4 November 2012
How many times in your life have you felt so elated, so proud of yourself that you wish to tell the whole wide world what you have done. It might not have been equivalent to discovering radium or jumping from the stratosphere or going to the depths of the Mariana Trench — in fact you know that someone somewhere has definitely done it — but that does not deter you, you are still on cloud nine. Why? Because you have surmounted that gargantuan challenge which at some point was even tending towards the impossible. You have broken your limits and conquered it all. Your self-esteem is incompressible and your face is smiling like a cracked-up nut job who has just escaped from a mental asylum.
These were my emotions as I had completed the distance of 205 km and reached my destination of Keoladeo National Park, alone. I had been on the road for about 12 hours, spending 10 of them pedalling. The last 50 km were practically so gruelling and painful that I felt my posterior cruciate ligaments could snap any time. I grunted, snarled, cursed and, to the surprise of many passersby, ejaculated loud roars of abnormal laughter. I needed something to take my mind off the pain and nothing quite seemed to work.
Well, now here I was finally, gobbling toast and omelettes one after the other like an ogre, narrating the shortened version of my story quite nonchalantly to the only audience I had at the moment: the hawker preparing the meal for me. He too was perhaps on some sort of cloud nine, for this deranged-looking customer had found his omelettes so lip-smacking that even after 6 eggs and bread slices each, there was a good chance he would ask for more. I let out a soft burp, excused myself, and he knew it was over.
Just when I was about to wear my helmet, a man in his late fifties came over and, like so many other people, asked the reason for my exceptionally short shorts, my filthy look, and of course the bright red helmet. He intently listened to my explanation and did one unexpected thing — he softly patted me on the back like a general praising his soldier after a hard-won victory, and told me to get back on the seat and pedal.
Now, let’s rewind a bit.
On 4 November 2012, with unbridled excitement I woke to my 3:30 AM alarm. To tell the truth, I wanted to be excited but my mind was muted about the challenge ahead. Some moments later my parents too woke up — the repeated sloshing of water and the unruly sound of door hinges as I entered and exited one room after another were rather unbearable. The next 30 minutes as I dressed up, checked and rechecked my stuff and had breakfast were so unsettling that I just wanted to go out the door and pedal as fast as I could. My parents had that forlorn look on their face as if their son was going on the battlefield and his chances of returning were extremely slim. They tried to tantalise me time and again with thought-provoking sentimental comments, showing their anxiety and apprehension through unusual questions — this after we had a long discussion the day before about my plans for the trip.
Some people make the bitter mistake of telling a cyclist that it cannot be done, that the destination is too far away, that it is too dangerous, that you might be killed or robbed and other monstrously graphic ways your life could end. This is because for some abnormally strange reason these very difficulties strengthen his will and he resolves into a stubbornness to complete the task that is only equivalent to that of glass stuck on wood with super gorilla glue. But if you come to think of it, cyclists are really foolhardy people, preferring to pedal their way anytime, anywhere. In this world of Ferraris and Hayabusas, this behaviour is rather unexpected.
I like to tell people of the adventures I am planning. I like to see their facial expressions and hear their comments. The weird thing is that if I hear some nice encouraging words I get really pumped up and smile really up to the brim — beyond which it can turn into a raucous laugh, and I believe many people don’t like it — but if I get words of serious wisdom, chiding or extreme caution, I get pumped up even more. While these seem like the perfect signs of a maniac, trust me, I am not that. There are some things you know about yourself and I generally know what I can handle. I wish this was true every time, but there are always unpredictable environmental factors that throw you out of sync. With me, it was that summer trekking in the Himalayas with my friend when we almost got killed after landing on a treacherous piece of crumbling mountain.
There is something truly wonderful about the click of a plastic buckle, the tightening of straps and the feel of weight on the back. It suddenly makes me feel more alive and my mind hovers through the air as if a bird set free.
On the road I met others who looked at me with sympathetic eyes and asked, “Has somebody sent you here?” “Is this a competition?” “Couldn’t you have taken a bus or a car or a motorbike?” “Why are you doing it alone?” “Is this a pilgrimage?” I always used to smile back, not really knowing what to say. I just wanted to do this. And what the heck, why not?