Kamal Ghorui
My relationship with Grumpy can best be described as tenuous—and strictly seasonal. We meet for two months every winter, ignore each other for the remaining ten, and then rekindle the affair as if nothing happened. Ours is a cold-weather romance.
Grumpy, by temperament and by reputation, is grumpy. He is a 2016 Royal Enfield Thunderbird 500 (UK 07 BP 8664), owned—at least on paper—by my nephew Neel, who acquired him during a spirited flirtation with a mid-life crisis and then promptly disowned both the crisis and the motorcycle. Grumpy’s early years were difficult. Neglected by his owner and ridden hard by an employee, he developed what bikers generously call “character”—which, for the uninitiated, translates to “unreliable.”
On cold mornings, he refuses the self-starter outright. He must be coaxed awake: choke on, a series of earnest but dry kicks, no throttle, and a whispered prayer to the gods of internal combustion. If he deigns to start, the idling wavers theatrically before settling—after a full two minutes—into a rather high but steady 1,400 rpm. His quirks are equal parts nature and nurture. The fuel injection—Royal Enfield’s tentative first step into that brave new world—is snatchy, with a pronounced jerk between idle and the first millimetres of throttle. In lower gears, it becomes positively temperamental.
The gearbox is a study in eccentricity: a semi-forward shift with a wobbly linkage. Downshifts require the left toe to approach from an inward angle; misjudge it by a fraction and you strike the crash guard instead of the lever. Hence, narrow-toed riding boots and a supple left ankle are not accessories but necessities. Upshifts, mercifully, are heel-operated. The rear disc brake offers braking in theory rather than in practice—perhaps a legacy of early neglect—and the front brake is only marginally more persuasive. The rear suspension, even at its softest setting, communicates every imperfection of the road directly to one’s lower anatomy.
Grumpy refuses to be hustled. At 65 kmph in fifth gear (around 3,500 rpm), he draws a dignified line. In one fit of pique, I pushed him to 70; he responded with such indignant vibrations that I apologised and retreated to our mutually agreed cruising speed of 60 kmph. We now operate under a gentleman’s agreement: he will run faithfully at 60, and I shall not demand heroics.
And yet—despite all this—Grumpy fills my winter mornings with unadulterated joy. There is something about ambling through the twisty roads around Dehradun—the Doon Valley in its soft winter light—that forgives every mechanical misdemeanour. I like to believe that during our two months together he senses the extra attention, the careful cleaning, the gentle throttle, and small acts of TLC.
On 16 February 2026, a Sunday ride was planned with my old colleague and fellow biker, Prof. Vinay Rana, astride his Honda H’ness CB350. We met at 7:15 a.m. near Sai Mandir on Rajpur Road. A new companion joined us—Mr Amit Sachdeva, 52, an ESG consultant—riding another Thunderbird 500, with his 20-year-old son as pillion. Three bikes, four riders, and a familiar route: via Raipur to Thano, onward to Narendra Nagar, and back through the Rishikesh Bypass.
A minor confusion near the Buddha statue at the end of Sahastradhara Road delayed us briefly, but we soon found the left fork towards Pacific Golf Apartments, descending to the Marautha–Reniwala Road. The narrow stretch ran alongside a slender canal; wisps of vapour rose from the water as the sun climbed hesitantly into the winter sky. At Maldevta Crossing, we turned right toward Raipur, then left onto Thano Road.
Rana, as always, led with calm precision, rarely exceeding 70 kmph. Sachdeva followed; I played “Tail-end Charlie.” The forest stretch towards Thano never fails to enchant: shafts of sunlight filtering through dense foliage, shadows lengthening across mist-laced air—a landscape painted in gold and green.
From Thano, we rode straight to Ranipokhri, turned left at Bhogpur, and emerged onto the Rishikesh highway. A sharp left placed us on SH34 toward Narendra Nagar. The road rose and twisted, inviting that quiet pleasure unique to motorcycling: leaning into curves, downshifting before a bend, rolling on the throttle as the road opens out. Near Narendra Nagar, at roughly 4,000 feet above mean sea level, we encountered a freshly excavated stretch where pipelines were being laid. What followed was less ballet and more survival—stones, mounds of earth, and a narrow trench to negotiate. Grumpy’s relaxed cruiser ergonomics are not designed for such adventures. I proceeded gingerly, feet splayed outward like a cautious child on a tricycle, occasionally touching down for reassurance.
We bypassed the town and stopped at a roadside dhaba for a well-earned breakfast—aloo parathas and tea, the canonical reward for a winter ride. Revived, we took the Rishikesh Bypass, rejoined the familiar road past Jolly Grant Airport, and looped back via Thano to Dehradun. A final round of coffee at Ama Café on Rajpur Road marked the ceremonial close. By 1:00 p.m., we were home.
Total distance: 138 kilometres.
Three motorcycles. Four riders.
Not bad for a Sunday.
Come another three weeks, I will park Grumpy, and as I leave, I can almost hear him grumble contentedly—already preparing for his 10-month-long hibernation. But before that, there will be at least one more ride!
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