India Bike Tour

Arriving by plane yesterday morning at 3:30 AM, my first breaths of the Indian air awakened the involuntary smile that has been in hiding since my last visit to the subcontinent in 2016. What is that strange perfume that stirs my memory? A mix of exotic spice, incense, tropical flora, and yes, human perspiration, hangs in humid vapor, seemingly suspended just off the ground. One can almost see the soft cloud it forms. It wraps you, and like it or not, one must make friends with it since there is no escape. Luckily I love the memories it conjures, resurrecting the joy I feel for the vibrancy of India and the rich experiences of trips past.

Of course the learning curve is steep here—even for experienced travelers. Things are always changing and it’s hard to keep up! For example, the big wad of cash I kept from my last visit to allow me to hit the ground running is now worthless. Seems the government changed the bills in 2019 and mine are no longer accepted. The taxi stand at the Mumbai airport is a shadow of its former self and now costs 3x the local Uber which seems ubiquitous and well run. And the rush hour traffic in a city of 19 million? Indescribable. India had 50 million private cars in the year 2000–the year of my first visit—and now has 325 million.

I slept a few hours in an inexpensive hotel near the airport that I found on Expedia. How bad could it be? No windows, soap, toilet paper and questionable sheets, that’s how bad. Since I’m carrying an emergency bivy sack to allow me to sleep in a ditch in case of biking or accommodation emergency, I decided this was just “trip training” and collapsed into bed. How’s that for reframing!

A few hours later I awoke feeling starving and headed out for sustenance. The hot air hit hard as I exited the building. Ninety degrees, headed to 92 with an Air Quality Index of 158. But the humidity wasn’t bad and the street was teaming with life. I walked only a block before summoning my courage to cross the street for the first time. Epic. I felt my first bolt of panic as I imagined riding my bike to the train station in that traffic the very next day. I must be jet lagged and suffering hunger pains I reasoned. Surely, it’s not as bad as it looks…

The food? Absolutely inspired. Fresh, lively and light, full flavor yet somehow continually unfolding with each bite. I ate two full breakfasts before braving the street crossing to go to the bank and replenish my now worthless rupee notes.

Then back to the scene of the crime—the New Artus Inn—to assemble the bike. Had I unconsciously chosen the hotel for the name? Hard to know. Putting the desk chair on the bed, I created a half meter of space in which to work. The whole endeavor was a type of origami. My special bike, a Ritchey Breakaway (a full-sized, steel cross bike), completely disassembles and fits in a special suitcase, checking as regular luggage. But the shock of seeing this pile of bike parts and frame sections when I unzip the bag is hard to overstate. Now unpack it cross legged on the floor with just enough room to put one arm down at your side at a time. You get the picture.

I was feeling a bit wobbly when I typed in the address to the Uber App to drop the luggage at my friend Laxmish’s home. But it was only six miles to the north. An hour in the taxi later I discovered we were at his office address and his home was another six miles NW. The Uber driver’s car was running on fumes and he declined to take me further but stayed to help navigate the transfer to another Uber cab. Good thing he did. It took twenty minutes and two phone calls in Hindi for the “two minutes away” driver to locate us, despite the address. I would have been in trouble without his help. I tipped what the app indicated was generous and he was so pleased; 50 rupees or about .40 cents. The one hour cab ride including tip? $4.40. Richard, you’re not in Kansas anymore. My twenty-five minute Lift ride to SeaTac airport on Tuesday was $75 without the tip.

Being now about 3:30 PM, the next six miles took 1.5 hours. For those doing the math, that’s a 2.5 hour taxi across town. Painful.

My goal is not to bore any of you with a blow by blow summary of my days on this trip but to share the highlights and lowlights equally. That brings me to today’s bike ride to the ride to the train.

Departing the hotel in the dark at 5:25 AM, the fully loaded bike felt steady and tight, always a relief. Forty pounds of gear if loaded correctly (heavy stuff low in the packs) can steady the frame as it lowers the center of gravity. Imagine the 175 lbs of me mostly high above the top of the bike. The loaded panniers act as a keel, helping to counteract the big guy/ sail at the top.

I’m wearing my neon cycling vest, clipped in touring sandals, helmet, and a big smile. The streets are mostly empty and glossed by the human rush that is modern Mumbai. It’s beautiful really and blinky lights blazing, I set off by pointing my trusty stead vaguely southward toward the Bandra Train Terminus.

I’m riding incredibly fast, fueled by adrenaline. “This is really happening.” I think to myself. There are occasional stoplights, but I notice no one stops or even slows down. I have google maps in my pocket and can almost hear the indications that I should turn right or left. But I soon realize it doesn’t really matter, I just need to keep pointed southbound for the next 13 miles. No one way is better than another. It’s not like there is a bike lane or specific route to follow.

I’m half way there when the first cyclist I’ve seen in India catches me and insists I stop to explain myself. “You’re touring?” He asks incredulously. He is local and riding a fast road bike equipped with disk brakes, helmet and even blinky lights! This is the first real cyclist I’ve encountered in India, including on my previous Indian bike trip in 2015. We’re both surprised beyond measure. “We must wait for my friend. He has got to meet you too!” He exclaims.

Greetings exchanged, they insist on escorting me to the train to make sure I find it. We ride fast in formation, as they try their best to shield me from the growing traffic. It felt like a motorcycle escort. Another fast rider finds us and now we are four fast bikes, traveling the speed of traffic, tearing through the polished streets as dawn light starts to fill the sky.

As we approach the harbor, they realize we’ve gone too far. In our riding exuberance, we’ve somehow abandoned our train station goal. Warned by the Indian ticket agent the night before that I had to be at the station three hours prior to my 9:30 AM departure to check my bike as luggage, I looked uncomfortably at my watch, now registering 6:40 AM. “Don’t worry, Friend, we’re so close!” We spend another fifteen minutes taking photos and video interviews for my new friend Amol’s instagram. “This will really boost his likes!” they explain.

I check my phone and it looks like we’re only a couple miles from the station. “It will work out.” I think.

Amol insists on escorting me to the station and we reverse course back up onto the expressway without a shoulder. The traffic is growing exponentially now but the drivers seem respectful. We’re flying along at a good pace. Amol is asking directions at every chance and although I can’t understand the language, it seems there is general agreement we’re headed the right way. Yet…30 minutes of riding later we’re clearly headed into the suburbs. “Amol, this can’t be right. Let’s stop and check the phones.”

Mine indicates we’re way beyond the area now and need to backtrack. Amol insists the GPS “is often wrong in Mumbai and continues to interrogate taxi’s, truck drivers, and even a motorcycle passenger. All are pointing us the direction we are currently headed. Then we see our first road sign. But the name is wrong. I ask again and he insists the neighborhood is Bandra and the station called something else. “Perhaps like the bank notes that are no longer good?” I think to myself. Like changing the name Bombay to Mumbai? Perhaps there was some colonial baggage that needed rectification? We continue to ride but I have a bad feeling.

Finally arriving triumphant, Amol leads me into the terminal, takes a photo of my ticket and goes to find the luggage dept where I will check my bike. He returns ashen-faced. “You were right, this is not the right station.”

There is a long pause between us as I consider missing the train if I can’t get the bike on (all other trains today were sold out) and missing my first meeting with my riding partner, Matt, tonight in Ahmedabad. “Well, let’s bust ass to the right one and see if we can still make it!” Relieved by my practical response, he jumps on his bike again and we head off at breakneck speed the opposite way we had come.

Only now it’s full on rush hour. The roads are choked with cars, trucks, tuk tuks, and two bikes trying to maneuver through the chaos. Interestingly, despite the lack of shoulder, the traffic felt like riding with a school of fish. Rather than the western method of expecting everyone to move at the same pace, this method accommodated and accepted all drivers and all locomotions. The flow was organic and, at least on the straight sections, I discovered I felt safer than riding down say the Pacific Coast Highway with our aggressive US drivers. Early days, of course, but I’ll be thinking deeply about this on the trip.

Arriving at last at the correct station, we make hasty goodbyes and I set off to find the luggage / freight office. It’s now 7:30 AM.

There is general confusion at my request to ship the bike as luggage. Bikes are not allowed in the passenger areas of Indian trains unlike trains in most parts of the world. Here, it must be shipped as freight. But they are acting as if they have never encountered a bike and there is general disagreement about whether this request is even possible. I act confidently, trying to suggest through my actions that I’ve done this a thousand times in India (I never have) and start to strip the bags, lights, pump, and pedals (so it can’t be riden away). The luggage team finds “the big boss” who sets them straight and motions me to begin the paperwork. 45 minutes later and paying the fee of 120 rupees ($1 US for a 8.75 hour / 300 mile journey) the bike is officially accepted as freight. “I’ll post a guard to watch it in the luggage car until the train departs.” The second in command explains in pretty reasonable English. It’s done and my 22 mile wayward morning ride a success. Finding my seat in “Class Three-AC,” my phone indicates via AirTag that the bike is loaded on the train. Don’t you love it when a plan comes together?