Throttle and Therapy: Learning Life on the Road

May 12, 2024

It was a quiet day when my father suddenly started calling my name—loudly, repeatedly. I was puzzled. I hadn’t done anything, especially in those days when I was barely involved in much at all.

He called me over and said, “I’ll teach you to ride the scooty. You might fall and get hurt, but are you willing to learn?”

I said yes.

He took me outside and sat beside me, guiding me patiently. A while later, he got a phone call and told me to try balancing the scooty on my own.

Little did he know, I had already tried learning before. Balancing wasn’t the hard part anymore.

That moment became a kind of spectacle. It felt like the whole colony had stepped out to see. Their expressions said it all—maybe they’d been wondering for a long time when I’d finally learn to ride.

The next day, I got the hang of our scooty and began riding slowly. My father and the neighbors were surprised. From Day 3 to Day 5, I rode up and down our street religiously—end to end. Then, I finally went one kilometer out on my own, keeping my phone on silent.

Everyone assumed I must have fallen somewhere—they never imagined I’d actually be riding beyond the street.

The colony was watching, always.

I kept practicing turns in a nearby community. One of the colony uncles saw me there during his walks, and soon enough, the others knew.

The following week was all about the uncles taking turns to teach me the rules—how to get a license, how to park properly, use mirrors, indicators, manage junctions, and control speed.

Exactly one year later, I found myself in Coorg. I don’t know what gave me the guts, but I took a rental scooty—straight to the ghat roads of the Madikeri–Mangalore highway.

Dead scared inside, I couldn’t stop—I had no choice but to keep going. With maps on and speed capped at 25 km/h, I rode all the way to my destination. On the return, I was more at ease.

I visited a popular spot—Alpha Café. The uphill road was an 80-degree steep climb. I rode up, praying. The downhill was even more nerve-wracking.

Then casually, I took off on the Madikeri–Mysore highway—vehicles zooming past at crazy speeds. I rode in rain, through muddy patches, got caught for not following town rules, fined for not wearing a helmet, and even stuck in a traffic jam in Coorg—my first ever in all these years.

I roamed randomly through the streets of Coorg, soaking in its essence.

I began to notice things:

—The architecture of the Kannadiga homes

—Some looking like temples

—Others, vintage and rustic and deeply beautiful

—Almost everyone had plants

—And some pots were adorably cute

It was here I realized I prefer mud pots over plastic ones. I’ve decided to bring some back for Arki’s home.

On one of my rides, I even touched the Kerala border—via a narrow road flanked by earthen houses.

I hadn’t noticed how fast this little town had grown.

Writing this all down feels so therapeutic. For years, I waited to ride. I imagined it, dreamed about it. I once said, “I’ll come back to Coorg only after I get my driving license.”

And now, it’s real.

Riding through the winding roads, between plantations, under the open sky—it all makes sense now.

It feels like therapy.

Maybe, just maybe, I’m finally starting to understand what I truly like—

—not what was imposed upon me.