Bonneville: without wishing to upset my Devonian brethren, it sounds a lot more exciting than Plymouth.
And so even as a kid in South Devon I wanted a motorcycle named after Utah’s famous salt flats. No bike licence? No problem – my parents had carefully steered me straight on to four wheels. Thirty-five years later my forgotten desire was rekindled by a rented ride on a nasty Honda scooter in Goa, India (no bike licence – no problem). I was going to get a classic Triumph, eventually…
Back to that scooter: I can’t recommend motorcycling in India. If you’re the kind of person who enjoys long hospital stays, skin grafts and extended periods in traction, then go for it. But if, like me, you’re quite keen to maintain all working limbs, take a cab. It won’t be safe, but at least the driver will be used to the locals’ driving habits. And believe me, they take some getting used to.
I’d already been thoroughly terrified during a cab ride through Mumbai. During the 45-minute trip I saw buses with swarms of workers clinging to the roof; trucks with gravity-defying loads waiting to fall off and crush people at any minute; and Chinese Honda step-through copies with families of five on them – toddlers perched in front of dad on the handlebars. Why on earth would I choose to ride any kind of two-wheeled machine in these kind of conditions? My nephew made me, that’s why.
Chaz happened to be in India
