Learning to fly.

"Righteo then" says the Englishman with an elongated accent on the 'o' as he settles himself.

"Your throttle is on the right hand along with the front brake. Your clutch is on the left hand, now the gearing on these Enfield's are all backwards but that shouldn't matter too much to you because you don't really know what you're doing anyway". The man speaks the truth with a subtle smile and continues at his brisk pace with his accent bouncing all the way.

"What I mean by that is that the brake is actually under your left foot, while the gears are under your right foot and are upside down compared to most bikes meaning that you have to click up from neutral to go to first and then down to second, third and forth." I think most of the information is going in but it is all just words symbolizing ideas that are completely foreign but happen govern the 165 kilograms of motorbike sitting beneath me.

"As this is a single cylinder 350cc machine. There is the main neutral which you start the bike in and then a series of neutrals between each gear that you may accidentally find yourself in if you don't click it all the way into the right gear." I keep nodding through my helmet that masks most of my face but he would have to have been blind not to see the lost expression in my eyes. The Englishman stands on the bridge in front of me and speaks with a sympathetic authority. He is very familiar with this machine and speaks with the tone of someone who knows something intimately; with a friendly passion that masks their failure to comprehend how someone else could actually be intimidated by this thing. He seems almost unaware that his words are just words and that no matter how well he explains this bike that until I actually have something to associate them with they were a meaningless tornado trying to find order inside my helmet. But maybe he is aware and is just trying to instill some kind of confidence in me.

"Okay" he says again with that elongated 'o'. "Now get it into neutral by holding in the clutch, and clicking the gear pedal up as far as it will go. Now to get neutral kick it down one, but not all the way. Use your heel". I do as he says "Like that?" I ask. "I don't know." says the thick accent "You cannae see it, you kind of have to feel it". Feeling it is kind of hard when you have nothing to compare it to, I think to myself. Doubts crawl all over my mind. I haven't even started the bloody bike yet and I'm nervous. "Kick it over" instructs the Englishman and as I do it lurches under me. He smiles, not condescendingly, but kind of amused by my ignorance in the field. "Not in neutral" he says. I click around trying to 'feel' what I am looking for. I try again. Lurch. Shit. "Here, let me 'ave a go". He leans over and puts his foot on the shifter. He clicks it a couple of times and seems satisfied.

"Kick it again" he instructs "and give it a little throttle". My foot kicks down hard on the lever and the engine comes to life underneath me with a deep throaty roar. I'm one step closer but it almost makes me more unsure of what I'm doing. 'What the hell am I doing?' I think to myself as I start to sweat. I look up for more instruction but everyone seems distracted as their heads follow something going the other way on the bridge. It is a tractor. It has no front wheels at all and is kept upright by the weight of a trailer attached to the rear. 'What the hell am I doing?' I repeat to myself. I am on motorbike in the Himalayas. I have no experience, no idea, and the road is full of cows, dogs, speeding freaks and army trucks.

"Okay" starts the Englishman again with that prolonged 'o'. "Pull in the clutch, kick your gear up to first". I do as I'm told. "Now," he starts again as the smile fades and his voice becomes clear and little heavier as though they are the last words he will say to me. "Give it a bit of throttle and slowly release the clutch and you'll be off". I'm not too keen on his choice of words. 'Being off' is the last thing I want to think about as I ride a motorbike for the first time, but as I'm keen on the idea of my own survival the thought is rather present amongst the cacophony of instruction and lack of understanding.

My wrist rolls back, the noise and vibration grows underneath me. My other hand slowly releases the clutch and the sound changes. Expectant faces look at me. The bridge begins to move underneath me. I pull my other leg from the earth and it finds its place on the peg. The bridge starts to move faster, the noise grows louder and sharper from a throaty groan towards an almost pained, mechanical whine. 'Righteo', I think to myself. 'Release throttle, pull clutch, click down with right foot, disengage clutch, up the throttle'. The body manages to follow the thoughts but even though it lacks the fluidity of them, the machine does what it is told. The sound drops back to the throaty groan as the bridge ends and I embark up a hill of sketchy asphalt towards a family of cows and a shepherd.

The sound is nearing the whine again. 'Release throttle, pull clutch, click down into third, disengage clutch, up the throttle'. Yes. It responds. Blind corner approaches. As I enter the bend facing up another tractor laden with heavy looking dusty sacks and three teenage pilots with kerchiefs over their faces enters it from above. They sound their horn. I fumble for mine and turn on my indicator. The Englishman's words are still a chaotic jumble above my neck but some are settling like sediment in a bottle of red wine. Must remember the horn.

Pulling out of corner, power dieing. More throttle. It tries but the surge still backs off to a slow and threatening groan. 'Down a gear' I think. 'Release throttle, pull clutch, click up into second, disengage clutch, up the throttle'. The machine pitches right up and lurches as the sound kicks into a high surge and my speed increases further around the bend. I dodge children walking. I sweat. I blow the horn after they are behind me. I am in a village. Time to turn around I think. I pull to the side and the machine starts sputtering. I try to kick down a gear but my mind cannot grasp the sequence and as I apply the brakes the engine stalls sharply on a shelf of gravel and light brown clay.

'Righteo' I think to myself. I have ridden a motorbike for 30 seconds. I dodged some cows, a pack of laughing children and a tractor driven by adolescent bandits. Time to go back. I roll the bike back to see if I'm in neutral. Nope. Clutch in, click gear lever, roll. Still nope. Damn. Clutch in, click up and down. Feel with the heel. Roll. Yes! Kick starting lever. Bang! She comes back to life, into first. Damn this bike is heavy, good thing it has a motor. I slowly wheel her around, give her some gas and plunge back down the hill, with my finger on the horn. Whine, next gear, throttle, whine, next gear. Damn this is fast. The speedo reveals 30km per hour. Okay, it feels

Slow down, gear down, go past them and think about turning around. Brake, turn. Stall. Damn. I've completed the 180 degree turn and am now facing my audience who stand about 30 meters away all looking intently at me. 'Righteo' I think to myself, 'Find neutral'. I flick and I click and I clamber around. Failure. I flick and I click and I roll and I feel. I think I have it. A truck is heading towards me on the other side of the road as I hear something else lumber up behind me. 'I'll just wait for this to pass me' I think. But then the truck stops and the sound behind me grows louder. I turn around but I know I'm not going to like what I see. The truck cannot move around the bend because of the bus sitting behind me. The bus cannot move around me because of the truck. Sweat. Kick the starter. Bang! She starts. Click it into gear, give it plenty, - not long now until I'm out of this, I think - release clutch.

Stall. Damn.

Horns are beeping. Try again. Gotta find neutral. Click, roll, no roll. Damn. try again, click fumble. Roll. Yes. Kick starter. Bang! Up into gear. Give it heaps. Release clutch. fast. Peel around the blind corner, riding on a half faith that is aware of its own doubt. The bridge appears and so do the Englishman, his wife, my brother and my dad. I think I can see the relief in their shoulders from here.

Stall. Shit.

I look up to my audience. They stand there. I consider that my teacher is thinking that this pressure will help me learn. Horns. Bus Horns are really loud. I don't want to look around. I am sweating but try to calm myself with the idea that this is payback for all the times that I've been hassled in this country. The bus horn breaks my thought like a head of glass in a vice. Try to find neutral. Click, click, roll. Got it. Kick the starter. Bang. She's alive. Click it into gear. Third time lucky. I shut my eyes. Give it all the throttle I can. All I need is to lurch forward a meter and a half and this traffic jam is gone.

Release clutch. Stall. Fuck. I want answers. My 40 seconds of experience is strained to work out what the fuck is going on. The horns continue with greater frequency and urgency. Now everyone's angry. A hand appears in my vision and grabs the clutch so we are free to roll and with a sharp pull the Englishman yanks the dead bike out of the way.

The horns cease and the rumbling lumbers louder. I look up at the bus and its passengers look down at me from their chariot with dark judging eyes. Pair after pair of naked, black holes open up and stare down at me letting slip their scornful confusion and trying to soak up an understanding that doesn't come. Part of me moves to fade into the gravel below my feet but I just stare back kind of blankly. My mouth is hidden from them by my helmet but now the horn is removed from behind my ear the more perceptive pick up the slight, thin lipped smile in my eyes.

I take off my helmet. I exhale. I wipe the sweat from my brow and my eyes.

“Righteo?” asks the Englishman

“Righteo I reply with a relieved grin.

I think I need to let some more sediment settle.