Oh no, this has lost its chill!!

Like any Indian youth, I too dream of owning a Bullet. Because of pecuniary pressures I have never managed to fulfill this dream. So it was natural for me to gleefully accept my friends offer of taking care of his Royal Enfield Thunderbird 350 cc while while work took him to the US of A.
The first ride, once the bike was in my custody, was to the Lawrence and Mayo shop to by a classic Rayban glass for Rs 3000. Thundering through the streets of Hyderabad, I felt like Tom Cruise from Top Gun. My condescending looks on the fellow bikers in any traffic signal was testimony to my hubristic attitude.
Even the gods felt jealous and resembling their vengeance the bike developed a snag after two weeks.It would not start. The bike which used to roar in a few kicks would not even moan after dozen kicks. At times the kicker used to hit back, sending up a current of pain through the leg which would run up till the head and escape as a spray of tears from the eyes. At times the kicker used to get recalcitrant and would not move.
I stopped using the bike and waited for the weekend to get it repaired. It was Friday night, me and my friends - Menon, Shek and Nair- were relaxing after a tiring week at work. By 1050 pm we had consumed our stock and were short of supply, with 10 minutes left for the wineshops to close. The thirst for alcohol can do wonders to one. The beefy Nair, overcame his sedentary insticts and with all his might delivered a telling kick on the Thunderbird. The bullet started with a war cry resembling the wail of a kid woken up from deep sleep by a bee prick. In the process Nair hurt his knee and could not drive the bike. Me and Shek volunteered to go and get the beer. The plan was that, I will remain seated on the idling bike while Shek will get the beer from the shop. The bike will be turned off only after reaching home.
Our plan worked well. We reached the shop, got the beer, and were on our way back home. My pride of driving a Bullet again rose as Shek told me that there is no comparable for a ride on Bullet. I asked Shek whether he ever had driven a Bullet. "No" came his answer. I thought fate was cruel by denying a well built and intelligent guy like Shek the pleasures of manoeuvring a Bullet.
The following sequence happened with practiced perfection. I braked, dismounted from the bike, with the clutch disengaged asked Shek to take the rider's seat, I took the black plastic cover with 6 beer bottles, Shek seated himself and held on to the clutch lever, I took the pillion seat. We were ready to go. Shek put the bike on gear, slowly released the clutch.
With a loud shriek and a jump the bike came to a halt.
We were still a mile away from my home. Realization also dawned that in the hurry to get to the wine shop we had not changed our clothes. Shek was wearing a self-cut-shorts with both legs of differing lengths, made from a worn out jeans, and threads running from its bottom. I was much better dressed in a slipper and a green and yellow designer lungi, called in Mallu parlance as "Kaili".
I got out of the bike, stood by the side of the road carrying the precious cover and let the body-builder Shek, to start the bike. Shek had a smirk on his face as he prepared to imitate Nair's act at home. He could not be blamed if he felt confident, as he has spent daily two hours in the gym for the past 5 years. Even I was brimming with hope as I saw Shek holding the bike by the handle rose in the air with a folded leg to kickstart the bike. He looked like a warrior about to crush his opponent under his feet. He landed on the kicker and what happened was unexpected. Like a pole vault athlete bouncing off the mat after the jump, Shek bounced of the kicker, which did not budge an inch. The smirk on Shek's face gave way to an emotional facial display of despair and embarrassment. An enraged Shek let loose a flurry of kicks on the pedal. It was just like pushing a concrete wall.
After this fruitless and tiring exercise, a red-faced, gasping Shek dismounted the bike and declared "thoda mushkil hai". With great wisdom I denied Shek's offer to lodge a few kicks myself and suggested that we push the bike home. It is not a mean task to push a 250kg machine, a mile's distance. Nevertheless we had no choice.
The ordeal started. As one of us had to carry the precious black cover, the bike had to be pushed alone by the other. In our attire we would have looked like village theives making a run with a bullet. It took good 20 mins of humongous effort to get the bike and beer home. We were tired and profusely sweating by the time we reached home. We walked in, kept the beer in front of Menon, only to hear him say "Oh no, this has lost its chill".