With a sabotaged rear tire and a remaining 450 kilometers including a crossing of Delhi with its thirteen million drivers and pedestrians, it seemed impossible to reach Agra before sundown. But I had a tire repair kit, and the helpful tire supplier Autovulk in Tromso had given me a fine demonstration how to use it. My recollection of the event was a bit rusty, yet somehow the Metzeler was sealed and fit for fight at 10am. With a third of the day lost I gently rolled out of Chandigarh, and when the engine reached combat temperature I leaned over the tankbag and whispered to Balto: “Show me what you’re good for”. And Holy Moses, he did.With a sabotaged rear tire and a remaining 450 kilometers including a crossing of Delhi with its thirteen million drivers and pedestrians, it seemed impossible to reach Agra before sundown. But I had a tire repair kit, and the helpful tire supplier Autovulk in Tromso had given me a fine demonstration how to use it. My recollection of the event was a bit rusty, yet somehow the Metzeler was sealed and fit for fight at 10am. With a third of the day lost I gently rolled out of Chandigarh, and when the engine reached combat temperature I leaned over the tankbag and whispered to Balto: “Show me what you’re good for”. And Holy Moses, he did.
Steven and Susanne was impressed by the Taj Mahal, especially at sunset when it became dirt beige like a 1968 Volkswagen Beetle

I bullied myself through the Agra city borders as the last ray of sun in 2005 drowned in the horizon. I got my New Year Eve where I wanted it, but not much more. I knew nobody, and fell asleep five minutes past midnight. On the bright side, I could wake up to a must-see attraction. I was not disappointed. Even my recollection of the pyramids in Egypt seems trivial compared to the Taj Mahal. Another sought after object was a more powerful horn. Yes, the Indians honk their horns as if maneuvering their vehicles is a subordinate activity, and in the struggle for attention Balto’s squeaky beep always came short. So I tracked down a shop specializing in adding decibels. They offered many nifty patents; some of them very disturbing. I settled for a mid-range model, not so expensive, but enough to blast an occasional rickshaw off the road. Thus I was ready to push through to some new places.

Agra trash cows

There is nowhere I can stop (I really mean nowhere) without being interrogated about my mean of transport. It is very tiring. Just imagine; you want to enjoy Paris, but an ever-present crowd of nosy men bombards you with questions about the airplane you arrived in? “Hey mister, what kind of machine was it? Boeing 737? Wow, how fast did it go?” Well, this is what you have to undergo if you drive in India with a big motorcycle. On the other hand, you can answer whatever you like and they’ll accept it. “Tempo Taifun. Yep, made in 1957. The price? About one million dollars.”

Gwalior: These two professors kindly invited me to their university. Though, instead of a get-together with the lady students, I had to drink coffee with the principal

My search for a quiet spot in the countryside was not very successful. The touts and the interrogators were even in the smallest of villages, and there was only one place I could enjoy some peace of mind. That was in my hotel room. So, my presence in the bazaars lessened as the days went by, and I developed a hotel compound fetish. The quickly filled wastebasket was a proof of that. And in one of those coca-cola-and-potato-chips-moments I unfolded the map of India. I was looking for an escape route. Considering my initial plan, the border to Nepal would be a natural getaway. But then I set my eyes on another option. Or was it an option? Even more questionable, could I go there by motorcycle?

The erotic temples in Khajuraho offered some doggy-style artwork, but this bitch didn’t seem to be excited