John Steinbeck once said, “What good is the warmth of summer without the cold of winter to give it sweetness?” True. A month ago, I attempted a 200-km cycling event and failed spectacularly. I had to quit before the finish line. But this time? This time, I made it.

Every success has a first failure, a stumble, a setback. Mine was no different.

The Moment of Triumph

At the crack of dawn on a Monday, I pedaled towards Nagpur Airport Square, the final checkpoint. A couple of young volunteers—seasoned cyclists themselves—spotted me from a distance. Their cheers rang through the air. My heart pounded. My breath came in ragged gasps. My legs burned. But I had made it.

I let out a wild scream of joy. Sweat dripped down my face, mixing with the exhilaration. I wanted to rip off my helmet, lift my cycle high above my head, and celebrate. But my body had other plans. Ten hours of relentless pedaling had drained every ounce of energy from me.

Instead, I grinned—a wide, exhausted, victorious grin.

The checkpoint officials shook my hand, stamped my brevet card, and marked the time. As I stood there, panting, it hit me. Just a month ago, I had carried the shame of a “Did Not Finish” tag. Now, that failure was wiped clean. The taste of victory erased every bitter memory.

The Road to Redemption

After my last brevet, I wrote a blog about my failure. Writing about it helped. But no matter how much I tried to move on, the memory clung to me.

A few days later, I decided: enough self-pity. Time to train. I took my cycle out with my son and a few medical students in Sevagram. A couple of 50-km rides later, my confidence crept back. My legs felt stronger. My resolve hardened.

Then, the Nagpur Randonneurs announced a night-time 200-km brevet on September 11. I knew I had to go for it.

Convincing the family

At the dinner table, I made my announcement.

“I’m signing up for the all-night 200-km brevet.”

Silence.

Then, the arguments came.

“It’s a highway ride. At night. With cyclists half your age.”

“Wait for the November brevet. Try a daytime event first.”

They had a point. Doubt crept in like a slow headwind. What if I got too tired and dozed off on the road? What about the blinding headlights? And the worst fear—what if I got a flat tire in the dark?

Balzac’s words echoed in my head: When you doubt your power, you give power to your doubt.

A few days later, I tried again. “Look, I’ve trained enough. I know the risks—fatigue, flats, falls. But I have a plan. If it feels unsafe, I’ll quit. Just let me try.”

Bhavana, Ashwini, and Shaily saw the determination in my eyes. They sighed, exchanged glances, and finally relented. I wasted no time. The registration deadline was just hours away. With a click, I was officially in.

The brevet day

On the evening of the ride, I traveled to Nagpur with fellow cyclists Dr. Nikita Bhugra, Sumedh Manikpure, and Alfred D’Souza. We had trained together, planned our pacing, and now, we were in this together.

At Zero Mile, the starting point, volunteers checked our bikes, issued brevet cards, and made us sign the waiver of liability. Among the crowd, I spotted Dr. Abhay Kelkar, an MGIMS alumnus, and his wife. Twenty-two cyclists, ready to test their endurance, waited for the flag-off.

At 5 p.m., Aditi Hardikar, an avid cyclist herself, waved us off. The ride was on.

Into the Night

The initial stretch was chaotic. Nagpur’s evening traffic swarmed around me. Cars, bikes, and trucks jostled for space. I navigated through, heart pounding, muscles tensed.

Then, we hit National Highway 6. The road stretched out ahead—100 km of smooth tarmac. The setting sun cast long shadows. I settled into a rhythm.

Thirty minutes in, a realization struck me. I hadn’t turned on Strava, the app that tracks cycling data. My ride wouldn’t exist in the digital world! Panicked, I pulled over, fumbled for my phone, and tapped the record button. Only then did I push forward.

We pedaled in silence, the hum of tires against the road our only soundtrack. The occasional truck whooshed past, its headlights cutting through the darkness. The cool night air wrapped around us.

Then—disaster.

At the 38-km mark, Sumedh got a flat. We stopped, tried to fix it, but no luck. A support vehicle passed by. Relief. They helped patch it up, and we were back on track.

Sumedh got lucky. The flat cost him some time, but not enough to throw him off track. We stuck to our plan—holding a steady 20 km per hour—making sure we reached every checkpoint well within time.

The night stretched ahead. The road, the ride, the challenge—it was all in front of me. This time, I was ready.

At each stop, volunteers greeted us like old friends. They clapped, cheered, and handed out bananas, khichdi, and water. Their encouragement was a gentle push, a quiet reminder that we still had miles to go.

Then came the descent. Five kilometers from Talegaon, the second checkpoint, the road dipped, and suddenly, we were flying. The wind roared through our helmets, cool against sweat-drenched skin. It wiped away the sting of exhaustion, teasing us with the illusion of weightlessness. Speed beckoned, tempting us to let go, to chase the thrill of a reckless rush. But we resisted. The ride was far from over, and caution was our silent companion.

Reaching the 100-km mark felt like a small victory. We stretched out on the grass in a tiny roadside garden, sinking into the comfort of stillness. Nearby, a few 400-km riders nursed aching knees, their brevet dreams cut short. The thought of staying put, of letting the night swallow our fatigue, was tempting—too tempting.

But we knew better. The lure of rest could be a fatal trap. With a deep breath, we shook off the drowsiness, climbed back onto our saddles, and pedaled into the darkness ahead.

The return journey

The moment we left Talegaon, a long, steep climb loomed ahead. Hills are as much a test of the mind as they are of the legs, and I had done my homework—studying its length, gradient, maximum incline, and the time it would take to conquer. Still, standing at its base, it looked daunting.

As I approached, I shifted down a few gears, directing all my energy to my legs. Staying light on the pedals, I focused on maintaining a steady cadence. The key was to stay calm—to remind myself that this hill, too, would pass. I filled my mind with light thoughts—clouds, birds, stars, moons, angels. After all, the muscle between our ears holds just as much power over our ride as the ones in our legs.

The climb began to bite. My legs burned, veins bulged at my temples, my breath came fast and heavy. My heart hammered at 170 beats per minute, but I kept going. And then, finally—the summit. A deep sigh of relief escaped me. The worst was over.

Alfred and Sumedh powered ahead, their lungs and legs carrying them faster. Nitika was a few kilometers behind. I rode alone for the next 35 km. It was past midnight. Never before had I spent two hours on a saddle, all alone, on a national highway.

But I embraced the darkness.

There was something strangely liberating about riding under the night sky, with only the moon and the quiet hum of tyres on tarmac for company. The fresh air filled my lungs, the solitude wrapped around me like a warm cocoon. I indulged in a stream of nonsensical soliloquy, laughing at the absurdity of my own thoughts. Fatigue loosened its grip. I began to enjoy the ride again.

And then, in the distance, a familiar glow—Kathiawad Dhaba, the third checkpoint. Just 60 km from Nagpur.

I was almost home.

The last leg of the ride

I spent 30 minutes at the checkpoint—just enough to indulge in the small luxuries I had earned. I splashed cold water on my face, shaking off the tendrils of sleep. A cup of strong coffee jolted my senses awake, making the final stretch feel a little easier. Bananas for fuel, a few words exchanged with volunteers and fellow riders, and then, at 2 a.m., I was off.

Sixty kilometers to go. Time was on my side.

I settled into a steady, unhurried pace, allowing myself to absorb the stillness of the dimly lit road. The night was quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of my tyres against the tarmac. The solitude no longer felt daunting—it was soothing.

Three hours later, the familiar outlines of Nagpur emerged from the darkness. The streets glistened, a sign that the city had been kissed by rain while I was away. A light breeze lingered in the air, cool against my skin, wrapping me in a sense of quiet contentment. Any lingering fatigue, any trace of anxiety, had vanished.

Now in Western Nagpur, I rode past familiar landmarks, crossing well-known squares until I reached Variety Square. A swift U-turn placed me on Wardha Road. The destination was just five kilometers away.

It was time to up the ante.

 With a surge of energy, I pushed the pedals harder, faster. The fatigue of the long journey melted into exhilaration. And then—there it was. The final checkpoint.

I had made it.

I was a randonneur.