After the heart-pounding initiation that was Chennai traffic (you read about it, right?), a much-needed coffee break a few hours outside the city found us at a roadside diner – or what passes for one. There, we met Marvin, a local who approached us with curious eyes.
“If you can ride in Delhi or Chennai, you can ride anywhere,” Marvin declared, cementing my belief that I’d just unlocked an achievement badge in extreme motorcycling.
Marvin was asking about various Royal Enfield models because his son was eyeing a Continental GT, one of the 650s. He was genuinely concerned it would be “too big and too fast” for the lad. Now, you should know that India heavily restricts imported bikes, making the locally produced 650s pretty much the biggest and fastest bikes you’ll generally encounter.
“His mother is very concerned he won’t be able to cope with the power,” Marvin told me, a worried father clearly worried about a motorcycle more powerful than a small tractor.
Born to Ride: India’s Kids of the Road
Given that Marvin’s kid grew up in a place where the standard form of transport is a two-wheeler – be it a zippy scooter or a rugged motorcycle – I seriously doubt the power will be the problem. It’s more likely to be how he uses that power.
We saw it everywhere, especially in the thick of Chennai traffic: Kids asleep in their parent’s arms while the other parent rode (in one particularly awe-inspiring instance, a child was fast asleep, being held to dad’s chest with the left arm as he navigated the chaos riding with just his right).
Kids standing on the running boards of scooters, peeking over the instruments, clinging to mirror stems, while their parents looked over the top.
Packs of kids on bicycles, confidently weaving their way to and from school.
Thousands of teenagers, absolutely charging through the traffic on their own scooters and motorcycles, embodying pure, unadulterated confidence.
If Chennai traffic is a roaring jungle, these kids are the indigenous wildlife. They understand its rhythms, they’re not afraid of its unpredictable snarls, and they accept it for the wild, thrilling ride that it is.
Me? I found it utterly exhausting. I mean, truly, deeply, existentially draining. Just watching them made my brain tired. They are the true masters of the Indian road. I was merely a visitor, perpetually clutching the handlebars, praying for a clear path.
But the country itself… that’s a different story. In the next post, we’ll talk about what it’s like once you break free from the urban concrete jungle.
