Monsoon Century-and-Half

The Morning I Chose Discomfort

It was a mild, drizzling morning on 31 July 2016 when I decided to do something that sounded heroic at 4:30 a.m. and mildly idiotic by breakfast: cycle from Sevagram to Warora and return. One hundred and fifty kilometres. On a Sunday. For fun.

I had cycled regularly, yes, but long-distance cycling is not an extension of “regular cycling” in the way a longer lecture is an extension of a ward round. It is a different species altogether. It demands not only legs, but patience, planning, hydration, and an ability to tolerate your own thoughts for several hours without asking for mercy.

I was excited, but I was also anxious in that familiar way doctors feel before an unfamiliar procedure—confident enough to start, uncertain enough to worry. The only thing that made the idea seem less reckless was the company. Ashwini was riding with me, and so was Abhishek Raut from Community Medicine—both younger, fitter, and far more relaxed about distances that made my mind do nervous arithmetic.

We set off at 5 a.m., when Sevagram was still half-asleep and the air carried that damp, earthy smell that arrives just before sunrise in the monsoon. The road was quiet, the trees looked freshly washed, and the drizzle made the world feel gentle. For a while, I began to believe that the day had been designed for cyclists.

New Bicycle, New Confidence

A few weeks earlier, I had bought a Marin 7-gear flat-bar bike from Nagpur. It was comfortable, responsive, and—most importantly—kind to a man who had crossed sixty and was no longer interested in suffering for style. The bicycle felt like a small miracle of engineering: it didn’t demand athleticism, only sincerity.

I dressed like a man preparing for battle with his own joints. A blue bandana to stop sweat from entering my eyes, a helmet to protect the one organ I still needed daily, gloves for grip, and a kneecap for reassurance. In my mind, these accessories were not optional; they were negotiations with age.

As we rolled out, the rain stayed with us for half an hour, then stopped abruptly—as if it had merely come to check whether we were serious. The road turned into a ribbon of grey, glistening under the emerging light. It took almost an hour for the sun to appear from behind the clouds, and when it did, it didn’t arrive dramatically. It slipped in quietly, like a shy guest.

Villages, Roads, and the Slow Unfolding of Distance

Our route carried us through a chain of villages—Karanji Bhoge, Karanji Kazi, Madni, Taroda, Mandgaon, Jam, and then Warora. These names, which might mean little on a map, begin to feel personal when you pass through them on a bicycle. You notice small things: women sweeping courtyards, men cycling with sacks of vegetables, children in uniforms walking to school with water bottles swinging from their wrists.

A bicycle makes you see what a car hides. It also makes you respect what a bus driver takes for granted.

We stopped for breakfast at Hotel Ashok in Jam at 7 a.m. It was not a gourmet stop, but it was perfect. A proper breakfast in the middle of a long ride is not about taste; it is about survival. You eat with gratitude, drink with urgency, and treat the chair as if it is a luxury resort.

From Jam to Warora, we rode on the Nagpur–Hyderabad highway. The highway looked impressive and behaved like a bully. Trucks passed too close, as if they were testing our nerve. Some motorcycles came from the wrong side, with the confidence of people who believed traffic rules were for other citizens. Cows wandered into the road with philosophical calm, and stray dogs occasionally barked at us, as if offended by our unusual hobby.

The three of us rode steadily, speaking occasionally, mostly listening to the hum of tyres and the steady rhythm of breath. In the early hours, the body feels cooperative. It hasn’t yet begun to bargain.

When the Ride Stops Being Romantic

Long rides begin as poetry and end as prose. Somewhere after the halfway mark, the romance of the journey fades and the reality asserts itself. The sun grew stronger. The greenery thinned in stretches. The wind began to misbehave, coming from the side with a force that made the bicycle wobble slightly, the way a rude person nudges you in a crowded corridor.

Side winds are not dramatic. They are just annoying enough to wear you down. They demand constant correction—small adjustments of posture, grip, balance. They drain you quietly. You don’t notice the fatigue arriving, but suddenly it is sitting on your shoulders like an unwanted relative.

At times, we began to question our sanity. Why were we doing this on a Sunday? Why weren’t we reading a book at home, or sleeping, or pretending to be “resting”? The question came and went. We kept pedalling because stopping would make the question louder.

We ate the snacks we had carried—homemade food that tasted wonderful not because it was exceptional, but because we were hungry enough to respect it. Hunger improves flavour. So does effort.

The road threw its small hazards at us: broken stones, patches of gravel, sudden potholes, and the constant anxiety of being too close to fast-moving vehicles. The bicycle, meanwhile, remained loyal. It did not complain. It simply rolled forward, waiting for the rider to do his share of the work.

The Puncture That Waited for the Finish Line

By noon, we had covered half the distance and were feeling reasonably confident. That confidence, I later realised, was premature and therefore dangerous. Long-distance cycling punishes arrogance, even the quiet kind.

At some point, I began to feel a drag. It was subtle at first—the bicycle felt heavier, less willing. I told myself it was fatigue. Then the resistance grew unmistakable. My tyre had punctured, and I had not noticed it in time.

We cycled nearly ten kilometres before finding a cycle shop. By the time we stopped, we were only four kilometres from home. That was the cruelest part. The puncture had waited patiently, like a villain with timing, choosing the moment when I could already smell the finish line.

I watched the mechanic work with the calm competence of someone who had done this a thousand times. I, who could manage a medical emergency with reasonable clarity, stood there feeling helpless in front of a piece of rubber. It was humbling, and also slightly comic. The body can be trained, but the mind still expects life to be convenient.

When the tyre was fixed, we rode the last stretch to Sevagram and arrived home at 3 p.m. We had completed the 150 kilometres in a little over nine hours.

Exhaustion, Elation, and the Quiet Aftermath

We were drenched, tanned, drained, and strangely cheerful. The fatigue was real, but it carried a sweetness. We collapsed onto our beds with the satisfaction of people who had voluntarily chosen discomfort and survived it.

For Ashwini and Abhishek, it was a solid ride, perhaps even routine. For me, it felt like a private milestone. I had tested my limits, argued with my doubts, and returned home without being carried in an ambulance. That alone felt like success.

Later that evening, as the soreness settled into my thighs and my shoulders, I realised something important. The ride had not made me younger. It had simply reminded me that ageing does not mean surrender. It means learning new ways to challenge yourself without being foolish.

I went to sleep that night already thinking of the next ride. Not because I had conquered cycling, but because cycling had conquered me.

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