Kamal Ghorui
Don Quixote was infamous for “tilting at windmills,” a by-product of his obsession with chivalric romances. He saw monstrous giants where there were only windmills with sails; I, however, have no such delusions of grandeur. My only ambition was to prove to myself that I could still cover 300km between breakfast and lunch without requiring a chiropractor later. My steed? Not the bony Rocinante, but my trusty Honda H’ness.
So, when my namesake and fellow biker, “Young Gautam” (YG), proposed a final ride before the monsoons, I readily agreed. Our destination: the Kalpavalli Viewpoint in Andhra Pradesh—a wind farm perched on the hills near Gondipalle. Google Maps promised 144km of tarmac followed by ominous “dotted lines” representing the off-road bits. YG spoke poetically of the “whoosh” of the giant aerofoils and the gusty winds, unrestricted views. It sounded alluring, almost romantic.
The ride was slated for 4.30am on April 11. Naturally, we actually throttled up at 5.30am because YG’s dogs demanded their mandatory morning stroll—apparently, canine bladder cycles take precedence over pre-dawn departures. After he’d filled his tank and sufficiently caffeinated himself into consciousness, we were off.
YG led the charge with all his assorted auxiliary lights blazing, while I followed with my Maddog auxiliary lights doing the needful. If my darling H’ness has one character flaw, it’s a headlamp that provides all the illumination of a tired firefly. We dodged airport-bound cabs near Devenahalli until the traffic thinned, at which point YG began “blasting” at 100 kmph. He was clearly eager to showcase the extra 2 BHP he’d gained from his new free-flow exhaust and performance air filter. I followed dutifully, my engine humming as the sun made a hesitant, golden appearance on our right.
At around the 70km mark, we passed the Nandi Medical College to our right. With its massive white domes, it looks like a slightly confused version of Kolkata’s Victoria Memorial. As an old industrial engineer, I couldn’t help but mutter about “form taking precedence over function.” It’s an imposing structure, but perhaps a bit much for a place where people learn to use stethoscopes. My internal critique was cut short by a tractor-trailer attempting a red-light-running kamikaze mission. Fortunately, the Nissin anchors on the H’ness have a reassuring precision.
After passing Penukonda, we took the left fork at the Kia factory onto a road so narrow that any oncoming traffic would have resulted in my left hand becoming intimately acquainted with the thorny bushes. Then came the hills.
YG, perched atop his Himalayan 411 with its 21-inch front wheel and dual-purpose tyres, began his ascent like an enduro pro—standing on the pegs and kicking up rubble. I followed with significantly less grace and great trepidation. My street tyres were never meant for this rutted, stone-strewn track. I spent the next 3km in a state of high-intensity “anxiety management,” grinding along in 1st gear and praying my rear tyre wouldn’t decide to take a nap in the dirt. Thanks to a mix of extreme caution and residual muscle memory, I made it to the base of a giant windmill without any unplanned dismounts.
The view was, as promised, magnificent. Windmills stretched into the horizon, their blades turning with deceptive languor in a stiff breeze. Then, YG pulled a rabbit out of his hat—or rather, a propane stove out of his cavernous top-box. He brewed “Blue Tea” (Butterfly Pea Flower), which is supposedly full of antioxidants to reduce anxiety and promote sleep. The “anxiety” part was a timely antidote for the ride up; the “sleep” part felt like a potential liability for the ride down.
The return journey was a descent into a portable sauna. As the sun climbed, my riding jacket transformed into a steam room. Back on the highway, the traffic was dense and aggressive. YG was nudging 110 kmph, and for the first time in my life, I found myself holding 100 kmph for extended stretches—a speed I’d previously promised myself to avoid. I even found myself ghost-shifting, clicking the gear lever only to realise I was already in 5th. The H’ness took it all in stride—no vibrations, no protests—but I began to understand why long-distance riders adore the Honda NX500. A little extra power from two cylinders, a six-speed gearbox, and those double front discs wouldn’t have gone amiss.
We eventually stopped for a well-earned Mysore Masala Dosa and enough fruit juice to rehydrate a small desert. We meandered home through the quieter backroads, arriving back by 12.30pm.
The stats: 2 riders, 7 hours, 310 km, and zero windmills actually toppled—loads of fun and memories to cherish.
The nagging question: Do I upgrade to the Honda NX500, wait for the fabled BMW 450, or simply accept that my H’ness and I are perfectly matched—even if she is a bit dim-sighted in the dark? And finally, at 72+, how many more years of long-distance biking do I have?…………
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