Day 49, Chennai to Tiruvottiyur, 11 miles

I load my bike for the very last time. I alert the hotel receptionist about my plans to return in the evening - I don’t want him to think I’m riding off without paying. I have a leisurely breakfast to allow rush hour traffic to thin out then don my riding gear. There’s such a short distance to ride that for once I don’t do a thorough nut and bolt check. I go through my usual starting procedure:- turn on the fuel; tickle the carb; release the clutch; turn the engine over top dead centre and kick it over with the lightest of twists of the throttle. The engine bursts into life first kick, which makes me glow inside.

It’s been more than 3 years since my last visit to the Royal Enfield factory but I remember the way quite clearly. I travel past the spectacular moorish-style Egmore railway station and onto Poonamalee High Road. This takes me first past Chennai Central railway station then the magnificent Raj-era Southern Railways building. Next I see Beach suburban station and then Chennai docks. From here it’s a case of following the coast road past the simple ‘thatched’ houses of fishermen which are overshadowed by a lengthy queue of trucks awaiting their turn to enter the docks. I turn onto Tiruvottiyur High Road. Traffic is as thick and challenging here as it has been at any other stage of my ride through India, including Delhi. Extra-wide buses make it impossible to pass, so I sit in their fumes waiting for my chance to overtake when they pull in to pick up passengers.

After nearly an hour I spot the sign I’ve been searching for. Bold red letters on a jet black background herald ‘Royal Enfield’. I turn down the approach road and pull up outside the factory gates. I stop my engine. Unlike the elation I felt on reaching my hotel yesterday, this morning I feel only a deep sense of relief.

I spend the whole day at the factory under the friendly guidance of Saravana, a senior export engineer and Sachin, one of the company’s senior marketing managers. There have been numerous changes in production techniques and facilities since I was here in 2005. The resulting improvements in quality are plain to see. Most impressive is the new engine assembly line that produces the unit construction engines used in the domestic market Thunderbird Twin Spark and the all-new 500cc export EFI models. Top of the range Japanese CNC machinery has been brought in specifically for these engines and I also see the crankcase halves being joined using liquid gasket technology. These production improvements are obviously necessary to make a modern, reliable engine that will carry the company forward, but I’m pleased to see the amount of highly skilled labour that is used. The bikes are largely still hand assembled by craftsmen.

We next visit the final assembly line. As I watch production, I notice a small group being escorted beside the assembly conveyor belt. Saravana explains: “the man at the front is retiring today after 29 years service in the engine shop. Those others are his family and friends. Everyone who retires is allowed to bring guests to the factory on his last day so he can show them where he has worked and they can join in his retirement celebrations.” It’s great to see that the company not only makes yesteryear style motorcycles, it has caring old-world values too.

The export EFI model is by far the most exciting machine that I see. In the packing area there’s a long row of G5 versions being crated up for export to the UK. Finished in black and chrome like the old deluxe models, this new variant looks truly gorgeous. I learn that today is in fact the long-awaited launch day of the new Bullet at the Intermot motorcycle show in Germany. There’s a buzz of excitement around the offices as people await news of the reception the bike receives. Word comes in that the response has been extremely encouraging, a real success for the company. Of the three variants on display, it’s the all maroon and all green Classic models that have stolen the show. No wonder. Their retro 1950’s styling is absolutely stunning. I can’t wait to get my hands on one myself.

My bike is brought into the factory to be prepared for shipping. The front wheel and mudguard are removed, as are the screen, crashbars and mirrors. Packing experts bolt the bike to the crate base using specially made mounts that attach to the fork bottoms and footpeg spindle. It feels strange to see my much travelled friend partly disassembled in this way. Plywood sides are hammered into place and finally a lid is sealed onto the top. It’s going to be 6 weeks before it reaches the port of Felixstowe in the UK. I know I’ll be quite anxious until it’s safely back in my hands.

I have 2 more days left in Chennai, both of which are spent at the factory. It’s a pleasure for me to see how the ethos of the company has been enhanced by the addition of new personnel, including a very experienced and forward-thinking CEO, Mr. Ravichandran. There’s a genuinely optimistic feeling amongst the staff and I believe it’s well founded. There are the new models, which look wonderful and perform superbly. Production has improved, both in terms of output and most critically in quality. A programme introduced in late 2005 has been very successful in eradicating many of the niggling faults that some owners had been experiencing with their bikes. There’s no question in my mind that the design and quality improvements made to the new models come at no cost to any of the characteristics that makes the motorcycles so well loved, leaving me with a solidly good feeling for the company's future.

I simply cannot think of anywhere else I would have wanted this journey to end.

I had so many other wonderful, if sometimes challenging experiences that I was unable to write about within the time constraints of blogging whilst travelling. I’ve subsequently been encouraged to write about my bike and our journey together in much more detail in a book, which will include photographs too. I’m now back in the UK diligently working on it whilst the whole experience is still alive in my mind and aim to have it ready for Christmas so please check back in on these pages in a few weeks time if you would like more information.

Thank you once again to everyone who has regularly followed this blog. Your blog posts and countless emails have made such a positive difference to my journey. Best wishes to all of you.

Gordon G. May
23 October 2008

PS If you haven’t seen the stunning new EFI Bullets yet, check out its dedicated website at www.bulletclassic.com

Day 48, Nellore to Chennai, 112 miles

I feel quite sentimental loading my bike this morning. It’s hard to take in that my journey is nearing its end. As usual a crowd gathers around me as I strap on my tail bag, cover, camera tripod and tank bag. My tools take the longest. I’ve taken to attaching them to the right hand side of the front crashbar as a means of putting more weight near the front of the bike, but they’re awkward to make secure. Despite over 6 weeks of practice it still takes me close to half and hour to get the bike ready.

Within 500 meters of the hotel I stop at a Public Call Office and phone Ranga, a member of the Madras Bulls Motorcycle Club. Ranga got in touch before my departure from the UK with the offer of an escort of club members and their Bullets for the final stage of my journey. He tells me that a group of riders has assembled and are already heading north from Chennai to meet me. It’s rather exciting.

About 60KM north of Chennai I spot two men sitting on Royal Enfields. They’re waving their arms wildly to attract my attention. They introduce themselves as the club outriders; the main body are waiting 10KM further south. They seem just as excited as I am when we set off.

It would be impossible to miss the Madras Bulls. A long line of 15 Bullets is lined up beside the road. I’m really honoured that these guys have been following my journey online and have taken the trouble to ride north to meet me. I walk round and shake hands with them all. They ask lots of questions and there’s much curiosity from me too as I notice that many of their bikes have been customised.

The sound of our departure is deafening but quite thrilling. The riders all wear helmets and ride very carefully. Indeed, I’m very impressed with how they work together to manage the other traffic so that the bikes stay safely together. I find myself grinning with pleasure.

Chennai is an enormous metropolis of over 7 million people. I have a pretty well tuned sense of direction, but navigating my way towards my hotel would have been an onerous task without my escort. Once in the city, a further 5 or 6 riders join us on their Royal Enfields. I can’t help thinking what a magnificent sight we must make.

We reach my hotel, the Ashoka, at 2.30PM. I’ve chosen it because it’s one of Chennai’s oldest hotels and is set in over 2 acres of gardens. I know my bike will be safe here and hopefully the Bulls will be able to come into its grounds with me. The gatekeeper waves us all through. I’ve arrived!

I park up and head for the reception. While no one is looking, I punch the air and laugh out loud. I’ve made it! While I check in, the club members line their bikes up for a group photo.   It’s a very proud moment for me. I’m invited by the members to a club meeting at a beach in the evening. How can I refuse? The Bulls saddle up and roar out of the hotel, many waving at me and shouting “see you later.”

I feel strangely emotionally numb when I finally unload my bike and get into my room. I wish I felt physically numb too. For most of my journey I’ve ridden at least 1 mile standing on the footpegs for every 10 miles seated. It’s been the only way to cope with a stiffly padded single saddle, but in India this just hasn’t been possible. Driving has been so downright dangerous that I’ve had to sit nearly all the time to be able to react rapidly to whatever situation or maniacal driving antics I encounter. It’s taken its toll. I’ve been in the seat for up to 10 hours a day for many of the last 9 days. My backside throbs with pain; I have two large pressure sores where the saddle has pressed. It would no doubt be funny if it didn’t hurt so much!

I take a shower then look at myself in the mirror. What a hoot. My face and neck are well tanned despite a daily coating of sunblock. My arms and hands have coloured to a certain extent too. But the rest of me is lily white. I decide that all I need is a knotted hankie on my head, rolled up trousers and a white vest to make a decent impression of a ‘cor blimey’ postcard caricature. But what the heck, it’s no price to pay for the adventure I’ve had.

I’m picked up in the evening by one of the Bulls, Hari, on his 350 Thunderbird. It takes half an hour to reach a cafe beside the beach where the club regularly meets. Many of the riders I met earlier are seated at a long table outside, although there are several new faces and bikes also present. There’s a good camaraderie amongst the club members and I enjoy the conversations that ripple round the table immensely. I get to meet Ranga with whom I have corresponded with for the last couple of months. He shows me his bike; it’s a 2003 model Thunderbird. He tells me it’s done 77,000 kilometers, including two trips from the most southerly point to the most northerly point in India. The engine has never been touched. I’m very impressed.

To my delight, I’m presented with a Madras Bulls t-shirt, which I immediately put on. It makes a great end to a great day.

Tomorrow I will ride the final 17KM to the Royal Enfield factory, where my bike will be crated up for its return by sea to the UK. As I go to bed this fact seems totally unreal.

Day 47, Vijayawada to Nellore, India, 176 miles

To my delight I discover my hotel is just 2 minutes from the start of National Highway 5, my route south. Better still, the roads are especially quiet as today is a public holiday. According to my map, NH5 is part of the Golden Quadrangle, a network of modern motorways that hugs the coast of southern India. It's been built to a very high standard and in the main I have it to myself.

After just 10 minutes I see a large green road sign. In bold letters is written Chennai, 475 KM. It's the first sign I have seen for my final destination. A surge of excitement rushes through me. From day one I've been unable to visualise my arrival in Chennai. All I’ve been able to see is the following day ahead. Indeed, although I have known the sequence of countries I would pass through and have had a fair sense of the general direction I would take, I’ve mostly planned my next day's ride the night before. Now the end is in sight. I feel so proud of my bike that I thank it out loud and give it a few strokes on its petrol tank for good measure.

The near empty road and my impending finish lull me into a dangerous soporific state. In short order I have two jolting near encounters that remind me that I've still got to keep myself safe for a further 2 days. The motorway has a large central reservation planted with flowering trees and shrubs. It must be a nightmare to irrigate as so far I've ridden over 50KM without seeing a break in the foliage. To my horror, an enormous adult water buffalo crashes out of the bushes as though a tiger were at its tail and runs directly across my path. I haul on my brakes; a true emergency stop. I'm too close to swerve as at this speed I would surely come off. Thankfully, the beast just keeps on running. Had it seen me and frozen I would certainly have ploughed straight into it. As it is, I miss its hindquarters by no more than a couple of feet.

I’m quiet shaken by my near miss but keep riding as my destination, Nellore, is less than 3 hours away. A large dumper truck, which I’ve been closing in on for some time, slows and pulls hard over to the left of the inside lane. I'm cruising at 80KM, so ease into the outside lane to overtake it. Within 50 metres of me it swings wildly across the road. There's a gap in the central reservation; it’s doing a u-turn. Again I haul on my brakes for dear life. The truck is much bigger than a water buffalo but fortunately, I have a couple more seconds in which to react. I dive for the inside and just squeeze around its rear. For the next few minutes the muscles in my forearms and wrists ache from the excertion of braking so hard 

I stay fully awake without any difficulty for the rest of the ride and roll into Nellore at 3.30. It’s a fairly nondescript place, but for some strange reason has a 4 star hotel. The room rate is a bit steep but I make note that it has an excellent looking bar and restaurant. I find a hotel with underground parking just around the corner for a quarter of the price but return to the swisher establishment for a hearty feed and the obligatory iced Kingfisher. I toast my beloved motorcycle and myself; tomorrow will be our last full day on the road.

Day 46, Warangal to Vijayawada, 186 miles

I begin the day somewhat bleary-eyed. I'm met outside my hotel at 7.15 and led to the offices of MARI (Modern Architects for Rural India). MARI run many projects in the Warangal region that aid impoverished villages with clean water, improved sanitation and educational activities. It also administers several Wateraid projects, which I am going to visit.

I meet with Mr. Murali at the MARI headquarters. He's a highly educated, erudite man, passionate to make a difference in the region. He tells me that MARI's aims include the empowerment of some of the poorest people in Andhra Pradesh, to make local government more accountable for its spending on rural development and to demonstrate how simple new technologies can be used to bring safe water and sanitation to small communities. It's inspiring stuff.

We’re joined for breakfast by 2 journalists and a photographer. Mr. Murali tells me he hopes that newspaper articles about my visit may help raise awareness of their work. As a former biker, he admits that he has a secondary agenda; he hopes that news of my ride will inspire some local young men to get on their bikes and see other parts of India and possibly the world for themselves. I agree to the interviews, but it all gets a bit surreal. The interview progresses from my ride and support of Wateraid and MARI, to subjects I'm not qualified to comment on, such as youth problems in European society and the proliferation of questionable material on the internet. I don't know who these characters think I am. I explain that I'm just a regular bloke undertaking a six week motorcycle journey ... journalists! Mr Murali apologises to me when they leave, but he really has no need.

Wateraid supports work in 31 villages in the region and I'm keen to see the results. I'm escorted to the first village, Pamnuur, by two MARI staff on a lightweight motorcycle. It's a 30KM ride on the main road to Hyderabad. We eventually turn off the highway and head down a narrow country lane.  We round a bend to find the road blocked by a large crowd; upwards of a hundred people. There are drummers, an old man carrying a spear and excited children running this way and that. A young woman wearing a beautiful blue sari holds garlands of red flowers. Over the last two weeks I've seen several Hindu festivals on the streets of India, so I come to a halt and wait for the crowd to pass by. They don't, instead they gather closer in on me. I see a large placard being held up high. It reads 'Welcome to Porden'. I think to myself, "Oh, this village must be called Porden. Doesn't sound very Indian. I wonder who they're welcoming?"

My escorts have parked their bike and are encouraging me to do the same. I must be a bit dim witted but I blame it on the early start. It gradually dawns on me that Porden actually means Gordon. Three garlands of deep red carnations are ceremoniously draped around my neck and I'm asked to make a short speech. I'm embarrassed as I've only really come to see some water pumps and toilet blocks and I'm certainly not an emissary for Wateraid. I do my best. I thank the crowd for their kind welcome and tell them I feel very humbled by the sincerity of their greetings. One of my escorts relays a question from a villager to me. "How does our village compare with villages in the UK?" I look around at the simple mud brick and concrete houses, the goats on the dusty road, the open, friendly faces of all those that surround me. I can't begin to explain the differences. I answer, "There are so many differences, but the welcome I have had in your village has been the best in India." Thankfully it goes down well.

I ask about the difference Wateraid support has made to the villagers’ lives. I'm told that until recently there was only 1 nearby water source which was shared by around 250 households. For some people that meant a walk of over a kilometer. There are now 6 water pumps in the village which has made an enormous difference. Furthermore, in the past people had no toilets; open defecation was their only choice and disease was rife. There are now numerous toilet facilities, including the village school. I'm introduced to two Wateraid community workers. They look after the welfare of this and an adjoining village, which includes providing ongoing sanitary education. They are quite rightly proud of the difference they have been able to make to the lives of the people here.

I say my thanks and farewells. We then ride a kilometer to a small hamlet which forms part of Pamnuur. There are a handful of dwellings next to a concrete block with a hand pump in the middle. I'm told that all the adults are farm labourers and are currently out working in the fields. A couple of shy children hide from me but a village elder comes over to say hello. He demonstrates the water pump. As he cranks the handle up and down a stream of crystal clear water emits from the tap. He gestures for me to drink some. It's cool and refreshing. "It's safe, don't worry," my escort tells me. He continues, "the bore is 160 metres deep." I'm told that the old man is responsible for maintenance of the pump. "Villagers are encouraged to take ownership of their water supply. Each pump is assigned a caretaker who we teach how to maintain it.”

I'm taken to a second village, Konachalam. Around 2500 people live here. Their welcome is just as warm and overwhelming. I hang the red garlands of carnations on my bike headlamp and receive, in their place, a garland of yellow marigolds. Wateraid has worked on a 50/50 basis with these villagers to install a 10,000 litre water tank as well as 8 compost pits and 7 water-pumps. The transformation has been remarkable; from only 10% of villagers having access to latrines to well over 50% in 2 years. Again I'm told that sanitary education is high on the list of priorities for the local Wateraid field workers. "Sickness caused by poor sanitation and water-borne disease has been radically reduced," the project leader inform me. It's a really excellent achievement and great for me to see first hand the transformation Wateraid has made to the lives of these people.

I leave after lunch, (which is another story). Vijayawada lies over 150 miles east and I'm keen to get there before dark. My bike still lacks compression but rides magnificently. Long sections of my route are two narrow lanes wide and chockablock with cumbersome trucks. Again and again I rev hard and my Enfield zips past 3 or 4 of them at a time. I ride the final 20KM in murky twilight. I stop by a ‘Welcome to Vijayawada’ sign and ask directions to a hotel. To my dismay, I'm told there's another 10KM to ride before the city centre. What’s more, there's a power cut. The guys I’ve just asked sit astride a Bajaj Vespa scooter. When I admit that I don't yet have a hotel booked, they offer to guide me to the area next to the railway station where most hotels are situated. I gratefully accept their offer.

The roads soon become extremely congested. Eventually we reach a roundabout that's partly blocked by crowd control barriers. One of my assistants climbs off the scooter and lifts the barrier aside so we, and no doubt many behind us, can pass. More than half an hour later I shake the hands of both my helpers when we pull up beside a large, smart-looking hotel and restaurant. They leave. I go to check in but the hotel is full. I return to my bike and wonder which way to go next. A young man pulls up on a bicycle and asks where I’m from and what am I doing. I explain I need a hotel with parking. Without hesitation he says, "I will show you." He sets off at speed, his legs windmilling around like a cartoon character. He's much faster and more manoeuvreable on his bicycle than I am on my weighty motorcycle and I almost lose him in the chaotic melee of vehicles that clog the streets. Three times he stops and waits for me to catch up. Finally, he points towards a hotel, waves goodbye, then pedals away before I can even thank him.

10 minutes later I collapse on a crisp, clean bed. Once again I reflect on just how deeply indebted I am to strangers for my comfort and safety.

I'm sorry this has taken so long to write. As you can imagine, the many commitments of everyday life have somewhat overtaken me since I returned to the UK. I'll do my best to finish writing about the journey over the next 2 days. Thanks, Gordon.

Day 45, Adlabad to Warangal, 239 miles

The morning starts really well. The day staff at my hotel comprises of 5 young men who all appear to be the best of friends. They gather around my bike as I load it, arms around each other's shoulders, laughing and enjoying the moment. They're curious about me and my bike and their instant friendship is genuine and very warm. They request a group photo and give me their email addresses. Their uninhibited camaraderie and sense of humour is heartwarming.

I have exactly 149 KM of Highway 7 left to travel. Like yesterday, it's virtually continuous roadworks. Just after noon I turn off it and head east. Hurray! My new route follows a much smaller, quieter road. It's also  well surfaced. Great joy! The surrounding fields are dedicated to corn production. It must be harvest time. I see huge pyramids of corn cobs built up against the sides of houses. The road  is used as a communal drying facility. 100s of metres at a time are covered with a golden layer of kernels drying in the sun. It's spectacular.

A storm approaches fast from the north. I hurriedly park and duck into a large bus shelter. There are several other people waiting. I finally feel that I'm in south India. The people have darker skin than northern Indians and some wear longis, the traditional sarong-like garment often worn in the south. Two men speak English. They advise me to brave the rain as the sky looks clear further east. "It can rain for hours once it sets in here," they advise. I buckle up my Barbour's collar and cuffs, pull my neckerchief up over my face and make a dash for it.

The rain falls in huge droplets that hammer my bike. But, as predicted, I’m able to skirt round the periphery of the storm and within a few minutes I'm drying off whilst riding under clear blue skies. I come to the large town of Karimnagar and seek directions. “Warangal? Warangal?” I ask people. Four or five times I receive hand signals waving me straight on. A TVS moped cuts right across the front of me; its rider fully occupied typing a text message. I haul on my brakes to avoid crashing into him, then curse loudly as I stall my engine.

I get a nasty shock. When I try to kick my bike over, the kickstarter spins round quite freely. I’ve lost virtually all compression. Dismayed, I push my bike into some shade, take off helmet, jacket and gloves, then sit on the kerb, head in hands. I try to work through possible causes and solutions in my mind. When I take my hands away and open my eyes, I find I’m surrounded by a crowd numbering at least 15 and growing fast. My nose is blocked by the cold I caught in Agra, I’m saturated in sweat and my bike is poorly. It’s too much. I ask an English speaker if I can be left alone. I might as well ask for the Koh-i-nor; I’m without doubt the best entertainment in town today if not this week. No one moves. I try to blot all the inquisitive faces out and munch on some nuts and a bar of chocolate. Thank goodness Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut is made in India; it’s a lifesaver.

I look round my engine. It’s impossible to tell if the cylinder head gasket is blown; crankcases, barrel and cylinder head are completely coated in a fine mist of oil. It looks like the engine has been sweating the stuff. I check out the decompressor unit and clutch but they both seem fine. I’m out of options. To my left is a Public Call Office. It offers the full gamut of services, mercifully including ISD calls. I get out my address book, gather my riding gear and make ready to call Andy Berry. At the last moment I decide to give the bike another try, figuring at least I’ll be better able to describe my dilemma to Andy. It turns over top dead centre without me using the decompressor. I tickle the carburetor then give the kickstart a firm kick. It immediately bursts into life. I rev it. It sounds fine. Somewhat bemused, I get myself organised, wave to my audience, and set off.

I’m absolutely amazed, the bike pulls and accelerates just as well as on day one. I don’t want to tempt fate by stopping and trying to restart it, so I head south for Warangal.

The ride is longer than my estimation. It turns dark as I approach the city limits. I spy a hotel almost immediately. It’s called The Grand Central and looks far more expensive than my usual level of accommodation. I deserve it, I tell myself. I park up under the watchful eye of a doorman, take off my helmet and enter the foyer. A suited receptionist confirms rooms are available and asks when I would like to check out. He’s joined by his manager who looks me up and down with unguarded concern. ”I’m sorry, sir, but we are full,” he says. His assistant looks confused. I question him, but he remains firm. I leave. Outside I see my reflection in the hotel’s windows. My jacket and trousers are blackened with oil and weeks of road grime. My boots are crusted with dust. My hands are black and my fingernails a serious health risk. My face is probably seriously frightening. The factor 50 sunblock I liberally applied to it this morning has transformed from white cream to a greasy dark gray paste. There are also red lines around my forehead and nose where my goggles have rubbed. The absence of one arm on my glasses, which I stood on yesterday, is probably the piece de resistance which crowns my tramp-like appearance. I laugh; no wonder I’m persona non grata here.

It takes half an hour to find suitable lodgings near to the railway station. Another Hotel Surya provides a safe haven for the night. I pat my bike and thank it for yet one more safe and enjoyable day. It’s run beautifully all afternoon. I stop and start it several times. Compression remains poor yet it fires up first kick and runs sweetly. There are only 3 more days ride left to Chennai. I hope we will make it!

Day 44, Seoni to Adlabad, 205 miles

I follow an almost deserted, smooth road through steamy jungle which make my bike's engine and exhaust sound very loud. I briefly stop to check my bags are secure. The pulsating vibrations of thousands of cicadas engulf me and a couple of green parrots squawk loudly as they fly overhead. It's a little eerie but very exotic and exciting to be here. A few minutes later I see an enormous elephant being lead down the roadside. What a magnificent sight. I wonder where it's going and whether it's a working animal. More importantly, I can tell Jacques about it. I smile as I remember Colonel Hathi and his elephant dawn patrol in the Jungle Book film. For a while I talk to myself in my best impression of his upper crust parade ground voice. “Bullet, accelerate! To the left… wait for it … steer!” It's amazing what you do to pass the time on a long motorcycle ride.

I somehow miss signs for the ringroad round the city of Nagpur, so have to drive straight through its centre. Being Saturday lunchtime the streets are jam packed with all manner of vehicles, except for trucks which are conspicuous by their absence. Maybe there’s a daytime or Saturday ban. I can't believe how many times I hit red traffic lights; it becomes rather ponderous stop start motoring. Along with 20 or 30 other bikes, I weave my way past buses and cars to the front of the line, wait for a change to green, then roar ahead for a couple of hundred meters to the next junction. It takes about an hour and a half to get completely clear of the city, but I feel quite pleased with my bike and myself. I remember crossing London the second day of my journey. I made very heavy work of it and overheated the engine. My city riding technique has improved immeasurably; I'm much more relaxed and certainly put my motorcycle under far less stress.

I spend the whole afternoon riding through the longest roadworks I have ever encountered; at least 150 KM of it! Judging from the short sections of Highway 7 that are left untouched, the upgrade is more than overdue. Some blissfully runway-like stretches have been completed, but they often only last a few hundred metres; at most a kilometre, before a sharp ridge bounces me onto patches of old potholed road, or more commonly, a long dusty stretch where the surface has been burnt off. Worst of all are the sections where new ballast has been laid. I snake my way along its edges, clinging to my handlebars as they shimmy from side to side in the gravel. It's energy sapping riding and I'm relieved to stop at Adlabad at dusk.

As usual I find a hotel, unload the bike, shower and go in search of food. By the time I've eaten it's after 8.15 PM. I ask for directions to an internet cafe. It closes at 9 and there's a queue. I've encountered this several times already in India. By the time I've waited for my turn and quickly checked emails, the cafe is ready to close. I'm now more than a week behind with my blog. Apologies to all.

Day 43, khajuraho to Seoni, 249 miles

My revised route begins by following a national highway through a tiger reserve. I look from side to side as I ride some gloriously twisty roads, but see nothing large and stripy on the prowl. I do see my first monkeys of the trip. Some cheekily swagger across the road in front of me, others scamper into the bush as I approach.

Within a couple of hours I join Highway 7. It's one of India's major north/south routes and I intend to follow it for several days. At first I'm very impressed by the standard of the road but then I come to a toll plaza beyond which the tarmac deteriorates into a pitted and potholed mess. I reach the outskirts of the large city of Jabalpur at 1 oclock. This should have been my final destination yesterday. I elect to bypass it on a well-signposted ringroad. It turns out to be something of a mistake. The road is used exclusively by trucks and is exceedingly busy. The tarmac is severely broken and it's virtually impossible to get out of first gear. I pull my neckerchief up over my face and grit it out for nearly 2 hours.

I've realised that my days are always divided into 3 or 4 phases. Today, a new phase begins as the ringroad ends. The hundreds of trucks that have plagued my progress all but vanish. Road quality improves dramatically and in no time I'm riding at speed through refreshingly cool forests. There are sweeping bends and small hills with panoramic views of the surrounding countryside and treetops. It's an absolute joy to be riding my motorcycle. I ride fast round a right-hander and am faced with a wall of metal bearing down on me. One large truck is overtaking another round the bend. He hits his horn and continues to drive straight at me. I dive for the roadside, a feat that's non too easy because of the direction of my lean into the bend. The overtaking truck misses me by inches and I stall my bike as I bounce along in the dusty edge of the forest.

There are a series of roadworks on the highway and again I'm slowed right down. The sun is low in the sky; there's probably only an hour of daylight left. I would love to reach the Pench National Park tonight, but it's a least another 60 KM south. Pench is the backdrop for Rudyard Kipling's famous work, The Jungle Book. I've watched the movie several times with my son and loved it. I'd really like to be able to tell him I've been to the real home of Mowgli and Baloo. I approach the city of Seoni. I'm in two minds what to do; push on for Pench and risk darkness or play it safe and stay here. I take the city bypass on the premis that I can assess the situation once I rejoin Highway 7 south of the city. If it's getting dark I can quickly turn north and find a bed in Seoni.

I ride for 5 minutes, the road and surrounding countryside are deserted. There's a steep incline ahead. Seemingly out of nowhere a group of men, 6 or 7 strong, run out onto the road at the top of the hill and stand in a line across my path, maybe 150 metres away. One man stands ahead of them waving a red flag on a long stick. I haul on the brakes thinking this is all too redolent of yesterday. This time the road is wide. I don't halt the bike; in one fluid movement I make a tight u-turn and accelerate away. I don't even look behind me.

5 minutes later I drive back through the bypass toll booth. The single operator gives me a bemused look. I turn left and head for the city. Within 15 minutes I'm safely ensconsed in a central hotel, my bike tucked away in its underground car park. After dinner I wander the streets. Celebrations of a major Hindu festival are well under way. Several gaily lit temporary temples have been erected on the main street. Loud music blares out through horn-shaped loudspeakers. There are strings of fairy lights above a narrow passageway. They lead to a makeshift stage..I stand and watch a performance with a group of very excited children. All the life-size characters are made of papier mache. They're wheeled out onto stage on small railway tracks. The story is pre-recorded and played over a PA system. It's impossible to follow the storyline but the atmosphere makes it a magical experience.

On the way back to my hotel I encounter 2 donkeys having an altercation, step round 3 pigs ambling across the road and watch a goat steal an apple off a small fruit stand while the stallholder is distracted. Only in India!

Day 42, Ochha to Khajuraho, 176 miles

I follow my map south; the route seems to be straightforward. My first target is Tikamgah. I spend 2 1/2 hours of the most enjoyable riding imaginable getting there. The roads are often narrow but virtually devoid of all other vehicles. What is utterly captivating is the slice of rural India I pass through. There are many villages that seem to have less than 100 dwellings, a large percentage of them with thatched roofs. One even has a milling circle next to it. An ox drags a large millstone slowly around as I pass.

Women in a plethora of different coloured saris walk purposefully at the roadside, some have brass water jugs balanced on their heads. They appear precarious, but the women seem to be in total control, their backs ramrod straight. The roads are a veritable 4-legged highway. Countless herds of goats are moved to one side so I can pass. They all have rich, lustrous bronze coloured coats. Many kids, cute and lively, bounce along towards the rear of the herds. Water buffalo, cows and donkeys are also abundant. I overtake many bullock carts pulled by muscular, humped Brahmin cattle, their huge horns sometimes gaily painted.

A crop I‘m unable to identify grows in abundance both sides of the road. Many farmers have covered great sections of tarmac with piles of it so that passing traffic can do their threshing. I try to join in the fun but my centrestand acts as a hook and I drag a great chunk of leafy stalks with me. I pick my way around the edges of many more piles; it slows my progress considerably but the experience is worth far more than a little lost time.

My next way point is the town of Damoh. My map shows a straight road; no forks or junctions. It’s wildly inaccurate. I have to ask directions again and again as the route passes through small towns with more than one choice of direction for me to follow. I know from experience that people will often waive you on rather than admit they don't know the place you seek, so after each set of directions I soon stop and get corroboration. "Damoh? Damoh?" I ask again and again. I follow where I am pointed to; it's usually in a southerly direction which seems right. After another 2 hours I come to a T-junction. This is definitely not on my map. Two men loiter nearby. I repeat my familiar chant, "Damoh, Damoh?" They point left so I head that way.

The road is deserted. I ride for 15 minutes, but see no one to back up my last set of directions and not another single vehicle. The road narrows, right down to a single lane. Indeed, it's so narrow I doubt a bus or truck could move along it. The sky is cloudy and I cannot tell which way I am heading. I round a sharp bend and see a long straight road on a gentle incline. Standing in the middle of it are a group of men; at least 7 of them. I come to a halt 40 or so metres short of them. I see they have blocked the road with felled tree trunks. The road is far too narrow for me to do a u-turn. I sit still and look at them. Davinder's words of warning are clear in my mind.

I'm not conscious of calculating my options, but it's what I do. The verges are too bumpy and narrow to pass at any speed. They would easily reach me before I could complete a 3-point turn. There are 2 tree trunks at least 1.5 meters long each. I can see where they are butted together in the middle of the road. I notice at least 2 of the men have long canes in their hands. Not good, I think.

A man in the middle of the group signals me to approach with his right hand. I sit and stare, showing no reaction. He starts to walk towards me, still signalling. He covers half the ground between us. The gang behind him, seeing my inactivity, all set off at once behind him. They begin walking quickly. The leader gets within a couple of metres; the rest are more than half way. I act instinctively. I let out the clutch and drive straight at them as hard as I can. My bike surges forward, catching them all by surprise.

Flailing hands try to grab me; I can half see them reaching out but they are completely ineffective; the men are jumping out of the way of my roaring bike at the same time. I ride straight at the join in the two tree trunks and crash through. My bike doesn't even wobble. I 'm in second gear and pulling strongly away as a couple of stones bounce down the road alongside me. Fortunately, the throwers are as inept at this as they are at highway robbery. I make my escape at speed.

Within a kilometre I come to a small village. There's a fork in the road, but I don't stop for directions, I choose the more major looking option. It's at least 30 minutes before I stop. I've been going over and over events in my mind. So many men would not have been content with the rupees in my pocket; they would have taken everything, maybe even my bike. I had felt a cold calmness at the roadblock but now I start to shake. I talk sternly to myself, put the bike into gear and ride on. I soon reach a town. Damoh at long last!

Sadly not; the crowd that gathers around me point back in unison to the direction I have just come. One man speaks English. He tells me I have to backtrack 30 kilometers before I can join the Damoh road. That's means driving back along the robbers’ road. I think not! I establish where I am and where my road leads. I'm heading north east. I weigh up my options, which takes all of a couple of seconds, then ask if the road ahead is safe. They laugh; "of course," they say. A bus arrives from the north. That makes up my mind. I continue in that direction.

Two hours later I reach Khajuraho, a small village famous for temples with stone carvings of copulating people and animals. I' came here 20 years ago, indeed celebrated my 24th birthday here. I never thought I would back again, certainly not in these circumstances. I spot the Hotel Surya. My son, Jacques, has a sister by that name, surely a good omen. And so it proves to be. I shower then watch the sunset from my balcony. I'm in no mood to visit the temples, but I start to relax as I look over the hotel's considerable private gardens illuminated by sun’s purple afterglow. My bike sits safely parked just below me.

I later tell the hotel manager my story. "You were very lucky," he says. "My advice is to stay on the large national highways from now on." It's advice I intend to follow.

Day 41, Agra to Ochha, 146 miles

My alarm clock wakes me at 5.45. I want to visit the Taj at sunrise but I have a raging sore throat, a temperature and a completely blocked nose. The result of yesterday’s soaking, no doubt. I decide sleep is more important than tourism, take a couple of paracetamol and sleep until 9.30. By the time I've breakfasted, done my daily maintenance and loaded the bike it's 11.00 AM. Chennai lies over 2000 KM south and I worry about how long it might take.

The road is good at first, but deteriorates as I leave the state of Uttar Pradesh (UP) and enter Madhya Pradesh (MP). In Ludiana, Davinder warned me this state is one of the poorest in India and to never ride at night. He said it was very common for gangs to create roadblocks by felling trees and holding up the first motorist that comes along. Fair warning. I plan to reach my revised destination, the temple complex of Ochha, well before sundown.

The final 40 KM of the day are hell. The sun is low in the sky. Trees each side of the road cast a mosaic pattern of shadows ahead of me. My mudguard is driven all the way up into the bike's frame as I hit a huge pothole. The same happens again and again as I hit speed breakers and great ruts in the tarmac concealed by the dappled shade pattern. My wrists, arms and shoulders all ache and I have to slow right down. 40 KM takes nearly an hour and a half.

My luck changes as I find a stunning hotel, the Sheesh Mahal. It's half a kilometer along a dirt track from the village of Ochha. At the top of a steep rise is the crumbling 16th century Jehangir Mahal Palace. My hotel, which charges me the princely sum of 12 pounds per night, takes up one wing of the palace. The lobby has silk covered sofas and armchairs set around ornately carved tables. My room is charming. There’s a small four poster bed with an embroidered white linen bedcover. All the dark wooden furniture is adorned with delicate carvings. There are even silk wall hangings. The porter opens two shutters right next to my bed to let in fresh air. There’s no glass, just a fine mesh. The view of the surrounding plains, dotted with crumbling temples, is breathtaking. I know I will sleep with the shutters open so I can be cooled by the soft breeze during the night and woken by the sunrise.

I spend a very contented hour wandering around the temple ruins while the sun sets. A wizened old woman, dressed in a saffron coloured sari, herds her water buffalo amongst the overgrown grass, weeds and bushes that surround each temple. As I approach she puts her long staff on the ground and presses her hands together into namaste. I do the same in return. She smiles hugely. She looks at least 70, her face wrinkled; her tied-up hair almost white. Yet she's timelessly beautiful. It's a magical moment.

I have dinner in the village then return to my palatial hotel for a cold Kingfisher in the lobby. I hear a noise outside; unmistakably another Bullet arriving. I get up and wander over to the entrance. I see two silhouetted figures on an Enfield. I'm so excited; I can't wait to hear where they have been, what adventures they have had on their bike! I go outside to say hello. I get a bit of a surprise. It's a man and a woman. They’re riding at night with no crash helmets. All they wear are t-shirts, Bermuda shorts and sandals. A pair of backpacks are strapped onto luggage racks each side of the bike.

I say hello. I get no response. I try again, "have you come far?" I ask. This time I get a grunt from the man. One last try. "I have one too," I say, pointing at my Bullet under its cover. "Where have you ridden from?" The man speaks at last. "We just hired it in Delhi. Man it's so hot." They walk away from me and enter the hotel reception. I spend a couple of minutes looking at the bike then return inside to my beer.

I hear the woman tell the receptionist they are from Israel. I want to warn them about the dangers of riding at night in this area. I want to tell them about the folly of riding without crash helmets and protective clothing; how I would certainly have been a hospital case in Pakistan without all the gear I was wearing. But I sense my words will not be well received; they’re not even interested in a quick chat with a fellow two-wheel traveller. I relax backwards in my chair and enjoy the live music and traditional dancing that soon starts. They go to their room and don't return. It’s a shame; they are the only foreigners touring on an Enfield I have seen to date. I finally go to my wonderful room and drift off to sleep looking at the moon and listening to distant music through my open window.

Day 40, Delhi to Agra, 133 miles

I leave Delhi quite late. I have a breakfast with Sashanka in a South Indian restaurant which serves freshly ground coffee. It’s a very welcome change from the Nescafe I’ve had to drink since Turkey. Afterward I do battle with chaotic Delhi traffic for over an hour. I follow Sashanka on the JBF Bullet to the city limits and a little beyond. Smriiti's workplace is on the main highway to Agra so we call in for a cold drink before I say my final farewells.

The road to Agra is a well made dual carriageway. 20 years ago, when I first came to India, I bought a shinny all-red 350 Bullet in Delhi. Riding it along this very highway was my first experience of Indian driving conditions. My memory is of a quiet, well paved road; probably the best road I traveled in India during that trip. It’s been well maintained and is smooth to ride along. What has changed is the volume of traffic. In 1988 there were buses, trucks, and a few motorcycles. Cars were quite rare. The only models available at the time were the Hindustani Ambassador, a copy of the 1950's Morris Oxford, and a small 1960's Fiat built in India under the PAL badge. Now there are lots of cars, including many small 2 door family vehicles and a considerable number of Land Cruiser lookalikes which appear to be used as collective taxis. Both are manufactured by truck giant, Tata. There are also far more auto rickshaws around towns and villages than I remember. To stay safe I have to concentrate intensely every second of the journey.

I get to within 12 KM of Agra. To the east of my route are enormous black storm clouds. I think I will just skirt around them until the road takes an unexpected turn that leads me directly into their path. All bicycles and motorcycles seem to have vanished, but cars, buses and trucks still plow ahead at breakneck speed. It’s impossible to see where I‘m going and far too dangerous to continue. I come to a stop. There’s no shelter, not even a small tree to hide under. I’m already wet so there’s no point in putting on my rain suit. I simply sit on the bike and let the rain pelt down on me. A strong wind gets up and the rain bounces high of the road.. My Cromwell crash helmet has a stainless steel shell; the raindrops are huge and make hollow a metallic sound as they hit it.

It takes over an hour for the storm to pass. I crawl into Agra. I’m soaked to the bone and quite chilled. My bike is absolutely filthy again. As I pass the famous Red Fort I see the Taj Mahal. Even from this side-on angle it looks magnificent, its cream marble illuminated by the setting sun. It sits right on the banks of the river Yamuni. The dark waters of the river act as a backdrop against which the Taj looks other-worldly. Traffic is too heavy to stop for a photograph so I freeze-frame the scene in my mind.

I find a hotel and determine to visit the Taj early in the morning. I put on dry clothes and go in search of dinner. I round a corner and can’t believe my eyes. A small café, the eponymous Joney’s Place, lies straight ahead of me. Its pink sign is faded but the bright pink plastic furniture looks new. In 1988 I ate breakfast, lunch and diner here both times I came to Agra. Even then the zany owner was a legend amongst travelers and I took a photograph of him posing in front of his café. I can picture it in my mind as I stand here today. Even though I had food poisoning during my second visit, I look back with great fondness for the place. I recognise Joney the second I enter. We must both be around the same age. He’s aged well. I tell him about my 20-year-old photograph and he agrees to my request for an update. To my delight he strikes an almost identical pose in the doorway. I decline diner but have a chocolate lassi. It’s divine, so thick and creamy I have to eat it with a spoon. I promise to email both old and new photographs. I spend the rest of the evening feeling very nostalgic for my carefree travels of 20 years ago.

Day 39, Delhi, 0 miles

I reach the JBF Informal School just as classes begin. The morning class, 9AM to 1PM, is for smaller children. An afternoon class, between 15.00 and 17.00, is held for older children. I'm met by Dr. Sashanka who takes me behind the school to see the rear of the slum. It backs onto an open sewer. The stench is awful. 4 communal toilets hang over the sewer. They are shared by the 1500 or so inhabitants of the slum. Sashanka tells me there's no fresh water available; residents walk nearly a kilometer to a public toilet to collect it..

Back in the school I watch the lessons. The children learn to count and speak English by participating in songs and exercises with the teacher. It's fun and their pleasure is obvious. The school doesn't set out to provide a formal education. State schools provide that. However, children raised in slums tend not to do well in state schools; they don't know how to behave, how to learn, how to fit in with the other children. A high percentage never attend any lessons and spend most of their time on the streets begging. JBF's primary aim is to help these children develop in such a way that they will be able to and want to attend state school. It works. Sashanka tells me he is really proud of their achievements: more than 70 children have progressed from the JBF school into formal education. "It just gives them a chance to break the cycle of begging and living in the slum with no hope of anything better," he says. "They learn how to behave with others and how tro learn. Hopefully that will give them the chance of getting a job when they are older'"

The school is non-denominational so children learn about many religions. In a couple of days time it will be Eed-al -Fitr, the Muslim celebration that marks the end of Ramadan. All the children make Eed cards. The teacher, Madam Sandhya, moves around demonstrating painting techniques. The children are thrilled with the results. They look just the same as happy school children anywhere in the world. It's amazing what some positive input, guidance and love can do.

When the children have lunch I set off with Sashanka to see another part of JBF's work. They also run an animal welfare project, focusing on the cattle that wander the streets of Delhi. Sashanka estimates numbers at around 40,000. His team work within an area that has about 5000 cattle. We go to an open sewer the size of a small river. The stench makes me heave.The banks are so filthy that I don't know where to put my feet. There are roughly 20 cattle around me. They look utterly miserable. They wander in the piles of rubbish, picking at scraps. Some drink from the sewer. It's vile.

Many of these pitiable creatures suffer from wounds to their horns and hoofs, mostly caused by rummaging in rubbish that contains tins and and broken glass. 3 JBF assistants tend to a large cow with a wound on it's heel.  The wound is the size of a human hand. It's yellow and festering. They bring it to the ground with ropes then clean out the infected area. Antiseptic dressings are applied and the cow gets an antibiotic injection. We then travel to see a cow that's just had a calf. It has an old wound that the team redress. The calf looks to be OK, but I can't help wondering what a miserable existence lies ahead for it. It really upsets me to see the hideous conditions in which these poor animals somehow live. Sashanka tells me that JBF's goal is simple; to make the lives of these animals more bearable and free from pain caused by injuries.

Back at the school I catch the class for the older children. Many are now in formal education, but continue to come to JBF for extra support. Sandhya goes around helping them with there work. Some younger children are there too; it's better than being out on the streets.

Today is Dr. Smriti's birthday. She is at work but has sent two large birthday cakes for the children to eat. At 4.30 all the younger children from morning class come to collect their slice. The classroom is packed. We all sing "Happy Birthday" to Smriti down a cellphone. It's a magical moment. I feel sad saying farewell to all the children, but at the same time I feel very hopeful for them. JBF is certainly making a huge difference to their lives

I spend a very enjoyable evening with Sashanka, Smriti, Heya and three of the JBF animal welfare team. More delicious birthday cake is consumed. On the way back to my room I call in at a barbershop for a much needed haircut and an even more necessary shave. It's been over 4 weeks! The barber leaves me with a mustache that wraps round the corner of my lips. It's hilarious; very 1970's. I quickly insist he shaves it off. After the shave comes ice, face balm and the most eye-watering aftershave known to man. It burns like pure alcohol. My yelps attract quite a crowd at the shop door.

Please take a minute, if you can,  to check out the JBF website. Their UK address is www.jbfscotland.org

Day 38, Delhi, 15 miles

Day 37, Ludiana to Delhi, 212 miles

The road to Delhi is busy and slow going. It's a dual carriageway reduced to single lane traffic a good deal of the way by incomplete roadworks. I repeatedly experience another phenomenon of life on Indian roads; the 'might is right' principal. Most commonly this occurs when the road is very narrow and opposing traffic is bigger than me. They hog the narrow tarmac strip and at the last second I have to brake hard then dive offroad into sand and dust to avoid a collision. Far more dangerous is when the opposing traffic overtakes each other. A cycle rickshaw is being passed by a truck. There's still enough room for me even though the truck is on my side of the road. All of a sudden a car swings out from behind the truck and I'm faced with a fast approaching wall of vehicles and nowhere to go but into the potholed, rough edges. It's tough going but my bike just soaks up the punishment hour after hour. I thank my lucky stars for good brakes, springy suspension and a flexible engine.

I see a new method or road repairs being used. Small gangs of wiry, sun baked women fill potholes with tar. Traffic moves around them at speed; their only protection is a man with a red flag in front of them. They stamp the tar flat with their feet, then a man pushes a small roller over the top. Finally a team of people trample leaves and grass on top of the tar to protect the patch until it dries. I ride over many of these make-do repairs that were done some time earlier; the grass has all but rotted away. They are surprisingly effective.

At the outskirts of Delhi I begin to look for a PCO so I can call my contact from JBF, the charity I am visiting here. The roads into Delhi are so wide and busy that I simply cannot see anywhere to phone from. I know the JBF projects are in south Delhi so I follow signs I know must be central: the Red Fort, Central Railway Station and finally Connaught Place. I stop outside a police station but still cannot find a phone. Clutching a handful of rupees I stop a man walking past, try to explain my plight and ask if I can quickly use his cell phone. He's happy to help and flatly refuses payment.

About 40 minutes later a Royal Enfield pulls up beside me. It has two bright yellow pannier boxes on the back bearing the JBF logo. A very affable Dr. Sashanka introduces himself; he's been quite worried as it's almost dark and he thought I would have reached Delhi much earlier. I explain about the traffic and the lowly speeds my old motorcycle cruises at. He's accompanied by one of the JBF field workers, Anil. Together they lead me south for half an hour to a residential area where UK-based trustee and founder of JBF, Jonny Krause, keeps a small room for his visits to India. It's a simple one-room tin roof affair built onto the flat roof of an old colonial building. It's very plain, cooled by a fan and has a blockhouse washroom opposite. I take a shower by dipping a plastic jug into a large drum of cold water and throwing it over myself. It's remarkably refreshing and I'm very happy to be staying in such humble accommodation in view of the projects I will visit tomorrow.

Day 36, Amritsar to Ludiana, 88 miles

Delhi lies 460KM south east of Amritsar. I decide it's too much to attempt in one day on Indian roads. I'll break the journey in two. This has the bonus of making me feel relaxed and I set off without a care in the world.

I soon stop for directions. "Grand Trunk Road? Delhi?" I ask, pointing hopefully forwards. "Yes, certainly, that's the GT road. Just follow it straight," I'm told. Abbreviating names and places to initials is something I've noticed before in India. States such as Uttar Pradesh and Andhra Pradesh are called UP and AP. I've also heard people call themselves and others by their initials. I like it.

I become part of the dance that takes place on all Indian roads. Traffic moves like an surging wave. There's no mercy shown to those who get in the way; you join in the dance or get swatted aside very quickly. Aged Tata and Ashok Leyland trucks, no matter how heavy and slow they are, hog the middle of the road or the right-hand lane on a dual carriageway. They belch out clouds of dense, sooty exhaust fumes and I, like everyone else, has to flow around them. Buses and cars take precedence. Bus drivers drive like The Terminator, ready to crash everything off the road at the least provocation. Then, just as they pass, they dive to the inside and come to a screeching halt to pick up a passenger.

Car drivers demand to be let through. They drive hard up to my tail, horn blaring and lights flashing. It makes no difference that there's a long slow line of cars and trucks ahead of me; I am merely a motorcycle, middling in the road hierarchy, and have to move aside. At traffic lights all the small motorcycles and Bajaj scooters squeeze their way to the front. The same happens at railway crossings where most riders lean their bikes right over and manhandle them under both barriers. The train hoots loud as it nears the crossing; the trespassers become frenetic trying to reach the other side.

Bottom of the pile are bicycles, cycle rickshaws and any form of animal-powered vehicle. Their riders and drivers seem bizarrely unflustered by the mayhem that encircles and threatens to eradicate them. Thrown into the mix are cars driving the wrong way down a dual carriageway, every kind of vehicle doing impromptu u-turns, tractors swinging out into the middle of the road for no apparent reason, a swarm of buzzing black and gold rickshaws around every large village and town, pedestrians that turn their backs to the traffic as they cross the road, livestock that wander hither and tither, sometimes herded, sometimes with young, and police who wave vehicles to the side and berate their owners for no apparent reason.

Every minute I'm forced to make a dozen life or death decisions. Where's he going? Is that a water buffalo backing out of the central reservation? Have those 2 on the bicycle seen me? Is that truck moving aside to let me past or is he just avoiding a pot hole? It's chaotic, edge of your seat stuff. I love it.

I spot a large government hotel in extensive grounds a few kilometers before Ludiana. Perfect. After a quick shower, the Sikh receptionist gives me a lift to the nearest internet cafe on the back of his Hero Honda. Before I update my blog, I scroll through my mail inbox. I find 2 emails from people in Ludiana. I reply to one, Paul, and write down the name and cell number of the other, Davinder. I spend an hour blogging, pay my bill and ask for directions to the nearest PCO (Public Call Office) to use a phone. A tall Sikh enters the cafe as I'm leaving. His face creases into a grin. "Hey, you must be Gordon," he says.

It's Davinder, the man I am about to telephone! It transpires that he and Paul are cousins; both from Huddersfield in the UK. Paul received my email at home, sent a text to Davinder, who hightailed it to my hotel and was directed here to find me. 21st century communication at its best.

I spend the evening with Davinder and another cousin known as Krinku. Davinder tells me that as well as being cousins, he and Paul are business partners in Huddersfield and are also building a house together in Ludiana. I'm taken to see the development; it's on 4 levels and very impressive, although the building methods and materials seem somewhat antiquated. Davinder tells me he's been pulling his hair out trying to get the job done to UK standards, especially the electrics and insulation. He also shows me his Royal Enfield; it's a silver Thunderbird cruiser with a Lean Burn engine.

I get a short tour of Ludiana as it's getting dark. There are modern shopping malls and evidence of much prosperity. It's not what I was expecting to see. We progress to a restaurant and bar. The food is superb, the clientele obviously young and successful. It's interesting to hear about Davinder's life. He's an NRI (Non Resident Indian) which means he's able to get a 5 year multiple entry Indian visa in his passport. Born in the UK, he's proud to be British but has a deep affinity for India. He's done well for himself in business and is rightly proud of his achievements. It's a side of India I have not experienced before and I have a fascinating time hearing about life in the Punjab from a man with a Yorkshire accent. More Kingfisher is consumed than a Delhi-bound motorcyclist should drink.

At the end of the night we agree to meet up again in the UK

Day 35, Lahore to Amritsar, 32 miles.

I enter the Pakistan customs and immigration hall at 10AM. It doesn't take long to get processed. I then make a short trip across no-mans-land to the Indian border control offices. Here the process is straightforward too, although I am questioned quite closely about my Royal Enfield. Several customs officers gather round, my paperwork in hand. None of them know that Royal Enfields were once made in the UK; they only know it as an Indian motorcycle. I give them a potted history and I receive in return a stamp in my carnet and a ticket that allows me to clear the compound gatehouse.

At 12.10 the heavy iron gates are opened for me. I enter India. I check my odometer; I’ve ridden 6390 miles from Manchester. Last night was a long night with a bad stomach. I'd been feeling pretty ropey in the Indian immigration hall too and had to pop a couple of pills to calm everything down. As I gun the engine and accelerate away, my nausea evaporates. I feel an upswell of joy. I laugh out loud and pat my bike's tank several times. My brilliant motorcycle has brought me overland to India. As usual it responds with a hearty roar.

It's not long before I spot my first Bullet, two in fact; one black, one silver. Both are parked at the side of the road. Two young riders have stopped for a chat. They look up as I ride past and I give them a big thumbs-up. I'm grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

I follow the Grand Trunk Road to Amritsar and call it a day. My chosen accommodation, The Grand Hotel, is easy to spot as I approach the city centre. Fantastic. There’s nothing worse than endlessly chugging around crowded city streets searching for a bed for the night. I'm cooling down under a shower less than an hour after entering the country.

I take a cycle rickshaw to the Golden Temple. I always try to patronise these guys when possible; they work so hard and seem to be right at the bottom of the pecking order. Nonetheless, I always feel a little guilty as they sweat and toil hauling me around. We have to go up a steep ramp to a roundabout; it's too much for my man so he climbs off and starts pushing. I feel even guiltier so jump off and walk beside him to the top.

We reach the perimeter of the Golden Temple complex. I take off my shoes and am given an orange headscarf to wear. I look in a mirror and am horrified; I look like a fancy-dress pirate with the headscarf, my beard and earrings! I decide a shave is needed very soon.

The main temple area is a wide, white tiled walkway built around a square lake. In the middle, along a causeway, is Harmandir Sahib, the Golden Temple. The sun is low in the sky; the temple glows like it's on fire. It's stunningly beautiful. Thousands of worshippers and pilgrims move around the waters' edge. Most of the male Sikhs are clothed in white with vibrant coloured turbans. Many wear a kirpan, a small strapped silver sword. Some strip and bathe in the lake. I follow a long line of devotees into the temple itself. There's a reverent atmosphere. A large group sits praying in the middle of the temple. A small cluster of musicians play subtle music and chant incantations. I quietly stand in a corner and absorb the ambience.

At night I indulge in two Kingfisher beers to celebrate my arrival in India. My stomach malady has settled so I eat dhal and tandoori paneer tikka. I remember the parting words of a friend: "It's a long way to go for a good curry, Gordon." It is, but I can honestly say it's worth it.

Day 34, Bahawalpur to Lahore, 270 miles

For reasons unknown I have no police escort at all today; I've mysteriously slipped through the net.

I leave the inaptly named Luxury Hotel and head north. At traffic lights I ask a young motorcyclist if I'm on the right road. "Follow me," he says. Like many riders in Iran and Pakistan, this man enjoys a good conversation whilst riding side by side with a friend. I find this particularly unnerving as traffic is heavy and coming from all directions. My new friend tells me his name is Lillee. His father is a big cricket fan and named him after former Australian cricket fast bowler, Dennis Lillee. With his help I quickly join the expressway.

I head north for a while then take a shortcut to bypass the large city of Multan. It's a poor choice. The road is 90KM long and more than 50 percent of it is under repair. I’m reduced to a slow crawl and eventually to a halt. There's a complete log jam of busses, trucks and rickshaws ahead. Northing moves. The sun beats down and I feel like I'm beginning to melt.

All the other motorcyclists head off road and ride in the sand and gravel at the side. It's treacherous and I’m reluctant to try to manhandle my bike over the verge. After 10 static minutes with horns blaring all around I know what I must do. I turn my bike at right angles to the road, rev it through shingle and bounce over the verge. I have to zigzag backwards and forwards to make myself once again parallel with the road. Ahead lies miles of sandy, rocky wasteland. All goes well until my route is blocked. The motorcyclist ahead bumps himself back onto the road, weaves between a couple of stationary trucks, then hops over the verge at the other side. I try to follow. My bike gets stuck in the sand. I stamp my left foot down but it sinks deep. I fall off. A couple of workmen rush over and help me right the bike. There's no damage, but I'm panting with exertion. With their help I push the bike across the road, straighten bent mirror and brake lever and get under way again.

It takes nearly 3 hours to regain the motorway. I'm dead beat; my eyes begin to close. I try standing on the footpegs, drinking some water, even shouting at myself, but nothing works. I’m falling asleep. I pull into a petrol station. There's a small shaded lawn in one corner. I park next to it, climb off, and as usual am quickly surrounded by a small crowd. I walk a few paces away from my bike, make a mound on the grass from my jacket, helmet and back protector, rest head and shoulder on it and am almost instantly asleep.

In Jupiter's Travels, author Ted Simon says he developed a totally reliable intuition about when he and his gear were safe. For some reason I know this applies to me today. As my eyes close I see the onlookers walk away from my bike. When I awake some 20 minutes later, my bike sits by itself, my gear untouched. A man approaches and asks if I'm alright. "I’m fine, thank you. Just very tired," I reply. He leaves but soon returns with a cold Coke. It's a gift. He tells me he's a truck driver. I thank him and explain that Pakistani truck drivers are the best. It's true; they outnumber cars on the road ten to one, so they’ve been my constant companions. More than this; they've been extremely friendly and helpful, moving aside to let me pass, giving me space to maneuver and always tooting their horns and waving.

It's late by the time I reach the outskirts of Lahore. Before leaving the UK I made it a rule to never ride at night. Today I am forced to break my rule. I follow signposts through Lahore for the Wagah border post. I constantly look out for a hotel. After 30 fruitless minutes I spot one to the left; it looks like a 5-star establishment but I'm desperate. No matter how I try I can't find a way back to it and nearly run into the back of a bullock cart in the process. Most of the motorbikes that buzz around me have their lights off. The cars that muscle past also have their lights off, but many flash them on to alert me of their intent to pass. The cycle rickshaws are the most dangerous. Some carry people, some are overladen with cargo. They travel painfully slowly and have no lights at all. 

I stop a few miles from the border beside a police car. I'm directed to a hotel. It's another fleapit, The Red Rose, but at least I've survived the journey. I’ve ridden for almost 11 hours today, 1 1/2 of them in the dark. There are no local restaurants so dinner is the last of my muesli with some yoghurt and biscuits from a nearby small shop. Sleep comes easily

Sincere apologies for not updating the blog over the last few days. Events have overtaken me; both the lack of easy internet access and also free time. Tomorrow I plan a short ride and will try to update at least 2 more days.  Gordon, 29 September.

Day 33, Sukkar to Bahawalpur, 236 miles

Today's first escort are patiently waiting for me in the hotel lobby. Before we can leave I have to do the daily maintenance on my motorcycle. This causes them great concern: "There is a problem? What is wrong?" they ask.   It's hard to explain the concept of maintenance. Today I have to adjust the rear chain. I managed to get my Iwis Megalife shortened to the correct length in Iran and it's done 2000 miles since then. As promised, it has stayed very clean despite all the sand and dust I've ridden through and this is the first adjustment I've had to make.

Squads of police await my arrival along the highwsay. Like yesterday, there's no stopping. I can't remember ever seeing a Pakistan team in the Olympics 4 x 400 metre relay race but these guys should think about putting one together. There handovers are superbly choreographed and the baton, one man on old motorcycle, is never dropped.

Around 1.30 I'm brought to a halt at a major checkpoint. This is the state border between Sind and the Punjab. I wait for over an hour whilst the Punjabi police coordinate their forces. My next escort is to take me on a 130 KM stretch of motorway. They show up in a relatively new jeep. I'm introduced to my new protectors; they're quite different from the men I have had with me until now. The Baluchistan and Sind officers wore smartly pressed beige trousers, a gray or navy shirt with police epaulettes and sometimes a beret-style hat. They were regular police; often middle-aged with paunches. My new escorts are young, lean and fit. They wear black combat trousers and training shoes. Their black t-shirts have a large shield screenprinted on the front with an image of 2 handguns in the middle. 'Elite Force', 'Commando' and 'No Fear' are emblazoned on the front and sleeves. At first I cannot believe they are real. I'm tempted to ask if they had the t-shirts printed at the bazaar for a bit of fun, but decide it might be a bit tactless. They must be what they say they are; their vehicle also has 'Elite Police' painted on its doors and tailgate.

The motorway is just as smooth as promised by the Bloom Star staff. It's a dual carriageway mostly used by trucks. When passing through towns it becomes the main street. I have to slow for rickshaws, bicycles, herds of wandering long-eared sheep, goats and water buffalo, foodstall holders pushing their carts and a host of 50cc motorcycles that buzz around in all directions. It's a very colourful if somewhat slow ride. I especially like the water buffalo; they seem such a gentle animal. Then I get stuck behind a small truck with two adult buffs in the back. They're so large that their rumps protrude over the tailgate, their tails swishing from side to side. I'm hemmed in and there's no way round for several minutes. I thank my lucky stars they don't feel the urge to go to the toilet; I would have been covered.

After the motorway stretch I'm relayed on to regular police who tag team me all the way to the city of Bahawalpur and the 'Luxury Hotel'. Today's ride took about 9 hours, with just the one hour stop at the state border. Again I'm very tired but go out for pizza as the hotel restaurant looks like a bit of a health risk. 'Pan Pizza' serve me their vegetarian pizza. It tastes like vegetable jalfrezi curry that's been simmered down to a thick paste spread on a roti, then had goats cheese melted on top. Strange but unexpectedly enjoyable.

Day 32, Quetta to Sukkar, 248 miles

It's great to be moving again. I find my way out of the city with surprising ease. True to form, the locals I check my navigation with are very friendly and helpful. At first I struggle to pronounce Sukkar correctly. I try a few times: sukaar; sookar, but have no joy. Then someone clicks on to my destination. SUCKER! he calls out. Oh well, I guess it had to be,

After roughly 30 miles the road enters a deep ravine. I'm stopped at a police checkpost. After a few minutes two policemen mount a motorcycle and tell me the road ahead is very dangerous. The pillion has an Kalashnikov in his hands. They are to be my escort for the next 20 KM.

We stop beside a police Toyota truck with an canvas back. There are two police in the cab and two armed guards riding shotgun in the back. They are my next escort. Each one says 'Salam Alekom' and warmly shakes my hand. They take me to the end of their juristiction, probably another 15KM. They sharply pull in to the side and wave me on. My next team of protectors are already rolling ahead. This sequence of events continues for a couple of hours until I get ahead of a slow escort on a fast stretch of road. I think they give up; they simply cannot keep up with my motorcycle as I weave in and out overtaking ponderous, grossly overladen trucks.

I stop and rest under a thorn tree for 15 minutes. A farmer sits on his tractor under a nearby tree smoking a cigarette and listening to loud, wailing music a transistor radio. I go over and ask his permission to park here. He's dressed in dusty, threadbare shalwar kamis. His dark skin is dry and wrinkled by the hours he spends outdoors. He speaks no English but understands my question nevertheless. Hand on heart he gestures that I am very welcome on his land.

I'm soon picked up by another police patrol. They're heading west looking for me and do a sliding stop and action-thriler u-turn to come after me. They overtake me and with big smiles indicate that I'm to stay behind them. This super efficient system continues all afternoon and into the evening. The police take some interesting detours to avoid the busy central areas of towns we pass through. I see places where people live very basic, simple lives, with livestock wandering the streets and feed piled up around there single room homes. The land changes. Over just a few kilometers, dry, arid rocks and sand transform into a lush, fertile plain. It's very soothing on my eyes after weeks of high plain and desert.

I reach Sukkar at 8.30PM. I'm dead beat. I've ridden over 9 1/2 hours with just a single 15 minute stop. I can only guess at the number of police units that have wetnursed me; somewhere between 30 and 35. I feel guilty about taking up so much police time, but they are insistent that I need protection after yesterday's bomb at the Marriott Hotel in Islamabad. The last lot take me to Sukkar's most expensive hotel. I explain that it's beyond my budget, but they don't want to take me anywhere else. I hear them say the words 'security risk' to the manager. A special rate is negotiated for the night.

Day 31, Quetta, Pakistan, 0 miles

Another rest day. My knee is definitely improving. The bruising on my hip is at its most colourful. My ribs are very painful. I caught a cold in Esfahan so I 'm still coughing and sneezing; not what my ribs need. Cem to the rescue. He's an engineer and has just completed a 3 month assignment in Taiwan.Whilst there he bought some large Tiger Balm patches; they're at least 6" square. I put one on my chest and Cem bandages it in place. It's the middle of the afternoon and very hot. As I lift my arms I apologise for any unpleasant odours. "Not a problem," says Cem. "Hey, we're bikers" he says with a fake macho voice. He gives me a handful of patches to take with me. The heat generated by the Tiger Balm has an almost instant soothing effect.

We spend a couple of companionabl