Another ride with Grumpy Ver 2 

As our winter holiday in Doon drew to a reluctant close and the annual separation from Grumpy—my faithful but temperamental steed—loomed, I felt I owed him (and myself) one last spin before his customary ten-month hibernation. So, on Sunday, March 8, 2026, I proposed a short farewell ride. Professor Vinay Rana, ever the willing (and far more disciplined) partner-in-crime, agreed immediately. 

We set a rendezvous for 7.20 am near the T-55 tank displayed on Dakra Road, Garhi Cantonment. True to form, Vinay arrived at exactly 7.19 am on his Honda CB 350, while I was still fumbling with my phone, trying to get a flattering shot of Grumpy with the tank. 

We wound our way through Garhi Cantonment, crossed the bridge at Bijapur, and turned onto the narrow, curving road ascending toward Kimari—35 km to Mussoorie via a route less travelled and, therefore, less honked upon. The road snaked through dense Sal forests and revealed fleeting glimpses of the mist-draped Doon Valley. The gradient soon reminded me that “leisure ride” is a relative term, especially when one is bound by our gentleman’s agreement not to exceed 3000 rpm in any gear. Grumpy, bless his stubborn piston, chugged along in second and third, huffing and puffing like a portly pensioner on a Sunday stroll. 

I could not belt out the Beatles hit “Here Comes the Sun” because the sun was still auditioning for its part in the day, and the valley remained veiled in silvery mist. So, no scenic views today, but we pretended to be too spiritually evolved to mind. Somewhere near Lambidhar, we passed a sign that declared, “Dog’s Tale Resort,” its buildings precariously clinging to the hillside. Landslide debris lined parts of the road, a gentle reminder that rains, too, enjoy mischief in the mountains, aided and abetted by gravity. 

With just the two of us on this quiet stretch—Vinay leading ahead, me following with a grin plastered across my helmet visor—we truly were “having a good time,” with greater emphasis on good rather than time. The rhythm of downshifting into each switchback and upshifting onto the next straight felt like chanting a mechanical mantra—an offering to the capricious gods of internal combustion. Strangely, this routine cleansed the mind, almost like meditation! As Robert Pirsig, in his fabled Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, reminds us, and I quote, “You see things riding a motorcycle in a way that is completely different from any other. In a car you’re always in a compartment, and through that car window everything you see is just more TV. You’re a passive observer, and it is all moving by you boringly in a frame. On a (motor)cycle, the frame is gone. You’re completely in contact with it all. You’re in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming.” 

Before entering Mussoorie from the west, we stopped at a dhaba just opening for the day. A biker’s breakfast was in order: aloo parathas, fried eggs, and masala chai—calories be exiled! Refuelled and self-satisfied, we rode on, only to be ambushed by a gridlock of biblical proportions near Company Bagh. 

The cause: a high-stakes battle of moustaches between two cab drivers, each declaring—at full volume—what he intended to do to the other’s family tree, especially the female members. This sacrilegious exchange took place, ironically, in front of the Convent of Jesus and Mary (est. 1845, as a prim signboard proclaimed). For 30 minutes, we sat there, trapped in traffic and existential reflection. I channelled Seneca on tranquillitas animi and, failing that, Master Shifu from Kung Fu Panda: “Inner peace, inner peace, inner peace…” 

Adding comic relief, a girl on a scooter sidled up to Vinay. Noticing his camera rig, she asked if he was a vlogger. When he nodded, she immediately begged him to edit out any footage of her and her boyfriend—apparently, being caught in Mussoorie together was not part of their parental narrative. 

Once the moustache standoff ended (no clear victor, but many wounded egos), we rolled past Library Chowk and began the smooth, sweeping descent back toward Dehradun. Third gear, engine braking, and a few heart-stopping encounters with cars with HR and DL plates, driven by suspected descendants of Nuvolari, who mistook the mountain road for a racetrack and drifted across the median unintentionally. (For non-motorheads, Tazio Nuvolari, “Il Maestro,” was a legendary driver who dominated both motorcycle and auto racing from the 1920s to the late 1940s and is credited with developing the art of “controlled four-wheel drifts”.) 

We were back by 11:30 a.m.—a little over four hours, two bikes, 68 kilometres, one breakfast, zero breakdowns. Not bad at all for a lazy Sunday and an old grump like me riding an even grumpier motorcycle. 

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