{"id":3962,"date":"2026-01-25T03:21:28","date_gmt":"2026-01-25T08:51:28","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/books.kalantri.co.in\/?page_id=3962"},"modified":"2026-03-03T11:34:57","modified_gmt":"2026-03-03T17:04:57","slug":"ten-thousand-kilometres","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/sp.kalantri.co.in\/gmc73\/beyond-the-stethoscope\/ten-thousand-kilometres\/","title":{"rendered":"Ten Thousand Kilometres"},"content":{"rendered":"

A number I never chased, until I did<\/h2>\n\n\n
\"SP
Near Sevagram, 2017. They asked to be in the photograph. He stopped.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Some numbers carry an odd magic. They sit quietly in the mind, round and complete, like a destination on a map. Ten thousand is one of those numbers. It looks solid, respectable, and slightly intimidating\u2014like a mountain you do not plan to climb, until one day you realise you have already begun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"Dr.
Chhattisgarh, 2018 \u2014 Raipur to Bastar. The garlands arrived before we did.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

My fascination with \u201cten thousand\u201d did not come from cycling at all. It came from cricket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can still see Sunil Gavaskar reaching his 10,000th Test run. It was March 1987, in Ahmedabad, against Pakistan. Gavaskar nudged a quick single through the slips, raised his bat, and the crowd rose with him. He was never a man who looked at the scoreboard too often, but that day even he seemed aware that something had shifted. A personal milestone had turned into a historical one, and the moment carried a quiet weight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That memory stayed with me for decades.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"SP
Nagpur\u2013Deori brevet, 2017. Eleven hours in. Halfway there. The village chai shop behind him had no idea.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

So when my Garmin watch flashed a number on the morning of 21 October 2020, I smiled in a way that surprised me. The screen told me I had cycled 10,000 kilometres. Not in one dramatic expedition, not in a single heroic season, but in hundreds of small rides stitched together over time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was seven in the morning, and I was standing near Vinobaji\u2019s Pavnar Ashram, a place that always has the air of calmness, even when your legs are not calm at all. The breeze was gentle, the sunlight clean, and the road familiar. Nothing about the scene looked like an achievement. And yet, the number made it feel like one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n

The arithmetic of ordinary effort<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n

Ten thousand kilometres sounds impressive until you break it down. It is not a Tour de France. It is not even a professional cyclist\u2019s annual tally. Serious riders cover that distance the way some people cover newspaper pages\u2014quickly, routinely, without thinking too much about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For me, it was different.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"SP
Sevagram, 2024. Gandhi Ashram Road. Father and daughter, two bicycles, no particular destination.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Those 10,000 kilometres came from 533 hours on the saddle and 441 sessions of cycling on the roads around Sevagram and Nagpur. That is what made it meaningful. It was not one grand act of endurance; it was repetition. It was turning up again and again, often without drama, sometimes without enthusiasm, but with enough stubbornness to keep the wheels moving.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"SP
Chhattisgarh, 2018. Ashwini in Satpura colours, SP in Chhattisgarh colours. Two tours, one road, one stop.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

There were mornings when the air was cold enough to sting the ears. There were afternoons when the sun felt like it was sitting directly on my helmet. There were days when the wind seemed to blow only against me, as if the universe had singled out my bicycle for special attention. There were also mornings of rare kindness\u2014cool breeze, empty roads, and legs that felt light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Over time, cycling became less about the ride itself and more about the ritual around it: the preparation, the familiar routes, the quiet start, the steady rhythm of breathing, the little negotiations with fatigue, and the small satisfaction of returning home having done something honest with the body.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n

What cycling gave me after sixty<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n

When I began cycling seriously, I did not imagine it would change my life. It was supposed to be a modest fitness habit, something to balance a profession that demanded too many hours of sitting, thinking, and worrying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the bicycle has a way of doing more than you ask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"SP
Chhattisgarh, 2018. Five days, two cyclists, one waterfall at the edge of the plateau.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

It gave me a sense of freedom that is difficult to explain to someone who has not experienced it. You are not inside a car, sealed away from the world. You are not walking slowly, limited by time. You are moving through the landscape at a human speed, fast enough to feel distance, slow enough to notice details.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You notice the smell of wet earth after rain. You notice the way villages wake up\u2014tea stalls opening, schoolchildren appearing like clockwork, farmers moving with quiet purpose. You notice the small dramas of rural roads: a herd of cattle that refuses to negotiate, a dog that decides your tyre is an enemy, a motorcyclist who passes too close and then looks offended when you flinch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cycling also made me confront my own limits in ways that hospital life never did. In medicine, experience often gives you a sense of control. On a bicycle, control is an illusion. A puncture can reduce you to helplessness. A headwind can humble you. A missed bottle of electrolytes can turn a strong ride into a slow collapse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The road does not care about your degrees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n

The brevets: where confidence was tested and corrected<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n

Brevets entered my life like a strange new language. At first, I admired them from a distance. Then I tried them, failed, tried again, succeeded, and failed again. They gave me some of the best days of my cycling life, and also some of the most humbling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A brevet is not a race, but it has rules. It is not competitive, but it demands discipline. You ride within a time limit. You stamp your card at checkpoints. You carry what you need. You manage your own mistakes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There is no applause on the highway. There is only the quiet satisfaction of finishing, and the equally quiet sting of a DNF when you don\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I learnt that finishing a brevet is not just about fitness. It is about pacing, planning, eating, drinking, staying calm when things go wrong, and not wasting time at checkpoints because the khichdi is hot and your granddaughter looks delighted to see you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I learnt these lessons the hard way, which is the only way they truly stick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And yet, even the failures gave me something valuable. They taught me that a DNF is not a verdict on your worth. It is simply a data point. It tells you what went wrong: tyre trouble, time lost, hydration mismanaged, confidence misjudged. You go home, you rest, you adjust, and you return.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That, too, is a kind of success.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n

The quiet pleasure of being \u201cordinary\u201d on the road<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n

One of the most refreshing things about cycling was how anonymous it made me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the hospital, I was \u201cSir,\u201d \u201cProfessor,\u201d \u201cMedical Superintendent,\u201d a man with responsibilities and a reputation. On the road, I was just another cyclist in a helmet, squinting against the wind, negotiating potholes, and trying not to look foolish at traffic signals.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The villagers did not ask me about research papers. They asked me my age. They asked me where I was going. They asked me whether I was doing it for prize money. When I said no, they looked at me with a mixture of admiration and disbelief, as if I had confessed to a harmless madness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sometimes, they offered water. Sometimes, they offered directions. Sometimes, they offered unsolicited medical advice about their knee pain or blood pressure. I learnt to smile, answer politely, and keep riding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was a simplicity in those interactions that felt cleansing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n

A milestone that did not ask for celebration<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n

When the Garmin signalled 10,000 kilometres, there was no crowd. There was no certificate. No medal. No stage. No announcement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was just me, a road near Pavnar, and a quiet moment of gratitude.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I knew, even as I looked at that number, that professional cyclists would consider it trivial. I had seen riders half my age climb hills effortlessly, sprint through stretches that left me gasping, and finish brevets with an ease that I could not imitate. I had watched their speed, their commitment, their confidence, and I knew my own place in that universe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the value of a milestone depends on where you started.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I began cycling seriously, I did not imagine I would ever reach 10,000 kilometres. I did not even know if my body would allow it. I had a stent. I had age. I had the ordinary wear and tear of a life lived in hospitals, meetings, and long working days. The bicycle did not erase those realities. It simply worked around them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It gave me a path that felt less travelled, even though it was made of the same Wardha roads I had seen all my life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n

What next?<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n

After reaching 10,000 kilometres, the mind does what it always does. It looks ahead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Once you have met a target, you feel tempted to set another. Twenty thousand. Thirty thousand. A new brevet. A longer ride. A different route.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I also learnt that cycling cannot be reduced to numbers alone. The real reward is not the kilometre count. It is the habit. It is the way cycling turns the morning into something you look forward to. It is the way it gives you a small pocket of freedom before the day fills up with duties.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If you ask me now what my goal is, I can offer a dramatic answer\u2014twenty thousand kilometres, perhaps. But the truth is simpler.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I want to keep riding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not because I have something to prove, but because the bicycle has become a quiet companion. It asks little. It gives much. And on most mornings, it still feels like the best way to begin the day.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A number I never chased, until I did Some numbers carry an odd magic. They sit quietly in the mind, round and complete, like a destination on a map. Ten thousand is one of those numbers. It looks solid, respectable, and slightly intimidating\u2014like a mountain you do not plan to climb, until one day you … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":2015,"menu_order":10090,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-3962","page","type-page","status-publish"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n10,000 km \u2014 Stetho in Sevagram<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"In March 2020, Dr. S.P. Kalantri crossed 10,000 km on his bicycle \u2014 533 rides, accumulated over years of early mornings and long highways. He argues that milestones do not matter. He also admits they fill the heart.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/sp.kalantri.co.in\/gmc73\/beyond-the-stethoscope\/ten-thousand-kilometres\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Ten Thousand Kilometres \u2014 GMC Nagpur 1973 Archive\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"In March 2020, Dr. S.P. Kalantri crossed 10,000 km on his bicycle \u2014 533 rides, accumulated over years of early mornings and long highways. He argues that milestones do not matter. 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