The Enfield Bullet: Swagger Forged in Grit

Of thunderous kicks, upturned moustaches, and the character behind the swagger

Amit Kumar, doctor, soldier and author, expresses the importance of the old Enfield Bullet in India:

What a profoundly impressive thing is the so-called Royal Enfield Bullet! Isn't it? The name itself shoots so many rounds of adrenaline and endorphins through you that even the thought of riding one is sufficient to give you goosebumps. Its majestic appearance, the kick-start, and especially that definitive kick culminating in the unmistakable dud-dud-dud-dud are enough to announce that something extraordinary has arrived. Needless to say, for its admirers, the aura of the Bullet overshadows almost every other brand of two-wheeler. 

But what exactly makes this machine so impressive? 

Is it its appearance and imposing personality, its sound, or something that cannot be explained through the language of engineering? Perhaps it is a combination of all these things. 

Imagine a handsome young man sitting proudly on his Bullet, looking into those two impressive front mirrors and giving his moustache a sharp upward twist. His dark sunglasses, neatly combed hair and confident posture complete a picture that could give any film hero a run for his money. 

Circa 1986 Enfield India ad for its majestic Bullet.

And then comes the machine itself. That magnificent body, its contours almost resembling muscular human anatomy, the rounded petrol tank sitting prominently in the upper middle, the leather seat and the thunderous silencer. What an extraordinary combination! (The picture, however, seems incomplete without a beautiful young woman sitting behind him as the pillion rider, her hair dancing in the wind.)

A complete package, almost an AK-47 on two wheels! And the resemblance, at least in my imagination, does not end with its imposing appearance. When the Bullet accelerates in a controlled manner, its measured, rhythmic dud-dud-dud-dud reminds me of the restrained, deliberate character of an AK-47 in its single-fire mode. But when the Beast surges forward with greater intensity, its thunderous rhythm seems almost reminiscent of automatic fire.*

Now imagine the entire combination moving majestically down a road. Could a Range Rover, an open Jeep or even a Harley-Davidson compete with such an appearance? Perhaps in horsepower, technology, comfort or price. But in sheer old-world swagger, the Bullet could give any of them serious competition.

Riding a Bullet was never merely about travelling from one place to another. One did not simply arrive on a Bullet. One announced one's arrival.

I remember my college days in Patiala. Bullets and Bullets everywhere! Inside the hostel premises, handsome, tall Khalsa studs riding their Bullets; outside, on the roads leading towards the market, the thunderous sounds of Bullets reverberating almost everywhere. Our seniors would enter the hostel premises on their Bullets while we were exiting towards the other block. As they negotiated the upward-sloping cemented ramp leading to the hostel entrance, they would invariably give the accelerator an extra twist, amplifying the pitch and intensity of that unmistakable dud-dud-dud-dud. That legendary entrance into the hostel den was nothing short of a deadly announcement of the Beast's arrival.

But I strongly believe that the rider was not merely enjoying and displaying his swagger for others to admire. He was himself experiencing something equally fascinating. That rhythmic dud-dud-dud-dud was perhaps a form of mind therapy, a sound that could lift his spirits, soothe his mind and fill him with an inexplicable sense of satisfaction. The Bullet was not merely announcing its arrival to the world. It was also speaking to the man riding it.

The Bullet was not everyone's cup of tea. And you may certainly count me among them. For me, riding that Beast was something I had to earn. It took almost ten years of dedicated gym training, during which I gradually transformed myself from a lean 57 kg youngster into a 75 kg man. Perhaps my fascination with the Bullet was never confined to its majestic appearance, thunderous sound or masculine swagger. My own physical transformation had taught me the importance of hard work, resilience, grit and discipline. And somewhere along the way, I began associating these qualities with the confidence and swagger of a Bullet rider.

But in my real imagination, the real swagger was never about false bravado. It was about confidence earned through perseverance.

I did eventually ride the Bullet, though only on a few occasions, borrowing it from my friends. I never owned one. But those few rides were enough to experience something I had admired for years. And perhaps one does not necessarily have to live an experience oneself to admire it or pen it down. Sometimes, a story of admiration can be written simply by watching from a distance. Perhaps the Bullet had not changed. But the man aspiring to ride it certainly had.

The kick-start itself was a performance. Unlike modern motorcycles, where the gentle press of a button brings the engine to life, the old Bullet demanded a certain physical effort, confidence and familiarity with the machine. And what if the first kick failed? Well, the rider would try again, sometimes under the amused gaze of those watching him. There was no guarantee that the machine would cooperate merely because its owner wished it to. Perhaps that was part of its charm.

Riding one announced a swagger that was part vanity, part armor. In an era when personal style often communicated more than words, the upturned moustache, dark sunglasses, polished shoes and the unmistakable Bullet became symbols of a man's presence.

The Bullet was not merely ridden; it was experienced. Even today, when motorcycles have become technologically more sophisticated, the old Bullet continues to evoke a special nostalgia. But nostalgia rarely concerns itself with specifications. It remembers the sounds, the people, the moments and, above all, the feeling that followed. For me, the Bullet represents an attitude towards life, a certain confidence and an unmistakable swagger.

I remember telling my wife about a dream in which my favorite God, Bajrang Bali, had descended to Earth on a mission. I asked her, "Considering his charismatic personality, can you imagine which vehicle he would be riding?"

Without a second thought, the only words that came to her lips were, "Royal Enfield Bullet!"

I couldn't have agreed more. Interestingly, even Bollywood seemed to share that imagination. In "OMG – Oh My God!", Akshay Kumar, portraying Lord Krishna, rode a specially customized Royal Enfield-based chopper. Perhaps the association between divine charisma and a majestic motorcycle was not entirely confined to my imagination!

But beyond all that swagger, I have always believed that confidence should be supported by character. And when honesty, empathy, discipline and the courage to stand up for what is right become second nature, they strengthen not merely individuals, but the character of a nation. And somewhere, on an old street, I can still imagine that handsome young man giving his moustache one final upward twist, glancing into those two mirrors and preparing to ride away.

One definitive kick.

Dud-dud-dud-dud.

The machine comes alive. The young man rides away. And the swagger remains. Because a Bullet may announce one's arrival, but it is character that determines one's worth.

*Author's Note: The comparison between the Royal Enfield Bullet and the AK-47 is purely metaphorical, reflecting the author's personal imagination and admiration for the motorcycle's distinctive character and sound.

Doctor and Lt. Col. Amit Kumar.

Amit Kumar is an Indian medical professional, author and armed forces medical officer.

He is the author of two books, "Purely in Love with My Uniform — A Transformation in My Life" (published by The Notion Press) and "Autism and Me — A Journey of Discovery and Growth"  presently available on Amazon, but the same script has been approved by The National Book Trust of India and is in its final stages of publication by them also).

His essays and opinion pieces have appeared in The Tribune, Daily Excelsior, Raksha Samachar, The Indian Hawk and The Good Men Project, among other publications. His writing explores military life, personal courage, fatherhood, disability, resilience and the human experiences that shape ordinary lives.

Who's that girl? Why we want to know

Who's that girl on the Royal Enfield?

 A Reddit post in India recently attracted a lot of ridicule. It was a post from a college student, writing admiringly of the motorcycling skills of a woman he regularly sees on a Royal Enfield Hunter 350. 

Here's a bit of what he posted: 

"Almost every weekday morning, while rushing to college, I end up seeing a girl on a Royal Enfield Hunter riding along the same route. 

"First of all, massive respect. You’re genuinely one of the smoothest riders I’ve seen on Bangalore roads. Your lane discipline, confidence, and control are seriously impressive. There have been days when even experienced riders would struggle to keep up with your pace through traffic. 

"I’ve thought about saying hi a few times, but you’re clearly on your commute and always seem to be in a hurry. Plus, stopping someone mid-ride or at a signal feels awkward and intrusive, so I never did. 

"On the tiny chance you’re on Reddit and this sounds like you: hi! I’m the guy who probably ends up somewhere behind you most mornings on the same route."

Readers laughed at the writer for being either ridiculously shy, or a stalker. Just maybe, they suggested, he was more interested in her appearance than her riding skill.

One comment regretted that there is no emoji insulting enough to apply to the original writer.

Personally, I think he was wise to keep his distance. There's no way to meet gracefully in traffic, and following her to her destination is absolutely out.

But as for admiring from afar? I think that is just the way we are built.

A man who knew something about the importance of happiness once advised me to "look at the pretty girls." He meant that people are intended to be joyful.

But there are limits. One comment asked why the original writer would be surprised that a woman is a skilled motorcyclist. Fair point. Except I don't think that is the case he is making.

Women motorcyclists, aviators, and athletes will always attract attention. There are men who do these things just as well or better. Is that equal?

Yes, it is. On the other side of the coin, women who ride (or drive) poorly typically are criticized MORE than men who ride just as badly.

The difference is that we are paying special attention to women. That's the issue.

It has come up for me because, here on this blog, I have done a number of items that ask, in effect, "Who's that girl?" Obviously, this betrays a special interest on my part.

Here's a partial list. Have I gone too far"

Who was the girl in the Royal Enfield ads? — A pretty girl appears in a series of patriotic wartime advertisements. I think I know who she was.

Wren on a motorcycle — The name of the young dispatch rider for the Admiralty was a military secret. Now we know her.

The Lady on the Lawn and Royal Enfield — Posing to advertise the 1931 Royal Enfields.

Racy Royal Enfield poster sold speed — A fast motorcycle with a young woman riding pillion, and she's not the least afraid.

More racy Royal Enfield artwork from 1930 — Now we know the name of the artist. But who was that woman?

The girl who launched a Royal Enfield — I got to meet the woman whose swimsuit pose on a Royal Enfield Interceptor inspired the Interceptor of today.

A Wild Irish Girl on a motorcycle — She's fictional, but certainly the definitive image of the damsel in flight on two wheels.

The sexy 'Avengers' motorcycle a rare Royal Enfield? — Actress Honor Blackman, in leathers, astride an unusual Royal Enfield.

One woman's story of riding for Britain in World War II — She told the BBC her story, but her daughter found the part they left out.

Girl in Royal Enfield ad revealed more than she knew — What was behind the young woman in short shorts draped across a Royal Enfield Interceptor?

Now we know the name of the Royal Enfield Girl — The woman in that Interceptor ad.

Gasoline gypsy Peggy Iris Thomas took A ride in the Sun — Applying lipstick in the rearview mirror of a motorcycle was always bound to attract attention.

Can you help him find a Flying Flea for his mother? — She rode one to high school; now a son wanted to make a memory come alive. I don't know if he ever succeeded.

She rides a Royal Enfield fit for Tank Girl — Seeking the Royal Enfield rider who goes by "Tank Girl."

Happy Valentines from the Enfield Girl — She's not just a cartoon. She was a real woman, painted by a noted artist who specialized in "calendar girls."

You always forget the simplest thing

You won't get far if you forget to turn on the tap.

 Back when I was a commuter, putting on 250 miles a week on my Royal Enfield Bullet, I figured that familiarity was my biggest enemy. 

The expectation that every ride would be the same would get me, I figured. There'd be a new pothole in the road, or the Bullet would think of some new mechanical quirk that would throw me off. 

Now that I'm retired, and ride only for leisure, complacency seems less of a threat. In fact, the problem that looms on every ride now is a lack of routine. 

The little things that used to be instinctive are now intrusive. 

For instance, I notice that I am counter steering in turns. Don't notice it! Just do it. It's the natural thing; it shouldn't be a distraction.

Why do I suddenly have to remember to keep pulling the Bullet's gearshift until the next gear is assuredly in place and the throttle coming on? One false neutral after another!

Is it some new discovery to me that the clutch lever is the way to control speed in a U-turn? No. I learned that long ago. Why have to concentrate on doing it now?

And, then, of course, the Bullet issues its own warnings. I stopped for gas this morning, something I hadn't had to do in months. I prided myself on remembering to turn off the gas tap while fueling, "for safety."

Unfortunately, I didn't remember to turn the tap back on when starting! The Bullet will start and run about a city block on the residual gas in the carburetor. But no farther.

I instantly recognized the problem when the motor first stumbled. Now seconds counted. Should I use my left hand to pull the clutch so that I could shift into neutral? Or should I risk putting my left hand down to turn on the tap?

With the motorcycle already stumbling, and in gear, there was a good chance it would stall completely and jerk to a stop. I didn't want my hands off the handlebars if that was going to happen.

So I let the motor quit and coasted, with the clutch pulled, up a curb cut. Not a smooth move, but not unsettling.

To my disgust, I then caught myself trying to kick the motor to life with the tap open, yes, but after mindlessly having hit the kill switch!

That didn't work.

And I should know better, without even having to think about it.

The instincts I partly feared as a practiced motorcyclist I now miss as an occasional motorcyclist.

The solution, I figure, is more riding.

'Around the World in 40 motorcycles'

Royal Enfield and author on the way to the Forbidden Kingdom.

 When author James McBride asked me to sample his book "Around The World in 40 Motorcycles, Life on Two Wheels," I expected to read a memoir. 

In other words, a thoughtful history of the deep meaning of an individual's life, told in the whispers of truth we share only with our therapists. 

And, yes, "40 Motorcycles" is a memoir of an interesting life; but the therapy is provided by motorcycling. 

This actually is a book about what it was like for him to ride some 40 different motorcycles in exotic environments ranging from dangerous curves to dangerous women, spiced with casual consideration of how machine and rider handled each occasion. 

Just as the title promises.

Deep soul searching is present, but mostly absent. Absent, too, is self-consciously great literature.

It's really 44 chapters of entertaining tales from the road McBride could have shared first with buddies in a pub.

In fact, the one regret that I have is that I waited until AFTER I had read the book before watching one of his entertaining, short, "Author Talks" videos.

I urge you to watch one, to realize he speaks with a delightful accent, perfect for a story told over a pint.

It's like being at the arm of an experienced rider with many an exciting tale to tell. It doesn't hurt that the author has an adventurous spirit, lived an active youth, joined the Royal Navy to learn to fly, and went on collecting stories as a pilot and respected airline captain.  

McBride keeps the chapters short, and never bogs down, a technique that keeps the reader on edge, waiting for the payoff.

For instance, here is McBride as a young man, riding pillion on a rainy night at high speed, and a lorry comes around the bend, crossing into their lane.

"At 80 mph, in the tranquil beauty of a Scottish dawn, I braced myself for impact."

And so does the reader.

But first...

Well, the reader knows the book isn't going to come to a crashing end on Page 47, so we know he must survive. But how?

That's revealed, on Page 60, in a single short paragraph. Oh... that!

The writing technique works. The book is a page-turner.

A British page-turner it is, and McBride makes that clear immediately:

"British English spelling is used throughout (apologies to our American cousins)."

No apologies necessary, although this instance gave me pause:

"I spoiled the ship for a ha'porth of paint by covering the tank with a couple of aerosols of British Leyland red."

(Here's where it would have been nice imagining it said in his speaking voice.)

Cambridge dictionary definition of "ha'porth" is a half-penny's worth of difference -- hardly any. In American, he's saying he had cheaped out on getting the tank done right, and his savings hadn't been worth a nickel.

Fresh, young, and too brave in the early chapters, McBride looks back on the bravado and admits "Of course I knew it all at 25. WHAT an asshole."

He's no asshole, but truth is he never seems to have lost his ambition to have fun. Whether he's on cliff's edge on two wheels, or a naval flyer in a Harrier jump jet, or trying to figure out what women really want, McBride keeps the story moving.

And the motorcycles are always there.

The cover shot is of McBride with a Royal Enfield, and Royal Enfields are central to two hair-raising chapters. But I also enjoyed learning about all the other bikes I probably never will ride

And every story ends with the specifications of the featured motorcycle.

One last little nibble to leave you with: one bike he finds discarded, restores at his own expense, enjoys riding, and then abandons, all set for the next finder, with the key in the ignition!

That's just how "40 Motorcycles" rolls. Watch this video for a taste of McBride: