Last week, my favourite word was ‘affectation.’ I liked how it bounced off the tongue coupled with a self-serving sentence used sans-prompt, erupting in a vulgar display of itself. (Having a favourite word-per-week is definitely not a thing.) I was using the word in real- (spoken) and imaginary- (also spoken) -life situations with no rhyme and/or reason.

(Riding) Fenderless in the Rain

Clad in inappropriate (not!) flannel, head held at a specific angle w.r.t the nose-bridge, the posture helps signal smugness at riding fenderless mid-monsoon and/or slows down the ingestion of bugs past the great moustache-beard barrier reef. It is practically wind-tunnel-level aerodynamics. It also sends a steady, thin stream of superfine dirt—that the front tyre (all insignificant 25x700cs of it) picks up—deep into your nostrils. The flannel isn’t absolutely necessary, but why be reasonable now? The bits of dirt that miss the target are finer than the bits that do, obviously, and make a beeline (because it stings; not because beeline sounds better) for your eyes as if adding insult to injury is the only thing that makes a fenderless ride in the rain capital F Fun. It is like asking a good-looking, well-dressed person to shovel dirt onto your face with a shovel designed to be laughably narrow and ineffective otherwise. Picturesque in its absurdity, the whole gymnastics unfolds as if it is being captured in a non-existing live-feed tethered to some fancy art-gallery along the beach. The spectacle is indeed sublime.

A bus speeding over a small stream (that was by then flowing over one side of the road and into the paddy field on the other side [only to cross right back, meeting up with a culvert ahead; talk about picturesque v/s pointless]) washed me thoroughly to kick things off. Impromptu road-showers thanks to speeding automobiles are alright as long as they wash off and don’t leave oddly coloured testaments to the state of state-PWD ten minutes past the event; indignation one can take, as long as it doesn’t permanently (for the day) scar. I don’t really blame the driver much; I would do the same weaving dangerously (as opposed to slowing down like sensible folks) past people—too caught up in their heads to realise a speeding bicycle can join them disastrously on their leisurely diagonal strolls to cross the road; it is the only way to conserve precious momentum on morning commutes. I have had people look at me riding straight ahead on an otherwise clear road, decide there was no way a bicycle was going as fast as it obviously was, and proceed to leisurely start crossing the road. Much indignant grabbing of the brake levers ensues, followed by a round of what Gurgaon has taught me by way of the language of righteous road rage.

The bus driver was perhaps simply done with downshifts for the day. He was—perhaps—saying things like “ride off the road, scum” or “weeeeee…” with that perfect splashy arc he delivered. Emboldened by the free shower (and after spitting out as much of the mud and water as I could) I continued the (by then) already ill-fated ride to see where the rain had performed a great unification of the football field, the paddy fields lining it on two sides, the road along the field(s) and the stream flowing—also along the field(s)—across the said road. The water had receded thanks to breaks in the rain, leaving a ruptured water pipeline sprinkling its innards into the the stream, a sorry bunch of plastic water bottles caught in the branches doing their to-fro dance on the surface and puddles pockmarking the field in parts where hopeful driving school students would otherwise practice fine automobile calligraphy (H-s and eights in endless practice loops). I’d noticed the evening-out of geographies the day before on a trip to a relative’s place. It was too late to stop and smell the hibiscus then. It (the smelling) was now fully on, through dirt-clogged nostrils that made no difference to the overall experience.

The plan thus gloriously beaten up and trashed (by the free shower and puddles), I propped the bike up (drive-side) against a boulder and sauntered along the stream, upstream, till it was not fun anymore. The local bottle-openers had gathered beyond a bend in the trail and if there is a group that gives r/privacy a run for their money… The paddy fields—beautiful in the setting sun over a layer of rain—trick you into believing there is plenty of light left in the day when it takes much less dirt-painted eyes to see pothole shaped objects on the road and elsewhere. The ride back was full of surprises. By the time I turned into the newly resurfaced road linking our friendly neighbourhood ‘tourist’ route with the one that I commute on, there was no way to tell if a bump travelling up the wheels meant I was riding over a snake or a fallen twig. (There was one way which I wasn’t too keen on following through.) This road was what I used to bomb on less worthy bicycles before people built houses at either ends and fixed whatever was left after rocks and chasms and fallen overripe jackfruits were erased. Unaccompanied by an adult, those ‘sessions’ passed for major adventure in the days before successful BSNL recharges, Bult trips to Ladakh and blogging on weekends. On a less rainy day, I would’ve picked the longer, traffucked route via the town center over this steep (both ways) one but it wasn’t a less rainy day.

Riding (fenderless) in the rain is Fun.~ Do not let me tell you otherwise.