I’ve ridden Royal Enfield motorcycles with Siddharth Lal.
The first time was in Shimla, 2017, during the media ride of the original Himalayan 411. I remember the cold mountain air, loose trails, and Siddharth — Royal Enfield’s MD, riding along with us. No entourage, no fanfare. Just another rider in full gear, listening, asking questions, and soaking in feedback.
The second time was at the launch of the Himalayan 450. Same approach. Same trails. Same quiet commitment.
That’s the kind of rider Siddharth is. And as I’ve come to realise, that same rider-first mindset runs deep at Royal Enfield.
Take a look at a recent Instagram post from Royal Enfield — a snapshot from Ladakh. In it, the company’s top brass — CEO B Govindarajan, CGO Mario Alvisi, top business and global product heads, R&D leads — are all out testing prototypes. We’re talking about bikes like the electric Himalayan, Flying Flea range, and the heavily rumoured 750cc ADV. Not in boardrooms. Not on factory floors. But in real conditions — altitude, rocks, rain, and fatigue.
This isn’t a staged PR ride. It’s part of how they operate. And it’s rare.
Most motorcycle brands prefer spreadsheets, filtered reports, and second-hand rider data. At Enfield, the people at the top ride. They feel the same clutch bite, handle the same suspension pitch, and wrestle with the same quirks. That’s how they build empathy with the machine — and with the rider.
But let me be clear: this doesn’t make Royal Enfield a perfect brand. Not even close.
I bought the new Himalayan 450 — one of the most anticipated bikes of the last few years. What followed were frustrating issues straight out of the showroom. Things that should’ve been caught in pre-delivery checks or early testing. It reached a point where I genuinely considered selling it. Yes, they fixed it eventually. But should those problems have existed in the first place? No.
And it’s not just one bike.
Take the Hunter 350. A well-aimed motorcycle with the right vibe and intent. But the rear suspension? Way too stiff for Indian conditions. It took what could’ve been a delightful urban machine and made it uncomfortable for daily use. That decision—whether engineering-driven or cost-based undercut its broader appeal. This model has been updated with a revised suspension, though, we are yet to test and find out if it works.
Then there’s the Guerrilla 450. Mechanically sound. But its launch paint schemes were radically different from anything Royal Enfield had done before. Loud, bright, and jarring — they looked like they belonged to a completely different brand. Royal Enfield has built a visual identity around classic, understated tones. The Guerrilla’s colours felt out of sync, and it showed. The bike didn’t generate the early buzz new launches usually enjoy. And in today’s market, that opening wave of hype matters — a lot.
This is where the leadership’s presence on the ground becomes critical. Because when the people calling the shots are also out there riding in the same conditions as their customers, they experience these problems firsthand. Not through surveys or filtered dealership reports — but on a cold morning at 13,000 feet when a suspension setting feels wrong or a colourway doesn’t spark emotion.
It’s not about creating perfect bikes every time. It’s about staying close to the process — to the bike, the road, and the rider. When you’ve felt a flaw personally, you approach the solution differently. You act faster. You listen more closely.
Royal Enfield is still evolving. It’s still messy in places. But there’s something to be said about a company where the people at the top ride with the people they build for.
This isn’t a PR story. It’s a culture story. One where motorcycles are not just products — but experiences that the leadership chooses to live, not just sell.
It’s not perfect. But it’s honest.
And in a world of polished pitches, sometimes honesty is a real standout.
