I had been riding the motorcycle for an hour and a half on the road between Delhi and Agra when I felt the first “chee hoo” of the trip rising up through my chest. That yawp of adventure escaped my lips in a long call and I smiled with the thrill of the moment.

Delhi

I had picked up the motorcycle in Delhi just the night before. It was nearly 10pm when I arrived after a twenty-hour day of exploration that took me from Delhi to Varanasi and back again. My body was holding the exhaustion of two flights, eight miles of walking windy alleys between temples, and three hours in a taxi in the midst of Delhi’s rush hour. With the first sight of the bike, though, I was energized for what lay ahead. The shop that rented it to me, if it could be called that, was really a hole in a concrete wall and a roll-down gate of corrugated steel manned by a single owner, supported by what I imagined were his two teenage sons. A quick inspection of the motorcycle showed a very new Royal Enfield Himalayan adventure bike that seemed ready to be released from its urban cage back into its natural habitat of open road.

Proper paperwork was exchanged in short order and the nuances of the vehicle were pointed out. The only remaining formalities were payment and the filling of the empty gas tank. The gas, I was told, was just around the corner. I surmised he had sent someone to fill a canister for me, though I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t prepared that in advance. As far as payment, I had left a deposit via PayPal before leaving for India, and it was time to furnish the rest. Credit card was not an option, and the amount was more than I had in cash. My offer to pay with Paypal again was met with hesitation; for the full amount the fees were more than he could stomach. His offer to me was a 10% surcharge to pay this way. I would have the motorcycle for ten days, and ride it from Delhi to Agra, across the large state of Rajasthan, and finally to Udaipur where I planned to drop it off. From there, he was sending a man via bus, a twelve hour drive, to retrieve it. A 10% charge on all of this, including the pickup man’s time, bus ride, and hotel, would cost me approximately $25. Back home I would spend that amount and not notice, but after a week in India, where every purchase is haggled over and every meal is less than $8, there was a principle to stand on. We were left with only one obvious option — his son hopped on another bike, I rode pillion, and we set off to find an ATM.

The first was closed, the gate rolled down to cover the machine’s small nest carved into a wall between two street food shops. Unsurprisingly, given the hour, so was the second. Via whatsapp, I opened negotiations and offered to split the service fee 5% each way. My young driver’s phone rang and the answer became obvious as we set off to find the third machine. We wove and rolled our way through Delhi, my own private tour of back roads and freeway underpasses. I couldn’t believe the traffic remaining at this hour, and the search took us over twenty minutes, but I appreciated the passive introduction to navigating a bike between the cars, rickshaws, and pedestrians. All the while, I smiled with the fun of it as the wind blew my hair and I was serenaded by the unrelenting symphony of honking horns that only the orchestra of a South Asian city can perform. After the third gated machine, my driver dutifully reported our failure via a phone call. I couldn’t understand the Hindi, but as the call came to an end and my phone buzzed with a new message, the outcome was clear. My offer was accepted.

We arrived back at the shop and after settling up I was itching to finally head to my hotel and get some sleep. It was 11pm and a mix of exhaustion and nervous anticipation for the following day’s inaugural ride had me more than ready for bed. Yet somehow, despite the time spent away, the man had still not found time to fill the bike with petrol. I asked, and he simply smiled and confirmed, “Don’t worry, very close.” I was graciously offered coffee, tea, cold drinks, burger, snacks, anything I’d like while I waited. I refused them all, eager to simply be on my way. In the meantime, there was nothing to do but make conversation. I learned his name was Iqbal and that he was from Delhi. He asked me all of the usual questions about where I was from, why I wasn’t married, and where I planned to visit, and it was with some satisfaction that I received his impressed nod when I told him how much of the country I planned to see solo. Still, he cautioned me how dangerous driving in India can be. With funny pantomimes, he kept pointing from his eyes to the road, signifying focus. “Always,” he said. “Always eyes are forward in India, never left and right.” He continued on his diatribe, explaining how common it was for cows to wander into the street. With four or five examples, he sounded like nothing more than that Fred Armisen meme from Parks and Rec, where the answer to every infraction is “straight to jail.” Here, any possible circumstance ended with “cow.”

“You are driving on highway? Cow.

You are crossing street? Cow.

You see market, want to stop? Cow.”

I assured him I would keep both eyes forward, always on the lookout for cow.

Twenty more minutes had gone by, and still no petrol. Again I asked, and again was guaranteed, “very close, very very close.” Then the owner showed off his collection of bikes; five out front, and ten more, he proudly shared, parked around the corner. He walked the row and named them one at a time, and with each one he offered when he had gotten it and how much he had paid for it. I was shown photos of prior renters, and told which countries they had hailed from. Any lingering concerns I had about the bike stemming from the humble storefront dissolved in the face of that pride. This man loved these machines and was proud of the customers he had served. I settled into the conversation and asked my own questions, and soon we were taking group photos together in front of the shop. And yet still, the bike’s tank remained empty.

I asked once more. “Petrol?”

His response, “you ready now?”

Confused, I nodded my head.

He wagged his in return. “Okay, we go.”

He hopped on another bike, and one of his boys jumped on behind him, then nodded his head at me to mount mine. I jumped on, started it — still deeply confused — and set off to follow him as he quickly leapt out into traffic. With no idea what was happening, I followed him for a few blocks, grateful for the demonstration ride I had been given earlier as I followed, on the left side of the road, through a sea of swerving and honking vehicles of all kinds. Shortly after, we arrived at the petrol station. Sure enough, it had been very close.

The plan had always been for him to guide me to the station before setting me off on my adventure. The man hadn’t totally understood my questions and thought we had just been enjoying shooting the shit together; I suppose he wasn’t wrong. Now, with an excited smile he shook my hand and sent me off to find my hotel. By the time I arrived it was midnight and I had been up for twenty-two hours. I fell asleep with a grin — the adventure had officially begun.

Yamuna Expressway

It took some time in the morning to adjust to the bike. The gear lever under my left foot sat further behind than on my bike at home and the first several upshifts through city traffic pushed painfully through the new running shoes that I had picked out to do double duty as hiking and riding wear on the trip. The sunglasses that I had donned in anticipation of the rising sun soon had to be removed, as the city smog acted as a permanent filter of light and heat. Overall though, the beginning of the ride was uneventful and I was soon cruising the Yamuna Expressway that would take me all the way from Delhi to Agra over the next three hours.

The Expressway proved to be the easiest driving I’d find on this adventure. Unlike the other highways I’d find in India, it was properly separated from most local traffic and charged tolls for even two-wheeler vehicles, limiting congestion. The landscape of greenery and infrequent roadside buildings lining the road changed little between Delhi and Agra, and any visibility more than a few dozen meters beyond the side of the road was impossible with the smog anyway. That left all of my attention to appreciate the occasional sight along the nearby shoulder. At times it was animals, a dog or a goat grazing the roadside grass. Mostly it was people — some stopping for a picnic, some openly relieving themselves. More than once it was another rider just… going the wrong way down the highway. As surprised as I was, I took note of that tactic, which came in handy later in the day when I missed a turn. My favorite, though, were the red saris adorning the occasional woman on their way to or from a nearby market. The bright crimson was just so vivid, so beautiful. Each one seemed impossibly vibrant amid the muted haze cast over everything else, making the wearer seem somehow more alive than anyone else I encountered. I began to look forward to seeing the next signpost of vitality along my way. As often as not, I’d spot the wearer riding side-saddle on the back of a scooter. There was something regal about this position, a refusal to deign to the uncouth straddling of their steed. Their elegant bearing and vivid costumes turned tired scooters driven by husbands into no less than palanquins bearing queens.

After an hour, the sun had still not defeated the smog and I was freezing. I hadn't expected the ride to be so devoid of warmth and the single layer under my jacket was not up to the task. I was stamping my feet for warmth as I entered the food court that would be my only stop before reaching Agra. Inside I quickly enjoyed masala chai and a plate of samosa chaat, then less quickly got up to leave, not eager to leave the warmth of the food hall. From there, I made it another twenty minutes before admitting defeat and pulling over to dig a base layer out of my bag. I stood on the side of the road and stripped off my jacket and shirt. The stare I earned from a passing scooter rider was so intense that it had me worried he would crash. I suppose they don’t often see half-naked white guys in that neck of the woods.

I had been riding up till now with airpods in my ears, set to transparency mode and nothing playing in order to hear any Google Maps instructions without distractions amid the unfamiliar traffic. Now, with a clear straight shot on the highway into Agra and the morning’s experience to give me confidence in the informal rules of the road, I felt sure of myself enough to add music. I was suddenly warmer, recently fed, and full of the energy of a good playlist. This feeling is why I had rented the motorcycle and the sheer joy of it all permeated my chest, birthing that “chee hoo” that swelled unbidden and escaped my lips to mingle with the sounds of the road and the music in my ears. The road ahead was open, the throttle was pinned, and life was good.

Agra

My first visit to Japan taught me an appreciation for small spaces. People there pack themselves into apartments, elevators, and trains, demonstrating just how little room a person really needs. In contrast to the sprawling stances you’ll find in the NYC subway, riders in Tokyo sit politely with knees together, and to sit next to them makes you realize that the inches between you are wider than you once thought.

Where Tokyo shows us the width of an inch, India teaches us the infinite space in a millimeter. Every market street is teeming with scooters, cows, and pedestrians all pushing ahead with utter disregard for any other person, but somehow never touching anyone. It all operates under a sort of beautiful selfishness, where the only guarantee is that the other person will take whatever available space is best for them. Tuktuk drivers turn their wheels and jerk forward into any opening, somehow not making contact with the identical machines attempting the same in every direction. At red lights, scooters inch together, closer and closer and closer, yet like the man who walks halfway to his destination with each step, they never arrive at a collision. As I entered Agra, I found myself navigating this paradox for myself.

The masses of vehicles resembled in some sense a great river of metal flowing through the confines of the city streets, but where a river pours forth a seamless collection of unidentifiable drops of water, this torrent was more akin to a violent avalanche of stone hurtled down a mountain. The buses, cars, and scooters were each their own boulder, rock, and gravel piece tumbling independently, prone to sudden changes of direction as they bounced. Riding this wave offered none of the calm of surfing, but required a different sort of zen. The only strategy is to unfocus your eyes from any individual projectile and let yourself become one with the tumult.

Agra to Jaipur

A visit to the Taj Mahal was the perfect way to ease into another day of riding. A slow traipse across the massive grounds and out the exit deposited me in front of the busy bazaar that operated as unofficial gift shop. For the last week I had been diligently avoiding the vendors aggressively calling to me on every corner, urging me towards their stalls full of undifferentiated wares at inflated prices. But here, fueled by my good mood, I allowed a man to guide me to his shop selling all manner of gem-inlaid marble. The old man performatively polishing stones on the floor by the doorway did nothing to increase my faith in the authenticity of the goods, but the pieces were nice and I fancied buying some souvenirs. I dutifully haggled for thirty minutes, making a grand show of my deliberations, and worked the price down 30%, which I’m sure left them with a massive markup.

At the end of our negotiations I sat with them and we all took tea together. They proudly showed off their book of customers from all over the world and we exchanged pleasantries. The question I was asked most in India, by a large margin, was “where are you from?” A very close second was “why aren't you married?” The conversation was friendly and as I was leaving, they took back the small marble elephant they had given me as a gift and replaced it with a much nicer one. The gesture cemented my belief that my negotiating had left them plenty of margin. I didn’t mind; the scam is part of the experience and I could afford the price of entry.

Before leaving the city, I returned to the hostel where I had left my bags and dug out additional layers. I had learned my lesson from the lack of sun the day before. Over my cotton pants went tech pants to cut the wind. Under my shirt, a base layer, and under my waxed jacket, a windbreaker. Around my face, I wrapped my keffiyeh. Finally, I added a second pair of socks. If the sun rose I would be warm, but under no circumstances would I be cold.

Agra to Jaipur is 250km, which takes about five hours. These long rides leave you with little to do but notice and think. After four hours I was noticing how red the sun looked through its veil of smog, and how, as with the saris of the day before, that red was the most beautiful thing I had seen all day. I was thinking about the dance-like flow of motorcycles, cars, and buses that played across the highway with partners exchanging places a hundred, a thousand, a million times per day. I was thinking about inches and millimeters and I was thinking about the dual worlds of formal and informal rules that intertwine to dictate life in this country. Indian roads have lane markings, indicated directions of travel, and occasionally signs outlawing the use of horns. Indian drivers swerve across white lines, between barriers, and in the opposite direction of traffic. The horn is a constant companion. The many legal rules get subsumed by the one real rule: you can do anything on the road, just don’t crash. I was thinking about that one big rule when I saw the motorcycle cut in front of me, and I knew I was fucked.

I had shifted lanes into the left shoulder reserved for two-wheeler vehicles in order to pass around a slow-moving car. It didn’t surprise me to see another motorcycle coming toward me, against the flow of traffic. It did surprise me when he attempted to turn off the road towards the chai stall, right in front of me. I slowed as much as I could in the short distance before impact. Then I was in the air, headfirst over the handlebars. I landed, rolled, stopped, then half-rolled myself onto my back. I heard my voice in my head saying “Stay down, breathe first.” My vision through my visor was nothing but a circle of curious faces looming over me, many attempting to lift me. I lifted my head to wave them off, then rested it back on the hard ground. My first check was that my hands were without major injury, which they proved by removing my helmet. “Slowly,” I heard the voice in my head guiding me. I shook my right leg, then my left. With both seeming stable enough I bent my knees and did a half-lift to prop myself on my elbows. Only now, feeling stable enough, did I allow one of my onlookers to grab my hand and help me to my feet.

The police were on their way. Outstretched hands offered water from half-drank bottles, dozens of people were trying to help however they could. I dusted myself off and took stock. I was okay. I took a deep breath. One of the onlookers asked me what happened, in English. I explained, and when I got to the part about the other driver, he pointed behind him and ensured me he was alright. I looked over his shoulder and saw a man pushing the wreckage of an old 100cc skeleton of metal.

Someone had righted my motorcycle, which looked decent, all things considered. Like me, it mostly showed bumps and scrapes. A stranger placed the detached right-side mirror in my hands. The left-side hand guard was bent below its natural angle, and pulling the clutch revealed a lack of tension implying it had been disconnected, which would make it impossible to drive. My bag which had escaped the bounds of the unhooked bungee cables was brought to me. I was handed one glove, and then another. I had stripped them off to remove my helmet and left them in the dirt. Another onlooker let me know that there was a motorcycle shop just 2 km away, if I could get the bike there. I had no idea how I would possibly accomplish that.

The cops arrived and I walked through the situation again. They seemed totally unconcerned and asked if I could still ride. When I told them about the service shop, they told me not to worry, a mechanic was on his way. And sure enough, five minutes later a man rode up on his own motorcycle and got to work. He quickly looked over the bike, and directed by the many pointing fingers of the crowd, found his way to the broken clutch. Within another five minutes the work was finished and he was test driving the bike up and down the dusty shoulder. The police nodded their satisfaction.

And then they shook my hand and told me to go, just like that. I asked the officer if a police report would be needed for the rental operator to file an insurance claim and he seemed genuinely surprised by the request. If I wanted a report, he said, I would have to follow them to the police station on my motorcycle, and it could take awhile. I nodded, and with a resigned look, he and his partner entered their vehicle and turned it around, waiting for me to follow the few kilometers to the station.

The bike was indeed rideable, but right away it was obvious that the front fork was out of alignment, so I had to cock the handlebars slightly askew to go straight. The bent gear shifter meant I had to point my toe inward to catch the edge and change gears. Without a right rear-view mirror, my awareness of the cars constantly passing on that side was nil. Yet the ride was short, and soon I was seated in a comfortable chair in an office, speaking again with the officer from the scene, who turned out to be the station captain.

The report was written in the room next door while the captain served me tea and cookies. We talked about America, and his sister-in-law in Texas. We talked about India, and its admitted lack of adherence to traffic regulations. We talked about the cost of my rent back home and whether US police are as corrupt as Indian police. We talked about a lot of things, as time dragged on. It was all very cordial, though I was itching to get to my hotel, lay down, and process what the fuck had just happened. Every twenty minutes or so, another officer entered the room to chatter briefly with the captain in Hindi.

Finally, the door opened and once more the other officer entered, this time with a report, also in Hindi, for me to sign. I was asked, when I first arrived at the station, to draw a diagram explaining what had happened. Now the officer explained what he had written in the report. Officially, a cow had entered the road and I had swerved to avoid it, losing control of the bike along the way. You see, he explained, if we claimed that another rider was involved, there would need to be an investigation, and this would take months. The insurance would be held up in the meantime, and we would all be left waiting for this to come to a conclusion. I looked to the captain, and he nodded, adding confirmation that yes, this would take far too much time for everyone. And so I signed. In the eyes of the police, I had officially crashed my motorcycle avoiding a cow. I folded my copy of the report and put it in my jacket. We all rose, walked outside, and shook hands. “Be cautious,” they suggested, and waved as I set off.

It had been two hours since the crash. The hotel that Google Maps had said was 40 minutes away when I crashed was now labeled in red as over an hour away. I had missed the pre-traffic window. Worse, the sun had gone, and with it all visibility. As I entered the city, traffic intensified into a mad scramble exceeding what I had experienced in smaller Agra, and I very quickly found myself missing my rear-view mirror. The adrenaline had drained from my body, I was starving, my bike was untrustworthy, and the recent memory of the crash had me on edge with each passing vehicle. I tried to avoid looking at the remaining time estimate for as long as possible. I would wait what felt like twenty minutes, then look to see that four minutes had gone by. Each time, I would promise myself that this was no time at all, really.

“One hour? That’s like the flight from LA to SF, that always flies by.”

I had to cross several major intersections along the way, each a new obstacle course of oncoming drivers from every direction that now felt like projectiles aimed at me specifically.

“Forty-five minutes? That’s like a single workout, no big deal.”

Fireworks were set off from the side of the road next to me. Street performers and revelers were having the time of their lives. The city was bustling with nocturnal activity all around me.

“Thirty minutes? That’s like one episode of TV, that’s nothing.”

At one point, all traffic slowed nearly to a stop. The line on Google Maps turned dark red. We inched forward one honk at a time until the cause of the hold-up was visible. A man was riding an elephant slowly down the middle of the street, blocking most traffic.

“Twelve minutes? I can do anything for twelve minutes.”

And then I was at the hotel. I pulled up the ramp, parked next to another bike, and dismounted. I left everything tied to the bike while I checked in, then slowly unpacked. My right wrist was clearly sprained and not thrilled about lifting my bag, so my left arm did most of the carrying. Finally, I was in my room. I stripped off every layer, the outer jacket covered in dirt; the thin inner windbreaker also somehow caked with dust; the shoes, the two pairs of socks; the tech pants with their new tear in the knee; the thick cotton pants that alone looked unscathed. I stood naked in front of the mirror and examined myself for damage. A few scrapes on the knees and ankles to go with those on my hands. Matching marks on my shoulder and elbow. A colorful raspberry on my right hip. I was, by and large, unharmed. I took a hot shower and redressed in fresh clothes. Looking at myself in the mirror once more, I couldn't help but laugh with release. I felt like the luckiest man alive.

While eating chicken curry at the restaurant next door I thought of my favorite quote from Patagonia founder Yvonne Chouinard. “The word adventure has gotten overused. To me, adventure is when everything goes wrong. That’s when the adventure starts.” I suppose I had been mistaken, that first night in Delhi. Now, the adventure had really started.

Jaipur

I woke up the next day in a foul mood. Everything hurt, and worse, my image of myself as a competent adventurer had been shattered along with the plans for my drive. I had intended to visit Pushkar, Jodhpur, and Udaipur after Jaipur. I was less than halfway through my itinerary and my bike was clearly not fit to continue. I wasn’t sure if I was either.

I got to work repairing my mood. I took another shower and dressed for a day of sightseeing. I bundled my dirty laundry into bags. I did my best to shake off the night before and set out to accomplish the morning’s necessities. The walk to the laundry drop-off and on to a nearby cafe helped bring me back into the present, and I was enjoying my coffee when Iqbal, the owner of the motorcycle I had rented, called to coordinate next steps. The police had called him with me the night before and explained the situation in Hindi, and now he wanted to know what I wanted to do next. I had options. For a small fee he would ride a replacement bike down to Jaipur so that I could finish my trip as planned. Or, I could give up and take the rest of the trip by train, or even rework my itinerary. My body hated the idea of continuing on the bike and my heart hated the idea of giving up. I told him I needed to think about it but would let him know soon. My foul mood returned.

I sipped my coffee slowly and thought about what I really wanted. This trip was meant to be fun, and I had nothing to prove to anyone — no one but me even knew my original plan. The type of riding between Agra and Jaipur wasn’t particularly enjoyable; all of the traffic and constant vigilance were exhausting. But I had set out to ride across Rajasthan and had barely begun, quitting now would leave me feeling cheated of the experience I had envisioned.

I googled each remaining leg. I wanted to know how long each was, and what type of riding I could expect. With every search the answer became more clear to me. The further I pushed into the sunny state of Rajasthan, the more there was to see from astride two wheels. Jaipur to Pushkar promised to be easy highway riding and Pushkar to Jodhpur would be serene. The final, most difficult leg, Jodhpur to Udaipur, would take me 6 to 7 hours and cover 300km but offer some of the most stunning views India had to offer. If I could handle that one challenging day at the end, I was sure I could finish the trip. In the meantime, waiting an extra day in Jaipur for the bike to arrive meant I had five days to recover between now and those 300km. I texted Iqbal that I would see him tomorrow, paid for my coffee, and walked to my tour of the City Palace, feeling a fine mood.

Pushkar

The drive to Pushkar flew by in a flash of easy highway miles with plentiful flyovers to separate me from the chaos of roadside traffic that had dominated the approach to Jaipur. The countryside between the two cities transitions from semi-humid plains to the drier edge of the Thar desert. Before I knew it, I was feeling the air change as I left the hills and entered the valley dominated by a sacred lake. My double-layered riding getup was suddenly sweltering but the arid landscape soothed me with the gnarly beauty of desert shrubs and bushes. Pushkar itself managed to fit the xeric beauty perfectly, all scraggly brown buildings interspersed across roads that were as often dirt as asphalt.

My spirits were high and Google Maps showed three minutes to my hotel, just across the canal in front of me — right over the bridge that was clearly closed for repairs. Unbothered, I jogged to a dirt side street on the left, followed it around a few corners, stopped to navigate, and pointed myself in the vague direction of my original goal. Maps dutifully updated the route and I found myself looking down a winding dirt road that disappeared around the corner, apparently to pass alongside the canal. I kicked the bike into gear and set off, rolling down the incline and around the turn. As I came around the corner, the dirt turned into mud, and my momentum had taken me no more than fifteen meters when the back tire began to spin freely. I could see fifty more meters of thin, rocky, muddy sludge ahead of me between two walls, and then a turn and a climb that mirrored the one I had taken down into this trap — presumably the exit. Unsure of another way across and grateful for the knobby tires on my adventure bike, I leaned all of my body weight forward into the handlebars, rolled on the throttle and pushed forward. This was a mistake.

I leaned and pushed, feathered the throttle, kicked away rocks, and guided the bike to any dry spot I could find. I climbed loose rocks and snapped fallen tree branches. I fought for every inch of that hellish track. And when ten minutes had passed and I got halfway to the end, covered in sweat and dirt and mud, I took a break to breathe, and I noticed voices from the bridge above. Workers had heard my battle and with hand gestures let me know — there is no exit to the road at the end. With no idea what to do, I got off my bike, looked up at the men, turned my head left to the dead end, right towards where I had come, and down to the narrow space the bike occupied between the walls. There was no room to turn around. I looked back up and one of the men gave a grimace of sympathy before gesturing for me to wait.

In the end, three men worked their way down to my position and we physically lifted the bike, shuffled our feet, and placed it down, pointed back the way I had come. With all of them watching, I beat my retreat back across every bit of ground that I had worked so hard to gain. When I reached the end I turned back to see the men laughing and cheering. With a wave I set off to find another way, and with a laugh I finally arrived at my hotel ten more minutes of winding detours later. Google’s three minutes had become forty-five, but I had made it.

Jodhpur

I woke slowly the next morning, in no hurry to leave. Pushkar had quickly become one of my favorite stops on my tour. My room was little more than a concrete cube without even a shower, but the humble hotel sat on the edge of the lake, offering a gorgeous view from the public terrace. Across the water was another terrace — a welcoming restaurant where the night before, after falling in with a group of backpackers at a temple, I had eaten and lingered in conversation.

I walked slowly across town through the packed market alleys, tracing back over my steps from the night before to visit that terrace once again for breakfast. With each tiny scooter that swerved past me, I shook my head, grateful not to have to navigate such chaotic spaces on my much larger bike. I had decided back in Agra to reserve the motorcycle for the cross-country journeys, and to walk as much as possible in the cities themselves. At the restaurant I removed my shoes and settled in at a table barely rising off the floor. I lounged across a bed of pillows, took in the view, and enjoyed fresh juice with my meal.

Well rested, fed, and caffeinated, I strolled back to the hotel, packed up my gear, and set off to Jodhpur. My first concern was to not repeat the events of the day before and I studiously examined the map for paths to the highway. The best path was clear — directly through those winding, bustling, market-lined alleyways I had just walked. Again I found myself laughing at my own jinx and with a rueful shake of the head got to it. It took no more than ten minutes of honking, wiggling the bike, and sliding my feet along the road for balance before I was out on the highway and the next day of riding opened up in front of me.

The 200km from Pushkar to Jodhpur was the best riding so far. The initial stretch of four-lane highway with a median wall was easy going and traffic hummed along at speed. Some forty minutes into the drive another biker passed from behind, and I watched as he glided across lane markers and around cars. His sweeping moves were mesmerizing and I found myself following him. We danced through traffic for a long stretch, a pas de deux of which only I was aware. When we finally broke our separate ways I felt lighter and more natural on the road.

Eventually the separated roadway ended and gave way to the rural two-lane state highway that covers most of the distance between the cities. I set a luxurious pace and continued to glide with ease past kilometer marker after kilometer marker. Trucks, buses, cars and scooters passed in both lanes but always at a reasonable speed and I settled into a meditative flow. Away from the overpasses of the federal highways you could see more of the countryside and I enjoyed taking it all in. It was here that Iqbal’s warnings about cows began to make sense — they were everywhere. Cows lined the sides of the roads, cows walked the shoulders, cows crossed the road; sometimes a cow would just sit in the middle of the road, blocking an entire lane. Thankfully cows are not famous for making sudden movements or the roads would have been impassable. As it were, they mostly offered a diversion as I rode along and slowly dodged their slow ramblings. The rural roads also offered herds of goats, with shepherds to wave at, and more than one tractor plodding along, driven by a farmer with his face buried in Instagram reels. It was all a delight to me, and I was almost disappointed when it came to an end as I pulled up to the hotel where I would spend the next two nights. Within an hour I had checked in and ordered a beer and masala peanuts, and I smiled while I drank.

Temple and Fort

I spent three days in Rishikesh the week I arrived in India, before I rented the bike. On my first day there I took a walk from my hotel to the other side of town. What was supposed to be a thirty minute jaunt turned into an eight mile hike as I got to the end of town, saw a dirt path up the mountain, and just kept walking. It was at some point on the way down, with fresh blisters chafing against my new leather sandals, that I wordlessly shared my thanks to my body for its vigor. I had just traveled across the world for nearly forty hours, walked up a long and winding dirt path in the wrong shoes, and blisters aside, I felt great. It wasn't lost on me how fortunate I was to go anywhere in the world, take on any challenge, and trust that I was physically up to the task.

Now on the day I was set to cover the last 300km of my bike tour, I felt that same gratitude. In the two weeks since that hike my feet had carried me dozens of miles across temples, forts, and palaces. My stomach had survived every manner of street food. My back had borne everything I needed for three weeks of solo travel stuffed into one heavy bag. I had covered 700km over twenty hours of riding and added the cuts and scrapes of a motorcycle crash to the blisters on my feet. The bruises where I had impacted the ground that day were ripening into exotic colors, their attempt to compete with the vibrant greens, blues, and purples of the local fabrics. And I felt capable, strong, and eager to continue the trip.

The first hour was that easy four-lane highway riding that I had gotten used to leading out of major cities and I was relaxed enough to feel the rise of boredom. It was deep into the second hour when I began to get a hint that I was in for a treat. The separated highway once again became the more interesting double lanes pocked with the occasional market and goat herd and while the sun was still desert warm, the trees lining the road were growing greener and more dense. After a brief stop at a roadside open-walled “restaurant” for chai and khichiya I continued down the welcoming path towards my next stop, the ancient Ranakpur Jain Temple. Over the next hour the once flat road began to rise to foothills, and the trees that had been marching along beside the cows and me grew to overhang us completely, framing an extended entryway over the kilometers of road leading to the temple.

I enjoyed my brief exploration of the temple and carried on into the most unique riding experience of my life. Kumbhalgarh Fort sits at the peak of the Aravalli Mountains overlooking Udaipur’s lush valley. The road between temple and fort continued to climb, up and up, and as it hugged the mountain it twisted and carved itself into serpentine patterns while the double lane of opposing traffic continued to narrow, until there was only a single track for vehicles in both directions, around winding blind turns. The packs of lazy cows that had littered the road were now packs of energetic monkeys, quick to jump from one side of the road to another, daring me to beat them to each gap. All the while, the view was stunning. Glimpses of forest hooded hills and verdant passes extended forever beyond an edge close enough for me to jump to. For thirty minutes I considered stopping to take it all in, wanting to give it more than the cursory attention I could spare it while driving, but not once did I find a place wide enough for me to stand abreast of the bike while also leaving room for the passing of one of the many oncoming buses making the journey down from where I was heading. I was very glad that this section of the ride had come after a week of getting comfortable with the sometimes absurd conditions India offered.

I was rewarded for my efforts as the road crested the lip of the first peak. The once steadily climbing lane widened again and began alternating rising and falling over the range of hills. The markets, goats, and cows that mark civilization in India returned across a series of mountain towns, though the sparse population and lethargic pace of these towns marked them distant cousins from the bustling metropolises from whence I had come. Now, able to see more than 100 meters in front of me, across multiple lanes, to lush greenery and through clean air, I was truly relaxed. I borrowed the unbothered tempo of the villages and lost track of the minutes while I wound my way to the Fort, happy for it to never appear.

When it finally did materialize, a gargantuan red barricade across the cliffs, I understood why it is often called The Great Wall of India. What was once an impregnable bulwark against foreign invaders now threw its doors open to me for $5, and I climbed every step to stand astride the palace, gain an unobstructed view in every direction, and take in the majesty of all that I had just conquered.

Udaipur

Somewhere between Jaipur and Jodhpur I stopped treating the kilometers between each stop like a gap to be closed. I remembered that between the options of flights, buses, and trains, I had signed up for this ride to have the experience of those hours on the bike; it was wasteful to impatiently count them down to zero.

Now, the only passage of time I was aware of as I descended was the sweep of the sun against the clock of the sky, chasing me off the peak. This route stayed wide enough for traffic to flow in both directions, allowing me to enjoy the cornucopia of sights on offer. Golden hour earned its name as the sun’s rays gilded the face of the mountain. As I straightened from a leaning turn through a twisty double curve, the reflection cast against a hidden lake brought an audible gasp to my lips. I couldn’t help but pull over, and even after taking a photo, I peered back over my shoulder hoping the extra peek would cement the image in my mind permanently. For an idyllic hour I wound my way down that gorgeous mountain and inhaled the peace hanging in the crisp air.

And then the sun set, and it was dark. There is city dark, there is town dark, and there is mountain dark. Soon, the black sheet of night was joined by a blanket of fog formed from the cooling air, and I could see no more than ten meters in front of me at a time, and not at all to either side. Concerned as I was for what I could see, I was even more uncertain that I would not be invisible to the other drivers on the road. To make matters worse, the dust that had accumulated on the helmet visor was thick enough to twist the lights of oncoming traffic into astigmatic diamonds across my vision, preventing me from seeing even the road markers. The only option was to raise my visor, engage my hazard lights, and slow to a crawl. I joined a caravan of other motorists in the same predicament, and we dutifully made our plodding pilgrimage to the valley below. Without the arc of the sun ticking down the day, time ceased to exist. The world collapsed to the pair of headlights in front of me and distance joined time in losing meaning. I was almost surprised when mountain dark eventually ceded to highway dark. I left my visor open and traded my hazards for brights, shifting the bike from a walk to a jog.

That welcome back into a four-dimensional universe was a helpful precursor to the last stretch ahead. The highway spat me out into the cacophonous urban revelry of Indian nightlife. Reaching my hotel would mean crossing through all of Udaipur, to find where it was nestled between two lakes in the middle of the city. In those final minutes I rehashed every challenge Indian traffic had thrown at me before. I merged through traffic circles and forcibly crossed double-wide thoroughfares; I navigated narrow market streets and I dodged tuktuks; I avoided a menagerie of animals and I blared my horn like a native. I enjoyed every second of it.

At 8pm I rolled around the final turn. The hotel staff saw me coming and waved me through the gateway of double doors into the foyer of the lobby to park alongside the other bikes for the night. It had been over nine hours since I had left Jodhpur, easily the longest day of riding in my life, and I couldn’t wait to get some sleep. Maybe if I woke up early enough, I thought, I could sneak in one last day of riding tomorrow.