They never learn

Came over the crest of a flyover as usual. Streetlights never work here and good headlights and a thorough familiarity with the road surface here are a great asset. On that night, it was invaluable. God'd been going nuts with his new camera for a while now and the repeated flashes could only mean one thing. A developing rain storm. And as we started climbing the flyover, the pitter patter began to turn into the surprisingly violent roar that's heavy rain. Through the roar of heavy drops on vinyl – yellow roof over my head – I heard the distinctive skreee-scrawshhhhhh that means a biker is down. We came over the crest into a rash of red tail lights as traffic braked hard for what looked like a snarl. I've seen snarls here before, they last a kilometre. Even as I began to dread the forty minutes it would take to get through, I saw the anonymous tail lamp of a Hero Honda Splendor leaning over like a MotoGP god. And then it was down, rider flapping uselessly along behind the bike, as both slid inevitable forward, down the slope.

For the umpteenth time, the first rains brought down temperatures, tempers and a heck of a lot of bikers. The rash of tail lamps, you see was created by at least four bikers who were down. Two Pulsars, one Thunderbird and another Splendor, apart from the one I saw tipping over. My autorickshaw driver was very much into rubber necking, but I heckled him into gently negotiating the fallen bikes – all the bikers were yelling about, 'Who the f**k dropped oil?' and seemed just a little worse for the wear – tatty shirt elbows and holed knees but nothing serious. 

Oil? How would you trace the drops of oil left behind by literally thousands of trucks, SUVs and cars since what, August last year?

Further down the road, I got the rick to slow down to a slippery 35 kph, buzzing nervously along the pavement on the extreme left of the road. And I spotted at least another six bikes with bent stuff on them, parked on the side. Riders on the phones, 'Er... Honey, I'll be late... No, I fell off the bike... oil... f**ckers!' 

It happens every single year, so you think they'd figure it out and learn. The first rains, wash up the oil and dirt on the road, before they wash it off. That means that first wet hour is properly lethal. Like riding on ice. On walking on a freshly polished floor wearing silk moccasins. As slippery as a freshly caught fish... The hour where it's probably safer to just leave the bike parked safely and take a four-wheeled thing home. But, no, they never learn.