No Room For Watermelons. Ron Fellowes

understood his sentiments, but it didn’t help that I now had mismatched pedals. The luggage straps would have to wait until I reached a bigger city. For now, all I could do was reposition the load. A new Indian mirror replaced my broken one and would suffice until I could have new glass fitted.

      The only highlight of my day was a haircut and shave at a tiny stall, with one plastic chair, in the middle of nowhere. Not surprisingly, a crowd materialised.

      That evening, the manager of Tata Trucks provided a room for me next to his workshop. Before bed, I woofed down a meal of stuffed tomatoes, dhal, rotis and a bottle of cola. All-up cost: 125 rupees (about 25 cents Australian).

      When Lynne and I talked each night via Skype, I’d relay entries from my diary. Fortunately Lynne’s laptop had reasonable internet connection most of the time. Phone cards are cheap and easily procurable throughout India. Even the poorest people I met had mobile phones, some several, which enabled them to take advantage of cheaper rates at different times.

      ‘How’s your day been?’ Lynne asked. I told her how pissed off I was at dropping the bike. And that the Dry Rider gear bags weren’t holding up as well as I expected. She shared my sentiments and asked if I was okay.

      ‘I’m fine. I just put a hole in my jacket. In fairness, the bags are under a lot of stress and are probably are carrying more than the recommended five kilos. The problem is that I need to carry extra fuel, and that’s so damned heavy. What gets me most is that I was told the road was good, but it turned out to be crap most of the way. It’s always like this: I get told one thing and it proves to be another, and the heavy load doesn’t help.’

      Whenever I share my frustrations, things don’t seem quite as dire.

      We discussed the alternatives, but I already knew the answer. Going back wasn’t an option; neither was having a backup team. Tomorrow was bound to be better — well surely it couldn’t get worse!