The Endless Highway

“Can you pick up my bike on the way?”, my friend asked. “Sure”, I shrugged.

Like I had any choice. I was hungry and was looking forward to A delicious breakfast with him. I could almost taste the luscious croissant, the spongy omelette and the divine Colombian coffee.

Instead, I had to take a detour, ride the bike in the hot sun and out-manoeuvre the ruthless beast that is city traffic. Blame it to the ten years in the USA. Somewhere along the way, I had for forgotten the feel of a motorbike and gotten comfortable in the safe box that is an automatic car. Bikes are death traps, my friends said. Riders are organ donors, they insisted. One light touch from a speeding car and you will be dead, that too, if you are really lucky.

I look at the bike I am here to pick up. It‘s a gorgeous Harley, in simmering black, with majestic twin engines. I tentatively turn on the key, rev the engine and put it into gear. It thunders and slowly gets moving. Not bad, I can still ride a bike.

The bike is oddly comfortable. I see a turn and instinctively, I rev the engine. The bike responds instantly and rushes to meet the turn. I slightly turn the handle and the torque takes care of the rest. I grin widely.

I start feeling the wind on my face. Start hearing the music of the engine. Feel my heart tugging as I take the winding road. I remember my old Harley and the long rides. Racing the train in the mountains, trailblazing the white desert and soaking in the lush green country-side. I remember the rides alone and the ones with the passenger. That lovely, lovely passenger.

A lot of things changed. The roads became more winding, the rides became shorter and that lovely passenger went a different way. The heart got used to speed limits on plain, grey roads in urban jungles. But it had not forgotten the joy of riding.

I see the turn to my friend’s place and then, the road ahead. I think for a moment and speed straight. The breakfast will taste wonderful but not as wonderful as the endless highway.