Four Hundred, and a Wall

A bigger target, and misplaced confidence

After finishing the 300-kilometre brevet, I began to behave like a man who had discovered a new version of himself. It was a subtle arrogance, not the loud kind. I did not boast about it, but I started assuming that if I could do 300, then 400 was only a longer afternoon on the saddle.

That is how the 400-kilometre brevet entered my calendar.

The event was scheduled for 15 January 2017. The target was to complete 400 kilometres in 27 hours. Twenty-seven hours sounds generous until you realise it includes everything: riding, stopping, eating, stamping, fixing, thinking, and occasionally staring into space while your brain tries to remember why you signed up.

Abhishek V. Raut and I started at 5:30 a.m. from Zero Mile, Nagpur. The route ran along the Nagpur–Amravati road, a familiar highway that can be kind when it wants to be, and brutal when it decides to test your patience.

That morning, it was kind.

The first half: a perfect day that felt like a blessing

For the first 180 kilometres, everything went so smoothly that it made me suspicious. The morning was pleasantly cold, the kind of cold that keeps you alert without making your fingers numb. The afternoon sun was warm but not harsh. The wind was gentle, not the sort that humiliates you by pushing back every time you push forward.

Even the road behaved.

The four-lane highway had enough undulations to keep things interesting, but nothing that felt punishing. The climbs came and went. The descents offered small moments of joy, the tyres humming on smooth tarmac. We rode better than I had expected. We were not sprinting, but we were steady. We were not reckless, but we were confident.

At some point, I began to believe that this might be one of those rare days when everything aligns: weather, body, mind, road, and luck. The kind of day that makes you forget that cycling can also be cruel.

I should have known better. The road has its own sense of humour.

The crash that did not look like a crash

The problem arrived quietly, without drama.

At around the 180-kilometre mark, my body began to misbehave in a way that I could not explain at first. It started as a vague uneasiness—an internal discomfort that had no clear location. Then came nausea. Then sweating. Then dizziness. Then a sudden heaviness, as if someone had poured wet sand into my veins.

Within minutes, my confidence evaporated.

It was not a mechanical failure. It was not a puncture. It was not a broken chain or a snapped cable. It was something far more unsettling: the body itself had decided to pull the plug.

Later, I realised what had happened. I had run out of sodium. An electrolyte imbalance. The very thing I had taught medical students about for decades, the very thing I had corrected countless times in wards and ICUs, had quietly ambushed me on the highway.

The irony was sharp enough to puncture pride.

I had heard the long-distance cycling dictum often enough: eat before you are hungry, drink before you are thirsty. I had remembered the first half. I had forgotten the second. I had been drinking, yes, but not enough. Worse, I had not replenished electrolytes properly. I had an Electral-filled bottle, and yet I had treated it like a decorative accessory.

As a physician, I could diagnose it. As a cyclist, I was helpless inside it.

Abhishek: the steady hand when my body faltered

Abhishek stayed close. He did not panic. He did not lecture. He did not say, “I told you so,” which is what I deserved.

He simply watched me carefully and adjusted his riding to mine. He offered practical support, slowed down, and stayed near enough for me to feel safe. In those moments, friendship becomes a form of first aid.

I tried to pedal through it, because cyclists are stubborn creatures and doctors are not much better. I told myself it would pass. I told myself it was temporary. I told myself I had come too far to quit.

But the body was no longer negotiating.

I managed to pedal painfully for another 20 kilometres, but it was clear that continuing would be foolish. Not heroic—foolish. There is a difference, and it becomes obvious when your vision blurs and your stomach turns against you.

When we reached the 200-kilometre checkpoint at Zero Mile, I told the volunteers that I was quitting.

The words tasted bitter, but they were necessary.

The hardest decision: stopping before the finish line

Stopping in a brevet is not like stopping on an ordinary ride. In an ordinary ride, you can tell yourself you will continue tomorrow. In a brevet, stopping feels final. It feels like failure stamped in ink.

I had not even crossed the halfway mark of the full 400. I had started well. I had planned well—at least, I believed I had. The weather had been kind. The road had been kind. My legs had been cooperative. And yet, something inside me had simply run out.

I sat with that reality, and it humbled me.

I have spent years in medicine explaining to patients that the body has limits. I have told them that rest is not weakness. I have counselled them not to push beyond what is safe. But when it came to myself, I was still learning the same lesson.

That day, my body became my teacher.

A quiet guilt: when friendship costs someone else a finish

The disappointment of a DNF is sharp, but what troubled me more was Abhishek. He had the strength to continue. He had time on his side. He could have finished the brevet. But he chose to stop with me.

At first, I felt grateful. Then I felt guilty.

It is not easy to accept such loyalty, because it comes with a price. Abhishek’s decision was generous, but it also meant he gave up his own chance at a personal milestone.

That night, after we returned, I wrote him an email. It was part apology, part confession, and part attempt to set a rule for the future.

An email that revealed the kind of man Abhishek is

16 January 2017
Dear Abhishek,

It makes me feel sad and disheartened to see that I made you quit the 400-brevet. You neither were tired nor were running out of time and yet, you chose to quit—only to accompany me.

Your camaraderie and friendship were of great value to me during the brevet. I appreciated the tremendous support that you offered to me when I began to feel uneasy. I will always treasure the memories of you slowing down to ride with me during the last 20 km of the first half of the brevet. I tried my best to muster the willpower and strength to continue, but I was too exhausted. I still cannot figure out why I suddenly became nauseous and lost my strength, especially since I was doing so well until 175 km. However, sometimes we have bad days and despite everything being in our favour—the weather, the winds, and the road—we are just not able to make it. That’s fate.

Let’s make an unwritten rule for the next brevet we ride together: you will not quit, no matter what. Brevets are all about personal accomplishments, and in the context of a brevet, when faced with a choice between personal milestones and friendship, personal accomplishments should always be the automatic choice. I would have been thrilled if you had continued and returned to Sevagram with another feather on your handlebar. I feel guilty for not conveying that to you. So, please continue to provide support, companionship, and ride together, but when unforeseen events happen during a brevet, please do not quit and keep going.

Thank you again for your company. Riding with you is always a pleasure, and this brevet was no exception, except for the 175-km nightmare. Let’s do it again next time!

Best regards,
SP

He replied almost immediately, and his reply carried the kind of clarity that makes you pause.

16 January 2017
Dear Sir,

Thank you for your email. I am sorry that my decision to quit the brevet has caused you to feel guilty. However, I want to make it clear that the decision was entirely mine, and you did not coerce me in any way. I have a clear conscience that even if I had wanted to continue, my sports ethics would not have allowed me to do so, and it would have played on my mind.

If I had continued, I may or may not have completed the brevet. But even if I had completed it, I would have had a sour taste of victory and would have had to live with the guilt of choosing personal glory over team spirit. This goes against how I have been trained, particularly in mountaineering where we were taught that ‘life is much more than just making the summit’. We were ingrained with the belief that if we ever had to choose between reaching the summit and the health of our teammates, we should prioritize the latter without hesitation. The mountains will always be there, and as a team, we can always come back stronger to reach the summit. It should never come at the cost of any of our teammates.

I cannot predict what I would do if a similar situation arises in the future. Still, I know it will be challenging for me to choose otherwise. So, please don’t feel guilty or sad for any reason.

For now, I want to say that this was not our last brevet. Yesterday was just not meant to be our day. Let’s not dwell on it too much. Let’s return more prepared and stronger and make it happen next time. The taste of victory is much sweeter when achieved together.

Warm regards,
Abhishek

P.S – Hope you are feeling better now after taking much-needed rest.

Reading his words, I felt two things at once. First, relief—because he was not angry or resentful. Second, admiration—because he was guided by a principle larger than cycling.

In medicine, we often speak of ethics as if they belong only to hospitals and courtrooms. Abhishek reminded me that ethics also belong on highways, in darkness, and in moments when someone must choose between achievement and loyalty.

What the 400-kilometre failure gave me

That 400-kilometre brevet ended in a DNF, and yet it did not feel like a wasted day. It gave me something that the successful rides had not: humility in its purest form.

It taught me that the body can collapse without warning, and that preparation is not only about training miles but also about respecting basics—hydration, electrolytes, pacing, and recovery. It taught me that being a doctor does not make you immune to mistakes. If anything, it makes your mistakes more embarrassing, because you know better.

It also taught me something more personal. There is a point where stubbornness stops being courage and becomes foolishness. The trick is to recognise that point before the road forces you to.

I did not finish the 400. But I returned home safe. I returned home wiser. And I returned home with the quiet assurance that I would try again—not to prove anything to anyone, but to test the limits more intelligently next time.

That, I realised, is also a kind of progress.

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