Freedom on Two Wheels: A Mother-Son Ride to Gandhinagar

There is something about two wheels that makes the world feel a little different.

Perhaps it is the open road. Perhaps it is the early morning air, the trees flashing past, or the feeling that, for a little while, you are free.

Or perhaps I am just a biker who has spent too much time romanticising the open road.

Entirely possible.

This Sunday morning, Nishad, my teenage son, decided to ride his bicycle to Vidhav Bhavan in Gandhinagar. About 70 kilometres. On a bicycle.

Naturally, I got on my Royal Enfield Himalayan and followed him.

Two wheels each. Two very different machines. One destination.

And, as it turned out, two very different ideas of what a morning adventure should look like.

His adventure, my Himalayan and freedom on two wheels

Nishad was on his road bicycle, doing all the hard work himself. I was on my Himalayan, enjoying the considerably more powerful engine and worrying about considerably more things than were probably necessary.

He had a distance to cover.

I had a distance to cover, a teenager to keep an eye on, traffic to negotiate, and a mother’s imagination that had apparently decided this was the perfect morning to work overtime.

At some point, I began thinking about Plan B.

What if he couldn't finish the ride?

What if he got too tired? What if his legs gave up somewhere along the way? What if 70 kilometres turned out to be a little more ambitious than it had seemed when he started?

I had to think about how I would get him and his bicycle home if things didn't go according to plan. The point was not to rescue him at the first sign of discomfort. It was to make sure we had a sensible way out if he genuinely needed one.

Because I wanted him to attempt something challenging. I also wanted him to know that attempting something challenging didn't mean he had to pretend he was invincible.

There is a difference between encouraging someone to push their limits and expecting them to ignore their limits.

I wanted him to have the freedom to try, with the reassurance that we had thought through what might happen if he couldn't complete the ride.

As it turned out, he did finish.

71.76 kilometres. Two hours and twenty-eight minutes of moving time. An average speed of 29 km/h. His longest ride yet.

Plan B stayed in my head. Nishad made Plan A work.

And I came away with a reminder that sometimes, having a backup plan is what gives you the confidence to attempt the adventure in the first place.

Freedom doesn't have to look the same for everyone

I have always loved being on two wheels.

There is a particular kind of freedom that comes with riding a motorcycle. The road opens up, the engine hums beneath you, and for a few hours, the noise of everyday life becomes a little quieter.

You choose a destination, or sometimes you don't. You take a turn because the road looks interesting. You stop for chai because the place looks inviting. You discover that the best part of a ride is occasionally the part you hadn't planned.

Nishad was discovering his own version of that freedom.

His was measured in kilometres, cadence, endurance and the satisfaction of making it to a destination under his own steam.

But the essence was the same.

We were both out there because we wanted to be. We were both exploring what we could do. We were both discovering the road in our own way.

And I liked that.

I didn't need him to enjoy the road the way I do. He didn't need to understand why I love motorcycling. We could share the experience without having to make it identical.

Perhaps that is true freedom in general. It doesn't have to look the same for everyone to be equally meaningful.

The freedom to try, and the freedom to turn back

We tend to celebrate the finish line.

The distance covered. The mountain climbed. The journey completed. The personal record broken.

There is nothing wrong with that. Finishing something difficult feels wonderful, and Nishad's achievement deserved to be celebrated.

But I think we sometimes forget to make room for the other outcome.

What if he had stopped at 40 kilometres?

What if he had realised that he was exhausted and needed to call it a day?

Would the morning have been a failure?

I don't think so.

He would still have got up early, prepared himself, ridden further than he might have ridden before, and discovered something about his own endurance. He would have learnt where his limits were that day. And he would have had another opportunity to try again.

We need to be careful about teaching ourselves, and our children, that every adventure must end in a successful finish to count.

Sometimes the achievement is in starting. Sometimes it is in continuing when things get difficult. And sometimes it is in recognising that stopping is the sensible thing to do.

The important thing is knowing the difference.

And yes, sometimes that decision involves a Plan B, a phone call, and a mother riding a Himalayan to pick up a very tired cyclist.

Not every ending needs to be cinematic.

The joy of letting someone find their own road

As Nishad rode ahead, I found myself thinking about how lovely it to experience our own freedom on two wheel. And that we could do this together without actually doing the same thing.

He wasn't riding a bicycle because I love motorcycles. I wasn't on my Himalayan because he needed me to turn his ride into my adventure.

We were simply two people who love being out on the road, sharing a morning in a way that worked for each of us.

There is something rather beautiful about that.

We spend so much time trying to bring people into our worlds. We want our children to share our interests, our friends to understand our passions, and the people we love to experience things exactly as we do.

But perhaps connection doesn't require that much agreement.

Perhaps it is enough to say, "You take your bicycle. I'll take my motorcycle. Let's see where the morning takes us."

I could follow him without taking over his ride. I could keep an eye on him without deciding how far he should go. I could be available if he needed help without assuming that he would.

I could let him have his adventure.

And I could have mine.

The road is the point

Nishad completed 71.76 kilometres that morning. I followed him on my Himalayan, with Plan B tucked away in the back of my mind.

He got his longest ride ever.

I got a morning on the road with my son, a little fresh air, and a reminder that freedom is as much about how we approach a journey as it is about where we end up.

We don't always need to travel together in the same way. We don't always need the same destination. And we certainly don't need to agree on the best machine for getting there.

Some of us prefer pedals. Some of us prefer engines.

Some of us plan every kilometre. Others like to see what happens when the road opens up.

The beauty of two wheels is that there is room for all of us.

So here's to the early starts, the open roads, the little adventures, the ambitious plans, and the backup plans that let us attempt them with a little more confidence.

Here's to knowing when to push, when to pause, and when to turn around.

And here's to the people who let us find our own freedom, even when they are travelling on a different set of wheels.

This Sunday, my son rode his bicycle, and I rode my Himalayan. We shared the road, but we each had our own journey.

And honestly, I can't think of a better way to spend a morning.