic of Angamaly, in a tiny restaurant named Salkaar, I could see Muraly waiting for me, awaiting his fellow rider—for around half an hour as I checked the time.
Muraly is easily that cool dad you see on social media—totally chill, never posting much anywhere, always there for his kids and family, and never flashy about his wins or vocal about his adventures. Just a man who is eager to listen and learn but equally vocal about faulty ideas and honest about his vulnerabilities.
Maybe it’s his parental instincts kicking in, but I can see him ordering too much food and forcing me to eat much of it. All I can do now is fill up my belly, so I’ll oblige.
By now I have agreed that he’ll take the lead and will be our chief navigator, by virtue of his Jawa club membership and the phone mount he had on his Yezdi Adventure to show the map for the rest of the way.
He is also well-versed in using hand signals to alert me of any change in road conditions. I have no clue what they mean.
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Binny baburaj | (Work in progress) 
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