I find our modern world is obsessed with competition. If there is activity, there must be competition. And the need to sustain and validate competition drives our obsession with measurement.

I liked throwing rocks. Aimlessly. Into water mostly. Into the sea, into lakes, across rivers, into rapids, down cliffs, at trees. I could sit for hours just aimlessly throwing rock after rock. Marvelling at the graceful arc of a well-executed throw. Studying the shape and characteristics of each rock. How small, flat pebbles seemed to float in the wind for longer than big, heavy sinkers. How big river stones made loud clunking noises as they hit the bottom of a rapid. How pebbles thrown fast and flat from low down skip along the surface of the water but if they’re thrown from a height, they sink. How there was a “just right” size of rock that stayed true to aim, not too big and not too small it was.

I used to enjoy sitting peacefully concentrating simply on this meaningless activity.

Then someone came along and asked “You like throwing rocks?” “Me too!”. Let’s see who can throw rocks the furthest, fastest, highest, flattest. Let’s create categories so we can see who is the best at throwing big rocks, small rocks, flat rocks, round rocks. Now, there’s nothing wrong with competition, I’m no commie. It undoubtedly propels the human race to greater and loftier achievements and constantly pushes us to become better, at everything. This is good. The problem arises when the sole purpose of performing our activity becomes the competition. Suddenly, I didn’t want to throw rocks simply because I enjoyed it. I wanted to throw rocks further, higher, straighter than the next guy. The day I threw a rock further than him was a happy day. The day he hit the target more often than me, was a sad one.

I took no joy in the graceful movement of my body, the arching of my arm, using my whole body to launch the rock into space at tremendous velocity with amazing accuracy. It wasn’t good enough unless it was “better” than the next guy’s throw.

I started measuring and recording how far and how quick I threw rocks everyday. Then I posted the record on facebook next to a picture of me flexing my 16inch biceps with a smug 4 inch grin on my face. I got my record certified by the International Steel Arm (ISA) association then got T-Shirts printed that said “HarryD - ISA 2200 ceritifed”. I got 20 of those t-shirts printed and wore one every day.

Then I saw a guy wearing a T-Shirt saying “Daz – ISA 3300 certified”. This made me sad and I took refuge in alcohol. One drink lead to another. I heard someone in the pub say “That’s a shit curry”. I assumed I was the remarkee and swung out wildly in the general direction of the remarker. I connected with something soft and bloated. I had smashed my fist into a pregnant lady’s belly, who was doubled over in pain. I looked up to see bar patrons staring at me with shock and horror. “My Kitchen Rules” was playing on TV and someone’s curry was being judged by the nincompoop judges.

I didn’t like throwing rocks much after that.

So yeah, that’s all I have to say about the measurement of riding achievement

We travelled in New Zealand recently. Me, my wife Rishi, our 3 year old daughter Seher, 1 year old son Nidar and my Mum and Dad. We flew into Christchurch, hired a motorhome, drove around for the next 14 days and flew back out of Auckland. Some people (white ones mostly!) told me I was crazy. Either my parents would disown me or my wife would divorce me. Or at least somebody will get hurt real bad. 

Yeah fair enough, I understand travelling in a motorhome is vastly different to travelling in cars and hotels. There is no escape in a motorhome. You sleep together, you eat together, you drive together, you play together and then you sleep together again and again and again. There are no secrets in a motorhome. Every sound, every smell, every sight and every aspect of your life is shared amongst everyone. But as someone who grew up in India with an over-developed sense of family and an under-developed sense of entitlement and personal space, I didn't see what the big deal was. 

So we all went around New Zealand. Ate and slept and prayed and played in our 7M by 3M box for 14 days and nights. No-one died, we all survived and so did our relationships. Sure, there were a few awkward moments but all up, the little inconveniences and irritations paled before the great satisfaction of being able to share some of life's most fantastic moments with one's parents. Of course, a large part of the credit for that goes to Rishi for being a massively understanding wife and daughter-in-law. I am lucky indeed to have someone with her old school values in this new school world.

But really, I don’t know why people freak out over sharing intimate space with their parents. All it takes is a little patience, understanding and respect. A little rubbing and irritation is a small price to pay for the great, everlasting rewards. So if you're hesitant, give travelling with your parents a shot. No-one will die (unless you're the fockers or something), I promise and you will likely create memories to cherish forever, especially when your parents are gone. 

OK Harry, less talk more pics fucken!

A motorhome is a great way to travel. It really is a home on wheels. All the basic needs in life - cooking, sleeping and cleaning (yourself and your belongings), are taken care of. What else do you really NEED? We had a microwave, a 4 burner gas stove, an oven, a toaster, a kettle, dishes & crockery, a toilet and shower and 3 double beds. It was very comfortable and I dare say it’s the ideal way to travel with kids. You go at your own pace, stop wherever you want and cook some lunch or make some tea. No unpacking and packing at each stop.

Sure, it doesn’t exactly set your pulse racing with its road performance, handles like a fucking bouncy castle and gives you a new appreciation of the advisory speed signs on corners. But what it does do is give you many freedomz. More freedomz than a Hog of Harleys even.

I hate pre-booking things, preferring to just go with the flow and a campervan allows you to do that. We made no bookings for the whole trip. When we started in the morning, we didn’t know where we’d stop for lunch or spend the night. We drifted along discovering things. Stopping for naps in forests, swims in mountain streams, play in playground and lunches in alpine meadows. It was fucken fantastic.

We arrived in Christchurch in the middle of the night. Fuck cheap flights! Never travelling at odd hours with kids ever again! Anyway, we picked up the campervan, rolled around Christchurch for a bit and then hit the highway heading south. I had heard of New Zealand’s majestic scenery but the sheer grandeur of the mountains, forests, lakes and coastline far exceeded my expectations. It cannot be adequately captured in photos. 

And the roads, fucken wow! Consistently smooth and grippy surfaces, extremely well maintained, with endless corners in almost every direction. It is truly a motorcycling paradise.

What a great experience. Sharing it with the people who matter most in my life made it even more special.

I recently descended a mountain road on my Aprilia Tuono. I’ve done that thousands of times of course but this time I did something I haven’t done in a very long time. I descended the entire hill, about 15 KMs, in stealth mode. Aprilias have a secret mode known only to those lucky enough to have owned one. Yes, there are still secrets in this world unknown to Google and in a world first, I’m exposing the presence of this exclusive feature. I do this despite death threats by fanatic Aprilisti whose extreme interpretation of the Owner’s manual requires them to keep this feature a secret. But I’m encouraged by the show of support by the overwhelming majority of “moderates” in our little community too. There’s fanatics and moderates in every cult I’m told.

I joke of course. Stealth mode is as old as motorcycling itself. The very first motorcycle produced was installed with stealth mode. 

On all bikes, Stealth mode can be invoked by simply sticking it in neutral and switching off the engine while the bike is moving. Some smart manufacturers have provided value added implementations though.

On Ducatis, stealth mode can be activated by simply riding past your local café. The self-learning ECU senses it is being ridden beyond its design brief and immediately cuts ignition.

KTMs on the other hand engage stealth mode if ridden in homosexual fashion. And I don’t mean riding it from the back seat with your mouth open, I mean KTMs hate being ridden at anything other than full throttle and any pussy footing provokes the ultra-sensitive ECU to cut power to the hate capacitor. KTMs die without hate.

Jap bikes resist stealth mode like wild, unbroken horses. They just want to run and run and run till they die of exhaustion.

Anyway, Stealth mode is no secret but it’s not something riders use very often and many never use it at all. It doesn’t seem particularly exciting until you smoke some thinking smoke and really visualize it. Stealth Mode, freewheeling, coasting, whatever you want to call it, is to motorcycling what gliding is to flying. Pure, Raw and eco-friendly. No Traction Control, No ABS, No Engine.

So, recently heading down MacPass, I switched the engine off on a whim. Just for the fuck of it. What followed reminded me of the days back in uni when a group of us used to ride down mountains on our shitty, Indian made motorcycles, in the dark, with the engine and lights switched off. First one down the mountain won and stopping or switching the lights on copped an immediate disqualification and permanently destroyed your chances of getting a root with a woman of any kind. It was an extreme fucking sport. It required balls, skill, concentration, balls and a lot of fucking luck. I once nearly ran into the back of a leopard coming round a corner. Only saw him when I was 2 feet away. We both shat ourselves but I think his nuggets were bigger and more plentiful. 

The rolling hills of the NSW southern highlands are devoid of leopards, which robs them of some mystique but not having the fear of running into a leopard does have its advantages when you’re on a motorcycle. Anyway, my run down MacPass was no extreme sport. In fact, it was the opposite, calming and quite meditative. The whirr of the chain and the whoosh of the front disks scraping the brake pads were the only sounds I heard till I picked up some speed and even those little sounds were drowned by the air rushing past my ears. And I picked up some speed all right! Heading down the steep mountain, I quickly realized how many components of motorcycle dynamics I actually invoke (consciously or otherwise) while going through a single corner. I usually charge corners pretty hard, brake late and hard, dig that front wheel into the tarmac, chuck the bike on its side, maintain positive throttle while leaned over to keep the bike settled then roll on the power progressively while exiting the corner. But this no-throttle malarkey forced me to re-think my riding style. Braking late and hard was very abrupt on the chassis and I had to be ultra-sensitive while trail braking to avoid suddenly unloading the front tyre. It also lost me too much speed once the corner was over. I found braking early and progressively helped reduce speed gently and kept the bike more settled through the corner. Trail braking smoothly, deep into corners, allowed me to maximise corner speed. It was pretty bizarre at first not having the throttle to settle the bike and control speed. As motorcyclists, we rely on all our limbs and most of our digits to take a single corner at speed, the left hand feathering the clutch for quick gear changes and smooth acceleration, left foot changing gears, right foot lightly dabbing the rear brake occasionally and the right hand judiciously controlling throttle and the front brake. Compare that with free-wheeling down a mountain where you’re relying solely on 2 (or 1!) fingers of your right hand to control EVERYTHING. If you want a crash course in trail braking, try invoking stealth mode down a steep mountain road. You have no option but to be pretty damn good at it!

There is something poetic about freewheeling, it has to be said. As much as I love the booming of the big V-twin, feeling it pulse through the chassis and propel me forward urgently, there is a unique magic in descending a mountain pulled along in silence solely by gravity. A conflicted, simultaneously “whooping with joy” and “closing your eyes and smelling the pines” kind of magic.  

I plan to experience it more often.

But before you suggest I start wearing lycra, let me remind you I still want a screaming beast of an engine between my 2 wheels. For whatever comes down, must go up again and I aint pushin that muthafucka up the hill!