Obtuse CLS

I stand and stare. Like on few occasions before words, appropriate and perfect, just drop into my head. The CLS is not just a Mercedes. It is the Mercedes. The S Class, the C Class even the mighty Maybach are rendered ineffective by the raunchy sweep of the lines that grace the CLS. I wont even bother with the capitalism backed corporate wealth funded E-Class. If you’re driving a Mercedes it means you’re driving the “others”. If you’re driving the CLS, you’re driving the CLS. None of the others are even a patch on the sheer dynamism that this car conveys. I don’t even want to call it that, and will forgive myself for using the cliché, but every millimetre of its taut, contoured metal skin is a perfect part of a perfect “metal sculpture”.
The CLS envelopes itself in this stillness, a paradoxical madness and an ethereal silence surrounds it. The designers in Stuttgart seemed to think the same, and apparently put on suction cups and a winch to pull out the flanks just to make the CLS broader, more menacing and even more brooding. There is little that is subtle about the CLS. But, no one is likely to fault you for owning one.
I am alone when I am talking, communicating really, with the CLS. It glowers at me, threatening me, for no particular reason. Just the same way the CLS came about, for no obvious reason. There’s no obvious reason why the headlamp is in that shape. There is no obvious reason why a Mercedes would want to gamble creating a coupe silhoutte with four doors. The same way there’s no single obvious reason why anyone would buy the CLS. The CLS even seduces me at my core, reasoning with me, telling me how it’s a steal at 85 lakhs when the same engined SL 500 is 1.5 crore. I know that there is a lust that you have for your wallpaper cars, but this is different. I want this CLS so bad that I can’t stop thinking about how it is within my grasp. The CLS is the new SL. And I want it.

I don’t think my words do justice to it. Seeing is believing.

Shamed

The question, “So what do you drive/ride these days?”, inevitably crops up whenever folk seduced by the automotive world so much so as finish uttering the requisite pleasantries. And why not? A person’s choice of automobile and colour tells a lot about him/her. The answer can foster or fester relationships. Quickly veiled smirks, diplomatic “oohs” and “hmms” are often needed to defuse the situation. "You love your lemon brand vehicle?", i quiz straight faced. "Oh because it returns gaziliion kilometres to the litre?" “Ooh, not bad!” and "it takes you from 0-60 in 2.936 seconds??" After which I candidly admit, "I must be wrong in my opinion”

Every dog has its day. And as of now the shoe is firmly laced on to the other foot, or feet. Because of which I’m pretty sore all over. It’s been raining shoes on my person. Since shifting to Mumbai I have taken hammering after hammering and then some more. As a new face and a guru-type designation that suggests hardcore auto-industry wallah necessitates that The Question rain down on me. And it happens fairly frequently. Ouch.

Once credentials are established people promptly ask, “So what is it that you drive/ride?” and are ready to use my answers as a touchstone for their own auto-knowledge by following that up with, “Really? What average does it give? What’s it really like?” and so on. The first question is enough to turn the tips of my ears a deep shade of crimson. I vaguely mumble, “ Nzzzing Rileay”, while pretending to check an sms on my flip-phone. “What?”, asks my assailant once more; not really sure whether to trust his hearing or in plain disbelief. More coherently I say, “Nothing really..” From thereon the spark of respectful admiration that had featured in my interrogator’s eyes is extinguished in a blink. A whiff of ice shimmers there instead as they coldly ask me, “Really?”

My coolness quotient is busily chattering in the sub-zero levels it has been subjected to as I feebly try to make my case. Mumbai rains, the lack of any new exciting motorcycles, the need to asssimilate necessary financial resources, the beauty and precision of the Mumbai transport system are blurted out in one endless sentence. Sense, I don’t know whether I make any. I’m frozen stiff with fear. It’s so cold that I feel like I’m searing all over. Fires of hell need not be on the positive side of the temperature scale. By now I know zero Kelvin, really well.

Thus, distraught with (undeserved) shame I just hope and pray that (Hero)Honda launch some thing quick and good. Fast. I’m willing to spend all my cash, take as many loans necessary, just to be able to say that "I don’t depend on public transport". Thereby proving to all the doubting Thomas’ that just because I didn’t balance myself on two wheels to work everyday in the past, or manage to showcase my skill of perfect clutch release along with slick gearshifts in the maddening Mumbaiya traffic didn’t imply that I don’t know how to. But, the problem is I’m still bussing it to work. I frequently throw my face up to the skies and mutter, “Dear God, please help the Japs launch something worthwhile, soon!!” But the Gods are busy elsewhere and things are not likely to change until Diwali. Even my skin’s not thick enough to last till then...

Have mercy, I have learnt my lesson well!!

Time’s running out

A person who thinks a lot and a thinker are poles apart. A thinker would whittle down a thought to its core and string its chaff together to reason. I clumsily jump from the perch of a hap hewn thought onto the next toe hold offered. A whirlwind of outcomes, possibilities and eventualities twinkle, flash and blaze before me, some gently, others urgently. Like a blanket of stars in the darkness of the sky, they lure me. More often than not it is my fears and dreams. Some shine bright, some fade away. Good and bad.

Right now, I have a big fear. A very big fear. People have dedicated decades of their lives to get an opportunity to drive the latest and the best automobiles in the world. I mean, sure, this is pure sin; drive the best of everything and then nitpick about the colour of the door release lever? I think, Jeremy Clarkson, the Sultan of Brunei and a few others have had the opportunity to do so with complete flippancy. It’s not that I want to nitpick; I want to drive –the fastest, the meanest, the cheapest, the wildest, the most outrageous, the indescribable and the pathetic. One by one. But it seems that time is running out, for us developing world folk.

The embodiment of the Jekyll and the Hyde of the auto world – the Bugatti Veyron displays its viciousness to a select few, with hair-raising results. Ultimately obscene.

The great minds that introduced people to the seductive world of oil in all its forms were the very same ones that began counting down to the day the world would come to a grinding halt, crippled by the complete depletion of global reserves. And the time is nigh… There’s no way of escaping the inevitable, is there?

F1 has been the apex of the automotive pyramid, showcasing and developing the future of the automobile. The excess of this mobile laboratory is not being taken in a favourable light and is soon to be the forefront of economical development. Mad Max Mosley is already talking a new tune something about fuel efficient engines. Curse him, abuse him, picket his house for taming a hideously insane sport. Sensibilities be damned, 700PS and 600kgs does not make any bloody sense in the “real world” but makes perfect sense in my world! There’s enough fuel left for year 2200 and it’ll be a million dollars to the litre, so what?

But there’s no way out of it, as estimated world fuel reserves are depleted at an exponential rate things will have to change. Thanks to, in no small measure, the jerks that drive around all day in second gear and later don the garb of the almighty powerful, ominous “public sentiment” that roars at every upward spurt in the Rs/litre figure. Fix the leak in your house before you fix the world.

Public opinion managed to chase fags out of sports, and it could just drive excesses out of automobiles, all automobiles.

And ten years later when I walk up to a proper, lithe, heinous, insane experimental car… a car that the logical, sane world has forbid, blind sided... the one that’ll look me in the eye and dare me to get in; and all I’ll be able to afford is a solitary litre of 98 octane to quench my life long desire.....

She's a...

... vegetable...!!?? That's what I am saying, but, that's not what she is. Babycorn, at that. I'll explain.
I have a habit of naming my bikes. My bike, the CBZ was called Natalia. The name was meant for Shalu didi's third daughter. If she ever had one. I whacked it, anyways. I figured that after spawning Nikita and a Natasha she could make do with giving her third daughter a less exotic and non-Russian sounding name.
Good Mornings roll off my tongue a lot easier, good night kisses seem, umm, normal. I mean it is not quite the same kissing your "CBZ" good night. For that matter, imagine saying, " Good Morning CBZ!!" or "Hello CBZ" or "Bye bye CBZ". Yeeeks, its downright disgusting.
After a long time I have another bike that has been pressed into my service - you all well know - the Unicorn. I had another bike before this, Tagu's Pulsar180. I did not name "that", with good reason. First of all, it's not a she, it's a he. "Definitely Male". Yeargh. "Good night Arnold", " Good Morning Arnold!!" or "Hello Arnold" or "Bye bye Arnold", “coochie coo Arnold. I might as well start having black beer for breakfast and liver for lunch if I have to live with that. Other than that she already had a master and undoubtedly a name. Or atleast he should have given her one. So, if I gave her a name she'd end up being one confused bike.
Names do have a impact on the bikes character. The Big Man named one of his bikes "bitch". Bitch with a "b". Not "a bitch". Not "the bitch". Not even "Bitch". She was bitch. And that's what she was. Temperamental, exciting and extremely moody. .. and very bitchy. The story goes thus - she apparently threw The Big Man out of the saddle a day after he decided to let her go for a certain sum of currency. Woof! No wonder naming is such a important ritual.
The name for the Unicorn just came - Baby - (Uni)corn.. hehehe *sheepish grin*... But, it happens to match her personality well. Crisp, tasteless and completely delectable. Truth be told, Babycorn, is a vegetable. Do what you will, she'll never complain or groan. Emotionless, painless, numb just carries on with it. So I'll just count myself as one of the fortunate few since i'm crazy about Babycorns.

There's many a slip...

Just got home from the garage. It is a ride that normally takes me little more than 25 minutes. Today it took me something around a hour and a half. The Unicorn died mid way. At first I refused to heed the signs that she was going to do exactly that. So I doggedly rode on believing that the trouble would disappear if I ignored it long enough. I think there is a Murphy's Law to that effect, wait till I clue him in with my right fist.
More than 2 kilometres from ground zero I was left to fend for myself, and the Unicorn. So I began pushing my way forward with god-awful grunting and puffing sounds towards home. There was nowhere I could get it fixed at that time. It was 9:15 at night(or there abouts), the closest service centre was a zillion huff-puffs away. "Service centre!", bellowed T's Spanner Wielding Ego! "What kind of automotive journalist are you? or ex-garage boy? or technology buff??", continued he.
There was a point in all that. I may be a bit rusty, but what the heck, I could do the basic checks. No point, being one of the sheep and heading straight to the slaughter house, "Bhaiya, gaadi band pad gayi... dekhiye na..." After parking under one of the few sodium vapour street lamps I set about looking for things amiss in the eerie orange glow . Fuel, electricals, fuel supply , oho, the bloody carb and such .. but all to no avail. I was beginning to get panicky by a fair measure (because I couldn't figure it out) and angrier still.
I finally invoked my Gurus for advice; praying for salvation. The Big Man was unavailable, but The Wily One picked up on the third ring. He quickly rattled off some more checks for me to conduct. They did'nt manage to get the engine to do anything more than a weak idle. Sigh, I relegated my minutes to carrying on the huffing puffing progress homeward. Wily One, sagely relegated his usually beautiful Sunday morning to fixing another bike!
Just as I was rolling in to our building (the path slopes downwards) The Big Man called.
He rattled of an echo of Wily Man's checklist and then one more - "Whack the carburettor bowl twice." Woah! This is no washing machine that you kick and it springs to life!, I thought. But without protest I followed his instructions with adequate firmness and diligence.
There, when I finally made it to the parking lot of my building, when I was well and tryuly home, the engine burst into life. Sigh.. there surely is a Murphy's Law for this. Apparently the muck that was lodged in the carb, the very same one I could not drain out of the float bowl or force out with full revs and choke, just fell out of the jets (back into the bowl - anyhow) with the whacks. Neato...
For all the theoretical knowledge and pinhead thoughts, there's nothing that beats hands on experience. Getting down and dirty is the only way to getting around.

"All occupations are lowly; only book-learning is exalted", but "A book is quite a beautiful thing, even more so learning. Together, however, all they amount to is called book-learning."

Hmm...

Three's Company

Max Mosley rocked the F1 boat during winter, tipping many rituals overboard. The results are here for everyone to see. Intense racing, up and down the order, blazed in Bahrain. Renault and Fernando Alonso scuppered resurgent Ferrari and Michael Schumacher’s long awaited return to the top step. McLaren were not far behind.(you get it! it's my race report. dont read any further. I just had to have it this way)

Calm, composed and confident. These are hardly the qualities that can be attributed to, if at all, any, team boss for 2006. Max Mosley’s F1 overhaul has added the spice that a 300km/h+ sport deserves. At Manama in Bahrain, 2005 World Champion Fernando Alonso swung into business, taking victory from the clutches of a once-more dominant Scuderia Ferrari. For the spoils, Alonso battled wheel to wheel with the exhaustive, breath-taking force of Michael Schumacher on his comeback drive. Alonso expressed his pleasure, “This was a good, fighting win”, admitting, “I think the competition is a little bit closer than we thought overall, but this is the perfect start for the season.” Meanwhile, Kimi Raikkonen deftly strung together the pieces of McLaren’s shambles to lace up third place, a scintillating drive from dead last. The 22^nd position on the grid was earmarked for him as the rear right lower wishbone failure during qualifying flushed plans of running even a single competitive lap down the drain.
The Bahrain GP emphatically unveiled the mystery surrounding the teams’ progress since 2005. Winter testing of the new 2.4litre V8 powered cars failed to throw up a clear car-driver combination that looked set to dominate the 2006 season. Honda, Renault, McLaren looked the business. Ferrari remained tight-lipped as ever about expectations for the year to come and went about clocking the kilometres relentlessly. Who had the edge over who was elucidated only once the restyled three part qualifying session in Bahrain was through. Ferrari’s 2006 contender the 248, looked like it had the bit firmly between the teeth. Ferrari race-seat fresher Felipe Massa in the second Ferrari looked every bit as fast as the Michael and then some more.

But, it was Michael who stormed to pole tweaking the 248 settings all the way through. Felipe sprinted in just 1/10^th of a eye blink behind. Actually it was 0.047th of a second. Honda’s V8 power pack propelled team mates Jenson Button and former Ferrari driver Rubens Barrichello to a very respectable third and sixth respectively. World Champion Fernando Alonso’s Renault ran without a glitch to take fourth, but Giancarlo Fisichella’s Renault suffered sudden power loss and limped to ninth. Juan Pablo Montoya was the sole hope for Team McLaren. He started in fifth even as Kimi Raikkonen was lined up twenty-second and dead last. Another nail in McLaren’s 2006 title hope coffin seemed to have been hammered into place a little early. Cosworth engines did little harm to Williams, evident in Mark Webbers seventh place on the grid. Christian Klien outpaced veteran team mate David Coulthard and brought the Red Bull RB02 in eighth.
On Sunday, Alonso showed that the Renaults quick start genealogy had been retained even in the R26. Alonso swept past Massa’s Ferrari and into second with Michael firmly in his sights. Much to Button’s chagrin, Juan Pablo also moved up a spot to fourth thanks to the slow starting Hondas. At the tail-end Kimi Raikkonen launched his recovery drive from the word go and moved up the leaderboard rapidly.
Meanwhile, Massa was adamant on getting his position back from Alonso. The Brazilian tried to out-brake Alonso into the first corner on lap six, only to have his rear Bridgestones lock up. Massa’s spinning Ferrari, almost collected Fernando’s prow on it’s way into the run-off area. Thus, Massa headed to the pits for an emergency pit stop to switch his flat-spotted tyres. Reminiscent of the pathetic pit-stop fate shared by his predecessor, Massa’s the rear left wheel refused to come off due to a determinedly lodged wheel nut. Over a minute stationary in the pits ensured ignominy for Massa for the rest of the race.
Jenson Button scrambled all over Montoya’s diffuser trying to make up lost ground. Button held the inside line going into turn 1 and the advantage of slipstream. He out-braked the McLaren with surgical precision and started to pull clear. After the first round of pit-stops completed, everyone had pitted at least once; while some (like Sato) as many as four times! All, except for Kimi Raikkonen’s mirror-finished McLaren. The odds of going till half distance without a pit-stop in the 57 lap race were stacked against the Finn. But the ‘Iceman’ went on hacking away to third place behind Michael and Alonso. Meanwhile, newcomers, Suzuki Aguri suffered an embarrassing trial-by-fire pit-stop sequence where both cars came in at the same time and a subsequent retirement of Yuji Ide. Another newcomer – Nico Rosberg charged to turn his torrid race into a worthy debut. He picked his way up the order after his spin on lap 1 to reach eleventh by mid way.
Defying norms and all expectations, Raikkonen took his Mobil sipping McLaren past the half way point, pitting on lap 30! Brimmed to the gills with 11 seconds of fuel the McLaren sloshed back on to the track in fifth, behind Mark Webber’s Williams.
Meanwhile Alonso was within a second of Michael before taking the pit stop on lap 36. This offered Fernando a chance to negate Michael’s earlier half second gap and build a cushion of his own with a few quick laps. The intensity of Alonso’s blinding laps was dimmed by the traffic train he had to encounter. Rejuvenated with four fresh Michelins and some of Elf’s premium blend Alonso charged out of the pit-lane right into Michael Schumacher’s line for the first corner of lap 40. Alonso judged his margin by the millimetre deliberately ran wide, and forced the Ferrari wide. With Michael filling up his rear-view mirror, Alonso reeled off personal fastest laps to keep Herr Schumacher at bay.
Thereafter, the wily Spaniard held his lead with confidence and took the chequered flag with a 1.2 second margin. Though, Michael wasn’t disappointed with second, “If someone would have told us during the winter months that this is the way we would have finished the first race of the season, I wouldn't have believed them. Today we must be really pleased with the result”, insists Michael. Behind the lead duo, Raikkonen popped up into third once again as Montoya and Webber headed for their second and final pit stops. The Finn’s steely drive saw him fend off the charge from Honda’s Jenson Button, less than a second separating the duo at the finish. The Finn muttered a sigh of relief, “We didn't know where we were after testing and everyone had been saying that we were struggling.” but the result “proves that we are competitive and if not for yesterday we could have been even better."
Juan Pablo made it two McLarens in the points and on par with the Renault. Fisichella’s Renault suffered a hydraulics failure, thus, retired at two-thirds race distance. There was jubilation in the Williams garages. Mark Webber and Nico Rosberg finished in the points, sixth and seventh, respectively. Nico’s Rosberg heritage shone through, as he rammed home the fastest lap of the race! That too on his debut! Dieter Mateschitz’s Red Bull franchise offered early returns in the season as Christian Klien finished eighth. Felipe Massa, ruing his debut, finished just outside the points in ninth.
It’s been a explosive start to a season that promises to only get louder, rougher and faster. The Red Bulls, BMWs, Toyotas and Midlands seem to be packed in much closer than ever. The Ferraris, Renaults and McLarens will be kept company by Hondas and Williams? It’s a level playing field, more or less; and the speedsters have never been more motivated to seize the opportunity. It’s going to be a heavy rubber smoking year!

Hooked

I would like to share a thought. It stems from the very name of the blog – The Outside Line. If thought be applied, with a modicum of reason, the name could seem to be a error. After all, wouldn’t “The Inside Line” be more appropriate? A person in my position is more likely to have the inside stuff? The real deal? Well, it would and it should be that.

But, the beady glassiness in my eyes shadows every flick of my gaze and every thought. I can’t blink or rub it out of my eyes. As the veil casts itself, I am transported away from every prod of the throttle, turn of the wheel. The knowledge that there is a purpose to be served from this, a benefit to be gained, more so self gratification and megalomanic thoughts choke the joy of driving or riding.

Driving was meant to be a pointless exercise. An opportunity to lose yourself in the companionability of the road and the passing kilometres. Time willing, the machine unfolds its best only as you turn your attention to it. And with passing time you hesitantly part with subtle thanks for the joy you have found in the companionship. Slow pats of the bonnet, kisses planted on the tank or even a caress of the flanks never seemed inappropriate for my silent companions.

Ulterior motives, ego tussles, deft jabs from glib tongues, childish fingers poking and pointing have scarred it all; I sold it all for self-serving purposes. Now, I wince and turn away just as an amateur lady of the evening. She closes her eyes, thinking what she will behind her closed eyes.

This is my Outside. From here I view my pathetic attempts at communicating what “they” have to offer. From up there I keep reminding myself to be true atleast to myself. Welcome to the Outside.