Friday, March 31, 2006

Manipal Murudeshwar

Raghu (‘keet) has been a part of my life now, since my engineering days, easily my best pal. Raghu and I decided to ride down to Manipal to attend Raaji’s convocation at TAPMI. Raaji, my junior at Hassan, also a close friend.

I was like this director guy, Manoj Butter, who was shooting for this fillum “Ragu and Raji”, where this heroine sings “I knew ki meraa shezaadaa, Ghode pe aayega” (any resemblance in tune, to the Neal and Niki song is purely coincidental). Only for this song sequence, I rode on a Bull and Raghu rode a Ghoda (I thought the avenger fitted the horse description well). And we had to rescue this heroine from the clutches of this villain who keeps saying “TAP MI” “TAP ME” in the Mogambo-Kush-Hua style. “Raghu and Raaji” - Coming Soon at the multiplex near you. Not bad na.

Now, the more serious stuff...
I wish I could describe this ride in words. Seldom on a ride, do you look back, look forward, look beyond and look deep into yourself.
Raghu and I rode down the memory lane, reliving the wonderful times at Hassan.
For Raghu and Raji, it is a time to look forward, in more ways than one.
The picturesque landscapes, the estates, the western ghats, the temples makes one commune with one’s future.
The endless depth of the ocean, the white sands and music is truly transcendental, making you retreat into your own soul.

Little did we know when we started, that this ride would be so fulfilling. The excitement was building up throughout the week. It was the first real long ride for Keet, and for me it was a solo after a long time.

We left my place at 530 on the Saturday morning. The first stop was at Bellur Cross, we did good enough to give a few cars on road some complex. One chai and we were off again. This time, thou, the story was a little different. We ripped. The average speed on this stretch to Hassan must have been 90kmph or so. We reached Hassan at 8 something. Breakfast happened at the MCE canteen. “Open Dosa” and “Benne Kaali” still cost 10 bucks; insulated from inflation!! And it tastes just as good. We exchanged some recognizing smiles with the canteen guys.

We left Hassan at 930, passing Sakleshpur we headed towards the western ghats. The Ghat section spans to about 50kms, I guess. The view from a few places is awesome. It was downhill most of the time. It is amazing how you can settle down to a regular pattern after a while of riding down – see the hairpin sign; stay on the far end of the road-turn left-let the bike fall to the right-hit the back and front brakes as you reach the end of the hairpin-tilt the bike to the left-release brakes-open throttle and off you go.

I scraped my foot rest and my stand a couple of times during the ordeal. We stopped over at Gundya to give our butts a break. From Gundya, we rode without a break to Manipal. After 7 hours on road, 8.5 hours in all, we had reached Manipal. There was no trace of fatigue on Raghu, completely lost trying to figure out why. Guys, in case you have the ideas, please leave the comments.
We booked into Udupi Residency and later in the evening attended the 20th convocation of TAPMI’s graduating students. Raaji was on the top of the world, and looked great in the red saari, with the gown and all.

Early Sunday morning, we visited the temples at Udupi, then some of my relatives. The plan was to go to Turtle Bay at Maravante, some 40kms from Udupi. We reached there late, lunched late. Keet and I figured, there wasn’t much two guys could do in such romantic settings. We did some unromantic things like snooze on our bikes, take pictures that can make to an art exhibition, and scare turtles (I had plans, but I guess, they heard the bikes and ran, don’t ask me how)

We decided to camp at Manipal for the night. Raaji had, by then joined us and suggested Murudeshawar. Whatever other plans Keet had, were subdued by the majority.

We reached Murudeshwar at sunset and were so glad we made it to that place. One, the route itself was fabulous, with pristine scenery. There is this stretch of 2 kms, where you have the Arabian Sea on one side and the river Sowparnika on the other. Two, the statue of Lord Shiva – Murudeshwar. Awe inspiring, imposing statue of the Lord is, I read, the largest statue of Shiva in India. The smile on the face and He overlooks the white-sands on the beach is what draws you to it. Thanks to Raaji, for having insisted we visit the place.

The return journey was very eventful. It was 6:40 when we left there. We had to cover 120kms, I guess before 9. We raced the first lap of the ride till Bhatkal, so long as there was daylight. The stretch from Bhatkal to Katpaadi, was my first night riding experience. There were no street lights, my high beam was not working, there were many villages doting the roads and Raghu right behind flashing his highbeam, creating long shadows in front. If it sounds like good ingredients for an accident, you guessed right. I killed a puppy (Keet tells me later it was half dead). I felt terrible, but had no choice, it was running fast and there was too little time to do anything. We were very careful throughout that part of the ride. It requires full concentration. You are very impaired, not able to see clearly in front. For me it also meant that had to put up my visor and brave the dust and the wind in my face. We did well in the end and saw off Raaji’s parents at 9.

Dinner happened at Dollops in Manipal and crashed for the night.
The return journey was great too. We started from Manipal at 645 and reached Bangalore by 5 in the evening. The ascent up the ghat section was more enjoyable that the descent had been. Once you get the line right, and time the change of gears, it is simply sooper, I say. Both bikes responded well to bear the torture, Hassan happened before schedule, by 1130.

We reached our campus once again. This time we parked in front of the hostel. I was disappointed in a sense, there was NO change at all. A place can’t be so insulted from change. It was the same mess workers, same blocks, same trees, same rooms, the same pan-spit walls. We had lunch at the mess and were not surprised. The taste of the curry, the chapattis has not changed too. Very nostalgic, indeed. The unbelievable fun we had in this place.

The ride from Hassan was boring – we missed the ghats and traffic badly. That is the problem if you have every good roads with no traffic. How long can you belt at 100 and not feel bored. It ensured, however, that we were back to base by 500.
No human casualties, no bike breakdowns, but plenty of memories – that was in a nutshell, my ride to Mangalore.

Raghu made this collage. You should check him out at his blog

More of these at

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Of Biryani, Bullets, Brakes and Yelagiri

Yelagiri – Many first ones on this one

My first ride after I joined Rolling Thunder Motorcycle Club. (was in the announce group till this one)
My first ride with the rider’s paraphernalia – leather jacket, sunglasses, RTMC flag, et al.
First time my bullet touches 120kmph on the speedo.
My first ghat section ride, and my first major accident. Read on…

The build up to the ride was something I have come to except these days – there is this anxious waiting thorough out the week, the boyish excitement the day before the ride, the last minute checks on the bike. This time was no special.

The motivation for the ride was right at the bottom of the Maslow’s hierarchy – food. Biryani at Vaniyambadi, at the foot of Yelagiri was the reason, no one really cared for the reason, so long as you got to ride.

We were supposed to meet 6:30 in front of Raheja Arcade, Kormangala. When I reached there at 620ish, there were a handful of bulls. Then they started pouring in. There were usual suspects – PP, grease, subbu, pawn, muthu, vivek, mahesh. (That was quite a long list of names I have rolled off, given my track record with remembering names.) And then there are always those large no of new names – trite and forgettable, again.

Anyways, after all the handshakes some 32 bullets thundered the Hosur Road. To my bullet, this was homecoming, I have done this road many times now. I wont repeat the praises I have for this stretch of the Golden Quadrilateral.
Our first regroup point was the A1 Reliance plaza. Reliance has some amazing facilities up here. I believe, the rates, readings, the evaporation level, mix, the rate at which the meter scrolls, etc, etc can be controlled and monitored centrally from some office in, say, Mumbai. But well maintained restrooms hardly make up for not-so-great tiffin, right?

We went past Krishnagiri, Salem and then took the route to Chennai. The road is so good, you can do full throttle for the whole stretch and that we did. I touched 120kmph on my speedo for the first time. One more brief stop on the way and we reached the foot of the Yelagiri hill. The ride uphill was good; there were about 10 hair-pin bends and the view from top was great. There was practically no traffic flowing downhill.

There are a few resorts on top of the hill, and some trekking spots around. The bullets were parked in front of Country Club. Lime soda was served as an appetizer for the biryani. It was about 11:00 by this time. There were folks from Mad Bulls who joined us.

The plan was to ride down to Vaniyambadi at the bottom of Yelagiri and belt biryanis. We started downhill at about 12 something. I was doing good on the turns and I guess I got carried away a wee bit. There were two bulls ahead of me and I was trying to catch up. On one of the left turns, I found myself in the middle lane, gunning straight at a Tata Sumo Victa. I breaked hard and got most of the bike out of the way, but couldn’t avoid the brake lever and the mirror go whack against the mirror and beading, ripping the plastic off. Metal against plastic is not too much of contest.
The sumo full of doctors let me go after I promised to make good the damages. I got away with a bent brake lever but a badly hurt ego and image. I don’t know how long the repair on that would take. But at that moment, everyone wanted to know who this guy was. I thought I did well to hold my nerves, stay on road and prevent what could have been worse. There was lots to lose but lots to gain too. My bull doctor, Gurunandan said this on an earlier chumma on road, “Small accidents are good in a way, they improve your reflexes”. Howzzat that for optimism!!

Muttu also had some problem on his ‘Monster’, with some loose silencer, which was put back in place with some more delay.

So after this another not-so-desirable ‘first-time’, we reached Vaniyambadi for the biryani. A few of my veggie friends and I settled our asses down at a ‘Saravana Bhavan’ nearby. There was this conceited look on the faces of all guys who walked out after the Biryani. They settled for mutton biryani, I heard, there are no chicks no more in Tamil Nadu. I know from my past experience, TN is sure not a good place to look for them chicks; flu or not.

The ride back happened without any more incidents. One flat tyre meant some guys were delayed. I carried on with the front pack and was back in Bangalore long before the sun went down…

Next week, there will be another ride, another ghat section ride, in full gear, only this time, with better reflexes!!!


The fotos are now available at
pick you copies now!!!

And guess who provides technology to A1 Plaza... yup, IBM

Friday, March 17, 2006


Am trying to build up the tempo for the 2 long rides coming up in the next couple of weeks. Doing the 220km stretch to Yelagiri this weekend and then 400kms to Manipal with Raghu-pal the next weekend… While you wait for those, check this one out… Found this in the archives of Auto India. Read on... its well written!

I slide steel into his belly and nudge him to a drowsy rumble. Astride one score ponies and eight, I point him to the long black ribbon that takes us out to the sea, a long way off. Sleepi1y, almost grudgingly, his staccato beat picks up my spirit— synchronicity. His Cyclops eye splits the night apart — left and right, like Yin and Yang. With a flick of my wrist, I can let them meet, but not yet. I twist his ears and caress his mane, his hooves dig in harder. A 162 Kg machine, 20 Kgs of gas &. oils, two riders at a 130 Kg, 100 Kg of fishing and camping gear — almost half a ton whispering imperturbably down the NH8 in the eerie silence of an early winter morning — some kind of motorcycling! !

Duck you terrible 100c toddlers, the granddaddy of all them Indian motorcycles is here. But let’s face the truth — the Royal Enfield 350 cc “light roadster" as a 1960 Army Manual terms it, is a granddaddy - no contest. In terms of figures — those numbers the techies love, the Bullet is a part of history — somewhere between the Golden Age of the Guptas and the time. I forget when, when the someone the terrible son of what’s his name the invincible else ransacked "Cawnpore" and stole the Royal Cushion of the Pasha, Emir of all he surveyed, leaving him with a terrible ache in the bottom which persisted until his kingdom was declared non—polluting and was given great subsidies in fertilizers.

No contest. In terms of anything to do with performance— measurable in numbers, the Bullet would lose miserably against any other- brand of motorcycle, scooter and moped, the Luna TFR’s headlight has more lumens/watt than the Biq B’s. In acceleration, top speed, braking distance, ro—ro contest from any gear-/any speed, the Bullet stands a good chance of being beaten hollow.

And the Bullet is a marvel of engineering design. Engineering Colleges which charge capitation fees could do away with the idea of building a mechanical engineering laboratory — and buy a single Bullet 350 cc instead. Every mechanical device/linkage known to man since Hannibal crossed the Alps is represented. A bewildering array of gears, cams, shafts, rockers, swing arms, chains, pads, bolt/nuts, washers, spindles, bearings, drives, springs, tensioners, seals and rings assails the senses. The frame and its supports are veritably an Eiffel Tower. And every material except carbon-graphite and buffalo horn is used somewhere or the other. The electricals resemble the sadhu with the matted eight feet locks from Jaipur in the Guiness Book. Wires of every description, length, color with connectors to match. Twenty types of greases and oils, 22 seals, 5 cables, two chains, 9 switch positions and two utility boxes on the side capacious enough to store small change and impress your mom —make up the Bullet. Almost all parts are linked — you fill up air, it affects ignition. You lower the handlebars, it dims your rear lights. Don’t believe it ?, ask any Bullet owner. It is a continuous miracle that a. Bullet rolls at all. Neil Armstrong was asked what were his thoughts on the moon landing flight when the Apollo 11 blasted off. He said “This rocket Assembly contains 500,000 parts and each has been supplied by the lowest bidder." One gets much the same feeling before one slides keys into his belly and heads off on the NH8. Will it, won't it.

As you pick it up from the showroom the 350 is a pathetic sight with a sheet of metal to which is attached a micron or so of metal — this is called the seat. The handlebar grips are spiked rubber. The battery’s white gleams like the sore produced by “the mysterious disease that has struck fish in the 24 Paraganas district in West Bengal leading to immediate pouring in of assistance from International aid agencies”. As an element of sexuality, a black G-string like contraption holds the battery in place. Enfield logos on the side of the gas tank are of tin and look like they are made from discarded Ponds Dreamflower Talc container-s. Two soft drink bottle caps holds the utility boxes closed. On a vehicle built like a Vijayanta Tank, the plastic fuel cock is the Enfield equivalent of Reader’s Digest’s “ Lighter Side of Life”. Pulling it off its centre-stand is a perplexing experience with one hand on the handlebars and the other wondering what to hold. There is no battery cutout, dangerous— remember it won’t start without a battery assist and more than two kicks ensures a type of hernia that's almost hereditary. After YOU install corrective measures like grips, rear view mirror, battery cover, seat padding, side handle, kill switch the bike is ready to go. The next shock is when you sit astride the machine. The brakes and gear are on sides opposite of what is expected. But one gets used to it, like shaving in front of the mirror.

Why a machine that costs Rs. 40,000 + can’t have these little extras costing a couple of hundred Rupees is something that has consistently escaped my most labored efforts to understand, to cope. It seems a complete mystery. Why do the armed Forces, the Forest Departments, the BSF, Police and legions of other buyers swear by the Bullet when the manufacturer doesn’t even bother to install absolute basic equipment like Mirrors. The amount of mechanical uncertainty, the level of maintenance, the initial cost and a manufacturer whose hobby is sadism makes one wonder what prompts the choice of a Bullet.

But I can answer. As one who’s dreamt of owning one since the day I gave up my feeding bottle, I can tell you. Owning a Bullet is not owning a bike — it is participating in a kind of mystic religion. It has to do with moh-maya, nirvana and all manner of cosmic experiences.

Will the techies pay attention. The Bullet is not meant to perform, to set the roads on fire. A 60mm carb feeding a 35cc bore X 70 stroke makes it clear. The Big B is not a speed fiend— was never meant to be one. Just as plastics are criticized-for being non-biodegradable, funny considering that their greatest strength is resistance to the elements. The mistake is in using them for packaging rather than storage. The Bullet is not a cat- quick screamer machine. It is a stately, super stable long distance cruiser. Anyway, under Indian highway conditions anyone driving a bike at over 70 Kmph ought to have their head examined or better, replaced. So who needs lightning disc brakes? The Bullet is not high on modern conveniences like electronic ignition, fool proof electrics or even electric starters - even the RTO compulsory blinkers look a little out of place. The Bullet is like loving a woman, one doesn’t measure, one senses. If a zero to 60 Kmph in 7 sec is better than a 11 sec bike- techie, you have a tough love life ahead. It’s like saying Apsara at 38-24-36 is better than Swapnika at 36—24—36 and besides has more lustrous hair. One doesn’t love that way, the chemistry is more complex.

The Bullet is not about statistics or performance. It is about old world qualities- those in such short supply today. Qualities like dependability, stoicism. grace under pressure and companionship. On the hill roads of Kerala, the Bullet’s grace is poetic-like Ninjisky he takes the twisty mountain roads, a ballet dancer doing his routine. Weight is a great companion of luxury. At a 162 Kg plus rider, the suspension is too stiff-forget the 5-way rear suspension, that only changes preload. But with another rider and luggage, the ride is luxury car soft. And on the wind swept vistas of Saurashtra while the terrible tiddlers are picking themselves from ditches, trying to get on to the road, the Bullet whispers by, arrow straight. The enormous wheels and their inertia ensure that every scheming pothole and arrogant bump will be summarily smoothed out without the rider even being questioned. And as the others scream “ Roll on or roll over.” and whiz by, one makes a fundamental discovery. The other bikes get you there faster. On a Bullet the ride itself is a part of being there. The soft slap of the chain sets up a taal- mel with the characteristic 4-stroke beat and a while later you discover that you have traveled a long way indeed. After a 400 Km rides when the others are walking around like they wore poison ivy underwear, the Bullet rider saunters away impatient to get rolling again.

The Bullet is a handsome vehicle — wide chested and narrow waisted. You should look at it from a height to appreciate it. From the ground it looks massive. A friend of mine. researching in the Gir National Park was advised against a Bullet by his wild life colleagues With its characteristic silhouette and clutch/-front brake positions, they pointed out, it would look like a bull and increase the chances of attack by lions !! Homage indeed !

There is no such thing as a great bike with a bad engine. A bike may look a little ugly, steer with mind of its own, have bad electrics or bad suspension. But if its engine performs, all is forgiven. In the Bullet, the engine dominates the machine. Eye- catching and arresting, the enormous engine and crankcase look powerful even when the machine is standing still. And while it produces just 18 Bhp, they are produced with will, grit, determination and dependability. Tractor pulling first gear ratio, a decent second, a reasonable third and a decent fourth push the Bullet far past 100 Kmph if required. Given enough highway, the cool running Bullet could take you from one end of the country to another — effortlessly. And if stirred enough by a spirited rider, acceleration can be quite hard. But your average Bullet rider is not a hot head who wants to whiz by— that can be done on these disposable 100 cc machines. The Bullet is a bike to be seen on, and so one chugs by at a pace almost in synchrony with heartbeats. The range of settings, tappets. points, plug gaps and else can make you climb the waills, but if you persist- silk smooth rides are yours — with the priceless Bullet beat that is almost erotic.

The Bullet also has the Human Angle. With other bikes you buy, roll out of the showroom and zoom off into the distant mountains; to brood by yourself, breaking the speed of sound. and probably your neck, atleast once at every intersection. The Bullet is a people angle M/c. No man is an island, certainly not a Bullet owner. You can detect it by the crushing handshake after years of handling the tough front brake and clutch and an unusually muscled right calf from the kickstart. Every Bullet is a personalized dream. You can load it with tonnes of accessories. Headlight hood, crashguards, extra lights, basket, carriers, beading, chrome trim, pedal covers - the works. Some nickel-plate the chrome parts. Some add brass trim, the list is endless. But never, never, ever buy a lock. A Bullet owner who locks his bike is a sissy fit to own only mopeds. Beware, never lock your Bullet. Also buy a heavy chain. This is to hang the ignition and battery cutout key from. The heavier the better. The most revered Bullet owner I know has his keys attached to 4 feet of Supertanker anchor chain. He wears a canvas sack around his waist to put his keys in, walks on hands and feet and is much in demand when elephants run amuck.

And the great mechanic saga begins. It is not like you drive into the service centre, hand over your bike and get it the next day. Far from it. First you shortlist the Bullet mechanics, called "Phoremen" in town. No "phoreman" would be caught dead repairing any vehicle but a Bullet - exclusive. They usually have weird WWF type names. "BABA", “ Ustad ”, "Shetty Chettan" and so on. All have legends attached to them. One works only at night since he needs peace and quiet and so the story goes can assemble by touch as a commando does his AK-47. Another diagnoses by sound alone as you drive into his workshop and so on. After you select one - the drama begins. First is the interview where you have to give details of where you work, how many years you have had the Bullet, earlier problems, how you use it, your income tax number and so on. Then after your earlier mechanic's work and reputation has been ripped into shreds to approving nods from other customers hanging around, the work starts. If the bike is new then the manufacturer's reputation is given the same treatment.

Half a dozen young men descend on your machine. The way the Bullet is constructed is incredible. On average for every part you want to access, six others will have to be removed. For example to see the rocker arms, you will have to start with the petrol tank. To replace the accelerator wire, you will have to take off the headlight. Therefore when the boys have finished locating the “ fault “ your bike looks like a dinosaur skeleton at the museum with parts strewn around. The effect is not quite unlike the 9.30 Doordarshan news the “.. sources say a blast occurred when the car was started...” Don’t shriek or faint. Attached the parts may be, with a frightening array of fasteners and thingammas. Standard tools to take them out include anvils, electric heaters, evil looking tongs and sledgehammers. Forget the instruction manual which says, “to take out the delicate glass-brass pin use a feather”. A sharp tap administered by a 8 pound hammer on a meter long screwdriver will work in the mechanic’s hands. You try with the feather and …. “.Tinkle, tinkle……” !.

Then you are given an option. Not as in “ It will cost Rs.400”. It involves s a long discussion on how the “ conshun-rode" meshes with the “chippia”. One of the listeners reminds the others, “ Remember what happened to Trivedi’s bike”. Then you are given the technical talk. Every Bullet owner in the space of two years becomes a thorough half – baked mechanic using local lingo- “wiser” for washer, “ chiipia” for fork, “dismiss” for screwdriver. “ Terculator” is something I haven't been able to figure out. I suspect the “ Phoreman" is fibbing since every time a fault refuses to go away it is a “ terculator" fault. While Bullet parts are fixed with more goodwill than mechanical certainty, the “ terculator” should certainly not be capable of migrating from the front axle to the swingarm and then into the speedometer. But it is in convenient. Whenever a techie friend with the latest in tiddlers asks me whether the bullet will do a wheelie or fly at low altitude or whatever, I have a answer, “ As soon as I straighten out the bad terculator”. So there.

Forget the techies, forget the doomsayers. Forget even the manufacturer, they don't know what a wonderful bike the Bullet is. All said and done, a Bullet will never let you down on the highways which are its natural habitat: On city roads it rides in a lackluster, protesting way. Even if it does stop, a village mechanic which a six-pound sledgehammer and a crowbar can soon set it right. One doesn't buy a bullet for transport show or for performance, one buys it because one loves what motorcycling stands for: individuality, independence, an eternal love of tinkering and of course adventure and the sound of untrammelled wind in one’s ears.

Listen to the Bike baba. What one needs is a disciplined right fist, boorts, gloves and a helmet. Someone to love, plenty of gas and an eye for beauty in man, machine and wind. The wisdom of the ages decrees that those who have this will travel far indeed and attain Nirvana on the Pony Trail.

-S. Ram Kumar Auto India Aug '97

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Run # 409 - The No circle Run

Encouraged by the short run last time around, I thought it was a good idea running with the hares again, than a siesta on a Sunday afternoon. Couldn’t have been more wrong on that one.

The Hash House Harriers announced their run # 409 (ya 409, they have been around for the last 15yrs). This time it was outside of Yelahanka, you had to drive along the CRPF campus to the run site.

All you ppl who read these write-ups must have realized by now, how much I love talking about these things I do, right. Ezzactly. And a few guys get inspired and want to do some checking out. This time Sathish, my neighbor from the ice-pies (or is it eyes-spies) days and Rutu, my Gym buddy from the time when my biceps used to be 14inches, decided to join me.

The run was supposed to start at 4:00. With all the firangs in the group, you would think it would start around that time. Wrong again, it was nearly 4:40 IST when we started running.

The hares (the moderators who lay the trail are called that) were ‘Up yours’ and ‘French fries’ – both French. We were promised a good track with some amazing landscape view. We started first on a wrong track, then found out way back to square one and restarted. And then ruwe did, till kingdom come. I should have guessed when they said, the water spot would be some distance and advised us to carry water. Damn, I didn’t see that coming, did I…

First we ran along a stud farm (ha, so even u thot they grow studs there, welcome to the club). And with this well-built mare running in front of me, I ran like a stallion, myself. (For details, hit the ‘comments’ button and I promise a personalized reply.)

Then the fields started and I shifted my gaze up to the horizon and never once left it. We ran and ran, but the landscape was simply great. Eucalyptus groves, fields, small hills, dirty ponds, uphills, detours, false trails, sweat and blood (there were so many thorns on the way and many of them couldn’t resist the temptation to kiss my bare legs)

Finally when we got back it was about 15kms and close to an hour and 45 mins of running. And then the ceremony happened, first we had to wait for everyone to finish. Sathish and Rutu were among the last. The ‘mare’ finished comfortably ahead of me, now I know where hour-glasses come from.

The Ice slab was there and as usual the ‘hares’ were made to sit on the ice slab, some ragging, leg-pulling happens, the run is named (it was called the no-circle run) and the anthem is sung… and the bottoms-up.
Then the Virgins – newbies are made to get on the block (nkotb). Well, only this time, they decided that the guy who brought them ( tht is me!) gets the water treatment. The water treatment is a tub of water, and I had to cool my ass in it.

First the longish run, then the beer that didn’t go too well and then the water treatment, I had enough for one day.
Sathish didn’t want me in his car, all soaked and dripping and all, but hey, I couldn’t run no more!!