CRazy Devil from LML, good power, no leash!

What do you expect an enthusiast to do if you tag him as a motoring journo and then make him buy pens, crank the generator, carry computer cartons and hang around cars and bikes without being able to touch them. This! Exactly what you see in these pictures, the very day he gets to put his hands on a driving machine. The poor thing was a 100 cc bike which I had picked up from the LML warehouse, some 20 Kms away from Pune.

The moment I saw it, I thought LML was done for. A pitiful, powerless skinny little bike with fairing, in the land where mortal battles are fought between the likes of Hero Honda and Bajaj? From a manufacturer like LML? Holy shit! Sounds like having lost all your money in a casino, having borrowed more, lost more and getting drunk finally to lose sense before being reduced to pulp by the bouncers. When would these idiots get logical and come out of their 100cc realm which forms their entire galaxy. Peabrains, wags, dunderheads, asses, fools, buffoons… the adjectives went on for some fifteen more minutes until I placed myself on my good old Suzuki Fiero and whizzed past the pathetic thing. Poor Bunny Punia who rode it back to Pune was seen losing himself in the distance when I tried to spot him in the rear view mirrors.

But I had to wait for him, the bike was a responsibility for both of us, and it wouldn’t just have been right had I zipped all the way back home. So I lit a cigarette and waited for him. The disgusting machine was seen crawling its way towards me after some 7 months and 25 days when I had already finished smoking two cigarettes. Just the way I expected, he began telling me about my responsibilities, a technique to smoothen engine parts called running-in and sensibilities that needed to be practiced while riding a new bike. I listened all what he had to say and told him to lead. It’s a different matter altogether that after some five-odd kilometers, he was seen monkeying around in the abundant potholes, no, craters, no, not even that. For all these thing to exist we need something called road, made of tar and little stones and which are nowhere to be seen in their proper form anywhere in this country except in places where you have to shell out some ridiculous amount of money to use them even after having paid the road tax while buying your vehicle and not getting anything of such sort ever after. One more thing, even after you have paid that tax and born the torture of not being introduced to the concept of roads, you will not be allowed to see them if you are on two wheels. Why? Because you are not fast enough to keep up with the over laden trucks which when let loose on full throttle can attain the searing speeds of 35km/h and which have a legal permission from Duke Pinhead III of the Indian kingdom to use the fastest lane even while being stalled. Balls to speed! Those trucks can be overtaken by Atal Bihari Vajpayee even in that age and with those operated knees if you let a couple of dogs loose behind him.

I am from a city called Jaipur. There is a zoo there. In the zoo there is a female chimpanzee called Radha. Radha had a mate some seven years ago, but he somehow broke through the bars only to be reduced to ashes as he hugged an electric pole while it was raining. But that is not important. What is important is Radha’s behind. It looks swollen, and it’s kind of pink. That behind looks exactly like mine whenever I fool myself into believing that it’s possible to ride more than some 400 Kms on state highways in a single day and do it.

Now, I have also heard that some hundred thousand crores of rupees are being spent on ‘improving’ the state of roads that don’t exist at all. I have even seen some overhead sign boards with a picture of the above mentioned leader grinning and pointing his index finger in some direction over the so called highways. One of the days when I was riding through one those ‘highways’, I halted to observe what Mr. Prime Minister was pointing towards, only to realize that there was a roadside dhaba straight at angle zero with a dozen cots peppered outside for the travelers to rest their broken backs. Thank you very much Mr. Prime Minister, I know that scores of them are spread every kilometer and I can walk into any one of them whenever my behind is sore even without your guidance, permission or hospitality. What you are supposed to do, in fact, is to prevent my posterior from turning into a tomato and not grin and tell me where to rest it.

So, we were talking about Bunny who was very comfortably springing around in the valleys and ponds around Pune which my ignorant fellow countrymen still believe are roads. He was doing all sorts of antics, taking some air sometimes, then landing perfectly, twitching the poor little thing sharply and then landing the front tyre straight into one of the countless abysses. To my surprise, the lamentable thing was still holding together, even while my colleague was getting increasingly enthusiastic, which was simply not understandable. He owns a 250 cc 18 bhp bike which is really strong and good for some 135 Km/h. And he is millimeters away from turning it into a piece of crap. Believe me, he is really good at thrashing bikes.

Genuinely baffled now, I tried musing myself by laughing on his idiocy and pitying the woeful bike. He kept on kicking the crap out if it until it finally stalled. There! I smiled wickedly. I knew this machine was crap, I knew there was no sense making such bikes, and most important of all, now I knew I had a chance to make that rascal pay back for his words. I approached him, rubbing my hands in anticipation with all sorts of derogatory statements and words ready, both for him and the bike.

Lousy, as the LML people have always been, they hadn’t put enough gas into the tank, and it was a lack of fuel and not a mechanical failure that had caused the bike to halt. Bereaved of the golden opportunity now, I handed over the keys of my bike to him and told him to get some fuel for the distressing piece of metal.

Waiting for him, I was sitting outside one of those impermanent roadside hotels that the honourable Prime Minister was pointing towards with that hospitable grin on his face. I was smoking a cigarette. There was a small cigarette shop near the dhaba from where I purchased it. While I didn’t really have any interest in the shop itself, the owner was quite an interesting character. For all the while I was absorbed in squeezing the most out of every flake that comprised the stick, spewing clouds of smoke, he was seen observing the bike with the keenness that befits the technical director of the Honda Racing Company. Suddenly he turned his head towards me and in a very inquisitive manner asked whether I had bought it new. Well, he didn’t really know that he was talking to a man with a brand new sticker reading ‘automobile journalist’ over his forehead. So he didn’t understand that this man had the right to ride pristine new bikes from the company showroom to his office. The fact that perhaps he wouldn’t be getting a chance to ride it ever again in his life is a different matter altogether. To make life simpler for him, I replied in the affirmative. Now, even before I had finished, I knew the next question that was about to be popped at me. It came just the way I had presumed. “What mileage does she return?” I didn’t really know, and so did I tell him. “Looks nice” was the next phrase that he used, to send that electric pulse of utter rage throughout my body. Ok, I thought. He is an uneducated mortal from the suburbs, who perhaps hasn’t even ridden a bike in his entire life and has been running this small ‘paan’ shop for most part of his existence on this planet. I don’t really need to give a shit to what comes to his unimaginative little brain. Moreover, I had already spotted Bunny with that bottle riding his way back towards me. And I was just beginning to cool down when he braked to stop the bike near me, bringing that wide, ear-to-ear smile on his face he uttered those words to infuriate me like hell- “This bike rocks!” I couldn’t have endured any more. So I snatched the keys of the pitiable piece of crap from him and placed myself on its puny little saddle. For the entire 4Kms that remained in our way to the office, I must say, I was impressed.

It’s one of the cheapest bikes available, and it has a fairing. Ok, you might not care, but a lot of commuters who want to call themselves ‘executives’, and for the bulk of whom some 26400 tonnes of steel are converted into moving machinery every month do care a lot. This little thing does 0-80 km/h in some 8-odd seconds, putting to shame some of those bigger 125 cc bikes. But that is again not important. If the speed and acceleration really matters to someone, he wouldn’t even look at that bike, owing to its detestable amount of cubic capacity itself. What is more important is the fact that it still manages to return a mileage of 68 km/L in city. Now that’s no bullshit. It’s not a claimed mileage. It’s the mileage that she returned to me after days of spirited riding across the road-less streets of Pune.

Its rear suspension is stiff, real stiff. So stiff that it’ll make the thing start bumping off the ground the moment you get anywhere close to 70km/h. If you have a pillion on, and you try to be an exhibitionist on a smooth looking surface with even minor unevenness, which I exactly did, you could feel the bike bumping into the road and bouncing back. You could clearly feel the chassis wriggling at the bottom, panting to free itself from the torture. It feels like the chassis in creaking, crying for mercy under high speeds. Make no mistake though, it is extremely well balanced and takes those turns and twists with unmatched aplomb until it’s pushed on the bends after the 60-70 territory. It is perhaps the sportiest bike in its class, if you simply want to play around, weaving your way through the traffic. But, and if it’s a big butt, this bike would leave no stones unturned to break it. The rear suspension is like an iron rod. It should have been softer, far softer. It lends the machine amazing balance at mediocre speeds, but just don’t try to push the envelope any further. Those tyres are a victim of malnutrition. They don’t really have a clue what one means by genuine grip and that little engine is a stressed member of that pathetic looking chassis. Even the brakes look like an embryo, with a puny 110mm diameter, they’d never be enough to bring you to a standstill in even double the required time or distance. So hold your horses when this little wonder urges you to act like a gymnast.

Engine sounds harsh, but isn’t actually. It won’t stall at anything. I could tell you that as I have done some 350kms in a day with a pillion on. 200 of which were without roads. I repeat, no roads. Literally. And I must tell you, my behind looked worse than Radha that night when I saw it in the bathroom mirror. So while this bike won’t be sore even after those 350kms of ride, you’d sure be for the next two days. You’ll be spotted on your bed, with a couple of pillows under your Radha-ised bottom. Or you’d rather sleep on your chest, because even the pillows won’t help.

You get a bikini-fairing, you get an economy-power indicator, you get telltale lights, you get a neutral indicator, you get a fuel gauge, you get a side-stand gear-lock, you get a very respectable amount of power and you also get a considerable mileage. But I know that you still want more for that price? Ok, you get that ass breaking suspension, those useless tyres and those ridiculously small brakes. Oh, and you also get a horn that throws more decibel intensity back to you rather than to the traffic on the road. It’s placed right behind the bikini fairing, so all that is emanated crashes with the mask and attacks your own ears, it’s crazy. You have to experience that to believe it.



Finally, this isn’t a bike suited for Mr. Narayan Das who has a wife and two children. Mainly because there are ample better bikes around which are more comfortable and return better mileage. Secondly, Mr. Narayan would be seen hovering around the courts to avoid a divorce if he ever tried to take her wife to dinner on that bike. The reasons may vary from a Radha-red ass to a child that got popped on the road from the lady’s lap when the vehicle hit a mild bump on the road. This defeats the very purpose for which it is made. But if you are an enthusiast with a rock-solid Shwarzneggeranian ass, with very little money to spare, with an obsession for speed (read danger) and with no love for life while being at it, go ahead, buy it.

Just Jokin'

Kartikeya Singhee, colleague of course, bragged about the benefits of Yoga and how he has literally kicked the seasonal diseases out of his body by following the magical gudelines of the 'way of life'. May be i am wrong, perhaps he told me about the benefits of Ayurveda. He is seen here with his set of antibiotics exactly three days after he uttered the words and on the very day of launch. YOGA, MR AYURVEDA SINGHEE.

GOLD PLATED ARTILLERY FROM IRON AGE

You might have loathed Bullets for you entire life, spat venom whenever a discussion about this bike surfaced, ridiculed scores of those blokes who don’t deserve life and yet get to ride a bike. “They’re worse-off riding that bike than die!” you’ve very wickedly mused yourself so often on their pathetic state. You don’t really need to tell me how much a Bullet appalls you. Or how much you adore it. For there doesn’t exist a third classification of humans, right?

Wrong. For, whether someone has lost a couple of dropped jaws, being bowled over by its classic old-bike charm; or whether someone doesn’t even bother to look at this prehistoric piece of evolution, this still is a bike. It still has two wheels connected to some material machinery, and it leaks oil real bad. So the romantics don’t need to write poems in its praise. And it still does its job of commuting from point A to B (“to” sometimes being in excess of a 1000kms) pretty well, so those space-descended aliens can stop cribbing and shut up for the moment.

With all my sanity in place, I vow not to let any jaundiced thoughts to creep into my psyche and stride towards the spanking, sparkling new Bullet Electra that waits for me in the garage. With all the smugness in the world that I could bring upon my face, I position myself on the bike. Trying to justify the macho pedigree of the thing, I crook my face, straighten my spine, try to look as expansive as I can, and push that newly incorporated electric-start switch with great pride. The electric motor tries its bit to bring that titanic piece of machinery to life. It fails. I try again. It fails again. After some half-a-dozen attempts, I find myself unable to carry that bogus expression of pride on my face. So I turn my head around, make sure that no one’s there to see, peel off all the forged expressions, get off the bike and start fiddling with all the little accessories that Royal Enfield has so humbly offered. First I try the decompressor, positioned in the place where you usually find a choke, then the idle screw which is so loose that you don’t really need a screw-driver to adjust it, then the fuel cock which is impossible for a novice to comprehend. Some more bits here and there and I finally land onto the choke. Located on the right, above the cylinder head, this piece is akin to the pull-stop switch for the old Mahindra Jeeps. I pull it once, push the starter button again and the engine comes alive, emanating the age-old thump from the exhaust which is music to a million, cacophony to a couple another.

Being from Rajasthan, the state of Maharajas, I can understand why the Rajputs like riding Bullets so much. With that towering amount of torque at avail, that exclusive feel of surge when you wring the throttle, that distinct thump and those connecting vibes, anyone is but bound to find his face paralysed enough to express any other feelings but those of pride. Something that these descendents of the royal families are obsessed with. Add to that the clearly audible clank (call it clatter when those gears gets stuck, which they do pretty often, though far less than their ancestors) that you hear when you shift. It’s very unlike the Bajaj’s explosive shift sound. It’s a clank, and by that I mean it’s a clank. You can very clearly hear pieces of metal colliding and making a sound, like two heavy (and blunt) swords have clashed in the air. I am not sure whether this sound, reminiscent of medieval battles fought by the likes of Maharana Pratap is one of the reasons behind the eternal love affair that the Banas seem to have with this bike.

Once on the move, the Electra feels quite nimble footed. You shift in the first and the generous torque begins casting its spell on you. The bike surges ahead with a thrust and confidence which I am very sure is unique to the Bullets. These days you have the luxury of having the shift lever and brake pedal in the right places, so, you can handle that force with ease. With those large, discontinued chunks of power at avail, you find yourself pitching ahead with great force and little assurance. Or at least you genuinely feel that way. Move out you pint! Every ounce of your body now sings in chorus with this savage-looking thing. And they actually move out, once they hear that legendary thump. Managing the bike in the city traffic is a breeze as enough torque is available even in higher gears to keep the bike rolling at low speeds with that lazy, low revving engine punching you mildly from down under. The bike manages to roll at speeds as low as 25-30 km/h in fifth gear. One glitch, however, is that the machine sometimes suddenly dies down for a moment and gets the life back in the very next one. This gives you a sudden jerk which is not a good thing to happen on the road; moreover, a newbie may get fooled to believe that he’s soon to run out of fuel. Addition of a fifth cog has made it really easy to keep the post-ton territories inhabited.

Ride quality on an Electra is on the firmer side. Gas shock-absorbers don’t help the stiff ride for a solo as the coils are too stiff to flex under the weight of a normal mortal. With a light rider on, they will officiate only in extreme cases of the bike landing in a deep pothole. That damper in no way helps your belly from being badly disturbed by those commonplace potholes. Ride improves dramatically once a pillion finds his place on the rear and the advantages offered by that damper become pretty evident.

The bike we tested came fitted with a large front disc. These discs are an optional accessory on a 350cc 18 bhp bike which is very capable of achieving speeds in excess of 100 km/h in a pretty short time and isn’t known for its deftness in handling. So the customers are given a chance to go ahead and play around with their lives. How such a big bike can do with drum brakes, which wear out at an express pace and go almost useless in rains is beyond my realm of logic. The disc installed on our bike provided it with a good stopping power, however, you feel like being on the hump of a camel if you firmly press-release the front brake lever. The front fork keeps rippling under the tank for a couple of following seconds. The rear suspension of the bike is too stiff, while the front is just too soft. This mismatch needs to be corrected as it renders the bike very unstable in the situations of emergency braking.

The two tone paint job doesn’t make much difference to those who realise that it’s a Bullet and won’t make you any more exclusive than that old standard bullet from 80’s (Except causing a little more trouble for Bullet bred Banas to shift gears). For those who look at the bike from a fresh perspective, it looks nice. There isn’t much aberration from the traditional classic Enfield styling. The curves and carvings are all the same. A whole bunch of body parts including front forks, crank-case cover, exhaust pipe, headlight, front and rear blinkers and RVMs have been treated with liberal amounts of chrome to keep that classic, retro style alive. The front headlight is now an all new multi focal, clear lens unit, improving the visibility at night many notches. The switchgear is of very good quality and seems to be borrowed from TVS Fiero.

To me, except of a few things like front disc, shift side, shock-absorbers, fifth cog and electric starter this Bullet doesn’t differ much from its ancestors from the 80’s. Mainly because it still has the same technologically hoary mill which leaks engine oil like men leak water. It is as refined as an Assamese’s English accent, keeps stalling for all the weird reasons in the world and makes an absolute waste of that enormous 350cc. But you know what? I have friends who own Bullets from late seventies and those machines have as healthy an engine as the new ones we buy from the Royal Enfield showrooms nowadays. That speaks about the strength of that archaic looking but almost indestructible mill.

I still don’t have any complaints with this Bullet after riding it thoroughly for days together; neither do I find it all that impressive to say a few good words about it. If you believe me when I say that I was an unbiased rider before I tested this bike, I am sorry to disappoint you by saying that I still am. Very honestly, everyone knows what virtues or vices are associated with this bike. Nobody in the world bought a Bullet because it returned great mileage, was very refined or handled beautifully. He did that for his passion for that machine, a feeling that is just too emotional to be governed or described by logic. For all that I could expect from a Bullet, I find myself back to square one with no complaints or compliments for this bike. So, now that you know how I feel, you can decide for yourself how good or bad the bike actually is.