This ride had lived in my head for years. Not as a detailed plan, not as a meticulously crafted route, but as a feeling—a quiet calling to the white desert of Kutch. I remember when my friend Sarath Shenoy did the ride. I’d watch his stories, almost in disbelief, thinking: How incredible it must feel to just take off like that. At the time, I wasn’t confident on a motorcycle. I couldn’t imagine myself on a long-distance ride, let alone riding solo.
That started to change when I bought my bike two years ago. I didn’t overthink it. I just packed a bag and took off across Karnataka—riding from Goa to Mangalore, Coorg, Mysore, Bangalore, and back via Hubli. It was chaotic, beautiful, unplanned, and everything I needed to fall in love with the road. A solo ride to Pune after that helped me trust myself a little more. I didn’t need anyone to “allow” me to be a rider. I already was one.
Kutch kept calling, though.
Life and work got in the way, as they do. Health issues slowed me down. But this February, when an event pulled me to Lonavala, I saw a window open. I could ride north. I could chase this dream that had lived quietly in the back of my mind for years. There was no fixed plan. If my friend Elliot joined me from Mumbai, we’d head to Kutch. If not, I’d ride solo to Mount Abu and Udaipur and visit my friend Bhumik—another overdue plan.
I left Goa on a cool morning after a final bike check and a spontaneous shopping run at Motowilder. The mist was heavy through Amboli Ghat, slowing me down. A breakfast break at McDonald’s in Kolhapur became more about cooling off and using a clean washroom than the food. That stretch of highway under construction was brutal—heat, trucks, dust. By the time I rolled into Panchgani around 4 p.m., I was worn out. But the strawberries were sweet, the air crisp, and a quiet dinner at a local café reminded me why I love these journeys.
The next day, I rode into Mumbai—my first time on a bike in that beast of a city. I took the long route through Mahabaleshwar and a wildlife sanctuary, riding through lush, shaded forest roads that felt like something out of a dream. But the dream snapped back to reality as I hit Panvel and the traffic chaos began. I panicked. I wanted to turn around. But a quick call with my friend Yogi gave me the push I needed, and I somehow made it to his motorcycle workshop where I collapsed into hugs and laughter.
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Elliot, who had been in Mumbai, decided to join me from there. We didn’t plan much—just pointed our bikes north and stopped when we needed to. Daman called to us with its Portuguese-Goan connection, so we rode in to explore, then continued to Surat and spent the night. Somewhere between Surat and Ahmedabad, I lost control and fell. The ankle pain was sharp, but not unbearable. The fall was a jolt—emotionally more than physically. Sarath talked me into pausing for the day. In hindsight, I’m so glad I did.
Ahmedabad turned out to be a lovely detour—delicious food, interesting people, and a bit of time to breathe. When I left, the excitement kicked in again. The highway to Bhuj was smooth and wide, and the scenery began to change. The desert was creeping in—heat, dust, vast emptiness. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, I found a small dhaba, downed a chilled lassi, ate theplas, and rode on with a full heart and dusty boots.
In Bhuj, I finally felt it: I was close. Sarath had helped me plan the best route into the Rann, and the next stretch was magic. The famous Road to Heaven felt exactly like that. Open roads flanked by white salt, a vast silence broken only by the hum of our engines. It didn’t feel real. We crossed a massive lake and wandered around the ancient ruins of Dholavira before searching for a place to stay. Right before dark, we found a tiny homestay. The owner fed us fresh rotis, vegetables, and a simple but soul-satisfying Gujarati meal.
The next morning, Elliot continued towards Rajasthan. I was on my own again.
I set my sights on Baroda. Riding solo as a woman means being alert every minute—where you stop, who’s around, how far you are from help. I avoid deserted stretches after dark, dress modestly, and always trust my gut. I’ve had mostly positive experiences on the road, but staying cautious isn’t negotiable.
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That ride to Baroda was uneventful but long. I stopped at familiar-looking joints for food, mostly vegetarian. I reached by sunset and met up with a friend. It was comforting to be around familiar energy for a bit.
The next day, I rode to Mumbai. And that’s when the exhaustion truly hit. My body was sore, the traffic was unforgiving, and I felt like I was running on fumes. But I pushed through.
I gave myself a buffer for the last stretch—Mumbai to Goa. If I felt drained, I’d stop. But once I got moving, I found my rhythm again. A crab thali in Chiplun and a few lime juices later, I had enough energy to ride home.
Rolling into Goa, I felt so much more than just tired. I felt full. Full of stories, of dust and sun, of setbacks and moments of absolute joy. This ride wasn’t just about getting to the Rann. It was about reminding myself what I’m capable of.
Tips for first time riders (especially women)
1. Trust your instincts. If something feels off, turn around. Whether it’s a road, a person, or a place—listen to your gut.
2. Plan your route loosely. Leave space for detours, delays, and magic. But always know your fuel stops, accommodation options, and where you’ll halt for the night.
3. Dress smart. Covered clothing and proper riding gear not only keep you protected but also help you blend in and avoid unnecessary attention.
4. Share your live location. Always have someone tracking you, especially if you’re riding solo. Apps like Life360 or just WhatsApp live location work great.
5. Learn basic maintenance. Know how to check your oil, tighten your chain, change a flat if needed—or at least identify issues early before they become problems.
6. Hydrate and fuel right. Keep ORS or electrolyte sachets with you. Drink often. Carry nuts, protein bars, and fruit in case you don’t find good food.
7. Take breaks. Don’t push beyond your limit. Tired riders make poor decisions.
8. Carry cash. Small towns may not always have functional ATMs or UPI options.
9. Be respectful. Of the people, the cultures, the land. A smile goes a long way, but so does knowing when to stay quiet.
10. Own your space. You deserve to be on that road as much as anyone else. Ride with confidence, not fear.
This journey wasn’t perfect. I fell, I got scared, I had doubts. But I kept going—and that’s what counts. If you’ve been waiting to take that ride, don’t wait for everything to be perfect. Just get started. Whether it’s 100 km or 3,000, the first step is the hardest.
But once you take it, you’ll wonder why you didn’t do it sooner.
