We had just completed two 200 km and one 300 km brevet in the past few months, learning the ropes along the way. This time, we aimed higher: a 400 km ride.
On a Sunday morning, I set off on my most ambitious challenge yet—a 27-hour, 400 km bicycle ride starting and ending at Zero Mile, Nagpur. My colleague, Abhishek Raut, and I hit the Nagpur-Amravati road at 5:30 am. From the very beginning, things were better than expected. The morning was cool, the afternoon sun gentle, and the tailwind, a cyclist’s dream, was there. The road was perfect for testing our skills, and we conquered every hill with ease.
By the time we hit 100 km, we were averaging 22 km per hour. No fatigue. We reached both checkpoints an hour ahead of schedule. At the Talegaon checkpoint, I handed over my sweater to Swati Sani, the volunteer, ate a few bananas and some chikki, then started our return leg.
The Talegaon Ghat was steep, but I had climbed it before. I focused on my front tire, tackling it 100 meters at a time. To distract myself, I thought of songs and memories—anything but cycling. It worked. In 30 minutes, I was at the top.
At 150 km, we stopped for a meal—parathas, subji, dal, bananas, and a cold drink. I adjusted my bandana, tightened my helmet, wrapped sunsleeves over my forearms and slipped on my gloves and knee caps. After reapplying sun lotion, we set off. The sun was intense, directly in front of us, but we kept pedalling. The winds had also forgotten to be kind.
Abhishek had gone ahead by a few kilometers, and Sudarshan, another cyclist, joined me. We shared cycling stories and strategies. But then, disaster struck.
At the 180 km mark, my body ran out of sodium. Nausea hit. My legs felt weak, and my head throbbed. I tried to pedal, but the effort felt like moving through quicksand. My legs turned to jelly. The golden rule of cycling had slipped through my mind: Eat before you’re hungry, drink before you’re thirsty. I had ignored it, and now my body was paying the price.
I tried to push through, but within moments, I was on the ground. My bike clattered beside me as I stumbled to a roadside dhaba. I collapsed onto a charpai, the coolness of its woven ropes offering me some relief. I closed my eyes as I tried to gather my bearings. People gathered around, watching me with concern. I waved them off, muttering that I was fine, even though I knew I wasn’t.
I took a sip of electrolyte water, hoping to revive myself, and grabbed a banana. My heart raced, and dizziness clouded my vision. I managed to call Abhishek. “I’m done,” I said weakly. “You should go ahead and finish the brevet.”
He was only three kilometers ahead, but it felt like a lifetime. He didn’t hesitate. He turned back, his face unreadable, but his eyes filled with concern. He sat beside me, urging me to drink electrolytes and offering quiet support.
“Rest for a bit,” he said. We’ll go when you’re ready.”
I urged him to go. “You’re so close. It’s your brevet. Go ahead.” But he wouldn’t listen. He stood firm, his voice calm but insistent. “I’ll stay with you.”
Under the scorching sun, I battled exhaustion. With his support, I slowly regained some strength. After a while, we set off again, the road ahead seeming endless. I was barely holding on, but he stayed ahead, always looking back to make sure I kept going.
Twenty kilometers crawled by, each one tougher than the last. Finally, we reached the 200 km checkpoint at Zero Mile, Sadar. It was five o’clock. We were still within the cut-off time, but my body had given up.
“I’m done,” I said again, my voice thick with defeat. “Go ahead, Abhishek. Don’t wait for me.”
Without a second thought, he shook his head and said firmly, “I won’t leave you. I’ll stay—always.”
I watched him and realized this wasn’t just about cycling. It was about something much bigger—beyond the brevet, the distance, and the ticking clock.
He didn’t mention the finish line. He didn’t speak of goals or times. Instead, he spoke of something far more profound. “When I was in military school,” he said softly, his eyes distant with the weight of old lessons, “we were taught that mountains will always be there. But when a friend is in need, you leave the mountain behind and stand by them. You help them. In life, you’re not judged by the victories you achieve, but by the friendships you hold dear. Everything else becomes secondary.”
In that moment, I realized it wasn’t just about finishing a brevet. It was about the bond we shared—not through the miles we rode, but through the support we gave each other along the way.
Reluctantly, we boarded the bus home, my mind still racing with thoughts of what went wrong and why. But as we sat together, I knew that what Abhishek had given me wasn’t just moral support. It was a reminder that true friends carry you, even when you think you can’t go any further.
Abhishek’s kindness that evening was something I’ll never forget. For friends like him, cycling isn’t just about the ride. It’s about the support that makes every challenge easier to face.
31 December 2016