Sure it gets long distances in a short time. But it calls for strength of character and patience. The process takes an age and can cost at every juncture.

It’s a process that requires the locating and cooperation of, in no particular order, a Packing walla, an officer in the Parcel-cum-Packing Office, several Railway Policeman, a Packing walla’s runner, the man who hands you the Train Ticket application form, the Ticket Sales Clerk. Two tickets, for bike and rider, bike papers, an empty petrol tank, pre-removed fragile bits, including numerous variations of those hurdles.

All packed-up, you have to get it on the right train at the right time, all trains in India are referred to by their number, if your lucky Jammu Mail gives you a clue. Get it humped into the Luggage Car - usually behind the engine and all on the busiest railway station platform in the world. I’ve done it myself, notwithstanding the puncture I endured en-route to the railway station, it was minefield of obstacles. Adopting a subtle submissive-assertiveness can move things on a little.

Stories I’ve heard from travel-worn Train-Bikers include, motorcycles arriving at the wrong station – sometimes days away. The brace of Bullets that arrived stinking of fish on a Kolkata based journey. Broken mirrors, dented tanks, smashed lights. Lost forever bikes. Did you check your stop was a permitted off-loading station. Get off your train and wave and not have time to unload your bike, waving good bye to the train requires the special attention of a chain of Station Masters; that story went on for days.

My own 500 arrived safely from Chennai after a 24 hour journey. Checking it was loaded, I found it barely balanced, on its right-side handlebar against a steel rack. Putting it on its centre-stand undoubtedly saved it from a serious 24 hour bashing.

I did buy 2 tickets and a grateful friend accompanied the motorcycle to Delhi. I was grateful too. I flew back.

Airport to station by Auto’ and there it was. On a central platform amongst a thousand other crates, sacks and assorted parcels, it stood all wrapped up pretty much as I had left it. Some fuss with the ticket, my copy of the packing manifest, a passport, visa, licence and bike papers.

I pushed it off the platform across several tracks and out of the station. As quickly I removed packing it disappeared; the speedy work of lurking Packing walla Runners.

With fumes only in the tank I rode the 1 kilometer to the nearest pump. From start to finish a journey that took two days, will difficult bits each end. But I was in Delhi and on my way again.

Another way of getting to place want to be is to ride there. Sure there are trucks and jeeps and tempos, but riding is the experience option, the journey itself an adventure, an education, a training for the highways and bye-ways ahead. Care for your motorcycle, take care of yourself and the furthest reaches become accessible.

People you’ll meet on the way know what lies ahead. They are your guides but choose carefully. Roadside dhabas or trucker fast food restaurants, the Petrol Pump walla, the tuckers union man, trucker drivers, jeep drivers, drivers, in India you are surrounded by guides.

Find the local Bullet Mechanic, his workshop may be small but the local knowledge will be invaluable and of course he’ll have your motor-box open in a jiffy or clean your carb or mess-up your paintwork or chop-up your wiring loom. But it gets you going again, even when your Bullet is injured.

The transition from slog to adventure is subtle, but the element of chance increases. Where will you stay, where will you reach before nightfall. It’s not nice nor particularly safe to ride at night in India, in large well lit metros, even the nastiest ‘hole in the road’ can creep up on you. The open deserted highway is not always a friendly place to be with the already sun well down.