Last week, Mister told me to keep the weekend free. He said he had something grand planned, and I squealed and clapped like a two year old OD’ing on candy, because I knew exactly what he had on his mind.
This, my friend, is bike porn. Superbikes. Stunts. Customization. Bikini wash. Music. Sunburn DJ. Imagine my enthusiasm!
I’ll be honest, I’d just seen NH10 (the movie) and was a little worried about the bikini babes’ safety because the event was at, well, NH10.
We left home at 9 and stopped on the way to tank up. A Triumph Roadster stopped next to us and Mister, the petrol pump attendant, and I let out a collective gasp that was very (very) audible. The lucky/rich/lucky to be rich guy nodded at us. He could’ve said go ahead, touch it, but he didn’t.
My eyes welled up as the biker rode away into the horizon. Our old, tired Electra looked like a bullock cart in comparison to that Rocket.
I could sense expectations rise up through my body like a storm. I clutched my camera and urged Mister to get me there as fast as he could. So he rode like the wind, and overtook everyone on the road.
And when I say everyone, I mean everyone, including the organizers of the show.
When we got to Hyatt, we thought we had gotten the dates wrong. There were no signs of a biking event. No posters, no standies, no fliers, no stalls, and no people.
Okay, there were some stalls, but they were vacant – there weren’t even chairs to sit on. And okay, there were some people, but they were equally confused by the emptiness of it all.
Why is it so khaali? Shouldn’t there be people setting up their stalls by now?
The event starts at 12:30, so maybe they’ll be here by 11:30.
They weren’t. We stood there in the scorching heat, all eight of us, and nobody came. I walked to the end of the area, and spotted four custom bikes that made me want to throw up.
Did we get the dates wrong?
He pulled out the tickets. No, we didn’t.
Two hours later, one of the Bikers for Good guys who had set up their stall told me that apparently there were some guys who had ridden their Harleys all the way from Mumbai and Pune; these people were upstairs in their rooms, waiting for the event to start.
I was suddenly overwhelmed by compassion in a so what if they’re sitting in their rooms sipping martinis while we get sunburned and dehydrated way.
We whiled away time flipping through a really awesome calendar that the Bikers for Good guys had given us.
Best thing I’ve seen all day, except for the Roadster.
At 2:30 pm, there were still about 20 people in the arena, and six of these were housekeeping staff who were hoping to catch the bikini wash on their lunch break.
We were hungry and tired and dehydrated, and I wasn’t about to pay 250 bucks for a Falafel wrap and 50 bucks for each sip of water. We rode to the nearest Mc Donald’s at Manesar, ate, and returned to find some people had left, but two other bikes had miraculously appeared. The MC, a plump overage college kid trying too hard to look biker-type in her frilly fluorescent orange top, sweat stains, ill-fitting denim shorts, cheap sunglasses and bright rani colored lipstick pranced up and down the area, holding a mic. Welcome to the blah blah blah Cruise India Bike Show blah blah blah double the fun.
Meanwhile, Mister and I sniggered. Double the fun my ass.
Why don’t you go and click the bikes?
What bikes? There are no bikes here, only disasters.
Well that’s true. Seriously, if it weren’t for the Scout, we’d have NOTHING to look at.
After twiddling my thumbs for a while, I went and asked around. Are the organizers here yet? Someone pointed at a guy who had been walking around in a chequed shirt. Do you think the event will start anytime soon?
Yes, he said. The bikini wash will start anytime now.
What are we waiting for?
The performers.
Fuck.
The ladies walked in at 4 for a 12:30 pm show. Mister pointed out that one of them actually looked like Marilyn Manson. The other one resembled Nargis Fakhri in a constant pout kinda way.
The girls started socializing, and were mostly generally posing for pictures on the bikes, sitting, rubbing their boobs on the fuel tanks, looking available, displaying their wares as they slowly, seductively swung their legs around the bike, sipping beer.
At 5, the girls went in to change. The MC started again. Please gather blah blah blah bikini wash blah blah first time in India blah blah. Meanwhile, crowd had started to gather around (mostly laborers from the next under-construction building and hotel staff, and maybe thirty bikers.
Five (or was it six?) bikes were brought in. And then beer bottles were placed next to these bikes. Then came the buckets.
The MC had to pretty much beg the crowd to cheer when the show started. Even the laborers in the next building had started to yawn and scratch their balls.
When the girls walked into the arena fully clothed, I almost expected them to reach into the bucket, pull out a bikini top and start washing the bikes with them. Can you blame me? But no, they did great. Slowly took their shirts off and washed the bikes in the area, one after another. I noticed that Marilyn was more efficient (faster and more particular about washing all areas of the bike), Duckface was more effective (slow, seductive, and downright slutty). Net result: as soon as the show was over, all the blue-balled men headed to the restroom.
Things are surely looking up.
Yes. Can’t wait for the stunts to start!
They didn’t. We waited till about 7:30 pm, and nothing happened. We asked several people who gave us the following stories:
The stunter is upstairs in his room, and he’s upset about the badly managed event.
It’s too dark for stunts now. Safety concerns.
The stunter passed out from all the drinking.
The police didn’t allow the bikes to cross the border, and they are basically waiting for autos to load their bikes and bring them here.
When we got tired of waiting, Mister offered to check with the organizer. What he said made me laugh out loud, in front of him. The stunter met with an accident on the way, so it will probably not happen.
He was basically telling us that a stunter couldn’t handle a simple bike ride.
I started to laugh, and asked for a refund. None of what you promised happened today. I basically came here to watch two women drink beer that I paid for, to wash bikes that didn’t even belong to me.Where are the fucking superbikes you promised anyway?
Mister glared at me. What she means is that we didn’t feel like we got our ticket’s worth.
Also, there are many people who didn’t even pay to attend this fuck-all event. I added. You should give me my money back, dude.
The organizer said nothing. I laughed. Chalo yahan se, let’s go. Forget the money, this moron won’t even give us an apology.
We left, but not before I had made a vow never to attend a Cruise India event again.
Anawnimiss 