Mysore was still brewing its morning coffees when we rolled out of the hotel car park, a neat queue of Yezdis heading towards the palace for the compulsory early photo stop. Ten years ago, I did this same run with an entirely different kind of bike and an entirely different kind of brain. Back then I was astride a Bajaj Avenger, riding like a labrador off the leash—all nerve, no patience, convinced that every overtake had to be made and every pothole was a personal challenge. What that bike gave me, besides a sore back and what I hope will be a lifelong attachment to motorcycles, was a string of stories stitched into the highways of Karnataka. Now, in my late twenties, I find myself back on the same stretch, riding differently. Not cautiously, but with more judgement, more rhythm. This time, my companion was the Yezdi Roadster, a bike that invites you to misbehave but won’t punish you when you do. 

I began the ride in Eco mode, letting the bike cap my early enthusiasm at just over 100 kmph. Eco forces restraint, and for the first hundred-odd kilometres it kept things calm as our convoy chugged along reservedly after some photo ops at the Mysore Palace. The Roadster settled into a steady hum, eating up distance without drama. Krishna Café was our first proper pause: steel plates of idlis, another round of coffee, and a few riders already loosening their jackets. It was here that I flicked the switch into Power mode, and the ride shifted gears in more ways than one. The Roadster didn’t roar—that isn’t its personality. It shrugged, steadied, and asked me to keep up. Long sweepers opened up, speed bumps tested reflexes, and a pair of lumbering buses became benchmarks for overtakes. That itch to chase the fast group at the front returned, and the bike met me halfway, planted but playful.  

“This bike had to have character, not perfection. A lovable rascal—that’s how we wanted people to see it,” Classic Legends co-founder Anupam Thareja had told me at the press event. Out there on the Mysore–Coorg straights, his words clicked. The Roadster wasn’t pretending to be flawless, but it had a streak of mischief in how it carried itself. At 80 or 90 it felt right at home, just enough bite in the throttle at 5000 RPM to keep you interested, just enough stability to keep you honest to the road. 

The Roadster’s Underpinnings 

By the time we pushed into Kodagu, the road surface began to show its teeth.  Plantation tracks battered by monsoon rains forced the convoy to slow, and this was where the engineering philosophy came into view. The Roadster’s steering geometry gave it a settled feel through sweepers, but it was still nimble enough to swerve around potholes without panic. The 790 mm seat height kept me comfortable through long stretches, the relaxed rider triangle spared my back, though I found myself wishing the pegs were further back when the road forced me to stand on the bike. The suspension had been tuned with the everyday rider in mind: forgiving more than punishing, soft enough to keep fatigue away, firm enough not to wallow. The MRF tyres gripped dutifully through broken tarmac and wet patches, and the ByBre brakes, backed by dual-channel ABS, stopped me with confidence even when the Mysore-Mangalore highway threw up unexpected patches of missing asphalt.  

On paper these are checkboxes—rake angles, seat triangles, tyre sections—but on the road they translated into one simple fact: I got to Coorg with nothing worse than a sore wrist. That, on a ride where the throttle spent long stretches pinned, is its own achievement. 

Not that it was flawless. Push it into full-throttle overtakes and the power delivery occasionally hesitated, like the bike was clearing its throat. The pegs buzzed enough to keep my boots tingling. And the digital dash, serviceable in the shade, became nearly useless under direct sun. At one point I gave up trying to read it and relied on muscle memory to know what gear I was in. A simple glare shield would have gone a long way. But for every shortcoming, there was a reminder of what the Roadster does best: making India’s real-world riding speeds—that 60 to 90 sweet spot between city and highway—feel like a space worth lingering in. 

Calm And Chaos 

When we entered Namdroling Monastery, the contradiction of the bike seemed to crystallise. Twenty-odd Roadsters rumbling past golden gates, their exhausts bouncing off the spires, while young monks clapped and laughed at the spectacle. Inner peace disturbed by outer noise. I’ve been here many times before in silence, but never like this. Later, I sat outside the monastery bookstore, a familiar haunt, with a paperback in hand and my helmet by my side. It struck me how even a rascal of a motorcycle could carry you back to a place of meditation. 

“This was never about building just another motorcycle,” Boman Irani had said to me later. “The Roadster was built with emotion—something we hoped riders would feel in their bones.” And it was emotion that stayed with me at that moment. The ride wasn’t just about torque curves and rake angles; it was about being seen and cheered at by strangers, about feeling your pulse quicken when you caught up to the lead group, about the stillness that follows the noise. 

Even the pragmatic conversations had their edge. Thareja framed it in terms of what the Roadster means in the market: “It’s not a perfect motorcycle, but it’s a great starter kit. A bike for someone with a chip on his shoulder, a commute to suffer, and a desire to give India’s highways a run for their money.” For a rider like me—someone who came of age on an Avenger, graduated to deadlines and deadlines again, but still wants a bike that looks good outside a café and feels alive in the sweepers—that description fits neatly. 

The return ride was harder, faster. My sore wrist had to be stretched at fuel stops, but the Roadster kept up without complaint. At the airport later that evening, I realised I had managed a full day of hard riding, two hours in a cab, and a flight home without feeling broken. That balance between capability and comfort is no small thing, even if the bike makes you squint at its dash and shake out your feet every now and then. 

I thought again of that younger version of myself, hunched over an Avenger, chasing freedom for its own sake. He wouldn’t have known what steering angles were or cared about peg placement. But he would have loved the Roadster. And maybe that’s the point: this bike speaks to the rider you were, the rider you are, and the rider you still want to be. It doesn’t need perfection to do that. It just needs the right mix of rascal energy and grown-up balance; something both Yezdi and I seem to have learned along the way.