The Bike Ride

Chapter 1

So Rohan had very recently been granted access to an antique bike his father very proudly owned. It was a black one, with silver thingies on the front (which he once told me were to protect the rider's legs) , with silver stripes going all around it. The access he had gained was rather tiresome, for it only involved a wet cloth and a beautiful Royal Enfeild that no matter how hard you tried, always stayed a little dusty. He was ordered to make the bike shine so bright, that even the birds that enjoyed making him work harder by dropping bombs on it from above can admire themselves in it for a bit. But my dear friend had ulterior motives in mind. Sure, the bike would shine, but first, one must make it dirtier.

Rohan had always been the mischievous, adventurous guy. He'd do things one should never try, and then he'd later tell me all about it. I was always the overly cautious guy. The one that did the cost-benefit analysis of shit we were about to do. Over the years of our friendship, we both picked up pieces of each other. Rohan was now a cautious mischievous guy, and I had gained some spirit of adventure as well.

One fine Sunday morning , I get a call from the guy, and he asks me to come down to his parking spo. He doesn't tell me why. I hate it when he gets all mysterious. I'm wearing my night-suit shorts, and a two sizes too big t-shirt that once belonged to my dad - the perfect night-suit. Breathable, comfortable, and arguably the perfect homeless looking outfit. But it's 7 AM on a sunday. I don't bother to change. I wear my flip flops, and head towards the society's parking area, still a little drowsy.

As I come closer to my destination, I can see all the nice cars parked around. We've got a newly acquired white Fortuner that Rohan's neighbor got last month. He works in some coaching institute, and they pay rather well. Why should they not? Millions of children have fathers like mine, that would pay any amount if that meant their kid would get into an IIT institute. I always disliked coaching institutes, for I was in one myself. Right beside it was a Chevrolet Optra, golden. I really liked the way it looked, majestic and powerful. The car beside it should have been a Mahindra XUV, but instead I saw a thin figure squatting down in front of a rather dusty looking bike. The cloth that I figured must have been for cleaning the bike was sitting on top of the Optra, while Rohan was admiring the beauty of the exhaust pipe or whatever its called (i am by no means a bike person. All i know about them is that they go vroom vroom and are extremely unsafe)

"How'd you convince him to give you the bike then?"

"I didn't. He wants me to clean it."

"Well you're doing a terrible job then."

He gives me a look that clearly states he did not like the joke. He gestures me to squat down with him, and I unwillingly do. I've never understood motorcycles. I find them to be extremely impractical. I mean, for one, they're uncomfortable, you can't play music in them, you can't make out in them, and if it rains, it's basically a suicide mission. Besides, the riders on Indian roads are basically ants in my opinion. They'll try and maneuver the smallest of spaces, with no regard for the cars they often scrape by.

There's a YouTube video playing on his phone, kept precariously against one of the bike's tyres.

Rohan listened intently. He was making mental notes on how to go about this. I still had no idea what he was trying to achieve here. There is no way one can learn how to ride a bike online.

"You're seriously going to try this?"

"I am."

"What if you fall? It's an antique dude. Aren't these supposed to be expensive or something?"

"You're too pessimistic. Watch me."

Rohan picks up his phone from the ground and confidently gets up himself. He takes a good look at the image on the phone, and then moves over to the other side of the bike now, facing me.

"So now the first step is to get the bike off the stand apparently", he says while trying to get a good grip on the front of the old machine. He gestures to me to hold the back of it.

"Hold tight. On the count of three, we'll push it backwards. It should come off the stand."

It did , indeed, come off the stand. But then so did the two of us. And thus lay in the cemented car park two idiots and a bike that now probably was missing a blinker.