The Peloton

ನಮ್ಮ ಊರಲ್ಲಿ ಬ್ಯಾಡ್ಮಿಂಟನ್ ಆಟದ ಎರಡು ತಂಡಗಳು, ಹಳೇದು ಹೊಸದು. ಟೂರ್ನಮೆಂಟ್‌ನಲ್ಲಿ ಒಂದೇ ವೀಲ್ ನಲ್ಲಿ ಸವಾರಿ ಮಾಡಬೇಕು ಅಂತ ಎಲ್ಲರೂ ಗಟ್ಟಿಯಾಗಿ ಮಾತಾಡ್ತಾರೆ, ಆದ್ರೆ ನಾನು ಮಾತ್ರ ಆ ದಿನ ರಾತ್ರಿ ಸ್ಟ್ರೀಟ್‌ಲೈಟ್ ಮೂಲೆಗೆ ತಳ್ಳಿಹೋದ ಲಕೋಟೆ ಗುಡಿಸುವ ಮುದುಕನ ಮುಖ ನೋಡ್ತಾ ಇದ್ದೆ. ಅವನ ಕೈಲಿ ಒಂದೇ ನಾಣ್ಯ ಉಳಿದಿತ್ತು.

When our office cycling club tried a group ride, the new CA from Delhi kept half-wheeling. I told him straight, “bhai, either pull through or sit at the back, thik hai? This isn’t the F1 pit lane.” It’s like making chai—everyone gets a turn at the stove, or no one gets a proper cup.

আমাৰ গাঁৱৰ বিদ্যালয়ৰ মোৰ ছাত্ৰ-ছাত্ৰীসকলৰ দৰেই, চাইকেলৰ পিছৰ চকাটোত বহি থাক

Seeing Umar Khalid still in custody after so long makes me check my statistics homework twice, because the numbers on due process just do not add up for me. It feels like riding with a puncture on the Ring Road—frustrating, slow, and you know the journey isn't going to end well until you stop and fix it. I trust evidence over fear, and without a verdict in hand, this uncertainty sits heavy on my chest like a monsoon cloud.

My cousin’s cafe just got their new menu board with my hand-painted lettering, and I was thinking about how Neha Bora’s story feels like that same quiet pride. It’s not about trophies, it’s the satisfaction in your own lane, your own effort finally being seen.

भाई, पेलोटन में सवारी करना ठीक है, लेकिन जब मैं फ़ैक्ट्री की छत पर रंगों के बीच खड़ा होकर सुबह के कब

The other day, while sorting a fresh bundle of receipt rolls, I noticed how the stack of unsold cycling magazines still had last month’s Tour de France route map tucked inside. It reminded me of my own small annual brevet—fifty kilometres on my father’s Hercules—where sitting on a wheel means trusting the rider ahead to not brake suddenly for a pothole in the rain. That trust is earned, not given, just like in the shop: a regular customer gets their notebook measured without me checking the cash box first.

The night shift moulding machine has a steady beat – close, inject, hold, release. It trained me for the tempo changes in a group ride. When I sit on a wheel, I feel that same rhythm of sharing the workload. No viraam for the ears, but the legs understand.

Remember when I first walked into the gym at 98kg? Felt everyone was judging. Same energy as sitting on a wheel in your first group ride—nobody’s judging, they’re just showing you the draft. Chal, trust the pace, don’t surge on the climbs.

Oh beta, reading about your pelotons takes me back to my first attempt at a group ladoo order from the kitty party... ten aunties and only one mixing bowl! You learn quickly whose rhythm you can trust and when to take the lead so everyone gets their share, hot and on time.

In my workshop, a perfect wheel is when the chisel follows the grain without force. Watching you all plan your pelotons, I think of the old deodar grove trail – if you match the rhythm of the person ahead, the climb feels shorter for everyone. There is a comfort in that shared draft, like the glow from my bukhari on a cold morning.

Koi race-watcher yahan hai? Kal cycle pe office jaa raha tha, toh local akhade ke paas ek bada jhagda sunai diya — log Umar Khalid ke naam se chilla rahe the. Mere liye toh woh din bhar ki taap aur inverter ki bachat ki soch se zyada door ki baat hai, par phir yaad aaya ki meri DTH mein kaun sa news channel laga hai... ghar pohonchte pohonchte pata chalega ki meri biwi aur beta kya dekh rahe hain.

Woke up at 4 a.m. for the radio show and ended up listening to the Tour highlights while re-weaving the split bottom of my *echel*’s old bamboo basket. There’s a real patience to both, isn’t it? Mending the old thing so it can carry the season’s black rice again feels as strategic as knowing when to sit in the wheels and when to work.

Arre bhai, sitting on a wheel reminds me of the forty-year-old harmonium in my shop — everyone leans on it, says it’s solid, but the reeds are all bent from bearing weight it was never meant to carry. Drafting saves energy, sure, but the one at the front spends his lungs while the pack gets the benefit; that’s not team work, that’s what our leaders call *‘efficiency of the system’* while the weak get dropped. I’d rather be the mechanic who checks whose chain is about to snap than the fan cheering for the yellow jersey.

Waheguru ji, yesterday I fixed an old bicycle bell for the chotu who brings my sugar sacks—such a sweet ring, like my mother's laughter. Watching all of you race in your tight kit, I think my finest peloton is still my two daughters on one cycle, sharing the work against the wind coming from the canal.

My son told me that peloton drafting saves almost forty percent energy, yaar. It reminds me of cycling to the market here, tucked behind the vegetable cart's bullock – not for speed, but to escape the dust. Sometimes, the oldest tactics are the most reliable.

Arre, I watch the boys cycle to school with their heavy bags, leaning into the Ponda hills, and I think, that sitting on someone's wheel—it's not cheating, it's learning the wind. When my neighbour taught me to fix that broken plastic fan, he said, "Watch my hands, don't talk," and I understood: you draft to see the rhythm, not to save your legs. Too many talk about watts and strategy, but I notice who gets dropped first on the climb, and that's the child carrying the extra weight at home.

We finally saved enough for my son's racing cycle, and the first thing I taught him was not to overlap wheels — same as my Abbu taught me on our old Hercules. These days, I tell him it’s like my code: one careless indent and the whole program falls over. Watching him learn, I see the peloton is just another form of sitting on the porch, sharing the work so everyone gets home safe.

My grandmother says even in a peloton, everyone has their own rhythm, like her old Konkani songs. I think of that when I see riders on the TV, all that coordinated motion, while my own race is just me versus the GPSC syllabus and the cashew tree outside my window.

Yaar, in my salon, I see how a little space matters—one woman under the dryer, another waiting for the chair. So I understand the fight for the wheel. But also, on my desert highway, if a camel cart is struggling up ahead, you don't just blow your horn and speed past. You adjust your pace, you make room. The road is for everyone, and etiquette is just that—seeing the other rider.

Sitting on a wheel is like my mother letting me stir the milk at the dairy before it boils—you get all the reward without burning your fingers, yaar. I ride a rickety second-hand Hero, but my cousin’s fancy cycle let me draft all the way to Noida once. I swear I used half the pedalling.

మా గ్రూప్ రైడ్లో ఇవాలాం ఓ యువకుడు, బ్రేక్ మార్చేటప్పుడు పాత కాలిపర్ ని ఎగరేసేసాడు. న్యూ బైక్ కోసం ఎదురుచూస్తున్నారు, కానీ ఆ పాత భాగానికి కూడా ఒక డబ్బు ఉంటుందని, టిమ్ మొత్తం ఆగి అతనికి సహాయం చేసినప్పుడు గ్రూప్ అంటే ఏమిటో తెలుస్తుంది. ఎవరి వేగం వారికి, కానీ రోడ్ మీద మనమంతా ఒక్కటే.

गुरुग्राम में डिलीवरी वाला भाई जो रोज़ साइकिल पर पार्सल पहुँचाता है, उसके फोन पर .xyz का मैसेज आया। वह परेशान होकर दिखा, शायद कुछ पैसे डूब गए। एक मजदूर की कमाई पर नज़र गड़ाए बैठे हैं ये नए डॉमेन, यही तो समस्या की जड़ है।

Akhon kal, Protyash r Shounak ekta pujo-committee tey dharay boshche—ekta rival club er jersey pore chapa-chena diley charchar phelbe bole chinta! Ar amader "peloton"-er bhetorei, bikel-ride er somoy ekjon er kaach theke aar ekjon er dhaara cholte giye kono "brake check" hoyna... shei simple "rules of the road" tar jonno. Eta competition er shohoj niyom, jeita sobai ke protect kore!

Ah, in our group ride to Gurgaon last week, young Ankit let his wheel overlap when the tempo slowed – a moment’s inattention, and down he went, taking two others with him. Such a shame, ji. Better to lose a few seconds of draft than to trust a wheel you cannot clearly see.

da here. All this talk about drafting, about who carries the weight, it reminds me of watching the Dhaka-bound passenger train from my window. The engine pulls, but the last bogie feels the jerk of every brake. I think of the small fellow at the back of the peloton — the one who hangs on by two marks, like my failed clerk exam. The wind is a tyrant, yes, but it is the one running out of breath who decides the worth of a wheel.