That feeling of your muscle blocks shifting as a cohesive packed unit, pulsing through every rotation of the paddle - which is actually their indicator to being on threshold of a muscle cramp – is painful but nostalgic. I get that every few months (irregularly) – that one assaulting morning in Manali in Oct before this, cycling to Karjat in Sept before that, and then all the way back in the Season 1 of cycling in Mumbai. My body, seemingly, uses a lot of water towards the welfare of those feet pumping on the paddles and synching the motion for the entire body, which on long distances always translates to a cramp or thereabouts.
This was this morning. About 45km (damn, couldn’t even touch 50). WE and onwards upto Varsava/Ghodbandar (lying in Thane district, not Mumbai), where the highway running along the national park forks to right, and skirts the land mass on lower side of the creek to join Thane city. At that junction we all had a gathering at this very popular eating joint, and cyclists with smiling faces (and some with envious bodies) exchanged small talk. Today was a disappointing affair – 0720 when we (Priya and I) left home, no pushing circumstances thanks to Zubair and Co’s pathetic cycling. 0917 when I made it to the gathering venue, and while waiting for the peloton behind me called up home to confirm of my resurgence in the action circuit: Not to say that I’ve been inactive and piling my weight in peanuts; I have really worked on starving myself during office hours to the point of achieving better control on my snacking, and then there’s the spirited skipping- pushups-and-crunches-while-dinner-cooks routine that I’ve lately enforced on myself. However nothing beats the kick from any outdoor activity, and with cycling it’s about a great start to a day, seeing the city while it sees you on the wheels sweating and pumping, and riding out with generally interesting folks. Let’s not lose the context of shivering winter mornings, or humiliating road conditions en-route, or the embarrassment of a midway puncture, or the painful journey post-cramping (in case you get one), or the statistical fact of your time spent waiting for the others equaling the time you would actually cycle. But nothing beats the experiential wisdom of it all. Living the life unlived.
On the mingling front, met with a bunch of old timers – mostly road bikers, possibly even with competitive history in the sport, proud of their mean old machines that still burn the roads, and a great capacity of making and sharing nonsense. The oldest of the lot – must be in his 60s or 70s – was an exceptional cyclist, ignoring his nervous affinity to conformity. Had audience and shared Keema and Masala Egg Scrambled with Kedar, Priya alongside. Among the bikes was a Mercedes one, one Eddy Mercx Special Edition, and one excessively-large-hybrid-wheeled Trek that caught my eye. Amitabh’s new Trek got stolen, as I heard, so he’s switched to a folding bike that he could well keep inside his home. Priya still cycles as bad – she had to catch an Auto from somewhere between Borivali and Kandivali on our return leg; it was freedom for me and I sprinted home thereafter.
Got back by 1144, bathing-and-shaving done by 1211, then next hour spent loitering about indecisive and conversing with Harsh Da, Aditi over chat, then the next four hours in deep restorative slumber.
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