I didn't really realize it until talking with Cromie a few minutes ago, but I guess I just joined an Indian motorcycle gang. Yup, that about sums it up. I'm a Bullet Walla and in two days I'll be riding up into Dalai Llama territory on my awesomely awesome 1980 Royal Enfield Bullet motorcycle.

I should probably back up a bit...

I got to Delhi off the worst train ride ever endurable to my rich Western upbringing. This diserves a whole post devoted solely to these 15 disgustingly gruelling hours, since the memory has (thankfully) faded in the past three days, but let's just say I wouldn't wish an overnight Indian 3rd class ticket on anyone. I got to the train station at 1PM for a 7PM departure, assuming I could book a sleeper train the same day. They were all booked, and after a whole lot of runaround I bought a General Class ticket and asked the conductor to upgrade me to a sleeper if anybody cancelled. In retrospect, I fucked up in refusing to bribe him (I thought at the time he was just overcharging me) and, as a result, he left me with the heathens and lepers in General Class. OK, it wasn't so bad, and I got to see firsthand what the lower castes have to deal with out here, but I'm really happy to be traveling alone so I wouldn't have had to feel guilty for bringing someone else to it. And it was kind of nice to bond with complete strangers (literally, for the worst 4 hours of it I counted 12 people in a 3 foot by 12 foot corridor and was sitting on my backpack with two others with my legs pressed neatly into the legs of everybody else with tiny pockets of unfilled space). Anyway, I did it. It's over. I got off the train and ordered the most expensive hotel I'll ever take here (20 bucks) with AC and a full night's sleep.

So as I mentioned in the last post, I came to Dehli looking for this Bullet Wallas shop. In case you were wondering, a "walla" is the term used here to describe a person who "does" the preceeding noun. For example, there are Bike Wallas who fix your bicycle on the side of the road, Shoe Walas who fix or shine your shoes, Water Wallas, and so on. So thes people like the Royal Enfield Bullet. A lot.

Sure enough I found some small shop with a comically oversized sign and, after stepping into an empty room I hear "Hey Bro, come up here" in the most refreshingly Southern accent I've ever heard. Turns out the club's run by this American biker from the South who took it upon himself to stop Westerners from being so brutally ripped off by the Indian bike shops. We sat there for a few hours, talking of America, of motorbikes, and of riding around India while other friends and members would walk in and out of the office with certain things to bring up. There's no "business time" here, just time spent chatting in offices. So, inevitably, nothing ever gets done. A good example of this is that I'm still in Dehli fixing up my bike.

He's not much of a shop, but he happened to have two bikes on hand. One, for about $580, has been passed around between members for several years and he knew it to be reliable. The other one, for about $425, he had just bought a few days before and didn't know much about it except it had a new clutch and alternator system and the engine sounded fine.

So I took the risk. Thought it'd be fun. I spent all of the next day working in his shop to fix it up. Now, I have no idea what's up or down with motorcycles, but one of the things he kept saying was how much of a precision instrument thes bikes weren't. You can set the spark plug gap with your thumbnail. You can clean the carbeurator with a toothbrush. You can just about pull and twist any bolt into position, and if it doesn't work, you can drill out a new hole for it until it all comes together somehow. They're not high performance, rediculously high-tech machines alligned to within thousanths of an inch like the Harleys back home. They're nostalgic hunks of metal that were meant for British Army brats to work on in their spare time. So he took me to a parts store to get what I wanted and needed, and let me use his shop (looking over my shoulder occasionally to make sure I wasn't breaking the thing).

I started easy anyway, replacing the dorky English handlebars with lean-back cruiser ones. This was a whole lot harder than it seems, actually, and involves changing all four cables (there's an extra "decompression" lever which isn't worth going into) and a whole lot of elbow grease in getting everything off. There was even some welding involved, but I just drove down to the Welding Walla and gave him a quarter to do it. Then the oil, filter, air filter, lamps, electrical switches, and other random shit like that got replaced. So now I feel almost like I know something about motorbikes. But I've gotten over the "no way can I work on a bike" barrier which, ultimately, is a whole lot important than learning to change a clutch cable.

There's also a fleet of young Indians willing to work for next to nothing on whatever you tell them to do. Not very smart, but they're great at muscling stuff on. So I had a squad of 4 of them spend almost an hour trying to get this luggage rack and front crash bars on. Watching the group of them working so hard in the sun to bend this giant metal luggage rack to fit the back of this bike made me so happy to have them around, especially when they cost just under $1.50.

So then I gave it a good, heavy test drive and learned that the 3rd and 4th gears don't work, and switching between any two gears was next to impossible. I don't know if this had changed since I first rode it, but anyway today I took it to a "real" mechanic (one recommended by the Bullet Walla dude) who spent four full hours taking apart the gear box, the clutch box, and the entire rotary mechanism to find a bent rod all the way on the inside. The whole thing was like a lesson in motorcycle maintenance, with his "trusty boy" running around like a medical assistant handing him tools to perform the deep surgery. Actually, come to think of it, it was just like watching surgeons perform deep abdominal surgeries my senior year of High School. OK, it was a little more boring, but a lot greasier. So at he end, he charged 10 bucks labor and about 12 in parts. Now I understand why you'd have a motorcycle out here. That same thing would have cost at LEAST $200 back home.

So I take it back to him tomorrow morning for a full inspection, and then I'm off to the Himalayas (again). Oh man, am I excited though. Especially knowing I'll never have to deal with he trains out here. Granted, I didn't give them a fair chance but I did see the sleeper carriages and they were pretty shitty as well. But all the Bullet Wallas are up in that part of the country for the summer, and they're usually pretty easy to spot (dreadlocks, tatoos, awesome bikes) so it'll be fun to get to know them. The ones here in Dehli have been all way too cool for me.

That brings me to this rediculous thing I decided to grow on the front of my face. I came back from the mountians with a full beard, and turned it into the most Redneck goatee-with sideburns HickStash I could fashion. It looks awesome. It would look better if I had a mullet, but my hair's still growing back from having buzzed it 2 months ago so instead I got this round poofball thing going. Basically I look rediculous. Unfortunately, since none of you guys who would get the joke are out here, I'm just sitting here laughing by myself. But it's still funny enough every time I look in the mirror, and it somehow works well enough with sunglasses and a big black motorcycle, so I'll do my best to get a few pictures before turning back to normal. Or maybe I should just go all the way and sleeve up in tattoos and get real fat. This Dehli Belly would have to let up before I could conceivably gain any weight...

Right, so Biker Shubes rides at dawn on Friday. As the central breeding grounds for all New York Cab Drivers, I think I'd go nuts if I get stuck in it for the two hours it takes to get out of the Dehli suburbs. I'll spend a day in Hardiwar, then a few in Rishikesh, and eventually further up. Once I get into the mountains, it should be nothing but road and me (and maybe a few other riders by then). Bill Gates and Bill Clinton (for some reason) each spent tons of money fixing up the Indian Himalaya roads in the past few years. Supposedly, it makes the drive like a dream. Thanks, Bills.

I'll email again after the first 8-hour drive up to Hardiwar. Or from some intermediate town while waiting for a mechanic...

Speaking of which, I've been told by Mr. Bullet Walla that it's IMPERATIVE to bless every new bike out here, so tomorrow I'm heading to the giant Hanuman temple (monkey god) to bless it. I guess I should also give it a name. I'm up for suggestions.