Before I left Jaipur I went shopping for sandals. My toes were raw and ugly, and I had to admit my feet were more comfortable without boots. It’s just a shame I’m so resistant to doing things that make sense. At least, while I was off the bike, my feet had a chance to heal. But they weren’t a pretty sight, which no doubt was unpleasant for the poor shop assistant.
Back in the saddle and beyond the city limits, I faced lashing winds that blew sand stingingly across the road. My arms ached as I fought to keep the motorcycle upright. Despite the conditions, the FN coped reasonably well — until the rear tyre blew out again, the rim gouging into the road. Shit! The low-grade Deestone tyres were proving a nightmare.
By the time I white-knuckled the bike to a halt, my legs were shaking. Several motorists stopped to help and began gathering rocks to jack up the bike.
One man, noticing I had no water, set off, returning half-an-hour later with two full bottles. Meanwhile, his friends had helped me remove the wheel and tyre, ignoring the sandstorm lashing us. Unfortunately, I had only a 19-inch tube, not an easier fitting 21-inch. I hoped it would hold out.
Earlier, in Jaipur, I had spied an advertisement for off-road KTMs, which use the tubes I needed. My excitement was short-lived, the salesman informing me they only intended importing KTM road bikes, whose tubes don’t fit my bike.
A few hours after fitting the tyre in the sandstorm, and before I could say goodbye to my good Samaritans and ride to Mangliya Wash, I had to root out my gear, now under a thick layer of sand. I shook everything vigorously, the fine particles having found their way into every nook and cranny. My face felt as though I’d scrubbed it with burnt toast, and my eyes stung. I wiped them on my sleeve and doggedly set off again. A week later, I was still finding sand in pockets and seams.
Construction of an upgraded Jodpur highway meant traffic diversions here and there, creating a vehicular free-for-all. Motorists, impatient at crawling bumper to bumper, drove over footpaths, squeezed into the smallest gaps, and wove around in front of gigantic earthmoving equipment, barely a roti’s width between them. I’d had enough, so I staggered in to the next rest stop.
8
Cracking up
Lights flashing, horns honking, radios blaring — the truck drivers, oblivious to it all, sat cross-legged on charpoys, engrossed in their steaming mounds of dhal, rice and chapatti, washed down with the obligatory spicy chai.
Between the parking area and the restaurant stood the open-to-the-world shower block. By now, I’d lost all my inhibitions. Much to the amusement of onlookers, I stripped off and ladled ice-cold water over my head. It felt good to remove grit from my eyes and ears and wash away the day’s filth. But I did wish I had a larger towel. The one I carried barely covered my bony white arse.
Next morning, I woke to the usual cacophony and smell of spices and diesel. With an early start, I was to cover 160km, but not before I had become lost and frustrated. I wasted an extra 20 kilometres searching for NH112, but my mood lifted briefly when a truck passenger handed down to me a couple of mandarins. No point in being pissed off because I couldn’t read instructions.
Valve spring failures happened regularly, and I became adept at sensing the change in sound when something was about to die. Rounding a bend, I saw a railway barrier lowered and a train disappearing from sight. As I slowed gingerly, clutch disengaged, I heard the familiar miss of the engine as a cylinder cut out. Bugger!
When the barrier was raised, I pushed the bike across the tracks and parked against the guardrail. Within minutes, a swarm of people descended, everyone keen to be part of the action. As one tested the horn, another inspected the tools, and, as usual, there was the barrage of questions.
Surprisingly, no one ever said to me, ‘Wow, you’re riding around the world. Now there’s an idea! Can I join you?’ Where was their sense of adventure!
Despite the circus, I managed to concentrate and put the valve spring back together. My audience gave the bike a push and off I went. But, because of a rough road, I was travelling at the speed of paint drying, and only managed a miserable 53 kilometres for the entire day. I wondered how long the bike could endure the bone-shattering conditions, and questioned if I was as mentally prepared as I’d led myself to believe. Each kilometre was more exhausting than the one before, and although I usually fell into a deep sleep come nighttime, there were times when I would wake with the day’s events churning through my head. I’d question my decisions and wrack my brain for solutions to each new problem. The week had been a series of minor mishaps. Seems I was saving the big ones for later.
I thought about how I had once considered moving the bike across India by train. I’d read in the 46-page Indian Railway Claims Manual that motorcycles had to be ‘tightly wrapped in straw, sewn in sacking and manually lifted’ onto trains. I could see all sorts of problems arising from that practice, especially if the back wheel accidently turned and the engine started.
And there were a few gems in the manual, for example, the statement that ‘bidis’ (cheap Indian cigarettes) had to be contained in bitumised waterproof paper. Surely that didn’t include the old biddies that live next door!
And another: ‘Raw liver must be placed in a plastic bag and packed in ice in a wooden case with a conical wooden lid. The lid will prevent the case from being turned upside down, and avoid pilferage.’
It troubled me that, if raw liver was in danger of being knocked off, an old motorcycle could also be pretty tempting. Given that the extent of the railways responsibility for a motorcycle is only one percent of its declared value — while for an elephant it is Rp 60000 — I opted to ride the FN across India while Lynne took the train.
Thankfully, Hotel Devi Bhawan, the accommodation at Jodphur, was easy to find. There, with Lynne, for the next three nights, I was able to unwind and recover from the gruelling challenge of keeping the bike and myself going.
Rakesh, the manager, kindly pointed me in the right direction of an aged upholsterer, who had a face like a crumpled paper bag and a disarming toothless grin. He was happy to make a new seat for the bike, the original having grown increasingly uncomfortable. His vinyl creation, with ample padding, was not a work of art, but it was fit for the job.
The next task was to find an engineering shop where the crown wheel and brake drum could be unscrewed to replace broken spokes. I would love to have found a quiet corner to work unhindered, but the reality was that I was a curiosity and an audience was inevitable.
Before leaving Jodhpur I washed the panniers, cleaned my gear, stocked up on oil, and checked and tightened every nut and bolt. Devi Bhawan staff gave me a hearty send-off as I began what turned out to be a monotonous ride through a dry desert landscape.
I’d been told the road was sealed all the way, and I managed to cover 200 kilometres in good time. Then, just before Bikaner, the highway turned into a minefield of potholes. Just keeping the bike upright was a battle as I bashed and crashed my way over the lunar landscape. Then the pannier straps broke and the bike fell over. I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve fallen off the FN. This time, it was simply fatigue that saw me laying in the dirt and cursing the dreadful conditions. The mirror broke, the pedal was destroyed, and the pedal crank was bent.
I desperately needed a 15-inch crescent spanner to straighten the crank, but I didn’t have one with me and most garages had only a few basic tools. There’s usually no shortage of bicycle repair shops in India, but I had trouble finding one in Bikaner. When I did, I arrived pushing the bike with a throng trailing behind me. I must have looked like the Pied Piper.
The hyperactive manner of the wiry little owner was unnerving to say the least. But he was the only one in town with a Stillson wrench