Cycling from Chandigarh to Delhi

I travel to come down off the feather-bed of civilization – RL Stevenson

I do not remember when the thought of an inter-city bicycle ride first occurred to me. A friend came to drop me at the Tribune Circle in Chandigarh. We bade each other goodbye and from then on, I was on my own. I felt energetic and looked forward to the journey. Finally the day had come, I was living my dream. But as soon as I reached the outskirts of the city, doubt started raising its dreadful head.

DAY 1

Will I be able to make it? Do I have the energy for it? Is this too adventurous? When she came to drop me, my friend had said, ‛Don’t set too high a standard for yourself. This is your first time. It doesn't matter how far you ride. As far as you go, that is OK.’ This gave me strength. In the first hour I covered thirty kilometres.

I knew I couldn't keep up to this pace. I would definitely get slower, but I had no idea how much slower that would be, because the next hour got me 10kms. In the the third I did about 3kms because there was a headwind. Truth is, there are no averages, especially for newbies like me. By the fifth hour I was seriously considering the seat I was sitting on. Is this the best seat they got in the market. I was angry. Surely there have to be better ones.

I have always been lazy to work out. I remember once joining a gym but couldn't keep myself interested for too long, beefy men flexing muscles in front of mirrors didn't help either. I was attracted to yoga instead. It struck me then that if I were to sustain my enthusiasm on this journey, I need to have an idea to think about. I need to take my mind off the act of cycling, and follow the mental threads as they open up. Is cycling like meditation?

Perhaps I should try and follow the conversations that perpetually rage within. ‛I have to get back to Delhi soon,’ was the first inner conversation that occurred, ‛I have so much work to do. But if I cycle faster I'll tire myself.’ Next deep conversation was, ‛What’s my Facebook update going to be? Should I add pictures?’ Goodness! The moment you let the mind free, it goes on a wandering ramble.

The idea of a film started emerging. A film on cycling. It felt warm and comfortable to turn the idea over. At last, something worthwhile to think about. Images and sounds started playing in my head, and.. that's when I decided I am going to write about cycling.

I can do it right now and it’ll keep me busy. I started tentatively. On the first day I wrote a paragraph. It felt good and I realised what I need, perhaps, was a sense of purpose. No matter how mundane some actions may appear, writes Murakami, keep at it long enough and it becomes a contemplative, even meditative act.

By evening I checked into a hotel-cum-restaurant 10kms after Ambala. I didn't care much for the restaurant – it was managed by Café Coffee Day – but the room was clean with running hot water. An attendant asked me where my vehicle was and would I need a valet to park it. I said yes, handing him the keys and pointing to my dusty mode of transport, standing outside their gate. ‛That bicycle over there. Please be careful with it.’

DAY 2

I got up early and, after a quick cup of ginger tea and a shower, was out of the hotel before seven. Hot water bath felt like heaven. But I didn't want to eat there. I couldn't miss an early morning breakfast at a dhaba for the world.

The room attendant there was surprised to see my bike, ‛You have come all the way from Chandigarh?’ his eyes were wide.
‛Yes.’
'Even young boys cannot dare to do what you are doing'.
'Actually, they can, and they do.’ I said, attempting to inspire him, ‛Some just don't know about it yet.’ He was a young man himself.

He followed me to the gate, curious about the bike and the project I had undertaken. My bike is twenty years old. But looking at him you’d feel he was eyeing a swanky new car. 'How long will it take you to reach Delhi?'
'That, my friend, we shall find out very soon,' I smiled as I cycled into the crispy morning.

After a hearty hot breakfast in a dhaba (highway hotel), I started off, covering 15kms in about two hours. Again the creeping doubt – has this been a failed experiment from the start. So many people have done this before, nothing new about it. What do I want to prove anyway. It can be such a devil – this brain of ours.

For many months, I have been dreaming of a long distance ride, much longer than this one. Will it ever happen, it seems I am phasing out on the second day itself. I wanted to know my endurance level. God give me strength. I need to find my pace, I said to myself, and I need to find the right temperament. Pace and temperament, that's the key. Is there a way to pace your biking? I must ask friends who have been doing long distances for years.

My cellphone was not working; no calls, no sms, no internet. By afternoon I reached another dhaba and ordered lunch, dal tadka and tandoori roti. Karnal couldn't be very far from here. I had been cycling for long. A person sitting near me said it was 60kms away. My heart sank. I thought I was about to reach Karnal.

I remembered a friend talking about breathing. ‛Concentrate on your breath’, she had said while suggesting that I must do a course in Vipasana, ‛It'll help you a lot’. I made a mental note that I'll join in late March, a ten-day meditation course in Jaipur.

Vipasana would require similar rigour, I thought. ‛You need to pay attention to your breath. That's central,’ she had said, ‛Breath in and breath out, breath in breath out. And watch the air going in and out of your nose.’

In Vipasana you are required not to talk for ten days, most of the day you either meditate, or listen to Guruji's recording. Some of my friends who have done the course said it can get strenuous. Cycling is similar, I thought. Since I was cycling alone, there was no talking, except at tea shops and dhabas and even there, dialogue was minimal. More importantly, I needed a mental focus, emptied of all conflicting thought – the past that comes to haunt like a ghost waiting in the wings.

I didn't mind the long road but it’s straightness was tiring. Highways are meant for fast cars. I remember when I used to drive on this stretch, I would quickly loose interest in the road. It is wide, straight and smooth, bereft of challenges. On a bike it seems even less so. Had I chosen the road that goes through fields and villages, it would have been nicer. But I didn't, because the shortest route was the highway itself and much as I enjoyed cycling, I didn't want to stray off the shortest route. But wait. I must get this out of my system.

Why do I need to reach Delhi in stipulated time. I don't have to catch a flight. Instead, I must relax, savour every moment. I must pay attention to what I have here, right now, with me.

I decided I'll take a long break at the next dhaba that looked comfortable. I will order some juice, and I will write. What a pleasure, sitting in the open, your bike parked on your side, a glass of kinu juice on the table, a pen and a notepad. Paradise. I found a dhaba that was shaded with lush green trees and offered khats (charpoys) to lie on. Khats are going out of fashion, you don't see them too often. I chose a tightly strung khat, and lay on it for some time. Bliss. Birds chirping in the canopy of a neem tree, the clouds, the blue sky – it was all mine. Then I found a table and started writing.

A tall, well built Sardar came over, saw me with the notepad and went away. After a while he came back and stood near me looking down at the pad. I looked up and smiled. He relaxed and sat down in front of me. We exchanged names and I kept my pad away.

Malkeet Singh was a truck driver plying cement loads between Ropar and Meerut.

‛You came on a cycle?’ he asked.
‛Yes.’
He nodded and smiled encouragingly with measuring eyes. We ordered chai. His truck was parked on the highway.
‛I learnt driving from my uncle. I used to go to school but in twelfth grade, I dropped out. School wasn't meant for me. Had I finished school, I would have got myself a good job somewhere,’ and with dejected eyes, he added, ‛but I turned out to be a phuddu’. A duffer.
I couldn’t help laughing. I was hearing this word after a long time. Last I heard it was in school in Chandigarh, boys would call each other phuddu mostly as a non-serious expletive. He realised instantly that he sounded funny and started laughing.
‛What are other students who were with you in school doing today?’ I asked.
‛I don't know. I haven’t checked. One chap I know, he finished school and did some course and got a job I don't know where. Another one is with the police. As for me, I couldn't make head or tail of the mother-fucking text books.
‛One of my uncles use to carry hash in his truck. He would buy for 200 and sell for a 1000, making a cool 800 on every kilo. Before long, he was a rich man. One day a ganjedi (addict) came to our house and asked for hash. My uncle got angry – he didn't want to to do business from home – he refused. So this ganjedi went and complained to the police about my uncle’s business. The entire force from the station descended at our place; there was an SHO, a DCP and many policemen. They took all his hash and put uncle in jail. Just a couple of months back, he came out after a six year stint in the cooler. He is a wiser man now. He says you can’t do any business without buying police protection.

‛I never liked his business. There’s something amoral about it. Too much money is a problem. You should know how to handle it. Don't get me wrong. It's not about being on the right side of law. My truck is always overloaded. I bribe my way through, or I simply avoid roads I know they'll check. No driver can survive without it. At the most I'll be fined – but they can never put me behind bars for overloading. I have nothing against hash either. But too much money is a problem.’

It was 1:30 in the afternoon. A roaring engine made us turn our heads. A flashy youth in a leather jacket drove in on a big motorcycle and parked near us. ‛How much did you pay for this awesome bike?’ Malkeet Singh asked. Apparently they knew each other.
‛80,000,’ replied the lad.
‛You're hopeless, just like me. How much do you earn in a month?’
‛Nothing,’ the boy smiled.
‛Then how did you buy this?’
‛I didn't. Father bought it for me.’
‛When you earn eighty thousand then you indulge yourself with forty, and give the rest to your father,’ were Malkeet's solemn words. The boy listened to him keenly as he sipped his tea.
‛You're hopeless,’ Malkeet finished. The lad smiled again.

‛Why don't you stay here till evening,’ he said, turning towards me again. ‛At 6:30, after the sun has set, I'll leave from here. We go together. I drop you 40kms outside Delhi. From there you cycle and reach home for dinner. Why tire yourself unnecessarily cycling all the way. I’ll have some company too.’
‛You travel alone? No helper?’
‛Helpers are difficult to find these days. Who'll ever work for 1500-2000 a month.’
‛You know, bhai,’ I said, getting up, ‛your offer is tempting and in all likelihood I would take it, not because I'm tired, but because I would love to travel with you in your truck. It's been my long standing desire. But it'll have to wait for another day. Sat-sri-akal, praji.’
‛Wait,’ he said, ‛have a cup of tea with me, then go.’

It was five in the evening. Beautiful mustard fields stretched on both sides of the road, but without any change in landscape, they were an eyesore. Wherever there were fly-over construction, fast cars would slow down and crowd together into smaller side roads. They would honk cyclists and other sundry aside, sending them scrambling on the adjacent gravel path. Car drivers feel roads belong to them. Everybody else is at best, incidental, at worst, a bother. Why don't you just stay off the highway, they seem to say, stick to your village lanes, or better still, stay at home. Just don't be in our way.

It's not their fault, though. Roads and cars are made in a way that favour speed. I am sure there are other ways to build them. ‛You don't find many villages on this road,’ I asked a tea stall vendor.
‛Well, if you’re in a car, you won’t even see cities on this road,’ he replied. ‛You just sail past them on fly-overs.’

Entropy made visible. William McDonough – TED Talks: Cradle to Cradle Design – says that modern structures, massive buildings, feel as if they are not worth caring for, not worth defending. They make us feel like termite.

A car sped past at over a hundred kilometres an hour with another even faster one, overtaking it. I have myself driven very fast on this road. Short races with bursting speed are common between drivers. It's a good way to pass the time, one driver had told me. He liked to check how much he had clocked on each run. Truckers don't have this attitude, not as a general rule.

Whenever I felt tired, I got down and started walking. It relaxed the pedaling muscles and engaged the walking ones. After about two or three kilometres, I got back on the bike, refreshed. Marathon runners do this too, I found out late-r. I would never have guessed. Shouldn't have chosen a high-way - this thought would not leave me.

Petrol pumps, auto garages and numerous car showrooms went past. I realised, what attracted me to cycling in the first place, wasn't about finding my physical limits. It was about Freedom. I am free to not spend on petrol, on maintenance and even to own a car. I can go anywhere I want, light as a bird, in a fraction of the cost. How did a simple thing like this evade me. Curious.

I stopped at a dhaba and ordered dinner. In the distance some farmers were playing kabaddi, their glistening bodies rolling in dust amidst sugar-cane fields as the sun went over, calling it a day.

DAY 3

I woke up with a phone call from Reception. It was late, almost ten in the morning. Somebody from the other end said checkout is at 12 noon. I ordered tea and toast, took a quick bath and got ready. But I didn't feel 100%. The road ahead looked daunting. As much as I wanted to leave, my body wanted to laze in bed. Come on, I said. Let’s go.

I didn't realise it then, but I know now, that I had done a hundred and ten kilometres the previous day and forty-five kilometres the day before. By my standards this was a very big deal. Adding up, I had covered, until then, one hundred and fifty-five kilometres.

I had done no warm up sessions before leaving Chandigarh, no exercises. I was horribly out of practice. My knees were aching, thighs were swollen, looking like a piece of ham. Last I had cycled was about two years ago and never done more than 10 or 12 odd kilometres at a stretch. This was insane.

My backpack felt heavy as I tied it to the carrier – where did the extra weight come from. I must have made quite a sight, for the receptionist came out with some of his friends to see this crazy fellow on a bike.

‛Why don't you catch a bus?’ he asked. Perhaps my tiredness was visible. I mumbled something about novelty; everybody takes a bus; cycling long-distance; blah, blah, blah. I hardly knew what I said.

He wasn't convinced either, he felt I wanted to save money. He didn't know that night-stays had been more expensive than the petrol it costs to cover this route. On my next trip, I said to myself, I am going to plan the nights better.

I led the bike though a narrow side-lane, opening onto the highway and got on. My back and groin didn't like it one bit. I decided I'll cycle till I can, then take a bus; no need to die on this impersonal highway. I've already got a hang of doing long distances, I argued. Let me play it by the ear. Energised once again with this new decision that sympathised with my body, I took to the road, humming a song.

The road to Panipat was again straight and long and smooth and wide. The headwind made it difficult for all of us on non-motorised vehicles. I chose the service roads wherever I got them. They weren't any better but had much less traffic and since they were a little lower than the highway, there was just that little less headwind, a minuscule difference, but one a cyclist would welcome.

Ahead just after the toll-plaza, the highway bifurcates, one going up the fly-over towards Delhi, the other dipping down to Panipat. Once up, there is no way to come down, the bridge cuts across the city, so if you take that road you have to go all the way to the end. I stopped there to weigh my options.

In the car, I wouldn't have bothered, perhaps not even seen the slope going down and would have whizzed past the city. I could go up now, avoid traffic lights and the general city commotion below. Or I could go down avoid the headwind and throw myself head first into the traffic. Avoiding wind seemed more attractive.

I thanked the Lord to give me sense to take the road going down – what a gift. As the road sloped into Panipat city, I was in for a pleasant surprise. The place had completely changed. The bridge above made a micro-climate under which life throbbed. It was cool, a relief from the afternoon sun, the neat road was unlike the broken haphazard chaos it used to be. A wide footpath, like a plaza, ran alongside. It was Sunday afternoon, people had come out for lunch basking in the sun, some strolling, some shopping. Vendors with small kiosks were selling delicious stuff – samosas, kachoris, roasted peanuts, gajak, fruits, fruit juices. Traffic was strangely smooth, like a dream. Is this a movie. A lazy winter afternoon scene with fellow cyclists and some rather pretty Panipat girls to warm tired eyes. Compared to this, the highway above was cold and dead.

People waiting on the sidewalk looked expectantly for buses and auto-rickshaws that’ll take them inside the city. As I neared them, they started running towards me ready to board the coming vehicles. Several autos pulled up in my way, forcing my bike to the footpath, leaving no room to manoeuvre. On my left was the high footpath and on my right were the oncoming vehicles. I stopped and stood there, one feet on the ground. All around me people were boarding and de-boarding from autos and jeeps and mini-buses. I caught a glimpse of an attractive young woman sitting in an auto parked near me. She looked recently married and her taut brows said she was getting ready for challenges ahead. An elderly Jat lady sitting next to her spoke softly in her ears, placating her as the auto moved away.

I decided to walk my way out of the crowd, but more autos came and parked in front of me as if we were all in a choreographed dance – this is a movie! This has to be a movie. I was again surrounded, nowhere to move. One auto would go, another would come and take its place. He would go, another would come; they came from various angles and with immaculate timing. Standing there, on the road, with autos breathing in and out of formation, I found myself smiling. Had I been in a car I would be nervous, even annoyed. But here I was, relaxed, watching, at the end of a physically tiring day, in the centre of this mini-chaos that looked hardly mechanised, the proverbial dance of Shiva.


Several kilometres down the road I saw children playing volleyball in a school ground. It was late in the evening and the school had long closed, but these children were still enjoying their game. I stopped to take pictures. Some of them saw me and came up to the highway and said they want their pictures clicked separately. I said OK but only if you let me play with you for some time. They started laughing. I took their pictures and we went down to play. I must have done about 50kms till then that day.

It was just this morning that my body had refused to move, and here I was, playing volleyball. Where does all this energy come from. We have immense untapped reserves of energy we have no idea about. Most of our adulthood it lies dormant. Very rarely do we get the opportunity to call upon it and put it to use. An urban phenomenon, perhaps.

In the evening I reached Murthal and decided to catch a bus. It was getting dark, the road ahead was not interesting and I was tired dead. I found a chai shop near the highway, where I sat and waited for a bus. Several buses came but I couldn't get them to wait long enough to load my bike. Somebody suggested I go 14kms off the main highway, to the bus-depot at Sonipat, 20kms from Delhi border. I did 65kms that day.

A helpful brother lifted the bike and together we loaded it on the roof of a Haryana Roadways bus. I came down and sat on my seat tired and happy. As we left the depot, I realised, it was the first time in three days that I was in motion without any physical effort. Slowly I was coming back onto the feather-bed of civilisation.

I had done 220kms in about 22hrs spread over three days, on a bicycle, for the first time in my life. I felt satisfied and contended, ready for my next trip.