I got my first taste of motorsport at the age of 4, when I overtook the station commander's MG on my cycle. The brakes were very weak, the slope to the flat below 3km long. The fixed wheel-cogs on my bicycle ensured the pedals whirled out of control, forcing me to rest my thin young legs on the handlebars. It took the entire length of the airfield at Jodhpur (or so it seemed) to stop me. But when I passed the MG, I knew I had found my life's passion (being banned by the tyrannous fighter pilot fondly known as Dad, from going anywhere near a cycle for two weeks, did nothing to change things). Schooling at Sanawar was spent racing dinky cars in 'rain drains' on the weekends, while most of my time in St. Stephen's was spent holding motorcycle 'wheelie' seminars, and at bike repair shops learning the 'whys' and (more importantly) the 'hows'! By the time I was 20, I had ridden over Jalori on ice, beyond Sangla in snow, and explored the forgotten parts of 'never-never' land on a bike. I also marshalled at the Himalayan Rally at a cold 'time control', where one used an empty bottle of 'tharra' filled with boiling water to remain in touch with one's fingertips .