A rainstorm taught me about strength more than a gym.

So, a new driver, on a motorbike, on twisty little Indian village roads during the monsoon. Not a good call.

And now, not any motorbike, but a big old Bullet- The Royal Enfield Classic 500. My personal favourite bike of all time, but for a new 18 year old driver about to do 70 kilometers on village roads with monsoon conditions...

Now, at 500cc, 28hp, but with a kerb weight of fucking 195kg, this was going to be a challenge. Not to mention- I had my mum on the back as a pillion passenger as well.

So we started off from the city, where the first few kilometers were on a highway, before we go to the village roads. The speed limit here is a solid 50 mph(or 80 km/h). Most motorbikes, considering they are not as powerful as the Bullet in India, sit around 30 mph, or around 50 km/ph.

Now, this bike is something I clicked with, I naturally just loved it. Out of all the bikes I drove as a beginner, never have I once stalled on the Bullet, which I have with all the others. It's like I just instinctively knew how to drive it, and it knew how to carry me!

I, at a solid pace of 40-45 mile an hour, overtook other motorbikes, bicycles, rickshaws, and then started feeling good about myself! Look at me go, I thought to myself! My dad, an experienced motorcyclist himself, was in front of me on a little 150cc motorbike.

I overtook him, just for a bit, until we got to the village roads, and hit a surprisingly quick pace of 52 mph(just above 80 kilometers an hour). The Bullet absolutely loved it, with its regal thump and misfires making it known that me and the motorbike was the King of the Roads currently.

But the King also always bow downs to nature, and even the Mighty Bullet would succumb to torrential rain. As the highway was coming to an end, and the village roads were beginning to make themselves known, albeit in the form of UK-style A-roads: surprisingly smooth, large and spacious, the clouds were brewing up a tantalising mix of water and terror, readying their army.

My dad stopped at a petrol station, and then we had our first break. The first drops of terror began pattering down on the road, creating that earthy smell, full of dust and dread. My mum and my younger brother switched places, with me and my brother on a Bullet, and my parents on the 150. The last few minutes of enjoyment- me and my bro chilled at around 45 mph, often getting it to 50 on those little A roads, where the Bullet rules.

The rain even stopped for a bit- completely dry again, but the clouds still made their presence known. The sun started to set, and night began to show herself.

My dad, now noticing the light on my bike not turned on, turned on his left indicator and pulled to the side of the road, and shouted at me to do the same. Except for the fact he tried to make me pull too close in- with somthing that big, feeling cornered made me loose my balance, and first, my physical strength got tested here.

I stopped the Bullet, but at the wrong place- the camber between the road and the grass. I held the bike for 30 seconds(felt like a bloody hour) and shouted at my brother to get off, and he did, the 12 year old boy, scared as he was, got his feet stuck in the rim. By now, my stength was starting to fail me, my arms giving way, and my left leg, which holding me, the Bullet, and my brother up, started to cramp horribly.I started lowering the bike, not dropping it, and eventually touched it to the floor. My brothers' leg got stuck, but we prised it out in time before the Bullet was completely on the floor. He got away with a minor injury- a small grazing on his toe.

A five minute fiasco later, with multiple checkings on my brother the bike, and my parents, me and my dad pulled the bike back up, and put the stand on.

Of all the time the rain could have made itself known, it decided to NOW. The sky decided to split open. Huge drops of rain started hammering down, drumming hard on the Bullet, clanging against its shiny chrome. For once, the King had been subdued.

However, we could not afford to stop anywhere. Onwards was the way. Either we stay drenched in the middle of nowhere, or we get drenched enough on the way towards the village.

Trust me guys, whatever view you have been sold on how motorcycling is during the night, make it worse by 100 times, factoring in the rain, and the bumpy roads.

By now we had crossed all the major roads, so the rest was either just cement roads or pothole, sandy roads. You couldnt even cross 25mph(40 km/h) without being scared for your life. My brother had gone with my dad, and my mum came back to sit on the back of the bullet. The rain kep thundering down, booming noises and the occasional lightning tearing across the pitch black sky. It truly began to test my mental strength and fortitude- my mum was relying on me, my brother was relying on my dad to get us safely across. Pressure intensified, and I wasn't even experienced like my dad.

We eventually rolled into a small village, still about 35 kilometres from our destination. Soaked, freezing, exhausted — we stopped for our third break. They didn’t have raincoats, so we bought caps. It was something, at least. By this time, I, a guy who wears glasses, had to give it up. I simply couldn't see through them anymore, they were hazy, wet, covered in dirt, water and fog.Fuck.

After getting ourselves caps, the journey commenced again. That final leg to our village. The roads kept diminishing in condition- but I knew I had to make it. Every so often, a small jolt slid through us and the Bullet, reminding us of how blind we were to the dreadful road underneath. Rideable?Just. Terrorising? A bit too much.

But the Bullet is a thing of beauty- it did not betray me. I was the King's soldier against his rebellion of nature. But my mind was starting to give up when we were about 20 kilometres away. I was devoid of food that day, and having woken up early.

But we hustled, against the road and nature, against the rain and the potholes, against the night and the cold. At this point I was shivering as I drove, the cramp still dormant in my left leg, ready to strike if I dared move it one inch from its position. Even having to change gears was starting to get problematic.My hands were glued to the handlebars, severely seizing up if I moved them apart. The extremities were freezing, my head was spinning, my heart was pounding, coming up to my throat everytime I falsely believed the road was getting better, only to be speared down by a pothole.

But, once we saw the sign that said we had arrived to the village, I felt not even a surge of relief- but as if a huge weight had been removed of my shoulders, more than any weight I had ever lifted, more than any pressure I had faced before this.

I kept my mother safe, was all I thought about as we finally slumped into bed after parking at our house there, and drifted off into a warm, yet frenzied sleep.

The next morning, as I cleaned the Bullet, I couldn't but help feel a surge of pride, but belonging, with the Bullet- the 200kg WW2 based motorbike had genuinely a place in my heart, and it will so for the rest of my life. The Bullet imparted on me the wisest lesson of them all- strength doesn't come from the weight I deadlift, neither from the amount of pressure I face mentally. But rather, it comes from the fortitude, the resilience my mind is capable when there is a high amount of pressure. From the way you react when life is crubling in front of your very eyes. And yes, I almost died a total of 9 times during that ride, but I would absolutely do it again if, and only if I had the Classic 500 with me.

Find your strength. You’ll usually discover it somewhere between fear, failure, and a road you can’t quite see.