First Ride, Forever

A tired school day, a father’s silent gesture, and a gleaming Classic 350.

Written & Photographed by : Deepak Balla

As I rode out for the first time, the heat didn’t matter anymore. Homework? Gossip? All forgotten. For the first time, my life made sense. I was flying.

I remember it like it was just yesterday. A regular Wednesday morning, with sun blazing, my bag slung over my tired shoulders, and a full day of school waiting to suck the life out of my already worn-out soul. The day dragged on with the unbearable heat, the teacher’s relentless in their pursuit of unfinished homework. It wasn’t a good school day. I was tired, bruised, and battered by the societal expectation of “getting educated,” while my dreams of soaring high were being crushed under the weight of trigonometry and organic chemistry.

By the time school ended, the dejection on my face was obvious. It was my personal Groundhog Day — every day, the same cycle on repeat. But that Wednesday was a different story altogether.

I returned home in the sweltering heat, my mind drowning in the monotonous routine of everyday life. As I walked through the apartment cellar to reach my house, I saw it. Standing there in all its elegance and glory, a brand new Royal Enfield Classic 350. My heart skipped a beat, my feet froze and I just stood there, stunned, admiring the timeless beauty from afar.

My vision blurred for a moment, and everything else faded. All I could see was this beast of a machine. It was bold, beautiful, and nearly impossible to ignore. The realization that someone was getting relly lucky that day led to a feeling of Jealousy and I thought “Damn, who’s the lucky guy?”. But even envy couldn’t stop me from appreciating the beauty that was gracing my eyes. That chiseled body, that handcrafted finesse, It was a piece of art.

But as reality set in the heat felt even more unbearable now. With heavy shoulders I turned away and made my way home. But as I stepped into the house, which somehow felt more hallowed than usual I noticed something strange. Sitting casually on the center table, as if they had always belonged there: the keys.

I tried to play it cool, pretended not to care, but my eyes wouldn’t leave them. Then my dad, in his usual dry tone, said with a smirk: “Bandi konicha kadha ANI… oo fast ga nadipeku.” (“Now that you got the bike, don’t ride it fast.”)

I blinked. Wait… what? There was no one else around. That’s when it hit me — it was mine.

The moment. The realization. The surge of emotion — it’s etched into my bones.

Before I could even comprehend what he had done, I snatched the keys and bolted out. The first touch of the handle, the click of the ignition, the growl of the engine — I soaked in every second. The jealousy I felt earlier vanished; this wasn’t someone else’s dream anymore — it was mine. That first touch… it changes you. It stays.

In that moment, all I wanted was to show off this unexpected gift. This bike wasn’t just a machine — it became my crush, my high school fling. The pain of that miserable school day now made sense. Sometimes, to receive something beautiful, you have to go through the mess.

As I rode out for the first time, the heat didn’t matter anymore. Homework? Gossip? All forgotten. For the first time, my life made sense. I was flying.

But life, of course, has its own way of humbling you.

Just a few kilometers into my glory ride, the bike came to a halt. My heart sank. Panic set in. How could a brand-new Classic break down already?!

Turns out, it didn’t. I had simply run out of fuel. In all the excitement, I’d completely ignored the fuel gauge. I sat there, defeated, embarrassed — on the very first day. With my head in my hands, I made the sheepish call to my dad.

He didn’t say much but I could feel the smirk on the other end of the line. “Noob,” he probably thought. And after making me wait just long enough to reflect on my life choices, he arrived — my knight in shining armor, with a bucket of fuel in hand.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept imagining the look on my classmates’ faces the next day when I’d roll into school the next morning on two wheels. The envious glances, the endless questions and how I would answer those, it was all too much to contain.

That Classic wasn’t just a bike. It was my memory machine.

It carried laughter from college rides, the silence of late-night drives, the thrill of getting drenched in the rain, the warmth of chai breaks by the roadside. It saw heartbreaks and celebrations, shortcuts and detours. It was never just metal and wheels — it was my father’s quiet, unconditional love, wrapped in chrome.

And when he finally sold it after I moved to a different city… well, that’s another story.

Even today, when I hear the familiar thump of a Classic passing by, I can’t help but smile. That bike may have a new rider now. But the ride it gave me — that will stay with me forever.