u/Darkseid_Kaze

In a couple of days, Kaze turns two.

Kaze is the Japanese word for wind. Written with the kanji 風, it refers to air in motion, a breeze, or the natural flow of the wind. Beyond its literal meaning, it's often used to symbolise freedom, energy and movement.

I'll admit, she almost had a very different name.

Kandy.

Then I said it out loud a few times and realised it sounded less like an adventure motorcycle and more like a dancer's stage name. That idea was abandoned fairly quickly.
Around the same time, I was playing Ghost of Tsushima. Kaze was the name of Jin Sakai's horse, and something about that name stayed with me. I don't think I could've chosen a better one.

Looking back, I don't think I've ever owned a motorcycle. I think every motorcycle owned a version of me. They taught me something:

• Apache RTR 180 taught me how to fall. More importantly, it taught me how to get back up. There were countless scraped elbows, bruised knees, and one concussion that permanently changed how I looked at helmets. That's where I learnt that half-face helmets belong on scooters, not motorcycles.
• FZ 16 taught me something far more exciting. It was the first bike that gave me the confidence to lean into corners, understand body positioning, and eventually scrape the footpegs on the tarmac. The first scrape wasn't intentional, but it put the biggest grin on my face.
• Thunderbird 350 taught me to slow down. There was something calming about that unmistakable thump and relaxed cruising. But riding a motorcycle with Uttar Pradesh registration plates in Maharashtra was never psychologically comfortable. Whether the concern was justified or not, it was always there in the back of my mind.
• The Himalayan 411 was the adventurer. It was fun, capable and took me places. But it also taught me patience. There were too many quirks, too many service centre visits and too many moments wondering if something else would need fixing next.

Then came Kaze. She quickly became my playground.

Every ride taught me something, and every lesson somehow turned into another upgrade. Sometimes it made sense. Sometimes it was curiosity. Sometimes it was me convincing myself, "This will be the last modification." It never was.
Looking back, I've changed more parts than I care to admit. Some upgrades were brilliant. Some taught me expensive lessons. If there's one thing I'd do differently, it would be the auxiliary lights. I spent far too much time and money trying different setups before realising I should've simply bought one good pair from the start.

But that's part of the journey too. You don't just build a motorcycle. Somewhere along the way, the motorcycle builds you.

People who don't ride will probably never understand it. And honestly, I don't expect them to. From the outside, it's a depreciating asset. It's risky. It's expensive. Every now and then, someone tells me I should've invested the money instead.

They're not wrong.

But they also don't know what it's like to leave the city before sunrise, with nothing but the sound of the engine and the tyres rolling over the tarmac. To feel the air get cooler as you climb into the hills. To stop at a random tapri where the chai somehow tastes better after a couple of hours in the saddle. Coffee? Never. Tapris make terrible coffee. And then, before you know it, you're twenty minutes into a conversation with a complete stranger, simply because you both happened to arrive on motorcycles. That quiet nod another rider gives you at a traffic signal. The satisfaction of looking back at your bike every time you park it.

No financial model knows how to value those moments. Maybe that's why they're priceless.

I remember riding back from Lonavala in pouring rain, with a completely soaked thermostat, bargain-bin knee guards that barely deserved the name, Orazo boots that had no business calling themselves riding boots, and socks that stayed wet for the rest of the day. At the time, I questioned every life decision that brought me there. Today, I'd happily do it all over again.

I remember the crash on the way to Ratnagiri. Standing there, looking at Kaze, I was grateful that I'd spent money on proper riding gear instead of convincing myself it was "too expensive." The crash guards and hand guards did exactly what they were bought for. They took the hit so I didn't have to.

My helmet had a deep scrape across it. I remember looking at it afterwards and realising that my head had hit the road hard enough to leave that mark, yet I hadn't felt a thing.

The people who stopped to help me kept saying, "God saved you." I appreciated their concern, but I saw it differently.
The helmet saved me.
The jacket saved me.
The pants saved me. 
The gloves, the boots, the crash guards, the hand guards... they all did exactly what they were engineered to do.

Luck may decide whether an accident happens. Preparation decides how you walk away from it. That day didn't make me believe riding was dangerous; it reinforced my belief that there's no such thing as riding gear that's "too expensive."

I remember learning something new after almost every ride. Those are the returns I've been getting on this investment.

The last five months haven't been kind to Kaze. She's mostly been a commuter. Office. Home. Office. Home.

Life has been busy. Work. Wedding planning. Studies. Responsibilities. That's okay. Some seasons are meant for building a life rather than chasing horizons.

But I refuse to believe that's all she'll become.

There are still breakfasts waiting in Lonavala. Still roads I've pinned on Google Maps. There's a ride plan a friend made for me. He told me, "That ride will complete you as a rider. Even the Himalayas are overrated compared to it." I don't know if he's right. But I do know that one day, I'll find out. 

Route plan for reference - https://maps.app.goo.gl/54tMJ2cQGXPkSzCSA

There are still weekends where the alarm goes off at 3:00 a.m., and every sensible part of my brain asks, "Why?" My answer is always the same. "Because".

Then I start gearing up. The engine starts. And the answer comes naturally.

People often ask me why I'm so obsessed with this motorcycle. The answer is actually quite simple. I am not trying to build the most expensive KTM Adventure 390. I am building my KTM Adventure 390. There's a difference.  

The funny part is, I'm not broke. I'm just high-class broque. Every spare rupee somehow finds its way back into the motorcycle. Not because it needs it. Because I enjoy making it better.

Because one day, I'll look back and I won't remember the invoices.

I'll remember the roads.
The people.
The conversations.
The mistakes.
The rides that started at four in the morning.
The rides that got cancelled halfway because of the rain.
The rides where everything went according to plan. And the ones that didn't.

One day there'll be a ride that I won't know is my last. I hope that day comes much later.

Until that day arrives... 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.