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Journalism of Courage
There’s something about a motorcycle that untangles your soul. It’s not just the low, primal thump of the engine—like a heartbeat syncing with your own—or the way the seat holds you just enough to keep you grounded while the world rushes by. It’s not even the freedom of leaning into a highway curve, the wind slicing through your thoughts, or the way the headlight carves a path through the night, sharp and unyielding. It’s what the ride does to you—how it quiets the noise in your head, how it strips away the clutter until all that’s left is you, the road, and the moment.
My ride from Rajasthan’s Pushkar to Delhi—all through the night, in the rain—with a brief pause in Jaipur, was my version of that: a 450+ kilometre search for clarity, one kilometre at a time.
I left Pushkar at 3 PM, the town’s spiritual hum still vibrating in my ears. The narrow lanes, scented with incense and earth, gave way to the open road as I pointed the bike towards Jaipur. With a 25-kilo bag strapped to the pillion rack and my body encased in full riding gear, I was ready for whatever the monsoon had in store. The skies were heavy, gray clouds promising rain but holding back for now. I didn’t have a plan when I started this ride—just a need to move, to let the rhythm of the ride sort out the chaos in my head. That’s what men do when life feels like it’s closing in—we find something that demands our focus, something that lets us breathe without asking for explanations. A bike, a trail, a long drive to nowhere. It’s our reset button.
The road from Pushkar to Jaipur was a mix of winding curves and straight stretches, Rajasthan’s arid beauty unfolding around me—scrubby hills, distant forts, and patches of green where the monsoon had left its mark. The bike’s upright stance fit my 5’8” frame well enough, though my toes barely grazed the ground at stops. It wasn’t perfect, but perfection is overrated. The handlebar’s geometry let me shift my weight effortlessly, saddling up on the open road––flying, I call iT –– leaning into turns, and overtaking trucks, with a trust that felt almost reckless. I’ve always felt there’s a rhythm to riding, a field between control and surrender, that mirrors how men process life—one moment you’re gripping tight, the next you’re letting go.
I rolled into Jaipur around 6:45 PM, the Pink City alive with its chaotic pulse—scooters and auto-rickshaws darting, cattle conducting evening meetings in the middle of the road, and the occasional camel plodding along like it owned the road. I stopped at a roadside dhaba for chai and a breather. It was the kind of place where truckers and travellers trade stories over steaming glasses. People gathered around, drawn to the bike’s tall silhouette, possibly all the gear I was wearing, and the cameras I had mounted. Some asked about its specs, others stared in awe, and a third lot wanted pictures with me. I didn’t mind. Why would I? It felt surreal because that kind of reaction was new. It was not about showing off. For me, it was about sharing a piece of this journey, and my journey. It was similar to how men nod at each other across a parking lot, a silent acknowledgment of the road’s pull. Or how riders, out on the highways, put one hand high up in the air to say “Hello,” to other riders.
I rested for a couple of hours, but sleep wasn’t in the cards. My mind was still on the move, replaying the afternoon ride. The seat, which looked plush enough, forced me to shift side to side in search of comfort that never fully arrived. The vibrations through the handlebars and footpegs lingered in my hands and feet, a reminder that no ride is without its rough edges. Just like life. Men don’t always talk about it, but we feel it—the ache of holding on too long, the need to keep going anyway. At 9:30 PM, I saddled up again, pointed the bike towards Delhi, and let the night take over.
The night ride: Rain, trucks, and clarity
An hour into the journey, the monsoon finally made its move. The skies opened up, rain hammering down in sheets, turning the NH48 into a slick, shimmering ribbon. I pulled over briefly to throw the rain cover over my rucksack and slip into my own, the water already soaking through my jeans. But stopping wasn’t an option. The ride was calling, and I answered. It was also a test I put myself through. I wanted to see if I could pull this off. I told myself that if I reach Delhi in one piece, it means I still am in control. Not just of the bike or riding, of my life, of my soul.
The rain mode on the bike kicked in, the bike’s grip steady even as the road turned treacherous. Between the hulking silhouettes of trucks, their taillights blurred by the downpour, I found a rhythm—cruising at 60-80 kmph when the road allowed, slowing to a crawl when visibility dropped. The headlight cut through the darkness, illuminating the way with a clarity that felt almost poetic.
Pitstops became my lifeline. A roadside tea stall at midnight, the hiss of a kettle mixing with the patter of rain. A quick Redbull at another lonely roadside restaurant, the neon glow reflecting off wet asphalt. Each stop was a moment to recalibrate, to let the ride sink deeper into my bones. The bike’s thump was a constant, grounding me through the storm.
I rolled into Delhi’s outskirts as dawn broke, the city waking up. My body was tired, and I needed coffee. Instead of heading home, I headed to my favourite 24 x 7 coffee shop, took my usual dose of caffeine. I sat there, outside the cafe, looking at the bike. I made it. Safe. Without even an iota of trouble. My mind was clear. Quiet. The ride had done its job, unraveling the knots I hadn’t even realised were there.
I realised the quick coffee shop was also because I wasn’t ready to let go of the road.
We chase these moments of solitude, where the world can’t touch us. It’s why we sit in the car after a long day, engine idling, staring at the dashboard like it holds the answers. It’s why we blast music and take the long way home, why we ride through the rain when we could just as easily stop. It’s not about escaping—it’s about finding space to exist, to let the thoughts we’ve been dodging finally catch up.
I’m in Delhi now, and I don’t know where I’ll ride next. Maybe nowhere. Maybe everywhere. That’s the beauty of a ride—it doesn’t demand answers. It just asks you to keep moving. This ride wasn’t about any destination. It was about the space between—a 450+ kilometer stretch of road, rain, and reflection. The bike carried me through the chaos of Pushkar’s lanes, the vibrancy of Jaipur, the rain-soaked highways to Delhi. But the real journey was inside. It’s why I ride, why I’ll always ride. It’s how I make sense of the world—one kilometre, one moment, one ride at a time.
