In the distant corners of my memory, a single sound lingers with clarity: the unmistakable, thundering pulse of a Royal Enfield Bullet. It sounds like a heartbeat — dug, dug, dug, dug, dug, dug, dug, dug… It is a sound that defines not just the engine beneath me but an era in my life filled with love, rebellion, loss, and, ultimately, rediscovery. That beat, more than any other memory, has come to symbolise the pivotal changes in my life — changes that began with a motorcycle ride and, somehow, circled back to save the marriage that seemed destined to fall apart.
I am a man in my early forties. I head a large multinational corporation. Married with children. On paper, my life is successful; very comfortable. Yet, for the longest time, it felt broken. The marriage, especially, was strained. We had drifted so far apart that I had come to wonder if the people we were once meant to be — the lovers who used to sneak away on midnight rides — had ever existed at all.
The story of my love for motorcycles — particularly the Bullet — begins in my teens, when I was a student at Hyderabad Public School. It was a time of reckless curiosity, when every decision felt like it could change the course of history. I was a teenager consumed with an obsession — not with grades, or sports, but with the raw, mechanical beauty of motorcycles. To me, the Royal Enfield Bullet was not just a bike; it was an anthem, a declaration of freedom, and above all, it was a way of life I longed to be a part of.
I wasn’t the only one enchanted by the Bullet. My best friend — and eventually, my wife — was equally captivated by it. She was my confidant, my partner in everything. We met in school and grew up together. It didn’t take long for us to realise we were more than friends. We were drawn to each other in ways that felt larger than life. I wanted to impress her, so I did what any lovesick teenager would do: I borrowed a Bullet from George, my father’s security guard, and took her on rides through the narrow lanes of our neighbourhood.
George, a no-nonsense man with intense eyes, a handlebar moustache, and a kind heart, taught me how to ride. He was very patient with me as he had no children and saw me as his own. At just sixteen, I wasn’t legally allowed to be on the road, but that didn’t matter. The sound of the bike’s thump — that low, reverberating beat that seemed to echo in my heart — was intoxicating. The rhythm of the ride, the wind in my hair, and her arms around me, holding tight — it was the closest thing to freedom I had ever known.
I can still feel it — the quiet moments after we would return from a ride, the warmth of her body pressed against mine, and the shared understanding that we were two souls racing together toward something bigger than ourselves. That bike was the thread that tied us together, even as we faced the inevitable obstacles that life threw our way.
But life, as it always does, had other plans. Our love was tested by the pressures of family expectations, career ambitions, and the simple passage of time. Our parents, wanting what was best for us, suggested we take time to focus on our futures. And so we did. I focused on getting my degree in engineering, and she pursued her degree in finance. But we secretly kept in touch.
Years later, we were married. The day after our wedding, instead of going on a honeymoon, we borrowed George’s Bullet again. We rode, just the two of us, through the same empty streets, feeling the same rush of freedom that had defined our early days together. It was as if nothing had changed. The love, the adventure, the joy — they were all still there.
But life, again, pulled us in different directions. We moved abroad for work. I took on a new role at a software company, and she pursued a career in finance. We had children, and our responsibilities grew. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, our connection began to unravel. The late-night motorcycle rides and the spontaneous getaways became distant memories. In their place came deadlines, meetings, mortgages and the monotony of life.
The motorcycle, once a symbol of our youth and love, was not with us. And with it, the passion we had for each other seemed to evaporate. We went through the motions of daily life, but somewhere along the way, we lost the spark that had once ignited our connection. Romance had become an afterthought.
Grief made it worse. My father passed away, and then, during the global pandemic, her father also died — a tragedy made all the more painful by the travel restrictions that kept us from attending his funeral. The grief, the responsibilities of work and family, the constant pressure to perform — it all drove a wedge between us. And we, the couple who had once shared everything, became strangers to each other.
We had what many would consider the perfect life: a nice home, well-paying jobs, and two children. But, somehow, the intimacy that had once defined our relationship was gone. We were just two people living in the same house, communicating only when necessary, moving through life without truly connecting.
Our children sensed it, though they never spoke of it. My eldest son once asked me if everything was okay, and I lied, telling him everything was fine. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t. Something had to change.
The catalyst came when we visited India recently. While we were there, I rode a friend’s Bullet Classic 500. It was an old model, a 2017 bike, in beautiful Chrome Black. The ride was electric. The familiar thump of the engine, the feeling of the road beneath me — it all came rushing back. It was as if I had woken from a long sleep, and with that awakening, the realisation hit me: I needed a motorcycle again. Not for nostalgia’s sake, but for myself.
When I returned home, I bought myself a Bullet Classic and began riding again. The first time I showed it to my wife, I noticed a spark in her eyes. But I wondered if the bike, my new obsession, meant nothing to her. But something inside me told me to hold on. “Trust the process,” I told myself. I wasn’t going to let this passion — this lifeline — slip away again.
I began to ride every weekend. The open road became my sanctuary. I found solace in the steady hum of the engine and the silence of the countryside. On these rides, I found clarity. The chaos of work and life seemed to fade away, and for the first time in years, I had the space to think, to reconnect with myself. And slowly, I began to realise something — I missed my wife. I missed us.
One day, I asked my son if he wanted to join me for a ride. He was eager, just like I had been all those years ago. We spent hours on the bike, weaving through country lanes. I don’t know if my son filled her in with the details of our ride, but the following weekend, I asked my wife if she would like to join me on a ride. To my surprise, she agreed. We rode together, just like we had when we were younger. We stopped at a small café, talked, laughed, and by the end of the ride, something had shifted.
That one act — that simple act of riding together again — began the slow and difficult process of rebuilding what we had lost. As my wife wrapped her arms around me, I realised the connection we once had was still there, buried beneath years of silence and distance. We had both been hurt and lost, but perhaps we could find our way back to each other?
Motorcycling, once a symbol of youth and rebellion, has now become the bridge between the two of us. It has shown me something I had forgotten: love, like a motorcycle ride, requires effort, patience, and the willingness to keep moving forward — no matter how difficult the road ahead may seem.
The road we are on now is not without its challenges. We are still working through the cracks in our relationship, still navigating the complexities of life. But as long as we continue to ride together, I believe we can find our way back to the love we once had — a love that, like the engine beneath me, still hums with possibility.
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