Photographs by Shubham Khade
It was still a few hours before sunrise. The battlefield was as silent as a graveyard, only disturbed by the occasional sound of nocturnal creatures. I looked out of the window of my bunker and there was no soul in sight. A quick message was sent to Keshav to affirm the condition around his post, and it was the same. It seemed like the perfect time for two of us to sneak past the troubled zones and enter our promised land. It was not going to be an easy feat, though. So, before leaving our base, we armed ourselves to the teeth to face any and every danger that we were soon to encounter. And our arsenal included the Triumph Speed 400 and the Royal Enfield Guerrilla 450.
The wee hours meant that we wouldn’t attract unwanted attention, which was perfect. Yes, the puny Triumph would have gone unnoticed in broad daylight, too. But the Guerrilla? Not only was it distinctive out there because of its ‘Brava Blue’ colour, but because of its size, too. Not only did they look vastly different, their strategies to make it safely to our haven were divergent, too.
As the sky got brighter, the movement on the battlefield increased. The platoon of big, heavy guards patrolling the area wasn’t a big risk; they were too slow for us. We still had to maintain our distance from them, and both, the Triumph and the Royal Enfield did a stellar job of that. There was enough low-end grunt for us to pick up pace and leave them behind. That said, the feisty natures of these two meant we had to plan and know exactly what we were doing. The Speed was never shy about standing on its rear wheel, and though it wasn’t as easy on the Guerrilla, it surged ahead like a bull after 4000rpm. But reaching our destination was never going to be this easy.
Soon after, we spotted a company of smaller, faster and agile hounds. Our best bet was to split up if need be and find meet at the rendezvous point. The Speed, staying true to its name, started sprinting in the hopes of outrunning the hounds. Shifting through the 6-speed gearbox was a delight and soon enough the said hounds were nothing but a mere dot in the mirrors. With the Guerrilla, the shifts weren’t as smooth, but the result was rewarding. Not only could it outrun the hounds, but also leave the Triumph behind. Or perhaps it was because Keshav on the Triumph anticipated what lay ahead. The minefield.
Slamming the brakes hard, shifting down a couple of gears, I thought the Ceat Gripp XL would give up and my body would have to pay the price. But no, with apt feedback and good progression from the lever, I was super confident in shedding speed, and of course, the wide tyres deserve credit, too. The Speed 400 was equally quick to come to a halt with no hesitation, but the easy-going nature of the engine made things a little… easier.
The hounds had almost caught up, but just like us, they had to be wary of the minefield. In fact, they were slower and more careful than us, but we didn’t want to risk it. While making our way through the minefield, I realised that I had to be in the right gear or the engine would protest. Of course, it rewarded me for my work when we cleared, but so did the Triumph, and without requiring frequent gear shifts.
Add the lesser weight and the petite proportions to the equation and it was very obvious that the Triumph can make it through this without breaking a sweat. What was surprising was the Guerrilla. Despite being bigger and heavier, it was surprisingly handling very well and shortly after, we had passed the minefield safely.
The destination wasn’t far away, and there was no threat in sight… until suddenly we were ambushed. We found ourselves moving through trenches. I would be lying if I said that it didn’t take a toll on our body. In the bikes’ defence, they did their job at the best of their capabilities. The Enfield’s link-type monoshock took care of the smaller dangers and made the Triumph’s system feel a bit on the firmer side, even though it is enough to take some beating.
Finally, as the sun momentarily showed up in the sky before disappearing behind the grey clouds, we reached our garden of tranquillity. The Speed was precise, smooth and looked and felt calm through everything, almost like the suave secret agent from Britain’s MI5. Meanwhile, the Guerrilla didn’t care about grace or sophistication. It was relentless in its pursuit of peace. In fact, where the Speed runs out of steam, there’s plenty in reserve with the Guerrilla.
We beat the platoon of slow, heavy trucks, outran the company of cars, manoeuvred through the minefield of potholes and trenches of half-constructed roads to safely reach a pond on the outskirts of the city. Commuting has never been this intense, has it?
With capable motorcycles like the Speed 400 and the Guerrilla 450, you won’t go wrong choosing either. But every time I choose to enter the battlefield, I’ll find myself teaming up with the Guerrilla.
