Prologue:
July 2008 marked the beginning of my MBA at NMIMS, Mumbai. From the first day, I harbored a dream: to ride my motorbike back to Faridabad. However, my Hero Honda Ambition, bought by my father in 2003, had already clocked over 64,000 km, with the odometer ceasing to function thereafter. It wasn’t in prime condition for such a demanding journey. Despite its aging frame, I had always believed that a bike’s true beauty lay in its engine. I detested those who claimed to be bike lovers but only cared about polished seats and gleaming exteriors while ignoring the engine’s heart.
While my classmates were preoccupied with placements, I was busy contemplating my trip. College had a four-day Diwali break, but that wasn’t sufficient. “Let’s wait a little longer,” I told myself. As time passed, students secured jobs. Those who didn’t spent their days fretting and preparing for interviews. I, too, was unplaced but, unlike others, remained unconcerned. My focus remained on making this journey happen.
By April 2010, convocation came and went. Some were still left without jobs—I was among them. With no immediate prospects, I decided to return to NCR and job hunt from there. The time had come. Buying a new bike was out of the question, and embarking on this trip with my old one seemed unwise. Torn between excitement and apprehension, I discussed the idea with my roommate of two years. Predictably, he declined, citing safety concerns. He was pragmatic, too grounded to indulge in such dreams.
For the past month, we had been living with a mutual friend who worked in Mumbai. As departure day neared, I resigned myself to taking the train. We arranged for our baggage and my bike to be shipped separately. Our tickets were on the waiting list—positions four and five—so there was a good chance of confirmation. I had faith in a friend’s ability to secure VIP quota confirmations, as he had always done before.
On May 28, I spent the day struggling to deposit my bike and baggage with a cargo company, but the pickup van never arrived. Frustrated, we left for the railway station, entrusting another friend with the task of shipping our belongings. Then, an unexpected twist: my friend’s ticket got confirmed; mine remained at WL1. At that moment, I made my decision—I was taking my bike.
While my friend tried unsuccessfully to negotiate with the TTE, I hid my excitement. Handing him my suitcase, I bid him farewell and returned to Vashi, Navi Mumbai. Collecting the keys from my friend’s neighbor, I packed a single pair of jeans and a full-sleeve shirt, anticipating the heat of the NCR region.
At 7 PM, fueled by two glasses of orange juice and a mix of nerves and exhilaration, I embarked on my long-anticipated journey. Clad in jeans, a full-sleeve shirt, a windcheater, helmet, and sturdy shoes, I set out from Sector-17 market in Vashi.
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The Journey Begins:
Mumbai to Dhrangdhara
On May 28, my adventure commenced. The Palm Beach Road offered a delightful start, free from Mumbai’s usual traffic congestion. Within 30 minutes, I reached Thane and soon found myself on NH-8. Traffic thinned out, and as darkness settled, the weather turned pleasant. Switching on my headlamp, I quickly realized its limitations—it only worked effectively in complete darkness with no oncoming traffic. Forced to lift my helmet’s visor to avoid the glare of approaching headlights, I decided to cap my speed at 65 kmph to prevent engine overheating and minimize vibrations. This trip was about proving myself as a rider, gaining credibility for future expeditions. So far, no one knew about my journey—I intended to keep it a secret for as long as possible.
After an hour, I stopped at a small dhaba for tea and pressed on. By 9 PM, hunger struck. A highway signboard announced a McDonald’s in Vapi, Gujarat, 85 km ahead. I aimed for it. Somewhere along the way, I unknowingly crossed into Gujarat. The seamless transition between states made me reflect: when will we, as a nation, achieve such seamless integration among ourselves? Lost in thought, I attempted to overtake a truck from the left—an unsafe maneuver—but the road suddenly ended. Slamming my brakes, my bike skidded onto the dirt shoulder. Fortunately, I managed to stay upright. I was left shaken, questioning the credibility of road authorities.
By 10:30 PM, I reached McDonald’s in Vapi. My phone displayed multiple missed calls—four from my friend and two from my parents. I called my friend first. He was understandably upset but simply advised, “Be cautious.” Then, I called my father but omitted the near-mishap from my update.
After a quick meal, I resumed my journey. Past midnight, I saw a family waiting for a bus on the highway and felt reassured about Gujarat’s safety. I continued, crossing Surat around 1 AM. A roadside tea stall near Baroda offered a moment of respite. Here, I learned that the expressway to Ahmedabad barred motorcycles, forcing me to take an alternate route without a median. The blinding beams of oncoming trucks made visibility a challenge.
By 6 AM, I neared Ahmedabad, ready for my final stretch to Dhrangdhara. Fatigue crept in, but I pressed on. In Sanand, I glimpsed the Tata Nano factory—a symbol of Gujarat’s industrialization. Finally, I arrived at my friend’s house in Dhrangdhara’s military station. After a bath and breakfast, I entrusted him with an overdue engine oil change and collapsed into much-needed sleep.
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Dhrangdhara to Udaipur
At 5 AM on May 30, I set out for Udaipur, 350 km away. The ride back to Ahmedabad was smooth, but a strange noise from my engine worried me. Upon closer observation, I discovered the culprit—my side stand scraping the road. Relieved, I secured it and continued. The sun began to rise, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink.
Reaching Udaipur around noon, I checked into an army guesthouse. Despite my initial irritation at a dress code requirement for lunch, the impeccable service and delicious food quickly lifted my spirits. That afternoon, I visited City Palace and Haldighati, immersing myself in history. A heartwarming encounter with a group of villagers offering me a free meal reinforced my belief in the kindness of strangers.
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Udaipur to Delhi
On May 31, exhaustion set in, but I reminded myself, “This is the last day.” I set off at 5 AM. Hunger and acidity hit by 7:30 AM, prompting a breakfast stop for aloo parathas and curd. Sleepiness, however, persisted. The empty road and monotonous speed acted like a lullaby. To combat fatigue, I took multiple breaks, even napping briefly at a dhaba. The scorching sun added to my discomfort—my hands were reddening, and rashes formed from prolonged riding.
As Jaipur neared, I contemplated resting but refused to deviate from NH-8. Instead, I took a brief juice break and pushed forward. Dehydration loomed, forcing me to drink frequently. A refreshing idli meal near Behror provided a temporary reprieve, but power failure in the restaurant soon ended my respite.
By 6:30 PM, I crossed Rajiv Chowk, Gurgaon. Entering Delhi via the expressway, I was flagged down by a traffic policeman and fined for riding on it. Too drained to argue, I accepted the fine and proceeded. By 7 PM, I reached my aunt’s house at JNU.
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Epilogue
I rang the doorbell. My aunt opened the door and, aghast at my dusty, sunburnt state, exclaimed, “Where are you coming from?”
I grinned and replied, “From Mumbai.”
