Superpower

"Oh, he speaks, too??"

"You're very quiet. Is something wrong?"

"He's one arrogant smart-ass."

As a man who is naturally shy and withdrawn, I get that a lot. One of the banes of existing in a society of boisterous extroverts in our brave new world, I suppose. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. They say the truth. 

I write for fun, not really expecting any appreciation or praise. I know I have a long way to go, and there are people out there whose command of the English language is a gazillion times better than mine. But my heart does do some impressive cartwheels and pirouettes when I see one or two +1's on the list of posts on my humble blog. "Ah, at least one person liked what I wrote!" Your +1, my friend, makes my day. :)

I could write a lot better if I received some criticism and comments, though. So, um, feel free, maybe? I have the rarest of the rare superpowers. I listen.

Old flame

I honestly have no idea how many books I have. I'm too lazy to count. Some books I hold very close to my heart (Yeah, I have one. Beats at the rate of 49 per minute!), some maybe I will pick up again some five years from this point of time, and some I have not the faintest idea how I could have bought, unless I had been intoxicated with alcohol or the blissful fumes of hashish! I'm joking about the hashish! And the alcohol.
      Well the bottom-line of this rant is: I own too *add expletive* many books! I'm not very sure they have worked their magic on me. As a grumpy grad schooler, I still have those terrible moments when I seriously believe my brain growth somehow stopped at the age of 13. And quite frequently, too. The number of books I possess has not ceased to grow, however. My 'wardrobe', if you would be polite enough to call it so, is at the point of starting to overflow. I am a poor student. I don't own a bookshelf.
     Apparently, there are quite a lot of people with fully and admirably functioning CPUs who have faced, and continue to face the "bookshelf dilemma" (I love the way this lady writes. Pity her blog has had no entries in over a year now.). So, um, why not do the smart thing for once in my life?
    My seniors say I looked like a lovesick idiot with that parcel from amazon.com. I suppose I might have.This would not be the first time; I am told that smile of mine lends me a rather unfocused and foolish look. The object it contained was, well, sleek.

   On came the 3G hotspot on my battered and sweat-stained Lumia 520, passkeys were entered, a connection to the swirling whirlpool of information promptly established. Aaaand I'm reading Bram Stoker's Dracula now. The original. I admit I miss the musty aroma of the old copy dad has at home, the fragile feel of its age-browned pages; but I never knew how I had missed those small, warm flips my stomach used to do at the thought of returning to an unfinished story when I was younger. Until now. The fire is re-Kindled. 

The memories...

Some time in late 1999...
This was just about how I felt as I extricated myself from the drain. The very next moment I was  hopping on one foot, trying my utmost to to swallow the lump in my throat as angry tears forced their way through. Aiming that kick at that old steel beast of a bicycle had not been a smart move. 

The next day...
The 'half-pedal' technique looked like a lot of fun, but apparently I had neither the talent nor any of the guts that these boys do! Attempting it on my Photon had given me a spectacular set of bruises.

"Alright, one last shot."
I clambered on to the saddle and tensed for the pain as my father gave the bike a push. I could almost taste the hard asphalt on my knee as I wobbled precariously towards the dirt path sloping down into the football ground on the right. If I HAD to land flat on my face, I would rather do it on the grass. I placed my feet firmly on the pedals and...
"Wheeeeee......" 
Words fail me here. How am I supposed to describe something as wonderful as that? It was something close to flying, the wind rushing in my ears, through my hair, over the throbbing welts on my knees and elbows; to an eight-year-old boy, it was nothing short of a miracle! I tried to turn the handlebar and... SPLAT! The grass rushed up to greet my face with all the grace of solid concrete. That stank, but I just could not stop grinning! The beast had been tamed. 

2000-2011
In the following eight years, I had graduated from the narrow, short lane our house overlooked to the  broader and busier roads that led to my school and to the homes of my various tutors at the various ends of the town. It had taken a considerable amount of ingenuity on my part to wheedle the permission out of my mother, mind you. (Weave your way through the traffic of Burdwan for eight years, and you would never need to work on your bike-handling skills again. You can take my word for it.) But despite the speed limit of 5 kilometers per hour and the distance limit of 4 kilometers imposed on me, I had sneaked to the outskirts of the town enough times and breathed in enough fresh air to sorely miss the bike during my three years in college... until when it came back to me at Bangalore.

January 2013
I huffed, puffed and heaved on the pedals of my Schwinn Sporterra. The three of us had managed to reach only the edge of Kanakpura after five hours of riding. The Bheemeswari fishing camp was still a mind-numbing 50 km away. The sun was merciless, the gradients unrelenting; the straps of my backpack were cutting into my shoulders. "Why was I doing this? I could be chilling at home playing video games or something!"

We took a pitstop just outside Kanakpura. That's me on the left. I definitely look happier than I felt. It was a dumb idea to carry such huge backpacks, as we found out to our cost!

I could barely move by the time we rolled into Kanakpura. My T-shirt clung to the front of my torso, the outline of a massive white crust just starting to make itself visible. I could see white streaks on the sun-browned faces of my two friends, and realised my own face could not have looked much better. We stopped at the first baker's we could find on the side of the road and shakily pointed at a couple of cakes and a large can of Red Bull energy drink. THAT-WAS-THE-BEST-MEAL-EVER!! Did it help? Hell yeah!

The Red Bull effect!

 I felt no pain in the following 40 kilometers, but only a numb sense of euphoria. The views helped, too!

 

Our second pitstop was 10 kilometers from our destination. How could we not take a moment to absorb the enormity of this stunning vista? I cannot recall exactly how I felt when we crawled into the fishing camp an hour later. The world was a haze; all I wanted to do was drop everything, go to sleep  and not wake up even if the apocalypse chose that day to arrive. But sleep had to wait.

My legs quivered like a newborn kitten as I lowered myself into the freezing current of the Kaveri. I relaxed and floated on my back, feeling the lively thrum of the river as it washed over me. I closed my eyes. Time stopped.

THIS, ladies and gentlemen, was what we had been carrying on our backs. It had been a proper demented murder on the shoulders, but it added the finishing touches to our great adventure. Sometimes even I have a hard time believing we had  managed to pull it off.

All the pains of the journey were forgotten when we woke up to this the following morning. Every bit of that suffering had been worth it, just to see the sun rise over the Kaveri. Four hours after this photo was taken, we hitched a lift on a Bangalore-bound truck at Kanakpura and came back, nursing severe sunburns and terribly aching legs. But we had realised that the limits lay only within our own minds. We had suffered like never before, but we would jump at the very next chance of doing it all over again!

The Bheemeswari sufferfest, as it turned out, was to be the first of our many adventures. The last two years have been rather eventful.

I fell in love with this beautiful machine the instant I set my eyes upon it! It has been a faithful companion through several brevets and numerous other century rides. And yes, the painful rite of skinning knees was duly performed when the shift was made to clipless pedals. This bike is the cause I am a Strava junkie now.

As someone who likes to spend a lot of time in the TT-tuck, I regularly smash up my mother's distance and speed limits these days (I don't tell her! I would much appreciate it if you did not, either!). I have lost count of  how many times I have struggled up that accursed hillock past Devanahalli with my mates. The BBCh races are next on the bucketlist.   

I also hold a record for having a higher number of flats than anyone I know! Could be plain bad luck, or something could be wrong with my tyres. Any advices?   

And to top it all, we IISc peeps even have our own jersey now!

Riding can become suffering in its purest form when done with a fitter and faster group of people. You can only marvel at how fast your childlike joy can mutate into paralysing horror when you are stuck with a swarm of gym rats and Peter Sagan wannabes. But what makes it all worth it, is the rare chance you are offered to find out how much pain you can actually take. (Remember the rules!!) And of course as side-benefits you get to take photos like these,

and show off your tan lines (a badge of honour) and have awesome recovery drinks aaand offer a legitimate excuse for shaving your legs!
I am really glad the bike came into my life when it did!

Pilgrimage on race day.

What's the best thing about road biking? The wind in the hair (What a load of baloney! Wear a  helmet for Heaven's sake!)? The thrill of the descent?  Parading around dressed like a vacuum packed sandwich despite your age and constitution?  Or is it simply the sadistic pleasure of dishing out some pain?
   Ask this of the 100-odd riders who showed up for the Nandi epic race on the 19th of July, and I am sure all of them would have a different thing to say. But I can tell you with all my supremely annoying self-assurance that they all have one thing in common-  they are gluttons for punishment down to the last weedy chap, intrepid hardasses that in spite of knowing in full what the last BBCh race of the season has in store for them, are capable of looking like children about to rip the wrappings off their birthday gifts.

 
7:15 a.m.
I noticed a tiny kid of six years take his position beside the MAMILs and YMILs and felt a sharp stab of regret at not having registered for the race. The look of focus on his face was identical to this little girl's. "Oh no you ain't getting away this time, Peter!" Priceless! :)

  "Maybe there is some hope for us after all..." I thought with a chuckle.

8:15 a.m.
  I leaned my bike against the Nandi arch, wiping sweat off my sunglasses and reaching for the banana in my pocket. It never gets easier, and I did not seem to be getting much faster either. However, the climb through the thick cloud cover over the last three kilometers had been something else!

"They would probably be past the U-turn by now."

8:45 a.m.
"Brrrrrr...."

9:15 a.m.
I regretted my decision the instant I hit Nandi 2 for the second time, but I was deliciously warm and sweaty again.
"Definitely better than freezing to death! "
I could hear a car coming up from behind.
"Faizan!"
Whoever was leading the race had to be on the climb right now! Anxious not to get in the way, I slowed down and veered to the side of the road.Sure enough, five minutes later, a scrawny and bespectacled boy from the Giant sponsored team from Chennai effortlessly danced past me. He would go on to win the race in the amateur category by over two minutes.
"Now where has Phani gotten himself to?"
There he was, with a minuscule U-18 fighting hard to hold on to his wheel. One look at his face, and I knew the whole story.
"Now THAT'S what I call a mask of pain."

Need I say more?
He would shake the U-18 off his tail at the last corner to take his third podium finish of the season, at second place behind the twig-man from Chennai. Well done, mate!

All of this, the blood, the sweat and the agony, the gritted teeth, the contorted faces, the fights through the red haze of pain, THE RULES, and above all the community of determined badasses- all embody the things that are amazing about racing a bike. Oh, and the outdoors, too! I mean, how can you not want to ride with the knowledge that you could be exploring places that look like this?

 Or even begin to appreciate Froomey putting the hammer down if you don't ride yourself?

And last but not least, Kapil saar, you're my main man! Thanks for the lift!! :)

P.S. The three best things about riding a bike, in my personal opinion-
1. Casually lifting the sleeves of my T-shirt and marvelling at how quickly people's eyes grow to the size of dinner plates on seeing my tan lines. It's ten times funnier when done at home.
2. The recovery drink (Fruit juice! Fruit juice!).
3. The license to shave my legs with impunity (Cold water running over bare skin= Heaven. You should try it.).

Sufferfest

It was cold and slightly breezy, but I had sweat streaming down my face into my eyes and my mouth. The hoods, slippery from the long contact with my moist palms, compromised my grip. I could have kicked myself for not wearing gloves. At least I had had the sense of wearing the full-zip jersey, the absence of the wind cooling my core would have guaranteed a stop long before. I was already at the steepest hairpin, heart doing 190 bpm- well over three times the resting rate of 56, and incredibly, I felt strong.enough to rise out of the saddle and push. I was not going to stop. Not today. It was only 27 minutes into the climb with one km  to go. I was looking at something around 30 minutes if I could keep it up a little longer. 'The boys are going to be surprised', I thought with a chuckle. Only two of them have done the climb in less than half an hour! I swerved along the wider curve of the road, where the rise in the gradient was slightly gentler, so that it would be easier to survive. The gradient was around 16% here, and even with all the strength of my legs, my pace threatened to drop below 10 kph. It had better end soon- my chest was starting to hurt a little. I struggled up the ramp to the next hairpin and miraculously, it became easier to push. I had forgotten that the incline was less punishing here. The bike sped up explosively, allowing me to slacken my muscles and recover. I turned up the power on the next curve and saw Rishav hurtling down from the other direction. His surprise was obvious from the way his eyes widened on seeing me. I tried to smile back, but couldn't manage anything more than a grimace. The watch showed 29 minutes, and I put on another burst of acceleration. The top of the climb could not be far. I had to take the next curve smartly if I were not to lose speed. I swerved, and time stopped! There was the gate right there, standing serenely just 20 metres away, and the watch showed  30 minutes and 5 seconds! For the next 15 glorious seconds it took to roll through the gates onto the gravel within, I was Chris Froome, Alberto Contador and Nairo Quintana all rolled into one. This was my best climb timing ever, better than most of the others! I unclipped and sat down on the top tube. The effort had been colossal and I recognised the first signs of bonking. Not eating anything substantial before starting and riding at a blazing 34 kph to the Nandi foothills was going to cost me dearly on the way back. I had already exhausted all my glycogen reserves. But I was not going to let the thoughts of the suffering to come spoil my moment. Not. At. All. I emptied the contents of one of my bottles on my head and grinned involuntarily as memories came back of the looks of open-mouthed astonishment on the faces of the college kids at seeing me zipping past at 20 kph doing the Contador dance on those slopes, the words of comfort and encouragement from the descending riders; and the euphoria I felt at finally being able to do those speeds on the hardest climb around Bangalore. At that moment, slumped on the handlebars and waiting for the chest pain to subside, I understood completely, for the first time, what Patrick Brady meant in The Seduction of Suffering ( http://pelotonmagazine.com/pages/from-inside-peloton-the-seduction-of-suffering/ ).
Pushing your limits transforms every aspect of you and steels your resolve in the strangest of ways. The trait that is the most obviously common to ALL of my fellow riders is an utter, absolute refusal to give up, be it on a punishing ride or in anything they do. I do not know if I possess that particular ability, but I most certainly would like to.

Nandi race.

I have been wanting to see a real bike race from up close since for ever and ever; so when the opportunity presented itself in the form of an invite from Naveen John, of the Specialized Kynkyny Cycling Team, to participate in the Nandi Epic 100K, I thought I might as well turn up for the party. To be perfectly honest, I had some fairly strong misgivings about actually PARTICIPATING in the race, having ridden some distance with the SKCT (super)men on Airport road only a couple of weeks ago, and doing a Nandi 2X seemed to be a more inviting prospect than trying to keep up with the peloton. I have very realistic views about my capabilities as a rider- I am no racer by a long shot, the only thing I can do is not fall off the saddle after a multiple-hundred  on the bike. But some lengthy councils of war on Ghost Riders had me fully charged with adrenaline and it was with some excitement that I clipped in on Sunday. 

  We started from campus a little later than I would have liked, but I had had the opportunity to squeeze in a few extra minutes of sleep- a rare treat with the ongoing schedule- and felt fresh and confident as we hit Airport road. Vijay had missed out because of a blocked throat- I rather thought he sounded like a gramophone record playing in slow motion- and Rishav was supposed to meet us at a spot around 17 km from campus. We missed the rendezvous by several minutes, and I knew as the distinctive shape of Rishav's helmet bobbed into view that with still around 15 km to go, we would make it to the start point by the skin of our teeth, if at all. Still acclimatising to my new Zaffiros- the transition from the old Pro Slick tyres has not been pleasant- and felt the frustration start to bubble as I punched it to keep up with my mates. At this rate, I was sure I would be dropped from the peloton before even five kilometers had passed. Anyway, I am a brevet rider through and through, and I was not going to let the opportunity to practise for the Master BRM next Saturday slip through my fingers. The weather was perfect for riding- clear blue skies with scattered white clouds and a gentle breeze now and then.The roads were beautifully dry with good traction. Corners would not be too tricky. Even if I dropped out of the bunch early, I most certainly was going to enjoy today. I felt the excitement mount as we crossed the toll plazas near the airport and noted with a grimace that it was already time for flag-off. We would not have much time to get organised.
  Sure enough, I saw the riders kick off immediately as we drew up to the start point, and realised that there was no time to stop and recover. I saw NJ pull away on his gray Tarmac and Sourav start to punch it out of the saddle as the peloton started rolling at speeds I would not have believed possible unless I had seen them with my own eyes. Phani was nowhere to be seen. Underestimating the speeds at which the racers would start was the mistake that cost me the chance to ride with them even for a short distance. I started sprinting out of the saddle as soon as I realised what was going to happen, and watched with a feeling close to utter helplessness as the racers drew away slowly but inexorably. By the time I had reached the Nandi crossing, the peloton was a distant shadow on the horizon and within two more minutes, they had vanished out of sight  Heart pounding and feeling slightly crestfallen, I settled back into the saddle and dropped into a steady pace I could maintain all day. I was not here to win, so I might as well enjoy the views. The slower riders were spread over a long distance behind the peloton and were mostly riding alone, a mistake, in my opinion, because the gentle breeze I had been feeling on the way to the start point had by that time swollen into something resembling a solid but invisible wall, with abrupt changes in direction that made me struggle to keep my front wheel steady. The sleep of previous night had helped, and I enjoyed the fight against the wind to get ahead of the stragglers, keeping an eye out for someone I could share the work with. Sadly nobody seemed willing to ride in a paceline! I had a guy on a red Bianchi tailing me for several kilometers through some huge climbs and descents, but he seemed reluctant to return the favour. I exchanged a few words with a guy on a touring bike and started tailing a man on a Suncross. Apparently he was from Kerala and was finding the rolling terrain and the strong headwinds hard to cope with.He dropped out behind me after a while. The day was bright and sunny, and the views were stunning, several small mountains looming in the distance on the left side amid lush greenery. We would have been able to cover more kilometers in a much shorter time if not for the headwinds. Although there was not much fatigue, I had to eat every 20 kilometers and keep taking a gulp of water every 10 to keep going at the same pace. However, I could feel myself becoming dehydrated at an alarming rate, and fantasies of a good, solid breakfast kept nagging at the back of my mind. I just wanted to finish the route and be done with it. The peloton charging past like a herd of bull elephants  5 kilometers before the U-turn did nothing to cheer me up, but the prospects of the climbs I was going to face just after cornering at the U-turn soon drove everything else from my mind. The climbs were not too much of a trouble, but by this time I was down to my last banana and 100 ml of water, which were soon gone. The winds were not helpful. A particularly strong gust of crosswinds almost drove me into another rider, momentarily giving me the unreal sensation of cornering while going straight. It was as if the wheels were going to be knocked out from under me. I suppressed a chuckle as an image of Sourav flying on the winds swam to the front of my mind, and kept hammering on.
  3 hours from the start, absolutely famished ( I do not have enough fat to burn in emergencies now!) and dehydrated, I rolled through the Nandi crossing, hopeful that I would be able to pick up the pace now that the Nandi hills might block the winds. I waved at a couple of riders as I passed them, rose out of the saddle,  and AAAARGH!! A sharp, searing pain shot through my left leg like a flash of lightning. The quadriceps had cramped. I pressed on, but soon the calf of the same leg had started to scream in protest. I most definitely could not climb Nandi like this. Stopping at the base of the climb seemed like a good idea, and I decided to do just that. I met Rishav at the base after sometime ( For reasons I could not fathom, he had decided to descend just before the final kilometer.) and hung around till the prize distributions. Phani had climbed to the top with cramps on both legs and seemed unable to walk (Bad position of the cleats? ). That really put my suffering on perspective. Maybe I ought to take the HTFU rule more seriously. Anyway, plenty of chances to work on that in the coming Master BRM. Can't wait!
Although I did not finish the race route, I thoroughly enjoyed the views on the Hyderabad highway and experienced some tough riding conditions. The headwinds and crosswinds, especially, combined with the impossibly rolling contours of the route, made it all worth it. I do wish I were a stronger rider, though.