Crash!
The Before
“Chuffed as chips”
The After
“Not such a hardcore biker now, are we?”
Actually it was a small crash. Luckily Kate and I were both okay: it was more of a shock than anything else.
That morning I had hired a Royal Enfield Bullet 350cc motorcycle in Udaipur, India. These bikes are true dinosaurs: the design is over 50 years old. It is the oldest production run bike in the world! I had to ride one!
Thing is, in 1955 when the Bullet was designed, motorcycles were very different to the modern day bike: the front drum brake is very weak compared to disk brakes; the gears work in the opposite direction to modern bikes and the rear brake and gear selectors are on opposite sides to what we ride today.
Added together, these differences make for a very different ride.
I took the bike out in the Udaipur traffic by myself and once I was satisfied that I could ride it, went back to the hotel and picked Kate up. We visited the Monsoon Palace, nearby Udaipur, then decided to head up into the hills behind the city.
We travelled up a beautiful mountain pass, past an amazing shrine and saw some stunning views on the other side. It was our first glimpse at the Indian countryside and I was surprised at how sparsely populated it was, considering it’s the second most populous nation on the planet.
As we approached one hairpin bend, I realised that we were going to hit a patch of gravel and oil left behind after some construction work. I reflexively hit went for the front brake. It managed to slow the bike to about running pace by the time we hit the oil, but when we hit the slick, the front wheel locked-up and the bike – and ourselves – went sprawling across the tarmac in a sort of slow-motion lowside.
We hopped about and cursed and yelped and checked that we were both okay – which, thank goodness, we were – and then I picked the bike out of the road. After a minute, two Indians on another bike stopped to check on us. Other than some minor bumps and bruises we were both fine, although Kate was extremely lightheaded afterwards and we needed to stop every two minutes for fear of her fainting until we found a shop in a tiny village at the bottom of the pass.
The Indians had patiently escorted us down. I brought some fizzy drinks and we drank them in the shade of a tree. What seemed like half the village had soon assembled around us and was asking us the questions Indians always ask couples: “Where are you from?”, ”Are you married?”, “Do you have children?”. Our escorters interpreted for us.
We rode (slowly!) back to Udaipur, I dropped the bike off at the rental shop and it was given a once-over by the owner, who was obviously suspicious as to why I wanted to drop the bike off several hours early and with half-a-tank of petrol remaining. Luckily there was no visible damage.
I thanked him for the use of the old thumper, and walked off, doing my best not to show my limp.
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