Warning: Long ride ahead

This post covers travel through 6 days, 2000+kms, 3 states and several cups of tea. It’s a collection of emotional monologues, awkward situations, questionable choices, some funny moments, some frustrating moments and the occasional philosophical musing that comes from staring at the horizon too long.

Read it like you’d ride it — don’t rush. You might not enjoy every part, but hey, neither did my back.

The Spark

I once stumbled upon a video from a popular YouTube channel — that talked about Racing the sun. It was about a ride that starts and ends in Pondy. At first, it sounded like a joke.  How far could that possibly be?

It only clicked later — they weren’t talking about circling a town. They were talking about a ride from Puducherry on the East to Mahe on the West, covering 628kms in a single day, riding from dawn to dusk — quite literally, travelling with the sun.

That idea stuck with me. What began as a casual watch turned into an obsession. I knew, someday, I had to do something like that.

During one of our earlier group rides to Agumbe, we found ourselves —barely 40kms away from Udupi, and in turn, the west coast. I remember suggesting, almost pleading, that we should push ahead and touch Udupi, just to tick that east-to-west ride off the list. But with the day running out and other plans in place, we had to let it go.

We did eventually reach the west coast on our ride to Goa, but that happened over two days — not quite the same.

We call our August ride the ‘Monsoon Ride’ — fittingly so, as most destinations along the western coast are deep in the grip of the rains during this time.

The plan was simple: make the most of the holidays around Independence Day, string together a few leave days, and ride far — really far. This window was our annual escape — a chance to chase open roads in all its monsoon glory.

Each year, we’d set our sights a little further and push a little harder. But somewhere in the back of my mind, that east-to-west ride kept calling.

Goa or Gokarna – The dilemma??

During planning for the August ride, the key question arose was — Goa or Gokarna? (So it’s happening, coast-to-coast ride)

Goa seems to be a preferred choice for its vibes, connectivity, great food, and always buzzing with energy. We’d been there before, knew the stops, and could almost ride on autopilot.

But Gokarna had a different pull. It was quieter, more raw, less touristy — and in many ways, more rewarding. The kind of place that doesn’t just offer a destination, but leaves you with a feeling.  The stunning stretch of Maravanthe Beach, where the highway runs with the sea on one side and a river on the other, the towering Murudeshwar statue rising out of the sea, and the quiet, untouched charm of Gokarna’s beaches — they all tipped the scales.

The dilemma was real. Goa felt like comfort. Gokarna felt like a calling.

And for a ride, we knew deep down, that this couldn’t be just another familiar ride. It had to be something more.

So Gokarna it was, 826kms from Chennai.

The dream plan

Once the destination was decided, the travel plan slowly started to take shape. 

We had 6 days in hand. 

We needed a day to ride through the Maravanthe stretch, Murudeshwar and near by places. Another day was reserved to explore the calm beaches of Gokarna — not just to tick them off, but to truly unwind there. And then there was Yana Caves — those surreal rock formations tucked away in the forests — which deserved a full day by itself.

That left us with just three days to cover over 1600+ kms. On paper, it looked optimistic. In reality, it felt almost impossible.

And that’s when the crazy idea slipped in — what if we did it in one go? What if we started early from the east coast and reached Gokarna the same evening?

I didn’t say it out loud at first, but deep down, I was hoping — no, wishing — that we’d pull it off.

After many rounds of discussion, the plan was finally set.

We decided to attempt the onward journey in a single day, but with a slight compromise — we’d take a longer yet smoother route, one that avoided the steep and longer ghat section and kept the pace steady, most efficient for covering that kind of distance in a day.

However, for the return journey, we chose to ease off the throttle. After four days of continuous riding and sightseeing, we didn’t want to test our limits or let cumulative fatigue creep in and take over. So we planned a halt at Tumkur, allowing for a more relaxed ride back.

And as a bonus, this route gave us the perfect excuse to take a slight detour to the world-famous Jog Falls — a sight none of us wanted to miss.

But pulling off something like this isn’t easy — not even for the most seasoned riders. Covering such a long stretch in a single day means everything has to go right: the bike, the body, the route, the weather, and most importantly, the mind. One snag — a late start, a mechanical issue, a traffic jam — and the whole plan could unravel in minutes.

In fact, what we were attempting was beyond Puducherry to Mahe (628 kms) in a day.

We were aiming for nearly 826 kms, across three states and it wasn’t just about chasing the sun anymore.

It has become now a test of discipline, endurance, timing, and our limits, rewriting what we thought was possible, and turning a passing obsession into something real — something we could look back on and say, “Yeah, we actually did that.”

 

Convincing the family

Every long ride begins long before the engine is fired up — it starts with getting permission from home.

I usually start laying the groundwork well in advance — sometimes as early as May or June. Not directly, of course. Just a passing comment here, a vague reference there. Every conversation — even if it had nothing to do with rides — would somehow end with me hinting at the “possible long ride in August.” Whether they asked or not didn’t really matter.

It’s like leaving breadcrumbs — small, casual mentions, just enough to trace a trail later. That way, when the real discussion begins, I can always say, “But remember, I did mention this back in June — while we were talking to so-and-so!”

A little psychological warm-up never hurt anyone.

Of course, despite all the subtle hints and not-so-subtle nudges, the real conversation always has its moment — that official announcement where I finally say, “So, the August ride is happening.”

And that’s when it hits them.

The breadcrumb trail snaps into focus. The expressions shift. There’s usually a brief silence, followed by an eye-roll, a deep sigh, or that familiar mix of concern and resignation.

“You’ve already decided, haven’t you?”

– I have decided last year itself

 

“This is that long one, right?”

– The distance doesn’t matter, it’s the journey that counts

 

“Why don’t you pick somewhere nearby this time?”

– Then it will not be a long ride na?

 

“It’s monsoon season. It’s all rain!”

– The weather app is not showing rain on the days we had planned. I checked multiple times.

 

By now, they know the drill, the route maps are out, the bikes are prepped, and the backup plans are in place. It’s not rebellion anymore — it’s ritual. A shared understanding that this ride isn’t just for fun… it’s part of who I am.

And slowly, the resistance softens.

Of course, there was one tiny detail I chose not to disclose right away — the plan to cover the entire stretch on Day 1 itself.

I mean, why invite extra drama early on?

Everyone knew it was a long ride. Everyone knew it was during the monsoon. But what they didn’t know was that we were planning to clock in 800+ kms on Day 1, from pre-dawn till well past dusk.

That part? I kept it under wraps. Not out of mischief —but more because I knew it would raise too many eyebrows and invite the kind of conversations that end with:

“Are you out of your mind?”

So I waited… and waited… until a few days before the ride to reveal the plan.

The moment I mentioned it, the expressions changed instantly — a mix of disbelief, concern, and

“You’ve officially lost it.”

“You’re doing what in a single day?”
“You didn’t mention this before!”
“And you’re calling this a vacation?”

I just smiled and said,

“It’s all planned. The route’s smooth. The weather looks good. And… the sun’s on our side.”

They weren’t exactly thrilled, but by that point, the bags were packed, the bikes were ready, and the alarm was already set for 2 AM.

There was no turning back.

The Weather conundrum

Planning a ride in August always comes with one wildcard: the weather. Especially when you’re heading west, where the monsoon isn’t just unpredictable — it can be unforgiving.

About a week before the ride, the western ghats were getting hammered with heavy rains. Tumkur — a key point on our route — was practically flooded. Roads were submerged, traffic was chaotic, and the images coming in were enough to make anyone rethink their plans.

And we did.

We huddled over maps, re-evaluated the route, and started sketching backup plans. Alternate stretches, buffer times, and even possible stay options if things went south. WhatsApp groups were buzzing with weather updates, rainfall charts, and satellite images — suddenly, everyone was a route strategist.

One day, the plan was locked.

The next day, it was up for review again.

But that’s part of the deal with monsoon rides — you don’t control the plan. You adapt.
So we prepared for the worst and hoped for a dry start.

But as the ride week drew closer, the skies slowly began to show mercy.

The rains eased. Water levels receded. And bit by bit, the route started looking doable again.

Luckily, the weather cleared just in time — and we could stick to our original plan.

No need for detours. No last-minute scrambles. Just a quiet sense of relief… and a little extra gratitude to the weather gods.

The storm had passed. The road was calling. And we were back on track — with all systems go.

Ride day – The real battle

The Lead Rider Saga (At What Cost?)

When the ride positions were published, I spotted my name listed as Lead for Group 2.

I had been quietly (and sometimes not-so-quietly) asking for this opportunity for a while — and finally, it happened. It felt like a win… or was it?

Was it a boon or a bane? Time would soon tell.

Taking the lead meant more than just riding in front — or so I thought.

In reality, my role as Group 2 lead mostly meant… following Group 1.

There was still someone else’s tail light to chase — just with the added responsibility of making sure no one behind got lost doing it.

The excitement was still real, though — and so was the pressure.

It wasn’t the kind of glory I had imagined — but it was leadership, nonetheless.

I kept reminding myself: This is what I’d asked for.

The bikes roar

As always, the pre-ride rituals kicked in: waking up before the rest of the city, meeting up with groggy eyes and caffeinated hearts at 4 AM.

This time, we were leaving even earlier — not to chase the sun, but to stay ahead of it. Also, our bikes (and BHPs) were no match for the seven horses of Surya’s chariot. Thankfully, Earth’s rotation was in our favor. Every km westward gave us just a bit more light. Not quite time travel but close.  

Thanks to the Hampi fiasco, we were determined to escape the NICE Road jinx, we took a new and smoother stretch via Mulbagal, Hoskote, Devanahalli Airport Road to reach Tumkur.

The first leg was smooth. We refreshed ourselves at Nandi Toll Plaza on the Chittoor–Bangalore Highway. Spirits were high, helmets were clean, and the bikes were purring.

Until… the first hiccup. But Murphy, as always, rides pillion.

At a quick pitstop for fuel, Aldo noticed his tyre pressure dropping. Out came the trusty inflator — topped up and carried on.

But within 30 minutes, near the outskirts of Devanahalli Airport — parallel to the dreaded NICE Road — the same issue popped up again.

A slow leak. Possibly a puncture.

And just like that, it was Bangalore jinx instead of NICE road jinx.

Upon inspection, the valve was leaking — it had to be replaced. Santosh and Bart broke off to help. The first shop they found couldn’t fix it. The second had no equipment.

So Bart left his bike — worth several lakhs — as security to borrow a few hundred-rupee equipment.

The drama didn’t stop there.

The mechanic couldn’t unscrew the tyre. So the scavenger hunt continued — to find someone who could. When the tyre was finally detached, it had to be rolled all the way back — like how we used to play with tyres in childhood and fixed at the original shop.

This was nothing short of a roadside jigsaw puzzle: borrowing tools from one place, removing parts in another, and fixing it in a third.

All this — just to stop a tiny leak from a valve.

A three-man operation to fix a leak turned into a two-hour puzzle, matching patience, resourcefulness, and sheer road karma.

Meanwhile, the rest of us were comfortably parked at A2B in Sirsi, relishing lunch and stories — unaware of the mini-adventure unfolding nearby.

But the clock was ticking.

Our tightly timed plan — already ambitious — was slipping away. Reaching Gokarna before nightfall was now turning from difficult… to downright dicey.

Giving up was not an option.

We did what we do best in moments like these: stay focused, be efficient during breaks, and munch as many miles as possible while there was still daylight.

We pushed hard — and it paid off. By the time the sun began dipping below the horizon, we were just 100 km away from Gokarna.

Just an hour more, we thought.

But then came the shocker:

Google Maps showed nearly 3 hours for that last stretch.

Confused at first, we soon realised why — this was where the ghats began, and the rains had taken their toll. The roads were battered, narrow, and winding — a complete contrast to the highways we’d been cruising on all day.

The final leg to Gokarna was less of a ride, more of a battle.

Under dim lights, with potholes around every curve, riders struggled to hold their balance. The road showed no mercy. At one point, we had to take a quick break — not because we were tired, but because our bottoms were sore beyond belief. 

In the comms, someone shared the famous dialogue of Vadivelu “எரியுதடி மாலா fan 12 நம்பர்ல வெய்!” (translation:  Keep the fan running in number 12)

We all burst out laughing — even in that miserable moment.

Because when nothing else works, Vadivelu always does.

After nearly two and a half hours of crawling through unforgiving terrain, we finally broke out onto the highway. A wave of relief. The worst was behind us.

We rolled into the resort around 9:30 PM — approximately 17.5 hours after leaving Chennai.

Exhausted, aching, and drenched in fatigue — but we’d made it.

Home Base: The Kumta Retreat

Our stay for the next few days was 5Miles Beach Resort, tucked away in the quiet village of Kumta — a serene, laid-back spot that felt like the perfect reward after a gruelling ride.

The resort itself was a charm: open spaces, coconut trees swaying, cottages spread across green lawns, and best of all — private access to a quiet beach.

No tourist noise. No crowds. Just the sound of the waves, the rustling of leaves, and the occasional laughter from fellow riders finally letting their guard down.

After the chaos of the road, this was bliss.  Our guys did a good job in finding a nice accommodation.

Coastal Diaries: 3 Days, Endless Vibes Of Beaches and Breathtaking Moments

Our coastal adventure began with a visit to the iconic Maravanthe Beach, a biker’s dream stretch where the road runs between the Arabian Sea on one side and a calm river on the other. The ride itself is a visual treat and made most of the time there with some scenic photo sessions. Bart had launched his drone for aerial shots when, out of nowhere, a glitch occurred—more on that foreshadowing incident later.

From there, we rolled into Murudeshwar, another must-visit spot famed for its towering statue of Lord Shiva and seaside views. Unfortunately, the watch tower was under renovation, so we missed the panoramic top view.

While exploring Murudeshwar, comedy struck. Bart had handed his camera bag to Maran for safekeeping. Maran, in a moment of total trust (and forgetfulness), left it dangling on the bike’s handlebar in a crowded parking lot. Only when Bart asked about it did panic kick in. Maran rushed down, frantically searching his bike, declaring he was “giving his heart in the search,”( உசுர குடுத்து தேடரன்)  unaware that Bart had already retrieved it and kept it safe. From then on, Bart made it very clear—Maran was not getting entrusted with anything again!

Some of us chose to do the famous beach trek, covering the more secluded and scenic beaches of Gokarna. The rest of us decided to stick to bike-accessible beaches and regroup at a common point. That plan led us to Belakan Beach, and from there to the stunning Om Beach, named for its resemblance to the Sanskrit “Om” symbol when viewed from above.

Here’s where Bart’s drone story hit its climax. While attempting a drone shot over the sea, the device suddenly lost signal and plunged into the Arabian Sea. That earlier glitch at Maravanthe? A premonition, perhaps. It turned out to be a costly affair.

Next up was Yana Caves, one of the most anticipated spots on our itinerary. But nature had other plans. A security guard informed us the caves were closed due to heavy rains. Disappointed but not disheartened, we stumbled upon a beautiful stream on the way and decided to spend time there instead. It turned out to be one of those unplanned moments that became a highlight—pure, peaceful, and perfect.

Just as we wrapped up and headed for lunch, the elusive monsoon finally showed up. We took refuge in a roadside temple, hoping the rain would pass. It didn’t, so we suited up in our rain liners. Ironically, the moment we got on the road, the rain stopped abruptly. Classic monsoon mischief.

Our final beach visit was to Kudle Beach, touted as one of Gokarna’s finest. But as always, when someone says “mild trek,” I should know better. The descent involved a few hundred steps, only to find the beach littered and messy, which dulled the experience a bit.

Feeling adventurous, I decided to climb one of the rocky outcrops near the shore. Getting up was easy. Coming down? Not so much. The rocks were slippery, and my shoes had a terrible grip. I had a near-miss moment—landed knee-deep in water, completely drenched. Of course, the guys were quick to capture the scene, turning it into an Insta reel favourite. At this rate, I joked, I should start charging pay-per-view—every ride, free content from me!

The climb back from Kudle was more intense than we had bargained for. Legs were screaming, lungs were working overtime, and the “mild trek” label felt like a cruel joke.

Evenings, however, made up for everything. We’d gather at our villa’s private beach, lay down tarpaulin sheets, sip on hot tea and coffee with a side of bhajjis and bondas, and watch the sun dip below the horizon. Those moments—simple, quiet, and beautiful—were the soul of this trip.

Return ride – Through Bridges, Falls, and Rains

We charted our return via Jog Falls, with a plan to halt for the night at Tumkur before reaching Chennai. The morning started with a bit of nostalgia and planning—our packed breakfast of Masala Theplas, lovingly carried all the way from Chennai, would be our fuel for the road.

En route to Jog Falls, a small board caught our eye: “Hanging Bridge.” Curiosity got the better of us, and we took a short detour. What we found was a narrow iron bridge spanning the Sharavathi River, typically used by locals to cross the river. But the thrill-seeking riders that we are, we rode our bikes across the narrow passage—slow, careful, and thrilled by the uniqueness of it. The footage we got here was gold—bikes wobbling gently, riders focused, and smiles all around.

We reached Jog Falls around 8:30 AM, hoping to witness the majestic gush we had seen in Instagram reels just the previous week. Sadly, the scene was underwhelming. The falls had thinned out into a tame trickle, a far cry from its monsoon might. This was my second visit, and for the second time, Jog Falls left me disappointed. Still, we made the most of the moment—unpacked our Theplas, had breakfast with a view, and even checked the opposite side of the falls, only to find the same story.

From there, we hit the highway toward Tumkur, with a satisfying lunch stop at Kamat. Bellies full and spirits lifted, we were cruising until nature decided to throw in a strange surprise.

Just before Tumkur, a small stretch of road saw localized rain—a phenomenon none of us had experienced before. One group of riders passed the patch dry, but as we entered, it poured for barely a few 100 meters. We were drenched instantly, and just as quickly as it came, the rain disappeared. Beyond that point, the roads were bone dry again. It was like riding through a mini cloudburst.

We reached Tumkur well before sunset and checked into our hotel for some well-earned rest. That evening was special—Prasanna, who couldn’t join the ride, made the journey from Chennai with his daughter just to meet us mid-way. It was a warm gesture that reminded us that the spirit of these rides goes beyond the road—it’s about the people, the bonds, and the community.

The next day was calm and uneventful—a straight ride back home. We reached Chennai by 5 PM, weary but triumphant.

We did it—2000+ kms, across coasts, forts, waterfalls, and misadventures. The highlight? Conquering the challenge of riding from East to West in a single day, clocking over 820kms.

Homecoming (with a side of interrogation)

There’s nothing quite like coming back to the smell of home food. After roadside meals and packed theplas, that first bite of hot sambar-rice or fresh rotis hits differently.

In reality, the moment the main door opened, the tone was set.

“You’re finally back?”
Not “Welcome back.” Not “Good to see you.” Just that subtle passive-aggressive mix of concern and I-told-you-not-to-go.

Moms:

“Why do you keep doing these dangerous rides? Didn’t you just go last month?”
Followed by a lovingly forced second serving of food, a subtle once-over for bruises, and a reminder to visit the family doctor “just in case.”

Dads:

“Hmm. Good. Bike okay?”
(That’s dad-speak for glad you’re safe.)

Spouse:
The reactions here depend on how well you communicated during the ride.

If you were responsive:
“Glad you had fun! But next time, we’re going together somewhere.”

If you were ghosting the family group for days:
“Nice to know you’re alive.”
Followed by: “I hope you remember you promised a vacation in exchange for this ride.”

Kids:

“Did you bring me something?”
“Show me photos”.

Then comes the bike gear explosion—riding jacket, gloves, rain liners, shoes… all sprawled in one corner of the house, giving off their unique post-adventure aroma.

“You better wash those today itself,” someone says.
You don’t.
But you nod.

In all of it, there’s a quiet pride. Beneath the concern, they see it—the glow, the stories, the brotherhood. They may not fully understand the “why” behind such rides, but they know you come back more alive each time.

You catch them telling someone on the phone:
“He just came back from a ride to Gokarna. Yeah, over 2000kms. These boys are mad, but they love it.”

And that’s all we really want, isn’t it?

To ride wild, return safe, and have our people—no matter how dramatic—waiting on the other side.

Either way, peace is restored by showing them that one nice drone video (pre-Om beach incident) and saying: “This reminded me of you.”

Epilogue – The Ride Within the Ride

Gokarna was not just about covering kms or checking off scenic spots. It was a test of will, spirit, and trust in each other.

We chased waterfalls but were met with streams. We took detours that led us to unexpected hanging bridge. We lost a drone, slipped on rocks, forgot a camera, and rode through patchy rainstorms. And yet, if given a choice, none of us would trade those moments.  

There was laughter, there were lessons. There were stretches of silence on the road that said more than words could. And when you sit by the sea after a day of riding, bhajjis in one hand and salt in the air, it hits you. The stories that come from riding as a tribe matters. Nothing else.

What started with doubts, if the East-to-West run was even possible—it ended with riders earning a well-deserved “Endurance Badge”.