See the happy lot here? They’re motorcycle guys. Okay, they sure dress funny sometimes (A yellow jacket? Really?!) and they do highly questionable things with their knees and elbows while on their motorcycles but they mean no harm. Except to themselves, that is. Leave them to their own devices and they’re mostly a hardy, resourceful bunch who seek happiness in simplicity. Oh, and all of them place thrill far higher than they do comfort in their order of priorities.
Why, then, do all of us (er, that’s me in the yellow jacket…) really fancy an MPV? I’d have said ‘van’ had it still been fashionable to say so, but you get the point, no? Some of us fantasise owning a big, white van spacious enough to swallow a motorcycle or two along with all the paraphernalia that accompanies them. Others — also us — like them posh. Kia Carnival levels of posh, let me say. Of course, there are more exquisite cars of its kind you can buy today in exchange for more exquisite sums of money, but us motorcyclists are an inherently rational and frugal lot. Ask my father and he’ll tell you, proudly, how little I’ve spent on my motorcycling exploits over the last couple of decades. Please don’t tell him what you know.
VAN WITH A PLAN
It was only appropriate, thus, that we chose the Carnival to set off on an epic motorcycle story hunt for our previous issue. At the onset, it appears large and supremely plush, and its diesel engine would make the 2000-km round trip more palatable (see what I mean?). Mumbai to Bengaluru and back, with a week’s worth of luggage? Sounds too easy to even be a challenge of any sort, no?
Comforted by this premise, I made a 6 am start from Mumbai. For the southbound leg, I only had Yash, our young and talented videographer, for company, which is a bit of an exaggeration. Yash, you see, is someone who needs little provocation to fall asleep in cars, often leading to a most spectacular fluidic dance where he begins to slobber all over his co-passengers. In other words, you can expect better driving company from an Ikea haul. That’s not to say I didn’t envy him. This was my second time driving a Carnival and its very appealing middle row of seats had, so far, remained elusive. Some day…
AT HOME
Motorcycle travel is fun, but it’s also very physical. Often, fuelled by enthusiasm and will, many of us ride incredibly long distances, often doing so within the span of daylight. On the bike, you hardly feel more than a sore tailbone or aching calves, but off it, it’s a different reality. It’s unsurprising why motorcyclists like their cars as comfortable as can be. I mean comfort in its truest sense and not by the way of some ludicrous features. Think plush seats, great suspension and an inherent sense of robustness. The Carnival seemed to be doing a fine job of delivering on all of these counts 300 km into the drive.
It so transpired that I’d chosen the rainiest day in May to do this drive and taking the NH65-52-50 (Pune-Solapur-Chitradurga) route had proven to be a great decision for how sparsely populated it is, and for its panorama. For once, I didn’t long to be on a motorcycle. The Carnival’s warm and elaborate cabin seemed like the right place to spend a rainy day in and, if I could, I’d add a fireplace and a small library, just to complete the visual.
There is no greater misconception than to think enthusiasts of motorcycle travel — that is to say a category of motorists well-versed with being exposed to the elements — sign up for that life only for their love of riding a motorcycle. It’s the life that happens on the road in its wholesomeness that, in almost all such cases, has the real magnetic effect. I’ve travelled with motorcycles for years now, pretty much across all of India and even outside of it (thanks to my unreasonably glamorous job), and all the great rides were made more memorable by the scenes of life I transitioned through than the motorcycle I happened to be riding. It’s hard to forget a disconcerting encounter with a murder-convict truck driver, for instance, or a tiger sighting in a desolate forest reserve. The highway life is more than just a cliche; it’s about immersing yourself in the action, even if it gets overwhelming at times.
The Carnival seemed least interested in breaching my frame of mind. The objective amongst you may be rightfully more critical of it but, as a traveller, it does the most important thing you’d want from your set of wheels — it lets you be. The empty highway let me settle comfortably at the speed limit even as large puddles of water threatened to send us aquaplaning into the fields. Oh, that would be a bother, especially since I had a pair of Ducatis and three Hayabusas waiting to be ridden at the other end of the journey.
Of course, as is the case on most such journeys, my mind wandered into the days that lay ahead. Quality time with some of the world’s greatest motorcycles and friends — what part of that is not worth looking forward to? Yash, I briefly checked, was still swaying in slumber. He’s a young lad, always being bundled up to some faraway corner of the country. I wonder if he looks forward to it in the same way I do.
PLAN WITH A VAN
Bengaluru was submerged as we arrived later that evening. Emerging from its cabin, I was surprised to see how much dirt and grime it had accumulated; it really had soaked up some treacherous bits of rain ravaged highways. We were just in time for dinner with Karan, an old friend and complete two-stroke motorcycle madman (you’ve seen him regularly in these pages), who set about reacquainting me with his clowder of 13 cats — it’s best you don’t ask. Over dinner, we chalked out a plan that would see us accomplish our many motorcycling conquests over the next few days. Or at least we hoped it would.
The next day, Kaizad showed up, fresh off the Golf GTI drive in Indore and raring to go. I don’t know if it’s all the Red Bull he drinks or just his genetic makeup, but he’s got reserves of energy that require serious inspection. Soon enough, then, I was back in the Carnival’s driver’s seat, now faced with the nightmarish challenge of steering an apartment sized MPV through some of Bengaluru’s infamous traffic. Turns out, it wasn’t half as intimidating as I’d first thought, with the Carnival’s outward visibility and mannerisms proving surprisingly friendly.
While there was nothing I could do to keep traffic around me at arm’s length (perhaps, they were trying to see what celebrity they could find in its back seat), I did, in the interest of safety, turn all of its collision avoidance systems off. Yeah, the irony. With its 5.1-metre length and its somewhat chintzy trim, it’s quite the attention magnet, whether you like it or not (the attention, that is). Might as well slap a Cadillac badge onto its massive grille, I say. Don’t say you can’t see it!
In an hour, we were on the fringes of Bengaluru, flanked by three Suzuki Hayabusas, looking as if a part of Donald J Trump’s cavalcade had lost its way. Indeed, when we pulled over for a pre-shoot round of coffees, everybody thought some rappers had arrived, only to be greatly disappointed — it was just us and our friends Karan, Halley and Harsha. We happily camped around the Carnival, forming a very expensive huddle, drinking coffee and being silly, excited about what lay ahead — lunch. Okay, kidding. The Carnival now had the daunting task of keeping up with three examples of the world’s fastest motorcycle, all the while allowing Kaizad to capture them in action. Except, I’ve made up the drama in that last line. Those very 300-kph-looking shots you see in the magazine usually happen at 60 kph, and the Carnival had another trick up its sleeve — its sliding doors.
Do you love a sliding door? Not more than I do, I bet you. I think the sliding door is among the greatest automotive innovations, right up there with the automatic transmission and the diesel engine. Yeah, I’m not much of a car guy. While sliding doors lack the drama of scissor doors, they just make for such great ease of access and — in our case — some really cool photography. Kaizad couldn’t be more excited (actually, he could, but that’s just him) and, needless to say, he delivered. If you liked some of the low-angle shots in the previous issue, I assure you, he liked them even more.
CONTRASTS IN COMFORT
Hunched over the Hayabusa’s handlebar (Halley ever-so-kindly took to driving duties while I rode his bike), I wasn’t thinking about comfort at all. Then, it was all about matching speeds, keeping the revs up, looking far enough, tucking in… see how it works? I can’t say I missed being in the Carnival while on the bike, but I was looking forward to being in it. With the shoot wrapped up and after some outstanding biryani, I was ready for the Carnival’s back seat. Kaizad took to the wheel while I stretched out in the back, fidgeting with the electric seat adjustment buttons until I found the sweet spot. I have no memory of the hour and a half that followed, except that I woke up having slept even better than I had the night before — in a bed, that is.
Conveniently, it was Kaizad who, a few days later, magically found himself driving us back to Mumbai (Pune for him), too. Over a longer drive, I spotted a few misses — the air-con controls are weirdly placed towards the fore-right of the roof, making it inaccessible from the backseat except when in a perfectly upright position. Reclined, you can’t access the door pockets or the power window controls either, unless you can train your feet to do so, that is. I didn’t try. On balance, I still slept through most of the journey and didn’t even mind that we’d taken a painfully longer route back — it just meant I could curl up (with Kaizad’s hoodie) for longer. I jumped back into the driver’s seat only in the final couple of hours, from Pune to Mumbai, a rainy midnight drive I thoroughly enjoyed while Yash, predictably, slept some more.
HINDSIGHT
Do you know the really worrying bit about my job? No, it’s got nothing to do with speed or defying gravity. It’s about attachment. I dread it. Every once in a while, a machine comes our way (and it’s almost always the non-soul-stirring kind) that leaves a strong impression, going beyond function and finesse, even if tangentially. These are cars we long to drive, to revisit and to travel with, for reasons entirely other than what the enthusiast’s rulebook dictates. To see the Carnival go, therefore, is something I wasn’t emotionally prepared for. Okay, I’d spent most of my time with it in the wrong seat and, sure, it may have felt even nicer with a V6 engine or a foot massager, but it still is a car that’s impossible not to like.
Thought you were ready to buy that dream home in Goa? No, just buy a Carnival for half the price and go travel the country; you won’t regret the memories you’ll make with it. What, you really thought a motorcyclist could give you sound financial advice?
