Yesterday was, without a doubt, the hardest day of our trip so far. It wasn’t outright horrible—more like one of those trials you look back on and think, “I’m proud we made it through that.” But in the moment? It was brutal. The kind of challenge that makes you question your sanity, your patience, and sometimes, the structural integrity of your spine.

We started the day leaving Kannur and heading inland, and the trouble began almost immediately. We’d left at 8 so Kannur was in rush hour…except no-one could rush. Slow kilometre after slow kilometre passed. Eventually we made it to the Kerala-Karnataka border. And that’s where things turned.

The roads—if you can call them that—looked like they’d been bombed. Or perhaps abandoned to nature’s wrath during monsoon season, with tarmac turned to loose gravel and potholes that could swallow a car whole. For the first few kilometers, I thought, “This is bad, but manageable.” By kilometer five, it was clear: This is a war zone. This was Makutta Ghat.

The roads could be tough.

Dalma deserves a medal for yesterday’s ride. She tackled some of the gnarliest terrain I’ve ever seen, all while keeping her balance on a bike that seemed determined to tip over at every turn. The Guerilla just isn’t designed for this type of road. There were a few moments when she had to stop and let me take the bike through particularly rough patches, but most of it? She nailed it. Slow and steady, she navigated deep potholes, loose gravel, and twisty ascents that felt more like survival drills than a road trip.

One particularly memorable moment came on a steep hairpin turn. Dalma, already battling the incline, had to contend with a truck coming downhill in her lane. She stopped mid-turn, balanced precariously, and somehow managed not to drop the bike. The truck driver, of course, just smiled—completely unfazed. For him, it was just another day in India. For us? A near-death experience.

A cratered switchback.

The thing about riding here is that it’s fundamentally different from places like Australia. In Australia, your safety is your responsibility. If you mess up, it’s on you. Here, it’s a communal chaos—everyone is watching everyone else, not because they’re kind, but because there’s no other way. Drivers and riders push, swerve, and play chicken with each other constantly. And yet, somehow, it works. Mostly. We passed a couple of overturned trucks on the way, stark reminders that this system isn’t foolproof.

The roads could also be beautiful.

Somewhere near the top of the Western Ghats, we found a new and glamorous Middle Eastern restaurant, a testament to the strong muslim presence in the south. It was a haven—cool, calm, and serving exactly the kind of hearty chicken dish we needed to recharge. We sat there for 40 minutes, letting our nerves settle and marveling at the resilience of our bikes (and ourselves).

The rest of the ride was a mix of bad roads, tight corners, and the occasional stretch of smooth tarmac. By the time we reached Mysore, we were utterly spent. The city greeted us with a dry hotel (again—seriously, we need to learn how to book places with bars) and streets that looked like they belonged in a post-apocalyptic movie. But we didn’t care. We’d made it.

Mysore is, by all accounts, an incredible city, and we’re excited to explore its palace, rail museum, and chaotic streets. But last night, all we managed was a quick beer at a dive bar and a good vegetarian meal at the hotel restaurant before collapsing into bed. This morning, Dalma’s exhaustion is palpable, but so is her determination. For her, this was the most challenging riding she’s ever done. And for me? It was a reminder of why I’m so proud of her. She’s tougher than she knows.

And then there are the quirks of Kerala and Karnataka that keep us amused. Communist flags wave proudly on every corner, a relic of Kerala’s democratically elected communist government. Cows wander the streets, garbage piles are ubiquitous, and signs encouraging cleanliness and anti-littering seem like wishful thinking. It’s chaos. It’s beautiful. It’s maddening. And somehow, it works.

The chaos isn’t limited to the roads. There’s a particular brand of entitlement here, a confidence that says, “I belong here, and you’ll just have to deal with me.” Like the man who stood in the middle of ramp to our hotel refusing to move even as I tried to maneuver around him. Or the pedestrians who meander across the road, forcing traffic to come to a halt, and then look at you like you’re the problem when you honk.

But you know what? There’s a strange beauty in this madness. It’s infuriating, yes, but also a reminder that life moves at its own pace here. If you fight it, you’ll drive yourself mad. If you embrace it, well… you’ll still go mad, but at least you’ll smile while doing it. Or in Dalma’s case swear (in Hungarian so I don’t know what she says).

As we gear up for another day, I can’t help but reflect on why we’re doing this. The discomfort, the danger, the exhaustion—it’s all worth it. Not just for the adventure, but for the shared experience. The things we do for love, as they say.

Today, we’ll explore Mysore, recharge, and prepare for the next leg of this wild journey. Whatever comes next, we’ll face it together. After all, if we can survive yesterday, we can survive anything.