A Tribute to My Bullet

The Nomad is a series of stories, fascinations, encounters, observations, experiences, joy of the moments by me, Ulrike Reinhard – all around my travels. Stay tuned!

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A Tribute to My Bullet

For twenty years, I was loyal to the scooter. I bought the first one when Tim’s legs finally stretched far enough for his feet to reach the foot pegs. Over time, three different models found their way into my life: A vibrant, sunshine-yellow Malagutti F10, a fiery red ‘retro’ Vespa with those iconic, oversized round headlights – more diva than ride, really. It spent more time pouting in the garage than cruising the streets. And a rather unremarkable black Peugeot. Apart from the Vespa, they’re all modest little 50cc machines, simple but reliable companions on countless journeys, carrying Tim and me through the streets of Heidelberg. Sometimes, Lauser, our scruffy wire-haired dachshund, hops on with me. He perches proudly up front, nose stretched into the breeze, ears flapping like tiny flags. He looks like he’s steering the ride himself, and honestly, I think he believes he is.

My longest adventure ever on a scooter was on the black Peugeot from Berlin to Heidelberg – 650 kilometers of slow, steady progress, stretched across three days. No rush, no high speeds – just a quiet journey through the German countryside, avoiding the soulless monotony of the Autobahn. Not that it mattered – I wouldn’t have been allowed on it anyway. You see, in Germany we do love rules. So, unlike many other countries, we have a minimum speed limit on the Autobahn. Your vehicle has to be able to hit at least 60 km/h (37 mph); anything slower is simply not permitted 

I loved riding a scooter. But when I arrived in India, I realized just how small my world had been.

Upgrade: From 50 To 500 cc 

It was in Khajuraho when Egon and I decided to buy a motorbike. It felt like the perfect way to explore, to move freely through the heart of India. But let me tell you, I soon realized that motorcycling in India is not just a ride – it’s an initiation.

Upgrading from a scooter to a motorbike wasn’t the real challenge. The real test was learning to navigate the sheer unpredictability of Indian traffic. There are no rules – at least none that matter. On highways, cars, trucks, buses and tractors appear from the wrong direction, their horns screaming like a battle cry. Here and there a cow is sleeping in the middle of it all. In the cities, even in the small cities, the roads tighten into a living, moving organism – a crush of people, bicycles, cows, auto-rickshaws, overloaded trucks, and fearless motorbikes, all weaving through gaps that shouldn’t exist. The density goes up, the noise is simply ear-splitting. The chaos is absolute. And yet, somehow, everything moves. A self-regulating, unspoken rhythm governs the madness, and you either learn to flow with it or you don’t survive.

We bought a Hero Impulse 125cc – a featherweight dirt bike, small but spirited, just right for our everyday needs around Khajuraho. It zipped through narrow village roads and dusty tracks with ease. But soon, that wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I wanted adventure. So I pushed both the bike and myself towards my first real motorbike tour: From Khajuraho to Manali in Himachal Pradesh. One way, 1,200 kilometers. In the monsoon season. Madness, really.

Egon joined me, riding a tiny 100cc moped he’d rented. Yes, a moped. We looked absolutely ridiculous. Two underprepared riders with barely any gear or experience, riding through India’s most unpredictable weather. Egon’s ‘highlight’ was being stuck in the night with heavy rain in a deep puddle. I remember the situation – out of the corner of my eye, I saw him sink – fast and suddenly. One second he was moving, the next he was swallowed, stuck fast, as if the ground had just given up on him. But we didn’t care. We were fueled by sheer curiosity and a bit of blind optimism.

The rain poured down in sheets, drenching us to the bone. We’ve carved out and held our space on the jam-packed city roads – often shoulder to shoulder with buses, rickshaws, and swerving other bikers. Sometimes it feels less like riding and more like negotiating, inch by inch, in a dance of mirrors and metal. We weaved through rugged countryside and climbed steadily into the Himalayan foothills, where the air turns crisp and the mountains stretch out like a painting you can’t stop staring at. It was breathtaking – and exhausting.

On our return, we took the long way home. A big detour to Ahmedabad, Gujarat, and Tilonia, Rajasthan. We visited Kiran Bir Sethi’s Riverside School – a place where empathy, imagination, and learning went hand in hand. We wanted to soak up inspiration for the school we dreamed of building back in Khajuraho. From there, we cut across the baked deserts of Rajasthan and spent two nights at the Barefoot College.  I wanted to see what Sanjit “Bunker” Roy had created. I knew him from his TED talk. He empowered rural communities – especially women – to become self-reliant by training them in solar engineering, education, health, and sustainable development, all grounded in the wisdom of traditional knowledge and local resilience. 

It was September, and the sun still hit like a hammer. Egon, pale as milk, wrapped stockings around his arms and hands to shield himself from the burn. We laughed at ourselves. It was heaven and hell all at once.

We spent four weeks on the road. Maybe a bit longer. Soaked, sunburned, tired – and happier than ever. We’ve made it.

After a year, I wanted more power. For my four-month expedition through Kashmir and Ladakh in 2014, I upgraded to a KTM Duke 200 – a slightly sharper, more aggressive machine. It handled beautifully, slicing through mountain roads with ease, devouring long stretches of tarmac. But speed came at a cost. The seat was barely upholstered which made for a very ass-numbing experience at the end of a long day. And … the bike was simply too small. It is not made for tall people. By the time I returned back home from the Himalayas, I knew – I needed something built for the long haul.

And then I met the Royal Enfield Bullet.

I was riding back from Goa to Bombay with a friend when he offered me his Royal Enfield Bullet for a stretch of the journey. Now, in India, the Bullet is not just a bike – it’s a legend. It has ruled the roads for over 75 years, its deep, distinctive thump a signature sound in the Indian landscape. From the distance you hear it: That’s a Bullet. 

I swung my leg over, gripped the handlebars, and rolled the throttle. It felt… wrong. Heavy. Too much machine for me. Sluggish. Within minutes, I was back on my KTM, relieved to be on something familiar.

But two days later, curiosity gets the better of me. I tried it again.

And this time, something clicks.

I feel the Bullet vibe. I surrender. The Bullet isn’t a bike you ride; it’s a bike you become part of. Once it starts rolling, it doesn’t just move – it glides, carrying you with the kind of easy grace that makes distance disappear. It doesn’t hurry, doesn’t fight. It simply goes. It’s a rolling sofa. The deep thump of the engine resonates through your bones, a steady pulse that syncs with your own heartbeat. Riding it feels less like going somewhere and more like a state of being.

‘Shrini’ Arrives 

That night, I call Vini – my landlord at Ken River Lodge. He’s the go-to guy for anything with two wheels, owns a few Royal Enfields himself and rents them out.

“Vini, I need a new bike,” I say. “I want a Bullet.”

There’s a short silence. Then he laughs – low, warm, a little surprised. It’s the kind of laugh that says I didn’t see that coming, but I like it.

“And I need it soon,” I add.

I trust him. No long explanations needed. Vini knows what I’m after, and he delivers. By the time I’m back from Bombay, there she is – waiting outside my cottage like she’s been there all along.

A Royal Enfield Classic. 500cc. Metallic turquoise green. Two years old. Full of life.

I trade in the KTM without a second thought. One ride on the Bullet and I’m sold. She’s solid, calm, and carries a quiet power. I name her Shrini – after my friend who rode beside me from Goa to Bombay.

From March 2015 until I leave India in 2020, we cover nearly 100,000 kilometers. State after state, town after town – every part of India but Sikkim. Shrini and I ride through it all. Through mountains, deserts, rivers, traffic jams, and monsoon rains. She takes on every road without complaint. Sure, a flat tyre once in a while – but that’s part of the deal.

She’s more than just a bike. She gives me the freedom I didn’t know I needed.

I Stop To Travel And Start To ‘Voyage’

To travel means to follow a path laid out in maps and schedules, to mark off destinations like milestones. It’s about progress – the thrill of covering 400 kilometers a day, reaching the next stop, and checking into the hotel you booked ahead of time. Another part of the journey completed. I’ve never really done this yet I was far from being a true voyageur.

‘Voyaging’ is a whole other level. Unlike travel, which keeps a layer of separation between  traveler and local – voyaging collapses that distance. It’s about creating stories that imprint themselves on my soul. It’s when I’m surrounded by a group of Muslim girls, skateboarding on the roof of a house in the ‘Muslim belt’ south of Delhi, their laughter mixing with the sound of the grain mill. It’s the same rooftop that an old lady climbs with difficulty to massage my arms and legs with her bony fingers when I suffer from dengue fever. It’s when the tiger steps into view, only 50 meters ahead, its powerful stride unhurried and graceful, crossing the road as though it owns the land. It’s in Uttar Pradesh, where I find myself helping a farmer’s school, brainstorming with locals to brand and market their products, connecting their hard work to a world that needs to hear their stories. In Tamil Nadu, I stand beside fishermen, explaining how mobile services provided by the state government can make their daily trips safer. I spent weeks with an elephant doctor in Kerala, where human settlements and agricultural lands border forested areas. This proximity leads to frequent encounters between humans and elephants, often resulting in tragic outcomes. And in the snowy mountains of Ladakh, I follow the mountain rangers as they track elusive snow leopards through the jagged peaks, the leopards’ footsteps leaving traces in the untouched snow.

Each of these encounters, each moment I share with the people I meet, becomes part of the story I’m living. They leave a mark on me, shaping the way I see the world, changing me in ways I can’t always put into words. They enrich my life in ways planned travel routes can’t do. Life unfolds, it is not mapped out. I become a part of the places I visit, and when I leave, I leave a piece of myself behind, and take a piece of it with me. That’s incremental change.

When I voyage, I’m not just crossing mountain passes — I’m navigating my own fears, doubts, and limitations. Every pothole that jumps out of nowhere on these rough, narrow, unpaved roads feels like a test. And let’s be honest: I’m no mechanical genius. I can’t even change a tire, let alone fix a punctured tube. My toolkit is more a symbolic gesture – the mechanical equivalent of carrying band-aids into a battlefield.

Yes, I rely on others if something goes wrong. And yes, plenty of people have called me naive, even reckless, for setting out like this. But here’s the thing — I don’t let fear drive. I always have my motorbike checked before I leave. I know things can go wrong. They just don’t dominate my thoughts. Instead, I put my trust in the road, in people, in the moment. I believe the energy you carry shapes what you encounter. If you fixate on breakdowns, you almost invite them. So I choose to ride with trust. I stay present, open, and curious. Whatever happens, happens — and so far, that mindset has been a pretty good guardian angel.

But fear is just one part of the equation. Then there’s doubt — quieter, sneakier, and just as persistent. It creeps in when I face a river that’s washed away part of the road, its slippery pebbles glistening like a trap beneath the surface. That’s when the questions start. Can I cross? Will the bike hold? Am I strong enough if things go wrong? And when the tires slide in the mud, it’s not just my mind being tested anymore — it’s my body, too.

In those moments, I realize I can’t fight it. I have to surrender and accept my doubts and limitations without resistance at this very moment. Resilience sets in. And then the journey shifts. Resilience gives me space to navigate. Fight doesn’t. I sit down on the side of the road and take a deep breath. I pull out my water, take a swig, and just sit there for a moment. 

Instead of fighting, I started enjoying the challenge. I admire the power nature has over roads and I take a closer look at what nature has done to this road. I see how deep the water is, how slippery the pebbles are and I imagine the best way to get the bike to the other side. I check with ‘Shrini’ and ask her to get me over there. When I finally start the engine again, I’m not racing the clock anymore. I’m letting the road take me, at its own pace. And I made it. Sometimes, the best way forward is to stop trying to fight against what’s in front of you and just… let it be.

A voyage is when I realize just how small I am in this vast, sprawling world. It’s when the river takes the road, and I’m forced to stop, knowing deep down that none of this is under my control. I’m just a fleeting part of this entire landscape, just like the cows, the goats, or that broken road that’s now in my path. The world continues around me, indifferent to my plans. 

And it’s in these moments of solitude that I discover a deep peace within. I am alone. But I am not lonely. There’s no rush, no noise – just me, the road, and the rhythm of the ride. On this bike, I realize that everything I experience – every challenge, every moment of awe – is worth more than anything I could ever possibly own. It’s a kind of richness that money can’t buy. I feel as if I am adding a new commercial to Mastercard’s iconic “Priceless” campaign. “The freedom of the open road, where the journey itself is all that matters. There are some things money can’t buy. For everything else, there’s Mastercard.” This would be my clip 🙂

Meditation in Motion

As I twist the throttle, the world narrows to a single, flowing moment. The road stretches ahead like an unwritten story. I don’t think. I don’t analyze. I just ride.

The first rush of speed is like exhaling after holding my breath for too long – liberation. The weight of everyday life peels away, layer by layer, carried off by the wind that roars past my ears. No emails demanding my attention, no buzzing phone pulling me back into the static of modern life. Out here, there is only this: the steady rhythm of the wheels, the endless horizon, and the quiet hum of my own thoughts dissolving into the vastness.

The road curves gently, and I lean into it without hesitation, trusting the machine beneath me, feeling every vibration, every subtle shift in the asphalt. The connection is absolute – woman, machine, motion. There’s no future, no past, just the immediate now. This is meditation, not in stillness, but in motion. A moving trance, where thoughts don’t vanish, but rather, they untangle themselves effortlessly..

I don’t measure time in kilometers or minutes. I measure it in the way the wind shifts, in the changing colors of the sky, in the deep, quiet knowing that this is what it means to be truly present.

My Direct Connection To India

My way of ‘voyaging’ creates a direct connection to the people because I immerse myself in everyday life, step into people’s worlds, and co-create moments that are real and unscripted. In 2014, I was up in the Himalayas, staying in the only hotel in a small Ladakhi village called Nimmu. It’s a peaceful little place, known for its traditional houses. The houses rise from the earth itself – thick mud walls, flat rooftops stacked with firewood, small wooden windows catching the southern sun. Inside, it’s warm and simple: a single room where copper pots shine, carpets soften the floor, and a wood stove hums at the center of life. Prayer flags are everywhere. Everything is built with what’s around, shaped by cold winds, strong hands, and a rhythm that hasn’t rushed in centuries. Nimmu is just a few kilometers before the sangam – the confluence of the Indus and Zanskar rivers – and about 30 kilometers from the tourist-packed town of Leh. The Indus River, with its white banks and crystal-clear, ice-cold water, was just a ten-minute walk from the house. I ended up staying for almost three months.

I wasn’t alone – my dog Lenny was with me. A tall black sheepdog with a calm, watchful presence. He had this way of quietly looking after me, always nearby, always tuned in. While I rode around on a motorbike, he followed in a car I’d rented just for him. Yes, seriously. People always think I’m joking when I say that, but nope – Lenny had his own wheels. He’d lounge in the backseat like a rockstar, occasionally popping his head out the window to check on my two-wheeled antics. People stared. I waved.

At the hotel, he quickly became part of the family. Everyone adored him, and he adored them right back. When I was off exploring during the day, the owners looked after him like he was one of their own. He was in good hands.

One evening, after a long ride, I was sitting on the rooftop with the owner’s son. It was that golden hour just before sunset, and the light was incredible. Down in the fields, the women were still working, harvesting wheat by hand with their sickles. It was hard work, but the scene looked like something out of a film – the wheat glowing golden in the evening sun, the quiet all around.

The son turned to me and asked, “How do I make the hotel… more?” he asked. “Something special.”

I didn’t even hesitate. “Simple,” I said, pointing around us. “Build a penthouse up here—just one room and a terrace. People would kill for this view. I’d be your first guest.”

He smiled. I grinned. I could tell he was already imagining it. And that was that.

Two years later, I came back. And sure enough, there it was: the rooftop penthouse, overlooking the valley, just as we imagined it. I stayed for a week. It was perfect—except for one thing. Lenny wasn’t with me. He had passed away a few months before.

Still, sitting on that rooftop again, I could remember the conversation, the view, the feeling of building something out of a shared idea. That’s what I love – stepping into people’s worlds, creating something together, not with big plans or presentations, but in small, real moments that grow into something more.

Even a hotel rooftop. Even a room built from a sunset conversation.

Voyaging throws me off the beaten path and into unexpected situations, I become vulnerable, open, and present – and that’s when the connection happens. Language barriers dissolve. Laughter, curiosity, shared challenges – like fixing a flat tire, getting the motorbike started after a cold wet night, crossing a river bed or waiting out a sudden monsoon – become bridges between worlds.

Through these shared experiences, I am not just visiting India; I am becoming part of her story, and the people I meet aren’t characters in the background – they’re collaborators in the journey. That’s what creates the bond: mutual presence, humility, and the willingness to be shaped by each encounter. 

These experiences allow for a deeper understanding – one that isn’t based on assumptions or preconceived notions but on genuine moments. When I connect with the people and the environment around me, I start to see the world from their perspective. Their challenges become my own. This means that when they don’t have a doctor in the village, I don’t have one either to help me with my dengue fever. It’s that simple. Their joys, their stories, and their triumphs become a part of my journey. I’m a part of the community, a fleeting but real part of their world. This allows for richer, more authentic interactions. I’m no longer a stranger, but someone who understands, even if only for a moment, the complexities of their lives.

The people I meet – whether they’re a fisherman in Kerala or a child in a rural village – teach me things I couldn’t learn in a book or from a distance. They teach me resilience, patience, and how to find joy even in the simplest things. They show me how to live with uncertainty and how to be present in the moment. They show me a new way of seeing, and a deeper connection to the world around me. These connections shape my understanding of India and ultimately bring me closer to who I am.

It’s a reminder that, no matter where we come from, we are all connected by the same thread – of stories, of challenges, and of shared human experience. 

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