King of the Road: India’s classic motorbike reaches Europe
Simon Harding
Few sights astound, amuse and impress the foreign visitor as much as the Indian family taking a trip on the motorbike. American tourists, used to the reclining seats and cup holders in their SUVs, marvel at the pile of people perched atop a single small buzzing two-wheeler; Dad driving, a small child between his arms, Mum sitting side-saddle behind him with another kid sandwiched safely between them, all swaying left and right as they weave in and out of the rush hour traffic. At around five hundred pounds for a basic Bajaj or Hero Honda machine, the domestic Indian motorbike is the workhorse of the lower middle classes and the best way to navigate the choked streets of the capital.
But whilst they're useful, practical and economical, these small-engine bikes with their whining 200cc plants are easily out muscled by the raja gaadi (the king bike). From the wide boulevards of south Delhi to dusty rural roads, the undisputed wearer of the bike crown is the Royal Enfield. With a design largely unchanged since Royal Enfield first started shipping bikes to Indian from its factory in Redditch in the early 1930s, the Royal Enfield Bullet's thumping single cylinder engine drowns out everything else on the road, becoming louder and louder as it approaches, peaking at ear splitting volume before hammering off into the distance. In stark contrast to the faux-racer look adopted by modern machines, they are unapologetically retro with shiny exposed engines, a single round head light and a bulky round fuel tank bearing the swirly Enfield logo.
The first Enfields in India were British-made. Thousands were shipped out for British army dispatch riders and military personnel. In 1949 the newly independent Indian government decided to continue the tradition and ordered a large shipment of Bullets for the Indian army. Such was the scale of the order that Royal Enfield set up a factory in Chennai. Soon 20,000 bikes were coming off the production line annually to serve the Indian domestic market.
Royal Enfield UK went bust in 1970, but the Indian wing of the company continues to thrive and has produced motorbikes continuously since 1955, with few major changes to the original British designs. At around 1,500-2,000 pounds they are beyond the reach of many. As such, owning a Bullet is the aspiration of many Indian bikers, who dream of arriving in a cascade of shining metal and deep meaty growls. But it's not just Indians who are won over by the retro charms of the Enfield. Its classic shape has won it a cult following amongst bikers worldwide, which has created a business opportunity for one Delhi entrepreneur.
Peter divides his time between Lucerne and his native Kashmir where he sources handicrafts for his Swiss shops. But shawls, blankets and carvings don’t set his heart racing. His second business - and lifelong passion - is his ‘Peter Bikes’ company, which finds, renovates and customises classic Royal Enfield bikes for petrol heads in the EU.
“Export tax on a new Enfield is about 500%”, he explains, “but with pre-1974 registration papers, frame number and engine case number you can send the bike abroad tax free” and this is what Peter has done for the past forty years, sending between a couple of dozen and a hundred machines a year to Europe.
The bike business operates from a workshop in south Delhi, not much larger than a double garage. The air inside the garage smelled of oil and everywhere tools were meticulously laid out on grubby clothes next to six or seven heavily dissected Bullets. Mechanics wearing nothing more technical or protective than vests, shorts and sandals squatted next to the bikes, tapping, hammering, twisting and turning screws this way and that. Every so often a bike rumbled into life, then slowed to a halt, ready for the next minute but critical adjustment. Despite the lack of hi-tech gadgetry, the end product is stunning.
At the back of the shop were a few finished bikes. They were spectacular. If I’d had 8,000 Euros in my pocket (and a bike licence), I would have sped home on the leather saddle of a sky-blue Bullet with gold paint trim and a perfectly retouched Enfield logo on the tank. “That’s a 1949 model”, said Peter, as I gawked at the dazzling metal fittings, “it’s going to a customer in Austria. We‘ve put a new lock on it and changed the side of the gearing for the Austrian roads, but other than that it‘s more or less original. I like to keep them that way, if we replace anything we get the new part from the Enfield factory in Madras (Chennai)”.
In the back yard, past a bright yellow bike destined for some eccentric soul in Denmark, were Peter’s new buys: a line of five or six decrepit looking wrecks resting against one another like corpses about to undergo a miraculous resurrection. There was an ex-Police bike, a couple of former Army machines and several dragged from sheds and barns across north India. Most of them looked like chickens, pigeons or mice had taken up resident during their lengthy hiatus from the open road. “I already have buyers for these”, Peter explained, waving at the dishevelled display, “within three or four months, they’ll look like the bikes inside”.
“Have a go!”, encourages my host gesturing to a black 500cc model, as we pass through the garage once more. I politely decline. I don’t have a motorbike license and riding a 300kg, half litre beast on Delhi’s manic streets would be a bit too steep a learning curve for me. It would probably turn out to be expensive for Peter, who‘d have to haul me and the valuable bike out of the ditch.
As I leave Peter tells me that he has to go to Manali in the foothills of the Himalayas the following day to look at an old bike one of his contacts has found, no doubt in a shed or chicken hutch. The winter fog has blocked roads, shut airports and scrambled train timetables and the rain in the hills makes the mountain roads slippery and treacherous. But how is he getting there? “On my bike, of course”.