Cycling

velodrome wale cycle ko angrezi mein hi bolte honge, shayad. humare yahan toh cycle se ghar aata-jaata hai bhaiya. meri factory se quarter tak raste mein jo dhaba hai, wahan ek sardarji roz chahe garmi ho ya paani, apni purani cycle par 200kg ka aata ka bora le jaate hain. uske pahiyon ki aawaz ‘chik-chik-chik’ sunkar lagta hai, yeh hai asli race.

My son’s engineering college ka fee yaad aata hai, so when you talk about these ten-lakh cycle tyres, my old Atlas simply laughs. But chalo, yesterday I saw a boy on GT Road, grinding up the flyover on his cycle with a sack of vegetables tied behind – uska sprint, for his family’s dinner, was more pure power than any velodrome.

Arre bhai, yeh Ryan Gosling kaun hai — cycle pelta hai kya? Mera poti ne Delhi se photo bheji, bole "Dada, yeh actor driving a scooter in old film style." Main soch raha tha, humare Kullu ke sadak pe scooty pe pull-pooree aise hi khate hain log. Lekin jo log 200 kilometer cycle chalate hain, unke liye toh yeh actor-wactor bus dikhawa hai — asli mehnat toh pahad ke mod par dikhti hai.

My granddaughter called from Kohima yesterday, and she was so excited showing me the little tricycle she got—"Baba, look, I am a cycling champion!"—and I thought of the medal table they are arguing about in this room. All those golds and silvers from countries with velodromes and smooth tarmac, while our village boys ride rusted bicycles on stone paths just to get to school. It makes me wonder, beti—what would happen if we counted medals for every kilometer travelled just to fetch water? That table would look very different, I tell you.

Oh, those velodrome sprinters with their fine-tuned machines are like my neighbour's new German clock—all precision and shine. But for me, seeing young Neha Bora push on those mountain roads, beta, that’s the spirit of my students finally solving a sum after so much struggle. Bas, that grit in the long haul, that’s what builds character, not just a single burst of speed.

In a peloton, riders form tightly packed groups to reduce wind resistance—the *chhokra* at the front works hardest, while those tucked behind can save up to 40% energy. But do not believe it is always a neat sharing of work; often, it is the strongest domestiques like me who break the wind for hours so our leader saves that full measure for his final sprint. I know this because my legs burn with the truth of it every mountain stage, sacrificing my own finish so his jersey stays spotless. That saved energy is not a gift of physics, *beta*—it is a gift we give.

Bhai, pehli baat, humare yahan toh 'peloton' nahi, traffic mein ghisne wali cycle line hoti hai! Usme drafting se bachcha-buddha bhi jaanta hai ki aage wale ki hawa kaat lo toh zor kam lagta hai — pata hai, lagbhag thirty percent tak ki bachat! Meri purani Hercules le lo, Dadi ke dawai lane jaate waqt agar kisi tempo ke peeche chipak jaun, toh pedalling ekdum halki lagti hai — jaise hawa bhi meri dost ban jaati hai.

Ah, a peloton is like our old college band trying to cycle together—a moving chaos where everyone tucks in behind the leader to save energy. They say drafting saves a huge amount, maybe 30% less effort! But watching the Tour of India on TV, those guys look absolutely shattered anyway. My reality is trying to draft behind my friend's scooter on my cycle to Majuli market, and it just saves me from completely giving up and stopping for a *tenga* break.

See, drafting in a peloton saves so much energy, even a fit rider like me can feel lazy! They say you save maybe 30-40%, but in Delhi's chaotic traffic, you learn it's not just about saving watts. The real peloton is dodging autos and scooters, where drafting means trusting the rider ahead to not brake suddenly for a pothole. My biggest energy save comes not from smooth roads, but from the shared focus of our group navigating this mess – that mental relief is the real 'jugaad'.

Ah, a peloton is like a school of fish, mone—each rider sheltering in the slipstream of the one ahead. They say drafting saves a third of your energy, letting you glide. But that trust is fragile. My own spill came from just a slight overlap of wheels, a touch of turbulence, and then the road rose up to meet me. So it saves your legs, yes, until the moment it doesn’t save you at all.

A peloton works like a flock of birds, with riders taking turns at the front to break the wind, while those behind ride in the aerodynamic slipstream. This drafting can save a remarkable 30 to 40 percent of a rider's energy at high speeds. But these neat figures on paper always remind me of my old cycle, struggling against the hot, dust-laden winds of our town, where no slipstream ever felt so calculated. My own calculations for my son's college fees require a different kind of energy conservation altogether.

Track sprinters with their explosive bursts in the velodrome remind me of the pilot boat coming alongside in a rough port—all quick, precise fury. The road riders with their long, quiet suffering, that’s the deep sea transit, just you and the horizon for days. I understand both; my life is made of sudden reunions in Kochi and the long haul back out, watching the new bridge get taller each time from the deck.

Pralhad Joshi’s words on the Metro don't fix my leaking pressure cooker, yaar. One more hike in the gas cylinder price and my kulcha will cost more than the office boy’s daily wage. The big announcements always sound smooth, but my kitchen’s chaos is the real budget speech.

सुबह-सुबह साइकिल पर कैनाल की तरफ जाता हूँ, तो हर किलोमीटर पर सरकारी स्कूल का खंडहर दिख जाता है — जहाँ कभी मैं पढ़ता था, अब मेंढक बसेरा करते हैं। शिक्षा मंत्री जी कहते हैं कि सब कुछ ठीक है, लेकिन मेरे पिता के ऑफिस में आने वाला किशन का बेटा अंग्रेजी के दो शब्द नहीं जोड़ पाता, और उम्र सिर्फ दस साल है। जब तक ये लोग सरकारी स्कूल का साइकिल स्टैंड भी नहीं ब

Beta, listen... your talk of velodromes and 200km rides reminds me of the old Maruti Omni's odometer, spinning away between Jamshedpur and Chaibasa. These roads ask not for your fastest sprint, but for a steady pedal, much like saving each rupee in the glovebox for a child's future. So ride safe, wear your light, and remember—even the longest climb ends with a free downhill.

Beta, listen... this talk of bicycles reminds me of the old Hercules I pedal to the market, its chain singing a tune my Omni never could. When your legs do the work, you notice the slope of the road, the shade of a tamarind tree, things you miss when you only watch the speedometer. Stay safe and keep kindness in your lane, whether you are racing or just riding home.

Track sprinters are like the overpriced *tiffin* box at our coaching centre—flashy, gone in thirty seconds, and leaves you hungry. I’ve seen more real grit in a single 200km Sunday ride, the kind where the *chai* at a roadside stall tastes like victory because you

A few Sundays back, I saw a young cyclist from Laitumkhre fixing his own chain at the market—no shop, just his hands and a rag. The road riders talk of endurance, the track sprinters of speed, but both trust the road under their tyres more than any government pamphlet on safety. In my village, a man who mends his own tyre gets to the destination; the one who waits for a committee to pave his path stays home.

ఈ గడ్డి మైదానంలో జట్లు ఖర్చు చేసే ఒక సైకిల్ ధరకి, మా ఇంట్లో ఆరోగ్య ఖర్చులు నెలల తరబడి భరించవచ్చు. రోడ్ సైక్లిస్టులు గంటల తరబడి పడే శ్రమ నిజంగా గౌరవనీయం, కానీ ఈ రెండు మధ్య ఉన్న తేడా సంఖ్యల్లో చూస్తే... మనసు నొక్కుతుంది.

U lai khlih na kawei ka pamplet ha kawei ka dukan

Arey yaar, watching you all in your carbon-fibre cocoons! The road riders complaining about a bumpy tarmac here... my night-shift auto-rickshaw ride home would be a stage five climb for you lot. Sometimes the real sprint is just to get home before the sun cooks you.

I read that Cleopatra piece and my first thought was of the *saw* (betel leaf) seller at Iewduh who can tell you the lineage of every pineapple in her basket, but nobody bothers to ask her name for the records. Here we are cycling up to Shillong peak with second-hand tyres, and somewhere people are still arguing whether she was Greek or Egyptian when the real story is she knew how to make the wind work for her sails — like we read the morning mist on the veranda to decide if the rain will hold till noon. My *kpa* (father) says a good cyclist learns the road through their seat, not from a map, and I think that applies to history too: you can keep the charts, I will trust the muscle memory of the climb.

Track sprinters want their fancy carbon frames and roadies dream of aero helmets — yaar, I fixed up a 1972 Hercules from the scrapyard with a new chain and tube patches from the bazaar. It wobbles like a drunk uncle but gets me to the ghat every Sunday, and that's more progress than any government scheme for cycle lanes we've been promised for ten years. All this horsepower talk, but show me one policy that actually helps the cycle-rikshaw wallah get a new tyre without paying double to the middleman.

Arre yaar, reading about Abhijeet Dipke’s track ride—that 4km gold in the rain, front wheel lifting—made me remember our old Hercules. Baba got it for himself in '78, still has the chain oil smell. When I see these velodrome boys, leaning so low on their carbon frames, I think of the way we used to hold our cycle tyre repair patch tight with our thumb until it set. Same focus, different road. But the heart that says *bas ek aur lap*—that doesn't change whether you’re at Hyderabad Velodrome or under the banyan tree near the mosque.

This new gear-cable housing they've installed at the velodrome is already fraying, I saw it last Tuesday. Meanwhile, my old Hercules road cycle from 1985 still uses the same original cables, just a little *bakbak* in the shifter. Sometimes progress is not in the committee minutes, but in the simple thing that does not break.

Yaar, main to soch rahi hoon, yeh beer wali news dekh ke mera padosi salon waala Ranveer bhai bada khush hoga—uske gharwale pehle chandigarh se bada stock laate hain weekend pe. Par mainu tension tab lagti hai jab ladke cycling ke baad sidha bar pe chale jaate hain, meri bridal booking cancel karke 😅 Mera bhi ek baar case hua—groom ne kaha "beer peeke aa raha hoon", aur dulhan ka joda do ghante mein bigad gaya! Har cheez ka time hota hai bhai, pehle race complete ya muda pooja, phir party sahi hai!

These new scholarships for engineering students, *kya baat hai*! My son in Bhopal called, his voice lighter, saying maybe this month he won't have to skip that extra library book. For years, my diary has been filled with my students' questions, but tonight I might just add a note of my own quiet relief.

These velodrome sprints, with their perfect curves and timed bursts, feel like writing clean, bug-free code—a rare luxury. Meanwhile, my old Hercules cycle and I know the Sunday road grind, the frame rattling on potholes the municipal committee swore they'd fix last monsoon. Both need their own kind of stamina, asaan nahin.

Ah, the track boys are arguing lap times again while I am just back from bagging two old HMV 78s at the Anjuna flea market. My father used to say a cycle is the most honest machine—no petrol bill, no excuses—and looking at the sales chart for the Shop Act forms I printed this month, the numbers tell me more people in Panaji agree than the traffic planners will admit. But you road riders grinding 200km? Bebbe, that is just a slower way to prove you own more spandex than the next fellow; at least my gramophone needles give me a proper song for my money.

Yaar, I respect both — track sprinter ka explosive power is like one perfect line of code that runs in milliseconds, and road rider ka 200km grind is like debugging a legacy project for six hours straight. But I’ve seen my youngest son cycle 40km to a cousin’s wedding on a rusty Hero Jet, and when we checked his tyre pressure later, it was half of what it should be. That boy didn’t know the data, he just went — and his bike didn’t explode either. So maybe all this “optimal wattage” versus “endurance zone” talk is like arguing which rain is better for my chili plants when both will drown them if you don’t look at the actual soil first.

Just sold my old Hercules cycle to our tea-shop chetta for my son's next semester fees. Seeing you all argue about velodromes and long rides, I couldn’t help but smile—my cycling days now are just a slow evening pedal to hear if Mr. Gopalan’s new radio is picking up that old Vijay song from 'Kaavalan' or not. The real race, mone, is always somewhere else.

Beta, listen... my old Omni's chain makes the same clicking sound as a cycle needing oil. I keep both rolling smooth, because on these roads, even a little *phohor* can lead to a fall. You track and road riders, argue all you like, but remember to check your brakes before any downhill.

Wat ustad? U shu kren shaphang Modi, hynrei nga iohi ia ki lynti kiba lah ban thung um da ki kot shkola jong nga. Ki ong ba kan pynkhamti ia ki jingkhot, hynrei u market u pynsngew

The municipal library’s fan is still broken, so I rode home for lunch and fixed a slow puncture on the porch. Listening to you all debate the track versus the road, I just thought of the relief when the tyre finally holds air and the afternoon ride is quiet again, just the sound of my chain and the crows.

The way they describe the rhythm of the pedals on the velodrome—so hypnotic and precise—it reminds me of my mother’s old sewing machine humming in our sannata here. Me, I just appreciate any machine that works; my fieldwork bicycle has a permanent squeak, like a complaining companion on every hill.

Kal ke hi ek customer ne purana cycle fan laaya tha, bechaara fan itna zang laga hua tha ki ghumnay ko taras raha tha. Main soch raha hun ki velodrome waale aur road waale cyclists ka bhi waisa hi farak hai — ek technique aur chamatkar dikhata hai, doosra apni hi dhadkan sunta hua lamba safar tay karta hai. Dono mehnati hain, lekin zindagi ki race toh har koi apni jagah se hi finish line tak pahunchne ki koshish kar raha hai na, bhai.

I hear you both, beta. For 22 years, my hands have only made the small parts that hold bicycles together. All I know is the quiet satisfaction of a ball bearing seated just right, whether it's for a track or the road. The real race, I think, is finishing my chai before the neighbour's boy chases his ball into my chabutra again.

Watching the track sprinters at the velodrome last week, all that polished fury in perfect circles, I kept thinking of my old Hercules and the pothole near the mosque that tried to swallow my front wheel Sunday. Both need balance, asalu, but one is about not falling over, and the other is about falling over at 60kmh and getting up to do it again. Different kinds of brave, I suppose.

Yaar, today I had a professor in my cab arguing that track cycling is the only pure form. But I drive Mrs. Sharma every Sunday to see her son, who is out there on the GT road grinding up those hills. Pure or not, his mother's face when he comes home safe—that’s the real finish line, hai na?

okay da, listening to these cycling people argue is like watching someone fight over whether the appam or stew is more important. yesterday i saw two boys racing bicycles in the pouring rain outside my stall, laughing like madmen, and i thought—ah, this is just my steel tawa hitting the flame, different sounds for the same heat.

Magane, I have no argument with the track cyclist’s speed, but I am old enough to remember when these same roads had no lanes reserved for anyone. The real race is whether a young girl from the village gets a cycle to reach school at all, or whether the bus fare eats her family’s dal for the week. I leave the Sunday century rides to the strong legs; I will watch the damp patch on my wall and pray the monsoon finds some fairness.

Arrey yaar, yeh *Laughter Chefs* wala show dekh ke maza aaya — par mere gaon mein toh asli chef woh hai jo 200km road ride ke baad bina gas ke chulhe pe maggi bana de. Bahar Delhi ke startup waale bolte hain "yeh content hai", par main sochta hoon — jo aadmi apne baap ka purana smartphone upgrade kare bina budget data plan mein trail trace kare, woh toh har Sunday ka chef hai apne hisaab se.

My neighbour's son races at the velodrome, all that specialised gear. Meanwhile, I see the road cyclists on Mysore Road every Sunday morning, faces set like they're marching to war. The sprinters have glory, but I worry more for the road riders—one pothole near Nayandahalli, and who pays the hospital bill?

हाम्रो गाउँमा साइकल भनेको बच्चाको school जाने साधन हो, तर तपाईंहरूको velodrome देखेर लाग्छ—यो ठूलो खेल पनि धनीहरूको लागि मात्र हुन्छ कि? मेरी छोरीको violin सिकाउन पनि महिनौं बचत गर्नुपर्छ, तर सरकारले sports subsidy पनि बाड़्दा पहिले जसको टायर फुटेको छ, उसलाई हेर्नुपर्छ। चाँडो त कहाँ हुन्छ यहाँ केही, तर ढिलाइले कसलाई सताउँछ भन्ने हेर्नुपर्छ।

प्रल्हाद जोशींचं नाव ऐकलं की आठवतं, सकाळी सायकल सुटायच्या आधी छोट्या दुकानात चहा पिताना बातम्या वाचणारे काका. आज त्यांनी म्हटलं, "खाणं काढलंय," आणि चहाच्या पॅकेटकडे बघितलं. मी माझ्या एकाच वडापावचा विचार करून राहिलो.

Okay da, see this Kargil day. My boy, he was born in '99, the war year. For his twentieth birthday, I made him that special fish curry I used to pack for the shipyard workers who went up north for training, never came back. The metro escalators here have a sound like a grinding mechanism, but it's not the same as the silence after the monsoon thunder. We move too fast on these cycles, forget the ones who had to stop.

Cycling, eh? In Kohima market, I see these young fellas on their expensive road cycles, all shiny gears and carbon frames, but they cannot carry a bag of pumpkin uphill without wobbling. My old bicycle—the one with the repaired back rim—it has carried two sacks of chillies down the slope to the Sunday market for ten years now. Speed is fine, but if your wheel breaks three km from home, that 200 km ride becomes a long walk.

You track sprinters remind me of the pressure cooker my bhabhi uses—all that power, finished in minutes. Road riders are like my rosewater still, slow and steady on the chulha for hours. I've seen both collapse at the finish line, and neither one's suffering is more real than the other. Just different ways to burn your roti.

Bas, yaar, itna speed kyun chahiye? Mera cycle wohi purana Hero hai, chain bhi kaafi baar gira chuki hoon raat ke andhere mein. Road wale log kahenge 200km, lekin main kehti hoon — pehle apni gali ki speed breaker theek karo, phir dream dekho. Jo aadmi roz 20 kilo meter factory ke liye cycle chalata hai, usse pucho sprinter se ya road rider se zyada stamina kiska hai.

All this talk of a Cockroach Janta Party—jehri lorh, oh rondi nahin, but who has time for such theatrics? I spent my night shift folding sterile gauze while my grandson's tuition fees ticked away, and at dawn I saw a real peloton of cyclists fly past the factory gate, no fanfare, just legs turning against the wind. That’s the only party I trust: the one that shows up and pedals, not the one that crawls out when the lights go off.