![\"Dr.](\"https:\/\/books.kalantri.co.in\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/6\/2026\/02\/sp-kalantri-brevet-nagpur-sevagram-august-2016.jpg\" "\\"sp-kalantri-brevet-nagpur-sevagram-august-2016\\"")
\n\n\n\nBut within a year, the word had entered our household vocabulary. Ashwini had completed 200- and 300-kilometre brevets in Nagpur and earned the title of Randonneur. That is how I learnt what a brevet truly is: a long-distance cycling event, non-competitive in spirit, but strict in discipline. You must finish within a time limit. You must stamp your brevet card at control points. You must keep going through fatigue and weather without external support. It isn\u2019t a race, but it certainly isn\u2019t a picnic either.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In early August 2016, Ashwini persuaded Abhishek Raut and me to attempt a 200-km brevet organised by Nagpur Randonneurs. I had done a few 50-km rides and my 150-km Sevagram\u2013Warora loop, which had made me feel briefly invincible. A brevet, however, carried the weight of rules, timing, and the quiet fear of public failure. In a village like Sevagram, where everyone knows everyone, failure doesn\u2019t remain private for long.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ashwini, acting like a strict coach, told me not to hide behind age or the stent in my heart. \u201cBelieve in yourself,\u201d he said. \u201cYour enthusiasm will cover the rest.\u201d I didn\u2019t tell him that enthusiasm is not a substitute for skill, but I nodded anyway, because that is what fathers do when sons speak with the confidence of youth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n Because we lived in Sevagram\u2014seventy-five kilometres from Nagpur\u2014and the brevet started early, we booked a small hotel near the airport the night before. The housekeeper looked startled when she saw three bicycles and cycling gear in the room. It must have felt like hosting a travelling circus, minus the elephants and the dignity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We ate, slept early, and woke at 3:10 a.m.\u2014the kind of time at which even the alarm clock seems embarrassed to ring. We showered quickly, pulled on our jerseys and cycling shorts, ate a couple of bananas, and carried our bicycles down four floors using the staircase. That itself felt like a warm-up event, and not the kind I had planned for.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At 4:40 a.m., we mounted our bikes and cycled towards Futala Lake, the starting point. Bhavana called from her parents\u2019 home to wish us luck. Her voice was calm and steady, as if she was sending someone to a conference. Mine was pretending to be calm, as if I was not quietly wondering what I had signed up for.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n We reached Futala about ten minutes late. The place was buzzing with cheerful cyclists\u2014some charismatic, some intimidatingly fit, some looking as if they had been born with gears in their legs. We filled forms, signed waivers, got our bikes checked, stamped our cards, and fixed rider numbers to our handlebars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The route was simple: Nagpur to Jamb on NH44, a detour to Sevagram, and then back to Nagpur on the same road. Two hundred kilometres in thirteen-and-a-half hours. On paper, it sounded manageable. In the body, it sounded like an experiment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We were flagged off at 5:15 a.m., and the early energy carried us like a wave. In the first hour, everything feels possible. The mind becomes wildly optimistic. The body behaves as if it is younger than it is, as if it has been waiting all its life for exactly this kind of trouble.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n I found a rhythm quickly. Even my forgotten cycling shoes did not stop me\u2014I rode the first sixty kilometres in leather shoes. Not ideal, but my legs were cooperative, and I felt absurdly pleased with myself, like a man who has solved a problem by accident and now wants credit for it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We reached Jamb in just over three hours. We checked in, got our cards stamped, ate bananas, filled our water bottles, and sat down for a few minutes, feeling like seasoned cyclists. The next segment from Jamb to Sevagram was familiar territory. I knew that road like the creases of my palm and could predict the bumps and potholes without looking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I expected it to be easy. It wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n As we turned off the highway towards Sevagram, a fierce headwind hit us. It was relentless, cruel, and demoralising. A headwind is the kind of enemy you cannot see but cannot ignore. It drains energy, slows speed, and makes you question your life choices, including the ones you made decades ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We crawled past villages, inching forward. My breathing grew heavier. The early endorphins faded. The legs began to complain in a language they speak fluently. Still, we reached Sevagram at 10:45 a.m.\u2014a hundred kilometres done in under six hours. It felt like a small victory, though I didn\u2019t realise it was also the calm before the mess.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n The Sevagram checkpoint was barely two hundred metres from my home. Friends welcomed us with roses. Vaibhav Patni was there. Shaily and little Diti had come too, eyes bright with curiosity. Diti looked at the helmets, jerseys, and bandanas as if we were characters from a colourful cartoon who had wandered out of her storybook.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat on a concrete bench, ate hot khichdi, drank water like a fish, chatted happily, and felt a second wind. What I did not feel was urgency. I stayed too long\u2014almost forty-five minutes\u2014because it felt harmless, and because home has a way of making you forget that you are still in the middle of a task.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Experienced riders warn you: don\u2019t waste time at control points. Sevagram is not the destination. It is a stamp and a goodbye. I learnt this too late, the way most people learn important lessons\u2014by paying for them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n Barely five kilometres after leaving Sevagram, my rear tyre went flat. I had watched dozens of YouTube videos on fixing punctures. I had even tried practising at home, with disappointing results. But I had never fixed a puncture on the roadside, in the middle of a brevet, with time bleeding away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ashwini returned, flipped my bicycle, removed the tube, replaced it with a new one. Then we discovered the mini-pump was not working. Mihir Hardikar stopped to help, only to find that his tyre had also gone flat. Two punctures in one scene felt personal, as if the road had decided to teach us humility.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A motorcyclist offered to take me to the next village to find a repair shop. We tried one. It was closed. We went to Madni and finally found help. Half a dozen villagers gathered around my bicycle, curious and enthusiastic. They admitted they had never fixed such a tyre before, but they experimented with the seriousness of surgeons. When I offered a tip, they refused. \u201cIt is our moral duty to help a doctor,\u201d they said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The doctor, meanwhile, had no idea how to help himself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n When I returned to the puncture spot, Ashwini looked exhausted. \u201cLet\u2019s go,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m quitting,\u201d he replied. I was stunned. I tried to persuade him, but he was firm. He knew what was in store, and he respected his limit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n So I continued alone. The loneliness of a long ride is not dramatic. It is quiet. It is you, the road, and the ticking clock. My phone battery died. I did not have a watch. The bike computer refused to show time. I calculated progress using milestones like a man doing arithmetic in an exam hall, trying to convince himself that numbers could still save him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Rain began near Taroda. I welcomed it. It cooled my skin and distracted my mind. Locals stopped me, asked my age, asked why I was doing this, asked if there was prize money. When I said there was none, they looked at me as if I had confessed to madness. Their expressions said what my family had been saying politely for days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n At 145 kilometres, I met Abhishek again, struggling with knee pain. We rode together for a while, trying to pull each other forward. Then my rear tyre hissed again. That soft sibilant sound is enough to break a cyclist\u2019s spirit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We found a truck-tyre mechanic. He refused at first. \u201cI don\u2019t repair cycle tyres,\u201d he said sternly. We pleaded. He relented grudgingly. The tyre lived again, but time had died. At 3:40 p.m., we realised we could not reach the Butibori checkpoint before the deadline. We stopped chasing it. We reached late and accepted the verdict: DNF\u2014Did Not Finish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It stung, but it did not crush me. I was too tired to be dramatic, and perhaps that was a blessing.<\/p>\n\n\n\nA hotel room full of bicycles<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n
The start: excitement, numbers, and optimism<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n
Jamb: the first checkpoint, and false confidence<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n
Headwind: the invisible bully<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n
Sevagram: home, roses, and the biggest mistake<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n
![\"Dr.](\"https:\/\/books.kalantri.co.in\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/6\/2026\/01\/Cycle-trio-1024x685.jpg\")
The first puncture: YouTube fails in real life<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n
Ashwini quits, and I ride alone<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n
Second puncture: the hiss that ends hope<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n