Suzuki Swift Turtle Edition

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Interested in similar work? Drop me a line at santoshrajkumar@gmail.com

Skoda Octavia 2003 Turtle Edition

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Interested in similar work? Drop me a line at santoshrajkumar@gmail.com

My thoughts appeared in the Asian Age newspaper - May 6, 2013

Legend Diary

His parents had decided to walk down different aisles recently, and after his own move out of the country, Sandeep rarely got to spend enough 'octane’ time with his father. Dividing vacation by three was not his best skill despite being a successful accountant. So when they were finally to do their drinks-and-guitar-picks night, he knew it was to be great. And the beer was to be cold.

They did their meet and father-son warm greet before settling into the cane recliners in the verandah. Sandeep and father clinked their half-litre mugs together, and the excellent speakers rasped the air effectively with their masterful JJ Cale ’79 session reproduction.

“The new Royal Enfield Classic’s the stuff, Pa. This friend you once met just bought a black 500, the single seat variant. It’s beautiful, has twenty seven horses, and is a breeze to ride apparently. One-point-seven-five though...”

Image source - www.olx.in

 

The person that belonged to the “Mr. David Dayanand” name board on the gate responded instantly. 

“But it doesn’t sound like the greats. Like that one the idiot across the road had and didn’t know it. But when he wasn’t beating it up silly, remember that thump? Deep and clean staccato is right. These pretty pieces of aluminum foil just don’t sound the part for me unfortunately. Mick Jagger will never lip sync now, will he, son?”

“Well at least these things don’t create oil slicks in public. And not that I need any more attention from the lady folk, but a Classic these days sure gets ‘em.”

“A yuppie puppy is what you’re barking like. Real women don’t want clean fingernails all the time, son. And real Bullet riders had calf muscles and actually knew how to ride in a group. Oh well, twenty seven horses. That’s probably the only good thing.”

“Pa, you ride one first. It’s quick.” 

“Never. It’s not real.”

 

Growing up, he knew his father had always wanted to buy that silver ’69 Bullet 350 from the neighbour collector who had the love for flash rather than love for machine. Unfortunately the bank statement would never allow it the time. 

Pa owned a spotless deep blue '83 Yezdi Roadking now, and still rode it everywhere at sixty-three. He loved the iconic beat from the twin pipes, and was still as enamoured with the kick starter doubling up as the gear shifter as when he first was in the late-Seventies, when the bike saw Indian sun. Sandeep picked up the empty glasses and popcorn bowl and went to the refrigerator. As he refilled all three, his father lit his third cigarette.

 Image source - www.olx.in

“The kicker on Estelle is not retracting smoothly again. Of all the ‘Kings in the world, I get the only example with the errant piece. I hope Saleem won’t have to open the casing up again. I can’t handle driving all the way up there to keep getting the guy off his rear. Also, I’m wondering whether to change her stripes.”

Sandeep smiled, knowing his father would probably keep getting the custom stripes on the Yezdi tank redone till the world ran out of paint. 

“What about that brown? Like the Classic’s Desert Storm Brown? That’ll go real sweet with the blue.”

“You’re too conventional thinking, I’m going light blue next time.”

“You’re too old. And I’m hungry. Let’s hit the grub.”

Eshwari, his father’s house help since the split, had produced a delightful beer-friendly accompaniment of dosas and chicken curry. They sat down on the table and chomped silently when the Cale CD ended. Sandeep got up and picked Santana’s Black Magic Woman album out, knowing it needed to be played at least once for his father when he had a good share of the funny water.

“Nice one, son. Was the Lammy outside Food World in good shape?”

 

“I still haven’t seen the classic Lambretta red as yet in real life Pa, would you believe it? Four now, but all blue. Tchah! But yes, the 150 was in pretty decent condition. The colour should have been different of course, but the guy obviously takes care of it. The only rust I noticed was on the mirror stalks and she didn’t smoke too much. Unlike you.”

 

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“Don’t worry. I’m down to twenty a day now. So relax.”

“That’s a credible effort, Pops. Your heart will only get stronger.”

“Watch that lip, young man, or your new Triumph might mysteriously ride itself away.”

Sandeep laughed and helped himself to a drumstick. Chewing the succulent home cooked meat, he was reminded of how much of an expert in take away food he had become off late. Wouldn’t want to say that to him though, he thought as he wiped the last of the gravy off his plate.

“I’m going to crash, Pa. Long day. The dosas were great.”

“You sure you don’t want a night cap?”

“Not tonight, Pop Tate.”

“And I thought I was the one slowly dying. Okay, granddaddy of thirty one, get some good shut eye and we’ll talk Bonneville before you leave. Bloody hell, she's almost as good looking as Estelle! Good to have you here, son. Good night.”

“Me too, Pa.”

Sandeep walked into the hall where a mattress was laid on the ground under the fan. He was soon asleep, but not before being momentarily saddened again that his father would never accept a new set of wheels from him. The old man of the house downed another couple quietly before trudging heavily to his bedroom. Mugs left outside and some unhealthy coughing later, the small home was dark and silent.

Both generations of the Dayanands grabbing their respective forty winks that night were 'professional' biking enthusiasts. They were blessed to share a passion that always provided simple, pure joy during their short but invaluable stints of together time. Tonight’s memories of icy brews, classic bike banter, crisp dosas and rock music would be fiercely clung to for the future, no doubt.

Sandeep surfaced early next day in the best mood he'd been in for a long time. As he closed the door behind him leaving his father's snores in the distance, he vowed to make time to improve his math skills.

Maruti Suzuki 800: An Ode To The Hatch With No Match

The Maruti 800's glorious production run of over two decades drew to a quiet end last year in April. Despite Maruti Suzuki's valiant efforts to hide the car's age by providing it with as many minor cosmetic jobs and facelifts as Simi Garewal, tightened emission norms meant the 800 would need a non-financially-viable redesign effort. And with the Alto doing such impressive work, Maruti Suzuki had the replacement labour it needed to finally end the 800's run. But when it first arrived on the scene, this little Maruti broke all sales records in the Indian market with its unique blend of efficiency, reliability and easy-to-drive USPs. The ancient Ambassadors and Fiats that the Indian consumer had to previously put up simply with had no chance.

Although a 0-100km/h time of around 18 seconds spoke otherwise, the 800 was still a fun car. The light and direct steering sent fairly precise inputs into the driver's hands and if the gears were worked hard enough, it would surprise you into a tiny grin in the hills. But since most of the buyers of this car were previous motorcycle owners wanting to move up into the car segment, performance was not the issue. The 800 was the ideal city car, with its small size and highly efficient 796cc, three-cylinder engine unit that ran an amazing 16 kpl in stop-start city traffic and hit the mid-20s on the open highway. It could be parked in small places and squeezed through slightly-wider-than-auto-rickshaw-gaps in traffic.

Image source - www.carcabin.com

Perhaps the most major drawback of the 800 was safety. Protection stopped at seatbelts and the driver's common sense, making it a little safer than a motorcycle. Okay, that’s exaggerating matters a wee bit, but the standard brakes wouldn't provide adequate retardation too. It made a huge difference with the optional brake booster fitted, despite sales and mechanic folk annoyingly disputing this fact. The ABT Maruti staff that delivered the Rajkumar family's much-loved white example did, however, finally accept this to be true.

The 800 had only 37 horses to move its freight and thus power became an issue very quickly. With a full load and the air conditioner running, even a slight slump in speed necessitated a gear change or two. The dash was clearly made of the cheapest possible plastic, and amenities were as Spartan as Mallika Sherawat’s dress sense. The build quality was nothing to write home about either - rattles and squeaks developed rather early in the car's life.

Space was an issue because of the car's tiny dimensions, with it being able to seat four people and very little luggage.  Seating five meant the rear passengers had to be really good friends… The small 12-inch wheels meant that one had to grow an extra eye for the road, because unexpected pot holes or undulations would throw the car off intended course.

Maruti’s kickstarter to Indian domination constantly reminded that you owned one of the cheapest cars in the world. That being said, here was one of the most reliable cars in the market that was fun without the modern hassles of over-assisted steering or electric window failures. The 800 did take you back to the basics, but one can’t help having a soft spot for the big-hearted small car that enabled over 2.5 million buyers realize the joy of hassle-free motoring.

Motorhead - One Day I Will Race

It takes an average of three years for the average person to complete the average undergraduate degree. However Piston does not believe in the law of averages. Therefore the degree of my qualification is definitely of an under graduate nature. The reason for this is that I have always had two left feet, one intent on putting itself in my mouth and the other intent on stepping on the gas. The foot-in-the-mouth disease came courtesy two years of a three-year e-business and marketing degree. A second education attempt has been two years of journalism and mass communication studies. Until now, this mixed toe jam was my diet of choice. But one foot has always been on the gas.

People have always joked about me not getting my degree before I corner forty. But cars have always been my calling. We all know our calling, but still insist on trying and making other things our mission, be it Internet or marketing busyness. A carb person I will always be. Not just a carburetting person, but a car breathing person as well. Because a person starting off from standstill in second gear, sleeping on the clutch, not choosing the ‘right’ indicator, all make my blood boil. However, since this happens most of the time in someone else’s car, the boiling blood is forced to get air-cooled while I sit back and try in vain to enjoy the drive. Okay, maybe I know how to drive a car very fast. It’s a start.

But I like seeing the chequered flag. That is the only kind of finish I like. Oh, amongst minimal panel gaps and Finnish rally drivers too. Seeing that flag means it’s a job well done. Hundreds of gear changes at first, three thousand gear changes at best, is the only job I can and want to become the best at. Exhilaration is what I feel controlling a quick front-wheel driver, and a start with the hot hatches or sedans will surprise several. I’d sincerely study Newton’s forces and live the exhilaration of the higher torque downshifting from fourth to third for a fast right hander. The only mass communication I want to study now is the communication between the car mass and yours truly. Jarno Trulli. I think I truly got to know him at Monte Carlo in 2004.

F1, F3, F8h… the last one reads faith. I don’t care what the drive is at the moment. As long as it’s a car. Whether it’s only one circuit or circuits the world around. I have always known about cars but now want to put that knowledge to the test. If you don’t let me drive, I’m afraid I’ll drive you crazy, trying in vain to better lap records trackside in my humble Alto, whatever the odds. Yes indeed, waiting for that zimbly impassible day.

Kava And Sakei Got Me High

Image source: www.flickr.com

I turned her on. She needed a little coaxing, but soon gave into my twist. The rev-needle shot up and she sounded incredible. Like a much more powerful RD 350, with a smoother, freer flowing sound through the shortened sports exhaust. Not like sweat-free John Abraham’s superbikes, but an awesome something I had never experienced before.

The year was 2003, and she was into her twenties already. Which meant she came with a big overhauling bill. The twin brake discs were on their last turns. And she would overheat as regularly as my ex-girlfriend and had a leaking quartet of cylinders which accounted for oil reserves in the garage that even Shell would’ve been proud of.

But she sported a 40-odd bhp output which needed respect, especially when she hadn’t heated up too much. That’s more than our Maruti 800 possesses, to put it in perspective. But the 800 has 4 wheels while she hardly had two. Meaning the previous owner had chucked on some cheap, ultra-anorexic tyres before ownership was transferred. When at a fair clip, they would nervously twitch like Bill explaining Monica to Hillary. And the handling wasn’t anything to write home to either. I couldn’t bank on the turns as much as I would have liked to, because of the severely limited grip, armoured tank-like weight, and lapsed insurance.

But could she accelerate in a straight line. Ask my friend Myron. The poor guy learnt very quickly to hold on at the green lights.  And she could out-accelerate most cars with ease to the 100 km/h mark. She was also a looker, with a blue and gold metallic paint job, much like the Subaru WRX colour coding. And there was the added thrill of being part of the small biker crowd in Brisbane, where bikers nod at each other sharing mutual respect possibly for having the guts to ride where average speeds are so high. Imagine that happening in India. We’d be head banging, in all senses of the phrase, all over the country!

My ’83 Kawasaki GT550. Not many wanted a courier motorcycle, but I had one and loved it. Man, did we share some good times. Lass impresses, hitting 150 clicks racing a Daewoo Nubira, seeing that kid’s Grand Canyon-wide eyes when I pulled up behind his car, and such. Too bad this was such a short-lived experience, because I left Australia two months after I bought the bike. And since there were no buyers before I left, I was sadly forced to donate her parts to the local junkyard. I used to love her, but I had to kill her.

Image source: www.classicracer.com