The Anatomy of a Long Distance Riding

 Brevet—I had not even heard this word until November 2015. Nor did I know how to pronounce it right. Last winter, the word found its way into my vocabulary when Ashwini—my son— successfully completed 200 and 300-km brevet in Nagpur and prided himself in being called a Randonneur. I learnt that brevet is a long-distance, non-competitive cycling sport; that riders need to finish within a specified time frame; and that brevets are not races. The riders carry only the bare minimum on them; they cannot ask for a van with supplies and mechanical help to follow them and have to ride even if the weather conditions are a bit brutal for cycling. Control points along the way ensure participants cover the entire route. Everyone finishing the ride within the specified time limit is considered a finisher and a winner.

In the first week of August 2016, Ashwini encouraged Abhishek Raut and me to try our hands at the brevet. Nagpur Randonneurs—a Nagpur based club—was to organise a 200- km and a 300-km brevet on Nagpur-Sevagram route. The three of us opted for what we thought was a milder version. I had taken to cycling in the summer of 2016, and although I had a couple of 50-km and a150-km ride under my belt, I was not committed enough to participate in a brevet. Assuming the role of a strict coach, Ashwini took a no-excuses approach and asked me to stretch myself beyond my comfort zone. “Do not let your age, the stent in your heart or the lack of experience create self-doubts or fear. You have to believe in yourself. You can make up with your enthusiasm,” his push quickly changed into a shove.

Because we live in Sevagram— a small village 75 km from Nagpur—and brevet was to start in the wee hours, we had checked into a small hotel near Nagpur airport a night before the event. The housekeeper in the hotel was surprised to see our bicycles and cycle gears between and around our beds. We ordered food in the room and decided to sleep early. The alarm went off at 3:10 am and we got up right away. We slept well. We took a quick shower, wore our cycling shorts and jerseys, ate a couple of bananas, used the hotel staircase to get our cycles from the fourth floor to the ground floor, and checked out of the hotel. Abhishek and I were to ride Marine San Rafael; Ashwini was to saddle Trek Domane. Bhavana—my wife— called from her parent’s home in Madhya Pradesh and wished us good luck. At 4:40 am, we leaped into the saddle and away we dashed to the picturesque Futala lake in Western Nagpur—the brevet starting point located 10 km from our hotel.

We are Flagged Off

We reached the starting point about 10 minutes late. On the way, a couple of Nagpur randonneurs—cheerful and charismatic cyclists and some of them sensational sprinters— waved at us as they started their ride. We got our bikes checked, waiver forms filled out, brevet cards assessed and stamped, and rider numbers affixed on the bike handlebars. We were to ride on the National Highway 44 from Nagpur to Jamb, detour to Sevagram and then return back to Nagpur by the same road. The task was to complete 200 km in thirteen and half hours. A total of 13 riders had registered themselves for the 200-km brevet; twice as many had opted for the 300-km event.


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

Jamb:The First Checkpoint

We left Futala Lake at 5:15 am. The buzz of a brevet and the adrenaline and excitement in the environment was enough to send the body into a fight or flight mode. I remembered every tip for using stress and nerves to one’s advantage, and how to harness energy during the ride. 

The three of us were to stick together as best as we could. I got off to a good start. I found my rhythm too. Although I rode the first sixty km in my leather shoes—I had forgotten my cycling shoes in Sevagram—my legs were moving well. I was maintaining a comfortable cadence and was averaging 22 km an hour. We reached Jamb, the first checkpoint, in just a little over three hours. We made it to the controls, got our cards stamped, ate some bananas, filled our water bottles and enjoyed sitting down for a few minutes. 

The next 35 km segment— from Jamb to Sevagram—was a familiar one: we had spent hundreds of hours listening to the hum of our bike tyres on the country road. I knew this road like the creases of my palm, and could predict every bump, pothole and upslope— almost blindfolded.  For the next 90 minutes, we shall be batting on home turf. The road should be a cakewalk for me, so I thought.

Surviving the Headwind

How wrong I was. I should have anticipated which way the wind would blow. As we left the highway and took the road to Sevagram, we were greeted by a headwind. The strong headwind blew mercilessly all through the segment and took the wind of my sails— throwing all my plans into disarray.  I began to huff and puff, trying to catch my breath every few km. My legs and lungs began to tire. The lactic acid began to emerge from the muscles, and the endorphins released in the first leg of the ride began to evaporate. The headwinds are known to eat into energy reserves and sap morale; the headwind that we were riding into was no exception. There are five villages on the 30-km segment— and we were painfully crawling to get beyond each village. 

Sevagram: The Second Checkpoint

And yet, I managed to complete the first 100 km of the segment at 10: 45 am, just a little under six hours. The Sevagram checkpoint, also a feedstop, was located barely 200 metres from my home. Dr. Vaibhav Patni, friends and family cheered and welcomed us with roses. Shaily, my daughter-in-law and Diti, my three-and-half year-old granddaughter had come to receive me— a smile of joy and satisfaction lit up their eager faces as I slowed to a stop. There is nothing more satisfying than seeing a smiling and happy child. Diti had never seen so many bandanas, helmets, colourful jerseys and cycles before. I sat on the concrete bench and began to fill my hungry stomach with hot khichdi and bananas. I drank water like a fish and chatted with my friends and co-riders. I got a second wind!

Little did I realize that I had wasted almost 45 minutes in Sevagram— my calculations went awry as I relaxed with the friends and the family. As Shaily pointed out later, it turned out to be a fatal mistake. Experienced riders warn that we should not unnecessarily spend time in control points— an advice I had lost sight of. Blissfully oblivious of the precious time I was squandering, I failed to perceive that the clock was ticking and I was only halfway through. Sevagram was only a milestone, not a destination. 

The First Flat

The first 100 km segment over, I was now on my way to the return ride. Barely 5 km from Sevagram, my rear tire went flat. I had taken to cycling only three months back, and although I had watched dozens of How to Change and Fix a Flat Bike Tyre YouTube videos, I hadn’t changed a cycle tyre in real life. Much to the displeasure of my son— himself an accomplished cyclist— whenever I tried practising the technique at home, I had badly fumbled through the whole process. Racers have a support vehicle behind them with spare wheels and other parts as needed. Cyclists participating in brevets, I realized, are not as privileged.

I panicked and called my son, who was riding a few km behind me. He turned my cycle on its head, quickly took the flat tube off the cycle, and replaced it with a brand new tube that we had bought just a day before. And as he tried pumping up the new tire, to his dismay, he found that the mini pump that he carried with him was not working.

Mihir Hardikar, a Metallurgy and Material Engineering student from VNIT, Nagpur—riding a 200 km brevet —stopped asking us what went wrong, only to discover that his tyre had also gone flat. I am trained to treat a flat line on the cardiac monitor—I see them so often in my ICU—but fixing a flat by the roadside in the midst of a brevet was beyond me.

I decided to hunt for a flat fixer. I had about three km to reach the nearest bike repair shop when a motorcycle pulled up alongside me. The rider asked me where I was heading. I told him my problem. He asked if I would like a ride to the next village. I accepted. I asked Ashwini and Mihir Hardikar to stay back as I piggybacked the motorcyclist, carried two flat tyres with me and began desperately looking for a roadside mechanic. The mechanic in the next village had shut his shop. The motorcyclist, more than eager to lend me a helping hand, took me to Madani, a village 11 km from Sevagram, and I stopped to get some help. The guys at the shop—curiously admiring my bike— generously helped me patch up the tubes and change them out. It was a collective effort from half a dozen enthusiastic villagers, who later admitted that none of them had ever fixed a flat tire before and they were experimenting, hoping that all would end well! I offered them a small tip, but they refused to take cash, saying that it was their moral duty to help a doctor in distress. I couldn’t thank them enough for what they had done for me. 

Ashwini Quits

Now, I needed to go 6 km back to retrieve my cycle. I got into a car and reached the puncture spot. “Let us move,” I summoned Ashwini, who seemed to be visibly exhausted. “I am quitting,” he said. I couldn’t believe my ears that he was throwing in the towel. The very thought of riding another 90 km—almost solo—was daunting. “Don’t give up now. It is too early to throw in the sponge,” I reasoned with him. But Ashwini knew what was in store. “I will stick to my guns,” he said firmly but politely. I must have looked confused and bewildered. It was the first real test of my mettle. I quickly did a mental tail-toss and chose to continue. My logic was simple: If I get through this, I’ll be so proud of myself.  If I try, I might as well complete the brevet. Insha Allah.

The Loneliness of a Long Distance Rider

I began to push hard as I embarked on a solo ride. I did a quick maths—to be able to make it, I had to ride at 22 km an hour, non-stop. Fortunately, the headwind had eased off. The sky was turning dark and soon it began to rain near Taroda, 17 km from Sevagram. The raindrops were running down my arms and legs in tiny sparkling rivulets. I welcomed them, for they helped me forget the fatigue. 

I was in a shambles, though. My wrists did not carry a watch; the cellphone battery had died in the noon and the bike computer refused to show time. I was to depend on the roadside milestones to calculate the target. To relax, I opened up, greeted the locals with as much vigour as I could muster, and answered all their queries. A passer-by, after exchanging pleasantries, wanted an on the road medical consultation, which I politely refused. A motor biker began to ride along my bicycle. He asked me who I was and what my age was. “Would you be given a special prize if you complete this ride?” he asked me.  I nodded negatively. He could not believe his ears— wondering why I was taxing my body so much if there was no money or medal to aspire for.  

At 2:15 pm, after cycling 130 km, I turned left to reach National Highway 44.  Nagpur now seemed to be within reach; the next checkpoint was 30 km away. Silver linings began to emerge from the dark clouds: the sun was now shining kindly; the humidity, tolerable; and the winds had taken a timeout. I was no longer thirsty or hungry.  I felt that although my cycle gears were deserting me one by one, if I could manage a 30 km distance, I should be able to reach the third checkpoint at Butibori— in time.

Half an hour later, on the national highway, I suddenly fell off my bicycle as my shoelace got loose and got entangled in the chain ring. I failed to realize what had hit me. Fortunately, I escaped unhurt.

Another 30 minutes slipped by. At the 145 km mark, I spotted Abhishek Raut. I was surprised to catch up with him because he was almost an hour ahead of me. He was clearly struggling—the  painful knee that he was enduring for four hours was not letting him generate power to push the pedal. “We have just 15 km to reach the third checkpoint and if we continue to pedal, we should be able to complete this lap of the event in time. Just keep pedalling at 20 km an hour. Once we reach Butibori, we have enough time to gather our breath and make it to the finishing line,” I tried all my counselling skills to lift his sagging morale. He agreed to stay in the saddle.

The Disaster Strikes

And then the disaster struck. My rear tire hissed again. My heart sank as I heard the sibilant sound emerging from the tyre. Slowly and steadily, the rear tyre began to deflate. And so did my morale. The sight of the deflating tire was enough to make my skin crawl. It took just a tiny needle on the road to puncture my ego. The threat of the puncture was looming over my shoulders and whenever I found pieces of broken glass, razor-edged stones, rusted nails or sharp needles on the road, I was praying that they would let my tires escape unhurt. Alas, that was not to be. My worst fear came true: the hiss that emerged from the rear tyre was as frightening as the hiss of a viper. I did not carry a cycling pump with me. My tube was breathing its last and there was no way I could bring it back to life.

My eyes frantically started searching for a roadside bike mechanic. A few hundred metres ahead, on the other side of the road, I caught sight of truck tyres, stacked precariously against a tree. I sensed a gleam of hope. I lifted the cycle, crossed to the other side of the highway, ran to the mechanic, and pleaded with him to help us.  His eyes were steely and the voice stern. “I do not repair cycle tyres,” he almost admonished me, asking us to leave him alone. “We have to reach Butibori by 4 pm. There is no one to help us. Please bail us out. We shall pay you as much as you ask for,” my voice turned tremulous. He relented. Abhishek was with me all the while—he released the brakes, removed the bike wheel, got the tube out and handed it over to the mechanic. “Today brevet taught me how to fix a flat in real time,” Abhishek was to share his sense of achievement later. It took another 15 minutes for the bike tyre to breathe again. I delved hurriedly into my wallet to retrieve some notes and tried to push a few Rs 20 notes into his hand. He took only Rs 20 and returned the extra cash— he just backed away without bothering to acknowledge our gratitude.

Coming to Terms with Did Not Finish (DNF)

It was 3: 40 pm. We had lost precious 30 minutes at the puncture shop and were left with just 20 minutes to reach the Butibori checkpoint. The asking rate had shot up to 30 km an hour, and even if we pedalled like a maniac on the highway, it was impossible to meet the deadline. We stood glaring at our bicycles. We stopped struggling, apparently realising how futile it was to chase the target. We kissed off the brevet. We were so near, and yet, so agonisingly far. Our hearts sank. We dragged our bicycles to Butibori where Urvashi and Sudarshan— the brevet volunteers at the checkpoint—told us that we had missed the bus by a few minutes. We agreed. We handed our soggy brevet cards to them, took their help in loading the two bikes on a boot rack on our car and left for Sevagram.

Triumph and Tragedy

So, my first try at the Brevet came as a cropper. I had taken up the gauntlet but it was not to be. It was a roller coaster ride of ills and thrills. I had worked tirelessly for this goal and had poured my heart and soul into it. I had done fairly well in the first leg of the brevet, but in the second leg, the wheels came off, and I failed to meet the target. As we returned home— I refused to wallow in self-pity or blame destiny.  Those 12 hours taught me so much. No, the event didn’t leave the indelible marks of defeat, but the footprints of thrilling endeavour and perseverance.

On my way home, I recalled RL Stevenson’s famous adage: “To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is to labour.” True. I am a neophyte in the world of cycling and was watching almost starry-eyed as the riders, half my age, were sprinting along the highway.  I had made my debut at 59, and I enjoyed every twist and turn that the adventure gave birth to. More than anything, I am still overwhelmed by how significant it felt to be riding at the brevet. As I reached home, I realized that it was time to brush aside minor niggles and pains, get into a hot shower, change into dry clothes, describe my day to my grand-daughter and enjoy a sumptuous dinner with the family. I richly deserved this treat, DNF notwithstanding!

I can take comfort from the fact that in his 2007 Tour de France debut, Mark Cavendish had suffered two crashes and had to quit as the race headed into the mountains. What follows year after year is history!