Where I realise that I am no Jenson Button

I get a fair bit of criticism with regard to my driving style. Mostly from women. One said “Stop driving like my taatha” while another said “You drive so slowly, I could get out, pee outside and still get in the car”

I think guys dont criticise each other’s driving because it is part of the Bro Code. Thou shalt not parody thine brothers wheelies.

Or something like that.

Or maybe guys is to driving as girls is to haircuts. Diplomacy when ok-ok friends/acquaintances and brutal honesty when full chaddi buddies.

I am craving my bike. Like craving it. I have decided that by next weekend, it shall be ready to ride and I shall back a tiny bag with some water and a change of clothes and I will lash it onto the seat and I will put on my helmet, check the tyres, pump in some fuel and head off to Lonavala.

And when I am carving the mountains, I will stop here and there and I will look at the Ghats and have some garam garam chai and bite into a vada pav and realise that life really is as simple as you make it out to be.

Chai + Vada Pav + Brutus = Happy Singh.

The part I like best about riding is that you don’t have to go too fast to enjoy it. I mean even if you are just pottering around at 50 or 60, it just feels so much faster and yet you have time to look around you and the wind hits you and you can feel this beautiful machine just smile to herself.

And stopping anywhere you like, just popping the stand and watching her lean lazily on the side of the road. Hear that “clink clink” as the motor cools down or whatever.

Cheh. Full missing missing.

This entry was posted in a puppy dies in somalia, complete and utter bullshit. Bookmark the permalink.

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