A Great Big South Indian Adventure 8

From Kodaikanal, it was a glorious ride down the hill with the bike working well. Dharmender had stripped the gear box and reassembled it in the early hours of the morning.

I had a wonderful time being in tune with the bike and the road. Gliding round potholes, following Alex's professional line, way to the left on the right hand bends and over to the right on the left handers. Maximising the line of sight and concentrating on 'the triangle', the furthest point of the road you can see. Slowing when it gets closer and speeding up as disappears off in the distance. We took the same road down we'd ridden up with such gusto. The potholes eased off and the road was broader and in good condition as we swung past the bhaji stop of much fame and little spend, then down through the hairpins, scraping the pegs and in the groove. Full of happy adrenaline, roaring along, happy to be at the front of the pack.

A little light flashed 'cocky son' so I stopped where we'd taken the photos two days before and the Bullet Boys soon rode up. So we had a smoke and a pee and a banter. and for once the bike starts first time...the boys felt my elation!

On our way up two days before, Will had taken a big interest in the tribal village at the bottom of the hill, so I was looking forward to seeing it properly. It was so easy to miss the details when you're not so good on the bike, but looking around second time,round, it was fascinating, from the bare earth floors, to the women carrying huge bundles of sticks on their heads and the free roaming peacocks.

Chris wanted a photo op at a road sign that said Elephant Crossing. We found a cameraman by stopping an unfortunate passing moped with a couple of guys on it. Presumably they guessed we weren't robbers, just normal white guys in body armour. 

In exchange for them taking the photos, theŷ asked us to pose with them, which we were very happy to do. Out came their cameraphones and we were probably laughed about over lunch, or we're posted somewhere on a Facebook page, 'photo of the unknown bikers', or something. It was a struggle giving them some money, but it would probably pay for a week's worth of petrol on the moped, so they they gave in graciously.

We rolled in to the same chai stop of two days before, with the same wonderful and welcome chai. After our long late morning snack we got on a big road, which was pretty unusual on this trip and soon were racing along in open traffic having a wonderful time. One of the few days where it felt anywhere near safe to get up to 60 or even 70 mph!

Some time later with the wind fresh in our helmeted hair we entered a melee of a town. There were no signs and no major paved roads going where we wanted to, so getting out involved dirt tracks and dust, backways and bumps. In rugby terms, nobody called for a ruck, so it remained a maul.

But we found our way out and after a while were into a big nature reserve. This one had barriers and khaki uniformed guards who wanted our bike number plates and it all looked very official. We moved the mayoral chains that were decorating the bikes, just enough to uncover number plates, none of which we knew.

But it was a chance for the back markers to catch up and the group to reassemble, so we could set off into the wilderness in convoy.

The road narrowed and holes appeared and trees reduced the line of sight and bends got sharper. We were being ingested by the jungle. But it was lovely scenery and lots of green.

As we got more confident the Bullet Boys had been stopping more often for photos and just because we could.

Ian had been doing this for days. Presumably he needed an excuse to ride at his capability level, which was a lot faster than us novices. So he would stop and buy a decoration for the bike, or take photos, or take it easy. Then he could be like Abi and scoot up the convoy which lumbered along at its merry pace.

Of course a couple of minutes after our photo stop we came across Alex and a regroup with a much better view. Luckily this was on a bend in the road, so our parked bikes cut the road down to a single lane, on a bend. But out came the binoculars to eagerly scour the steep valley below and the savanna of the hill across from us, and the river and the waterfall and any other likely place for wildlife. But nothing, still it was fun trying.

While we smoked and chatted and waited a stray dog, skinny with floppy dugs and a mangy coat came cagily by. She got fed biscuits and was patted and photographed and probably doubled her lifetime love quota.

We then had a fuss about, holding up letters fpr a H A P P Y H O L I D A Y S photo, but apparently one of the letters was upside down, so we will probably never see the photo. Arranging everyone in a line on the side of a narrow road with a steep drop below us and no safety rail was just par for the course really. Vidyha was perched on a rock above us and cheerily snapped away as we disturbed the traffic.

After that it was up and up, into the tea plantations. On a hairpin was a white car with a smashed-in front, waiting for a tow. No major injuries visible, just people hanging around at the side of the road. They did not have signs and were not posing for photos, so we meandered around the wounded car and soldiered on.

The Bullet Boys continued to stay close, so it was easy to find an excuse to stop for a chat and a smoke and take photos of waterfalls and tea pickers. It was noticeably cooler with a barely visible mountain mist shading the hillsides.

One of us, a currently unnamed non-trainee biker, to be more precise, was gazing up the hill at the tea pickers, and burst out with, 'Cor, I'd do the one in brown'. Michael cried out 'Filming'. We gulped into embarrassed silence as his GoPro video swung along the group of ladies high on the hill, snipping away at the tips of the tea leaves.

We rode on up, high into the hills and the mist thickened as we stopped on a bluff where the tea pickers were close to the road. Its an excellent spot for photos of them, plus this wonderful video that gives an idea of the atmosphere, with what sounds like an Enfield Bullet puttering away in the background.

For one of those strange deja vu, premonition reasons that haunt me every so often, I wanted to get a move on and not be left behind. The leaders had set off as us Bullet Boys had rolled up. I left fairly quickly to follow Abi. The mist got worse and soon we had the lights on as the visibility dropped. Steadily we wove around the bends and the potholes and through the thickening mist that seemed to come in lumps where you could suddenly only see a few yards and were surprised by a tree lurching out of the gloom, or a drop looming that may be a couple of metres or a couple of hundred.

Then we started to descend and slowly emerge from the mist. Abi raced off and I realise it is faster than I can go.

So I slow down and start looking for a good spot for another photo while waiting for the Bullet Boys. Coming down the hill there was a group of young Indian guys taking photos, they smile, I wave and look up to see a bad patch of broken road. I brake and change fast down into second, but get neutral instead.

So I ended up with a bad line on the rough patch, too far right and with a blind right hand bend. As the broken road finishes I pull hard left, braking, trying to get out of the way of anything coming round the blind corner. But I was too heavy with the rear brake and the road had a covering of dry coarse sand. Scree alert. Back wheel slide. Rider error and down we go. Hard.

The armour Michael had given me works well, as does my helmet which took enough of a bash to displace various vents and levers.

The brake pedal was completely bent and useless. The headlight cover ruined, engine oil was leaking and I was shaken and embarrassed. The young guys ran over and helped me get the bike up and off to the side of the road. They found my phone that had slide out and dusted me down. A good crew. Of course I was not thankful enough and very defensive, but at least the only permanent damage was to the bike and my pride.

The others arrived a few minutes later. They slow down on seeing me, so don't have trouble with the rough patch or the sand.

I wave them through as they can't help and I haven't sorted out in my head what had happened, let alone had a chance to line up my excuses. 

Will stops for a chat. He's good. I guess he was just checking for concussion or more serious side effects but instead Dr. Hill only found stupidity. He seemed happy enough to continue on and I was happy to be left with my tumultuous thoughts.

I talked to the Indian guys and waited for Steve and the mechanics, which sounds like a band but was more of a group, being short of musical instruments.

Waving Steve on, I apologised to Dharmender for messing up his bike and have a smoke to calm down.

Dharmender worked his magic changing the brake lever, refilling the oil and checking the bike out all in about 15 minutes. Lovely rides the bike down the road add back to test it, then I'm allowed back on.

Confidence shaken I carefully ride another 5 or 10 kms, arranging my excuses into a coherent order for the inevitable barracking. Learning from Aesop's fable of Timothy and the Nettle I walk up to the assembled group  saying "rider error" and give a brief rundown. At least they kindly ask if I'm OK before the shit started!

It felt a long ride to get to the hotel and my bike kept sliding into neutral between all the gears.

It is hard to have any confidence when that happens. So tired and dispirited and all out of sorts I barely notice the quiet valley with grassy banks leading to a deep-cut stream. Gorgeous for a few holes of golf, Scottish style, just cutting the grass and dealing with the inconsistencies of the land by tailoring a seven iron for a lay-up shot. But that was a brief bright spot for a mopey git on a bike.

Lacking confidence the last thing I needed was the road down to the hotel, chunky gravel and steep, so I struggle down it using brake, throttle and clutch at the same time. A steady stream of quiet Anglo Saxon kept me going till we got to reception.

I could really use a stiff drink, but instead we having a general milling around while waiting for check-in, then a long walk down to our rooms. I am a bit out of it and slouching along at the back of the group. We are quarantined in a block of six rooms, well away from the main buildings. Steve luckily and picks the only twin room. We have not had to share a bed yet, unlike the other Bullet Boys.

In the room I strip off to see the 'damage', which is just a bleeding elbow and a scratched shoulder. A wash for the elbow with bottled water with lashings of Savlon later and the bags have arrived. They seemed to get down the hill on a hand cart. That was very welcome, not having to lug them.

The shower works, which apparently is not the case in the other rooms. So Steve did well. It was a fairly sparse place and not having a shower would be a bummer.
Anyway a wash and a couple of plasters, for my elbow and my ego, then downstairs to hang out with Chris who has moved all his room furniture outside to the space around a fire pit.

Alex arrives with whisky, I light a fat Cuban, well a Montecristo No. 5, which is fat enough for me, and the others steadily arrive. More room furniture arrives and we joke about starting a fire with it.

An hour and a couple of bottles of Indian whiskey later the group is in merry form, but the boys are spoiling for a ragging so I sit apart and try to minimise contact with them, as I'm not up to it. Which probably made me look more of a mopey stuck up prick than a mature individual, but it was the easiest option.

We have apparently paid for a fire, which takes ages to light. Seven hotel staff tie the sticks tightly to an upright metal pole fixed in the firepit. They then use gallons of fuel to create big flames but the wood does not burn. It is wet and there is not enough space for air. Amateurs with fuel.

Alex's iTunes are in full flow and there's a lot of singing gong on, with lusty renditions of the chorus and snatches of the lyrics in between. I become the subject of 'You're So Vain' in tones to make Carly cry but the energy levels are up and fun is to be had.

By the time food is ready, the boys are roaring so I opt to stay in the restaurant up the hill, while they take their food back down to the fire.

At least it gave me the chance to learn a lot more about Ian and Gayle, which continues when we go back down to the fire. It is extraordinary the different paths we have all taken to arrive on a charity bike tour of South India. But taken them we have and here we are.

Round the fire, Chris starts with a couple of rugby songs and we all start losing our voices.

The music continues with half remembered songs and Chris casually chucks a chair on the fire. You can take the boy out of the rugby tour but you can't tale the rugby tour out of the boy!

Tony rescues the chair and Sarah gives Chris feedback in the form of 'you fucking twat' and the party livens with Tony starting the dancing. A bit of dancing, a bit of singing and a lot of talking serious rubbish and laughing serious laughs, especially after a toke and we finish the beer and then more of the spirits and people drift off. 
We were all drunk so I certainly slept the sleep of the dead and woke slowly to a post dawn chorus of Chris' cheery chatter. The man has the cat like quality of Tigger in the early morning. We are probably still a bit drunk and make enough noise with our manly banter to get the others up.

Organising tea and coffee to quench our dehydration is a long and arduous process. Lots of head shaking from the poor man in charge of our block and five attempts later the staff bring two small pots, one with chai and the other with sweet coffee.

That is enough for a couple of cups but there are more if us, so we order lots more. Twenty minutes later Alex appears, checks we all made it through the night and wanders up to see if breakfast is ready yet. He signals down that grubs up so we wander up to find the large pots of coffee and tea we'd ordered several times, several minutes before, about to be brought down. Stupidly we do not take them out of the guy's hands because they disappear, never to be seen again.

And so starts another day...