Winter Storage

770.8 miles

In the past 70 days, I’ve clocked just 30.3 miles on Shakti, my Royal Enfield Interceptor, whose odometer guides the cadence of this newsletter.

Why the low mileage? Well, I was in another country and Shakti has been in winter storage, connected to a battery tender. A man named Steven regularly starts her engine. He seems a nice guy.

One of my last rides was to Salem, Massachusetts, around an hour from home. The day was sunny and clear.

There was a moment on the highway that I watched peripherally, through sunglasses.

Shadow, lower right
Growing, fast
Passing country—swallowed
Rider—swallowed
Speeding truck, lower left
Bike decelerates
Through shadow bowels
Into open road
Digested, alive

The experience surprised me, but only in its apparent novelty. I had ridden alongside plenty of trucks before back in India. Had I never felt their shadows?

Entering Salem, I turned into a garden. Road became gravel, gravel became grass. I zigzagged down a hill, parking next to water.

Hours passed, maybe days. An insight surfaced. Or maybe an intuition. I don’t know the difference.

Shadows hide in pandemonium.

To see the shadow of a thing in the chaos of a thing is hard. Indian roads are a crush of humans, animals and machines that hijack the attention. Shadows are subtle, and subtlety needs a certain stillness to be perceived. That’s not to say Mother India doesn’t offer subtlety or stillness. She does, in many places. Just not on the roads that get you there.

A week after Salem, I caught up with a friend. Someone I first met on the morning of my motorcycle theory test, at the local Staples of all places. I had stopped by to print some documents, and parked outside was a Royal Enfield Classic 500. I’d seen this same bike a few times before and figured it must belong to a staff member.

“Hello sir, do you know whose motorcycle that is out front?” I asked the chap at the front desk.

“The manager’s,” he said, eyebrows raised. “He’s in a meeting right now.”

“No problem.”

I thought to leave, then found myself gushing on about just how rare it was to spot a Classic 500 in America, so unlike India, where they grace every other street. The man clearly had no interest in motorcycles but seemed tickled by my enthusiasm.

“Please let him know that a customer stopped by and said his bike was beautiful,” I concluded, with a sigh.

I exited, heading towards my friend Noah’s car. He had kindly offered to drive me to the exam, which was in a different part of the state.

Just as I was reaching the vehicle, someone hollered from the store.

“Hey!”

The voice belonged to a South Asian man, twirling a set of keys around his finger. He appeared confident, at ease—managerial.

I walked towards him and held out my hand. He shook it. We shared stories. It turns out we had both lived in Mumbai, in suburbs just 6 minutes apart. Basking in the synchronicity, he let me near his motorcycle.

We exchanged numbers and kept in touch through iMessage. My new friend was an experienced biker and brilliant mechanic. I learned a lot from him this first season.

Our last meeting was in the Staples co-working space. We sipped Americanos and sang the praises of a certain Indian motorcycle manufacturer. He owned 3 Royal Enfields and followed all the latest releases. I could relate. The momentum has been a delight to witness. But I sensed our allegiances were rooted in something deeper, something that went beyond two wheels.

Founded in England in 1901 and officially moving to India in 1995, the company’s migration is the stuff of motorcycle folklore, befitting a brand that sells adventure. For a pair of first generation Indian immigrants like ourselves, Royal Enfield is a feeling of home. For me, a kid raised in England, it’s also a beacon of hope—when cultures travel and hearts open, beautiful things can happen.

Thank you for being here at 770.8 miles, my odometer’s latest reading. It means a lot.

Dhru