Leathers flapping in the wind. Gloved hands clenched firmly on the handlebar grips. Riding goggles cover a pair of eyes that are eagerly scanning the road ahead. The deep thump resonates through the chromed pea-shooter silencer. The white lines on the road move by, slow enough to be distinguishable from the next but fast enough to keep things from getting boring.
You stop for a breather and sit a few steps away from the motorcycle. But yes, your gaze is still on it. You wonder if your motorcycling predecessors felt the same way you feel right now. Running your hands across the smooth rounded lines brings a smile on your face. You feel a connection to the riders of yore. Yes, a very strong connection indeed.Welcome to the hallowed world of the Royal Enfield Bullet. The world that hasn’t changed much for this big thumper – right from the days of tweed jackets and sola hats to the present, an era when Elvis seems to have made his music millennia ago and where character is lost to efficiency. Change is inevitable, they say. But sometimes, legends just refuse to evolve. They soldier on, oblivious to the progression of times.
It was a rainy morning, dark and gloomy – almost like in the English moors. This was getting as good as it gets. Ryan comes over, undeterred by the drizzle. It’s a black and maroon ‘57 Bullet he’s on. He rides over and comes to a standstill beside me. Droplets of water roll down the tank and get caught up in the polished brass monograms. I walk around the motorcycle, savouring the details.Kartik and Aman look on too. Nobody’s talking even though it’s a joyous moment. Joyous because the 2002 Electra has met it’s forebear for the first time. There is nearly half a century of lineage between them, and here they are, standing handlebar to handlebar.I decide to ride the older Bullet first and put on my old leather bomber jacket. The supple hide gloves are slipped on and like just with any other Brit classic, I retard the timing, decompress and kick away. The bike starts up and settles into a slow, steady idle. I pull in the clutch, and coax the Albion gearbox into engaging the first toothed wheel. I am ready to ride a part of motorcycling history.
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