Classic Biking In India: Royal Rajasthan by Enfield Bullet

Motorcycling in India where all roads are one way – whichever way you happen to be going – with no speed limits other than the fastest you can go in any and every situation, no rules of the road except he who honks loudest and flinches last goes, and every conceivable user: cars, trucks, busses, motor rickshaws, peda-rickshaws, bicycles, skooters, motorcycles, herds of sheep and goats, dogs, pigs, camels, horses, water buffaloes, and cows, even the occasional elephant and dancing bear, and people, people, people. Forget that you’re driving on the opposite side of the road – that’s the least of your worries. Now throw in an Indian-made Enfield Bullet which shifts on the right, one up and three down, and brakes on the left. Did I mention the suckers are kick-start only? Sound like your kind of fun? It was for my wife and I and my son and his girlfriend.

For 15 days at the end of 2005, the four of us joined 10 other intrepid souls and two guides from Classic Bike India on a motorcycle tour of Rajasthan. For those geographically challenged, Rajasthan is in the northwest of India next to Pakistan and is mostly desert, the Thar desert to be specific. Sort of looks like southern Arizona or New Mexico. Running roughly north-south through the middle of the state are the Aravali Mountains. Rajasthan is the home of the fearsome Rajputs, kick-ass horse and camel warriors with bright yellow, red, and orange turbans and truly monumental handlebar mustaches. The women look like a flock of birds in their bright saris and jangling gold and silver jewelry. On the top of most major mountains are medieval walled fortresses and palaces. Think Arabian Nights and Sheherazad. Rajasthan is classical India at its most romantic. Having lived in India for some time 30 years ago, it was always my favorite part of that subcontinent.

I found this trip by Googling “motorcycle tour + Rajasthan.” There are a number of companies that run similar trips, but I chose Classic Bike India because they had a trip at the time my family and I had open to go. The company is owned by an expatriate German in Goa who runs motorcycle trips all over India and Nepal. (The one in Ladakh really sounded scary.) Each trip is guided by one or two English-speaking Germans who have lived in India for years, and the whole group is followed by a chase bus with three crackerjack mechanics and trunks full of tools and spare parts. The chase bus also carried all our luggage. All you had to worry about each morning was being ready to ride between 8-9 A.M. Everything else was taken care of by our guides and mechanics.

Because this is a “German” company, most of the other riders were Germans, with two Swedes and a Brit thrown in for good measure. Lest you think we were roughing it, each night we stayed in a Maharaja’s palace or fort which had been converted into a 4-star “heritage” hotel. Breakfast and dinner were included at the hotels as were song, dance, and puppet shows most nights. We pooled our resources for lunch and ate wherever we happened to stop. That meant mostly rice, dal (lentils), vegetable curry, and nan, a flat bread baked in front of your eyes. In addition, we stopped for chai, spiced Indian tea, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. We typically road 150 miles per day, with some days less and others more, for a total of around 1,500 miles. Except for one late afternoon, we were always at our hotel before sunset.

India has only three seasons – winter, summer, and monsoon. December-January in India is winter, but that meant the temperature was in the 60-70s every day with sunshine and not a drop of rain the whole two weeks. The mornings could be chilly; so layers were in order. And being in the desert, the temperature went down rapidly once the sun went down. That meant putting on a sweater or jacket and for me with no hair, a beanie as well.

The Bullets were single cyclinder, 4-stroke, 500cc verticals which looked straight out of the 1960s. When Royal Enfield went belly-up in Britain, the Indian factory bought the rights to continue domestic production, and not a whole lot has changed since in the way of design. This is where the company gets the “classic” in its name. It took most of us a few days to learn to reliably start the beasts, but once going, they were relatively indestructible. Although the roads were mostly paved, there were a couple of days that made one think “motocross.” On the odd occasion when they did break down after hitting a water buffalo, stripping a cam gear, or popping a tire, Aslam, Ramesh, and Monton, our three mechanics, had us back on our way, typically in minutes. Ok, the engine rebuild did take over night, but my son was back on his bike the next morning.

The places we stayed at night are the stuff of legends – Rudyard Kipling, Gunga Din, and all that. Bikaner, Jaisalmer, Jodhpur, and Udaipur were all Rajput capitals dominated by sandstone and marble forts. Luni and Bambora were typical mud-hut Rajasthani villages where are hotels were restored forts. Pushkar was once a sleepy little pilgrimage town sacred to Lord Brahma, dreamer of the universe, but now a trendy hangout for Israeli hippies. At Kusa, we rode camels in the desert with dunes like out of Lawrence of Arabia, while at Ranthambore, we took a jeep safari in the national park and saw two tigers, one only yards away. As for libidinous supplies, beer flowed freely at dinner and most lunches and, in Jaisalmer, we found a state-licensed store which sold bhang, a form of marijuana. The enterprising third-generation owner, the affable Dr. Bhang, offered bhang cookies and chocolate, several sorts of bhang milkshakes, and smokable bhang as well, all in mild, medium, strong, and super strong strengths. In Jodhpur, a guard in the Maharaja’s winter palace offered black-tar opium out of the pocket of his kurta to the more intrepid. Interesting, but I have to say we passed on that. Shopping was yet another diversion, what with the cotton and silk sarees, Rajasthani miniature paintings, silver and gold jewelry, and other fabric goods.

However, the thing that I enjoyed the best, besides the constantly varying riding, was the people. English is an official language in India. So it was always easy to find someone who we could speak to. In addition, I still speak a little Hindi from my salad days. Indians are incredibly friendly, and you can’t stop without gathering a crowd. While some tourists find this annoying, my wife and I got into it with the result that we got taken into locals’ homes, saw temples off the beaten track, tasted things other members of our tour did not, and met some really great, down-home people. No matter where we went, our caravan was greeted by huge, white-toothed smiles and waves. What a great feeling!

While this trip was not for the faint-hearted, I recommend it whole-heartedly. It’s the kind of once-in-a-life-time, wild-hair trip every biker with a taste for the exotic should do. Although the riding was sometimes challenging, my family and I all came back better riders for it. Hopefully, we also came back better people too. For more information about Classic Bike India, go to www.classic-bike-india.com.