Discovering Brevets

Before November 2015, I had never heard the word brevet, let alone known how to pronounce it correctly. That changed when my son, Ashwini, successfully completed 200- and 300-km brevets in Nagpur, earning the proud title of Randonneur. I soon discovered that brevets are long-distance, non-competitive cycling events where riders must complete a set course within a fixed time. Unlike races, brevets demand self-sufficiency—no support vehicles, no mechanical aid, and no escape from the elements. Control points along the route ensure that riders follow the designated path. Anyone finishing within the time limit is both a finisher and a winner.

Taking the Plunge

In early August 2016, Ashwini encouraged Abhishek Raut and me to attempt a brevet. Nagpur Randonneurs—a cycling club based in Nagpur—was organizing 200- and 300-km brevets along the Nagpur-Sevagram route. We opted for what we thought was the milder version: 200 km. Though I had taken up cycling that summer and completed a few 50- and 150-km rides, I was far from confident about participating in a brevet. But Ashwini, playing the role of a determined coach, took a no-excuses approach.

“Don’t let your age, your stent, or your lack of experience create self-doubt,” he insisted. “Believe in yourself—you can make up for it with enthusiasm.” His encouragement quickly escalated into a firm push.

Because we lived in Sevagram—a small village 75 km from Nagpur—and the brevet was set to start at dawn, we checked into a modest hotel near Nagpur airport the night before. The housekeeper was visibly puzzled by the sight of our bicycles and gear crammed between our beds. We ordered dinner in our room and turned in early.

The alarm rang at 3:10 a.m. We slept well and woke up immediately. After a quick shower, we donned our cycling shorts and jerseys, ate a couple of bananas, carried our bicycles down four flights of stairs, and checked out. Abhishek and I rode our Marin San Rafaels, while Ashwini saddled up on his Trek Domane. Before we set off, Bhavana—my wife—called from her parents’ home in Madhya Pradesh to wish us luck. At 4:40 a.m., we mounted our bikes and dashed toward the picturesque Futala Lake in western Nagpur, the designated starting point, 10 km away.

Flagging Off

We arrived at the starting point about ten minutes late. Along the way, several Nagpur Randonneurs—charismatic and seasoned cyclists, some with impressive sprinting abilities—waved as they began their rides. At the checkpoint, we got our bikes inspected, completed waiver forms, had our brevet cards stamped, and affixed our rider numbers to our handlebars.

The 200-km brevet followed National Highway 44 from Nagpur to Jamb, with a detour to Sevagram before looping back to Nagpur. We had thirteen and a half hours to complete the ride. Thirteen riders had registered for the 200-km event, while twice as many had signed up for the grueling 300-km ride.

Jamb: The First Checkpoint

We left Futala Lake at 5:15 a.m. The energy of the event, the thrill of the unknown, and the rush of adrenaline sent my body into fight-or-flight mode. I recalled every piece of advice I had ever received on managing stress, conserving energy, and pacing myself on long rides.

Our plan was to stick together as much as possible. I found my rhythm quickly, despite an initial setback—I had forgotten my cycling shoes in Sevagram and was forced to ride the first 60 km in leather shoes. Still, I maintained a steady cadence, averaging 22 km per hour. We reached Jamb, our first checkpoint, in just over three hours.

At Jamb, we had our brevet cards stamped, refueled with bananas, refilled our water bottles, and took a brief, much-needed rest.

The Unexpected Challenge

The next 35-km segment from Jamb to Sevagram was familiar territory. Having cycled this route countless times, I knew every bump, pothole, and incline as if they were etched into my palm. I thought this stretch would be a breeze.

I was wrong.

I had failed to account for the wind. As we turned off the highway onto the road leading to Sevagram, we were met with relentless headwinds. They battered us mercilessly, sapping our energy and shattering our momentum. My breathing grew laboured, and fatigue set in. The lactic acid in my muscles began to surge, while the endorphins that had fuelled my enthusiasm in the first leg of the ride seemed to dissipate.

Headwinds are infamous for draining energy and morale, and this one was no exception. We crawled through each of the five villages on this stretch, counting down the kilometers in slow agony.

Sevagram: The Second Checkpoint

Yet, despite the gruelling conditions, I reached the 100-km mark at 10:45 a.m., just under six hours into the ride. The Sevagram checkpoint, which doubled as a feed stop, was barely 200 meters from my home. A warm welcome awaited us. Dr. Vaibhav Patni, along with friends and family, greeted us with roses. My daughter-in-law, Shaily, and my three-and-a-half-year-old granddaughter, Diti, had come to see me. Diti’s face lit up with joy and curiosity at the sight of so many cyclists in their colourful jerseys, helmets, and bandanas.

There is nothing more rewarding than the sight of a child’s beaming smile.

I parked my bike, sank onto a concrete bench, and eagerly devoured hot khichdi and bananas. I drank water as if I had crossed a desert. The journey was far from over, but at that moment, I felt invincible.

The First Flat

With the first 100 km behind me, I was on my return ride. Just 5 km from Sevagram, my rear tire went flat. I had taken up cycling only three months ago, and while I had watched countless YouTube videos on fixing a flat, I had never actually changed a tire myself. My son—an accomplished cyclist—had tried to teach me, but I had fumbled through every attempt. Unlike professional racers with support vehicles carrying spare wheels, brevets demand self-sufficiency.

Panic set in. I called my son, who was a few kilometers behind me. He arrived, flipped my cycle over, and swiftly removed the deflated tube, replacing it with a new one we had bought just the day before. But as he tried to inflate it, he realized with dismay that his mini pump wasn’t working.

Just then, Mihir Hardikar, a Metallurgy student from VNIT, Nagpur, riding a 200 km brevet, stopped to check on us. Ironically, he discovered that his own tire had also gone flat. As a doctor, I am trained to treat flat lines on cardiac monitors in the ICU—but fixing a flat by the roadside was an entirely different challenge.

I decided to find a puncture repair shop. About three kilometers away, a motorcyclist pulled up and asked where I was heading. I explained my predicament. He offered me a ride to the next village, and I gladly accepted. Leaving my son and Mihir behind, I rode pillion with the motorcyclist, carrying two flat tubes.

The repair shop in the next village was closed, so my kind Samaritan took me 11 km further to Madni. There, a group of curious villagers gathered around my bike, eager to help. None had fixed a cycle tire before, but that didn’t stop them from trying. After some trial and error, they patched up the tubes. When I offered them a small tip, they refused, saying it was their duty to help a doctor in distress. Their generosity and kindness moved me deeply.

Ashwini Quits

Now, I had to cover 6 km back to retrieve my cycle. I found a car and returned to the puncture spot.

“Let’s go,” I said to Ashwini, who looked utterly exhausted.

“I’m quitting,” he declared.

I stared at him, stunned. The thought of riding another 90 km alone was daunting.

“Don’t give up now. It’s too early to throw in the towel,” I urged.

But Ashwini shook his head, resolute. “I’m completely drained. I’d rather go home,” he said, his voice polite yet helpless.

It was my first real test. I took a deep breath, did a mental coin toss, and chose to push on. If I finished, I would be proud. If I tried, I just might succeed. Insha Allah.

The Loneliness of a Long-Distance Rider

I pushed hard, knowing I had to maintain a steady 22 km/h pace. The headwind had eased, but as I reached Taroda, 17 km from Sevagram, the sky darkened. Then came the rain—cool droplets tracing tiny, glistening rivulets down my arms and legs, a welcome relief from exhaustion.

Without a watch, a working phone, or a bike computer, I relied on roadside milestones to track my progress. To stay motivated, I greeted locals along the way. One passerby, after exchanging pleasantries, asked for medical advice, which I had to decline. A motorcyclist rode alongside me, curious about my ride and my age. “Is there a prize if you finish?” he asked. When I shook my head, he was baffled—why endure such hardship for no medal or money?

At 2:15 pm, after cycling 130 km, I reached National Highway 44. Nagpur felt within reach; the next checkpoint was 30 km away. The sun emerged, humidity was bearable, and the wind took a break. My thirst and hunger subsided. Though my bike’s gears were giving out one by one, if I could manage 30 more km, I’d reach the third checkpoint at Butibori in time.

Then, disaster struck. My shoelace loosened and got tangled in the chain ring. Before I knew it, I was on the ground. Fortunately, I was unhurt.

Thirty minutes later, at the 145 km mark, I spotted Abhishek Raut. He had been an hour ahead but was now struggling—his knee pain had drained his strength. “We have just 15 km to Butibori. If we maintain 20 km/h, we’ll make it in time. Once we get there, we can rest before the final stretch,” I encouraged him. He nodded, determined to stay in the saddle.

Disaster Strikes Again

And then, another blow. My rear tire hissed ominously. My heart sank as I watched it deflate. A tiny needle on the road had punctured not just my tire but my confidence. Every shard of glass, sharp stone, and rusted nail along the way had been a silent threat. My worst fear had come true.

I didn’t have a pump. My tube was beyond saving. Frantically, I scanned the roadside. A few hundred meters ahead, I spotted truck tires stacked against a tree—a glimmer of hope. Lifting my bike, I ran to the mechanic and pleaded with him to help us.

His eyes were steely, his voice stern. “I don’t repair cycle tires,” he almost admonished us, waving us away.

“We have to reach Butibori by 4 pm. There’s no one else to help us. Please bail us out—we’ll pay you as much as you ask for,” I implored, my voice turning tremulous.

He relented.

Abhishek, my cycling companion, sprang into action—releasing the brakes, removing the wheel, and handing the tube over to the mechanic. “Today, brevet taught me how to fix a flat in real time,” he would later share with a sense of achievement.

Fifteen minutes later, my bike tire was breathing again. I hurriedly retrieved some notes from my wallet and tried to press a few Rs 20 bills into the mechanic’s hand. He took only one and pushed the rest back—walking away without waiting for our thanks.

The Agonizing Near Miss

It was 3:40 pm. We had lost a crucial 30 minutes at the puncture shop and were left with only 20 minutes to reach the Butibori checkpoint. The asking rate had shot up to 30 km per hour. Even if we pedaled like maniacs on the highway, meeting the deadline was impossible.

We stood still, glaring at our bicycles, our bodies betraying the realization that the chase was over. We had been so close, yet agonizingly far. Our hearts sank.

Resigned, we dragged our bikes to Butibori, where Urvashi and Sudarshan—the brevet volunteers—confirmed what we already knew. “You missed the bus by a few minutes,” they said. We nodded, handed over our soggy brevet cards, loaded our bikes onto the car, and drove back to Sevagram.

Triumph in Tragedy

So, my first attempt at a brevet ended in a DNF. I had taken up the gauntlet, but it wasn’t to be. The ride was a roller coaster of highs and lows. I had poured my heart into training, performed well in the first leg, but in the second, the wheels—quite literally—came off.

And yet, I refused to wallow in self-pity or blame fate.

Those 12 hours didn’t leave behind the scars of failure, but the footprints of  adventure.

On my way home, I recalled Robert Louis Stevenson’s famous words:
“To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is to labour.”

How true. I am a neophyte in the world of cycling, watching, almost starry-eyed, as riders half my age sprinted along the highway. I made my brevet debut at 59, and every twist and turn of the journey was exhilarating.

As I reached home, I knew it was time to put aside minor niggles, step into a hot shower, change into dry clothes, recount my day to my granddaughter, and sit down for a well-earned, sumptuous dinner with family.

DNF notwithstanding, I had earned this moment.

After all, in his 2007 Tour de France debut, Mark Cavendish suffered two crashes and had to quit as the race headed into the mountains. What followed, year after year, is history.

Perhaps, my best rides are still ahead of me.


200 km		Ashwini Kalantri, Abhishek Raut, Amit Thatte, Ashok Varma Indukuri, Hariom Jham, Jaigopal Chobdar, Jivesh Surana, Kiran Belsare, Mihir Hardikar, Pratik Raut, SP Kalantri, Sumit Jamde and Teer.


300 km		Anand Kasture, Aniruddha Raich, Ankit Jaiswal, Didar Singh Sokhi, Dyaneshwar Sakharkar, Jitesh Thakkar, Kishore Pachkor, Manohar Golhar, Mohammad Ansari, Mustafa Quadri, Neel Deshmukh, Nilesh Lahotiya, Nitin Bhalme, Nitin Borakhade, Raj Lodhiya, Rajesh Chansoriya, Rishi Sehgal, Sachin Palewar, Sanjay Duratkar, Sarang Kshirsagar, Shailendra Maurya, Sneha Barwe, Sudarshan Varma, Tarique Sani, Vikas Patra and Yash Sharma