I am penning these thoughts at the risk of exposure. If any of my family members or relatives access these pages, they will read the unvarnished truth. But the stories born from these rides are simply too compelling to keep silent.

I go wherever my bike takes me, this used to be part of my WhatsApp about, until recently, I changed it, but the memory lingers.  It was a reflection of the lesson I’d just learned.

Settling into the familiar comfort of my living room after dinner, the memory of Sakleshpur insists on playing back.

Our recent endurance ride to Odisha had been the true crucible—a comprehensive test of mind, body and machine.

With that monumental effort behind us, Sakleshpur, at less than half the distance, felt like it should have been nothing more than a relaxing spin, an easy-peasy victory lap.

But as always, destiny had its own secretive agenda and unpredictable plans, much like the looming Cyclone Ditwah that has been knocking on Chennai’s doors from the shores of the Bay of Bengal for the past week. The true extent of the challenge remained perfectly wrapped until the very day we mounted the bike and rode.

A Dawn Without Sunshine

I had woken up at 4:00 AM on the day before the ride—not for any last-minute preparation, but to drop my mother at the station as she was travelling to my brother’s place.

Ditwah had just made landfall after hovering off the Chennai coast for nearly seven days, and the city had been drenched without a break. Dawn was cool, but the hope of seeing sunshine was slim; it was about to be the seventh straight day without it.

Everything was smooth until Teynampet, where the skies suddenly opened up again.

With a worried seriousness, she turned to me and asked if I still intended to go on the ride the next day.

The obvious answer was yes, but I reassured her anyway: the rain prediction was clear for tomorrow, and since we were heading inland, heavy monsoon activity wasn’t expected. 

What she couldn’t know was that I had been constantly refreshing the weather updates on my phone, and the forecast had been anything but promising.

I returned back home encountering torrential rains and traffic snarls across the route, what I now realise was Ditwah’s first warning, and it’s here to stay.

The day ended with some last-minute shopping for bike accessories to mount the GoPro I had borrowed from my nephew for this ride. I packed everything a bit early and went to sleep. The night before a ride, sleep usually plays hard to get, but exhaustion eventually wins, even if only for a few hours.

This time, sleep was playing hide-and-seek. Even after trying every trick in the book, I managed barely an hour of rest. Maybe that was the second warning.

 

The Long Road to Sakleshpur

As usual, my eyes opened up even before the alarm rang. 

I was gearing up and Captain’s message popped up in WhatsApp Group.  “Light drizzle, better gear up with rain layers.” 

Frantically, I pulled the rain layer out of my bag and wore only the bottom half, hoping I could reach the flag-off point first and deal with the top later if the drizzle continued.

It seems Ditwah didn’t appreciate my optimism—and delivered a subtle third warning.

Barely a few minutes into the ride, the drizzle turned into a determined downpour. I had to stop in the middle of the road to wear the rest of the rain gear, panting like a dog by the time I finished wrestling with it.

Once I finally got moving, my eyes kept darting to the time on the bike console. I was already a few minutes behind my usual schedule, but I hoped to make it up once I hit the highway. 

That hope lasted only until I reached my usual route—now battered by the previous night’s rain and impossible to cover at my normal pace. Reaching the flag-off point on time suddenly felt doubtful. Panic tried to creep in, but I had no choice except to carefully navigate the broken, waterlogged roads and make it to the ORR.

From there, the bike seemed to understand the urgency. Like a trusted companion, it carried me steadfastly toward the flag-off point—delayed, yes, but only by a few minutes.

There was just enough time to greet the individuals determined to take Ditwah head on. 

We delayed the start for a few minutes—something rare for us—while a few riders fought through the rain to reach the assembly point. But that morning, nothing was usual.

 

The Real Test of Man and Machine

The bikes started rolling out one by one at 4:35 AM, carrying the usual buzz of excitement. Everyone was connected through comms, and as our pace began to build, so did Ditwah’s.

Barely a few minutes into the ride, our visors were splattered with muck thrown up by passing vehicles, and the challenge doubled. The downpour turned heavy, and there we were—protected only by a thin layer of rain gear—riding in tandem with one shared objective: reach the destination safely.

That’s when a thought struck me. Someone had posted Ditwah’s predicted path in the group a day earlier… and it ran almost exactly along the route we were taking. The perfect blue sky I described was, in my mind, already broken.  

So it was official—
It’s on between Ditwah and us.

 

In the pre-dawn darkness, the diversions and broken roads proved to be a real challenge. We were riding almost on instinct, following the faint tail-light of the bike ahead. At some stretches, we had no choice but to ride through potholes big enough to qualify as craters on Mars.

We pushed on and reached our first tea break near the Channa Samudram Toll. There was nowhere to hide; we were literally standing in the rain, ankle-deep in water, sipping hot tea at the shop’s entrance.

The pit stop was quick, and we continued rolling, still hoping for a glimpse of sunshine. But the night felt endlessly long—right up until we reached the outskirts of Vellore.

Murphy strikes hard

Murphy is now practically a member of our group. He has no assigned riding position, of course—he just appears out of nowhere and rides whenever and wherever he feels like.

Over the comms, Rahul—our tail—reported that Jayapal, whom we fondly call Daddy, needed to pull over. He felt something was off with his bike. The group parked a little ahead in an open space, only to discover the issue: both the front and rear rims had bends, and air was leaking through the gaps.

Fortunately, there happened to be a puncture shop right where Daddy had stopped, and the mechanic got to work immediately. After some struggle, he somehow managed to fit a tube inside the rear tubeless tyre. But the front tyre refused to cooperate—it needed a special Allen key, which neither we nor the mechanic had.

Daddy was visibly worried,  the tension etched across his face as we waited for what felt like an impossible repair.  The mechanic, however, simply smiled and delivered the good news – along with a dose of incredible serendipity. 

 

He explained, his voice calm and confident,

 

“ஐயா, நான் வழக்கமாக காலை 9 மணிக்குத்தான் கடையைத் திறப்பேன். இன்று எனக்கு தூக்கம் வரவில்லை, அதனால் காலை 6:30 மணிக்கு சீக்கிரம் வந்தேன். பலருக்கு டிஸ்க் பிரேக்குகள் வேலை தெரியாது, ஆனால் எனக்குத் தெரியும், அதனால் நான் பின் டயரை சரிசெய்ய முடிந்தது. கவலைப்பட வேண்டாம், உங்கள் பயணத்தைத் தொடருங்கள், வாழ்த்துக்கள்”. (trans: Sir, I usually open the shop at 9 AM only. Today, I simply wasn’t feeling sleepy, so I came in early at 6:30 AM. Many mechanics won’t work with disc brakes, but I know the system, so I was able to fix the back tyre. Don’t worry, just fill air for the front and fix it on the way and continue your journey. All the best.”) 

 

That unexpected act of kindness and specialized skill gave us the precise boost and confidence we needed to continue the journey. 

 

It was a realization that truly settled the chaos: Though Murphy was indeed traveling with us on the pillion, he had surprisingly brought luck along with him today. 

 

Unfortunately, it was still too early for any shops to be open and scouting for the tube seems futile.  With no immediate solution in sight, we finally decided that Daddy would ride slowly to the breakfast point, where we could figure out the next course of action. 

Once we reached the spot, two individuals took Daddy’s bike and get the front tyre fitted with a tube so the journey could continue without further delays.

After a good breakfast and a quick fix, we were back on the road again.

The ride and Biriyani Conundrum

It so happened that people in our group began slowing down for various reasons—bags coming loose, number plates dangling, and a few other minor hiccups.

At this point, it didn’t feel like a bike ride—it felt more like a lazy Sunday leisure trip.

Our group lead’s situation was that of contractor நேசமணி,  straight out of Friends movie, a person trying to manage a gang of clueless apprentices on a job.

“ கொஞ்சம் நேரமாவது ஒழுங்கா வண்டி ஓட்டுங்கடா, அப்ரெண்டிஸ்ங்களா “ might have been the mind voice of our lead.

The previous experiences on NICE Road still haunted us, but luckily this time we crossed it without any eventuality.

We were now two hours behind schedule, and all the planning we had done was no longer workable.

But with our experience, we improvised on the go and found a nice lunch spot, Udupi restaurant, at the outskirts of Nelamangala. 

We were seated and ordering our favorite dishes. While I was focused on my plate, I overheard the table next to us. They had ordered Veg Hyderabadi Biriyani.

I paused, genuinely taken aback. Who, in their right mind, orders that at a classic, Udupi-style vegetarian restaurant?

The sheer absurdity of the fusion was staggering. I finished my own meal, still silently blessing the misguided soul who placed that order.

It wasn’t until the waiter delivered the dish that the full, shocking truth was revealed: Five members of our own riding group had ordered the Biriyani.

 

Even more baffling, they had done so based on the waiter’s confirmation that it was, indeed, the restaurant’s “best biriyani.” I could only stare, mentally preparing myself for the kind of destiny that awaited riders who made choices like that 😊. (no offence, just for fun)

After the Biriyani Conspiracy, the bikes started rolling towards Sakleshpur.

From that point, things finally smoothed out, and we reached the resort around 7 PM—except for a bit of traffic and an off-road stretch that none of us would care to repeat.

With the bikes finally parked and our gears off, peace returned. A round of hot coffee/tea and onion pakodas set the evening right.

Everyone washed up and reunited for our traditional post-ride chat, followed by dinner.

Riding Through Sakleshpur’s Charm

The morning was chill and pleasant, with greenery stretching in every direction around the resort. After a good night’s sleep, everyone felt refreshed and enjoyed the weather over a hearty breakfast.

We mapped out our Day 2 plans for local sightseeing, which included the famous Magajahalli Abbi Waterfalls, Manjarabad Fort, and Belur Temple.

During dinner the previous night, suggestions had poured in from those who had visited Sakleshpur earlier, as well as from the resort staff. They strongly recommended a visit to the Yedakumari Railway Tunnel Viewing point, describing it as incredibly beautiful.

The staff even assured us that the roads had been newly laid and were perfect for off-road biking. To reinforce this confidence, they connected us with a local guide who also confirmed the same.

 

So the plan for Day 2 was set: visit Magajahalli Falls, head to a nearby viewpoint and the 600-year-old Betta Bhairaveshwara (Siva) Temple, and then ride to Yedakumari after lunch—returning to the resort early enough to enjoy a relaxing dip in the pool.

We reached the waterfalls and took in the natural beauty around us. No one felt like taking a dip, so we simply enjoyed the scenery instead.

By the time we reached the temple, it was already closed for darshan, so people spent some time admiring the temple’s architecture and the scenic surroundings.

We then proceeded for lunch and, afterward, connected with the local guide, who shared the location where we were supposed to meet him.

We followed Google Maps, but after a while it started behaving wildly—showing turns that didn’t exist and leading us into unnecessary U-turns.

In hindsight, that was Google giving us a warning.

 

Finally, we managed to get ourselves pointed in the right direction and headed out to meet the guide.

A few meters into the trail with the guide, the road began to go from bad to worse. This immediately made us suspicious about the “good roads” we had been promised. We checked with the guide again in our best broken Kannada.

But he confidently reassured us that the road was indeed there and that all our bikes could handle the off-roading. He even added that some stretches might be rough but had been levelled with rocks and sand—enough to make us believe he might actually be right.

That belief, as we soon realised, turned out to be a costly lesson.

When the road simply didn’t exist

Within a few hundred meters, the trail betrayed us—the road vanished, and all we could see ahead were boulders and rocks waiting to test us.  We were shocked like the inspector when vadivelu says the ‘well has gone missing’. 

 

அங்கே கிணத்த காணோம் இங்கே ரோட்டை காணோம்

 

And just like that, Murphy was back with us… disguised as the guide sitting on the pillion.

A few sensible folks dropped the idea of the “beautiful railway tunnel” and went back. The rest of us were left juggling the bike, the rocks, and gravity like a circus act.

Some sections were so steep—almost 45 degrees—that I ended up crawling down like a frog, legs scrambling over rocks, just trying not to slide down headfirst.

A few bikes went down on their sides, a few riders bailed out just in time, and with enough collective effort to start a small rescue mission, we eventually got all the bikes to the bottom.

We were greeted by a big ‘No Trespassing’ sign, but the guide casually mentioned that he was also the “security,” so there wouldn’t be any problem. The view was absolutely worth the struggle, and we took a few moments to soak it in. After quickly clicking some photos, we moved on before any train decided to make an appearance.

Now, we were literally faced with the uphill task—no metaphors this time.

If the descent tested us, the uphill tried to break us.

We were in the situation of கவுண்டமணி (Goundamani) in சின்ன தம்பி (ChinnaThambi)

“இன்னைக்கும் மட்டும் நாம வீடு போய் சேர்ந்துட்டோம், ஜெய்சிட்டோம்” (trans: “If we manage to reach home today, we’ve won)

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mq_f4gLXi7k (watch from 18:40)

The bikes began their uphill struggle one by one, the same drill as the descent—only with double the effort and zero dignity. No point hiding it: we were not built or trained for this kind of off-road suffering.

 

Luckily for me, I had received expert advice from Jalapathy for conditions like this. The key, he’d said, was simple: “Traction off, don’t touch the clutch, and let the vehicle move at its own steady pace.” I put the advice into immediate practice. After an initial, alarming jolt, Lakshmi (the name I dearly give my vehicle) responded beautifully. The bike moved forward, smooth and steady, handling the terrain well save for a few minor glitches.

 

I was thinking in my mind

“அப்போ இது வரைக்கும் நாம இது தெரியாம தான் வண்டி ஒட்டிட்டு இருக்கோம் 😊” (trans: “So, all this time, I had been riding without knowing this?”)

 

People were sporadically stuck across the track, and while I waited for them to proceed, I started a hurried, internal prayer,

“முருகா, புயல் வேகத்துல போய்ட்டு இருக்கேன், குறுக்குல எதும் வராம பாத்துக்கோ. போரது என்னவோ 10km ஸ்பீட் ஆனா பீல் 100km ஸ்பீட்” (trans: “Muruga, I am going at cyclone speed, make sure nothing comes across my path. The speed is only 10 km/h, but the feeling is 100 km/h.”)

 

In the end, everyone made it up and it felt like we climbed the summit. ஜெய்சிட்டோம்.

After a refreshing coffee at a highway point the guys returned to the resort – some with scratches on the body, and some with scratches on the ego.

 

That time decided,

Never again to trust someone blindly—especially when they say,

“ரோடு இருக்கு சார்!”

Yes. Never again.

Some experiences are meant to be lived once—just so you know to avoid them forever.  

 

Like the Goundamani comedy that was classic, this off-road will also go down in the history as something we weren’t particularly proud of, but taught us an unforgettable lesson. 

The evening was quite with dinner and people retiring early to bed knowing that next day the road is long with an early start at 6AM.

 

Back Home

The bikes started rolling at 6AM. The early morning weather was chill and pleasant with occasional fog once we hit the highway. We were enjoying the road and after an hour into the ride, stopped at a restaurant for coffee / tea.

While stopping here, I forgot to ensure that the side stand was securely placed on the ground and started getting down resulting in the bike falling down and me lunging towards the nearby rider and hitting his bike.  Luckily nothing happened.

We stopped for breakfast at the Hotel Mayura, in Bellur Cross which is famous among the biking community.

Post breakfast the heat started to take a toll on everyone as the day progressed. The cool breeze of Sakleshpur felt like a distant memory, replaced now by hot winds and glaring sunlight. Hydration breaks became more frequent, not out of luxury but necessity.

We had decided to avoid the Bangalore – Nice Road – Krishnagiri route and decided to take the Tumkur – Devanahalli – Chitoor route which was definitely better in terms of avoiding traffic, but the long stretches of exposed highway meant we were riding directly under the sun for hours.

The temperatures kept rising, and every time we stopped, the heat radiating off the tarmac reminded us just how draining the day had become.

Still, the group stayed steady, pacing ourselves well. The comms were active with updates, occasional jokes, and reminders to hydrate.  By afternoon, fatigue had started creeping in, but with consistent breaks and a determined mindset, we kept pushing forward.

For lunch, we had reached a restaurant famous for its Mulbagal Dosa—a true local treasure.

Naturally, I thought everyone to indulge in the specialty.

But no. Here too, some of our friends ignored the famed dosa and ordered Kashmiri Pulao. Kashmiri Pulao!

 

I could only shake my head and silently wonder, What am I supposed to do with this group and their relentless pursuit of the most geographically confused dishes? 😊 (once again, no offence, just for fun)

 

Post lunch, the goal was clear: reach home safely and wrap up a ride that had tested us with rain, rocks, and now, relentless heat.The moment we crossed Ranipet, home felt nearer—but so did the wave of traffic from people heading back to Chennai after their weekend at their native towns. The roads grew heavy with vehicles, forcing us to break formation multiple times just to weave our way forward.

 

Murphy wasn’t done with us yet—he rode along till the very end, disguising himself as a rim bend on another rider’s bike. With a few rounds of inflating the tyre, we somehow made it to the peel-off point.

Sakleshpur: A Ride We’ll Remember…

What started as a simple weekend ride turned into a full syllabus of “Ditwah + Murphy Practical Exam.”

Rain soaked us, rocks mocked us, gravity pulled us, Google confused us, and the guide… well, he came only to prove why blind trust is dangerous!

We dropped bikes, jumped off bikes, pushed bikes, and questioned every life choice—but still reached every place we aimed for.

We learnt:

• NICE Road trauma is real but survivable.
• Off-roading without a road is NOT a hobby we’ll pick up again.
• Yedakumari will remain a beautiful memory… to admire from a distance.
• Food conundrum, the choice between Biriyani and Pulao at an Udupi/Dosa joint is a reflection of our group’s eternal culinary chaos.
• And most importantly: Murphy rides with us—no riding position assigned.

We rode back home with bruised bodies, bruised egos, but hearts full of pride, laughter, and stories that will be retold for years.

 

And yes—never again! (only for such off-roading)
…unless someone casually asks, “plan pannalama?” 😉

Because truth be told…
I go wherever my bike takes me—Even Through Storms and No-Roads.