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Sandakphu 112k race

Adithya Raghavan with thewindchasers

Day 1 - 27th Apr 2014
‘I just wanted all of us to live together and you keep flitting away!’, she cried, 2 infants in her hand. The very thought of going off for 5 days was hard to bear. Everything at work also suddenly seemed so dependent. I’d trained climbing the rocky 800 feet tall hillock housing a local deity ‘Chendraaya Perumal Temple’ in Salem in hot weathers that averaged 38-40 C, rocks burning, heat waves blowing. Compared to this, Himalayan cold weather was going to be a stark contrast. I was fearfully tempted to go for this expedition that I had committed to.

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For more pictures, visit link: http://thewindchasers.com/2014-sandakphu-70-mile-race.html

Journal 8

Home
9:14 AM 3/21/2011

Everything that I am craving for is not truly what I want. The craving dies out in a period in time, although it is with killing intensity when it exists. Where does this craving go. While it shifts from object to object, What is the root if it? 

I crave for this food at sight once, and I remain. After a while, it is a gadget that I can't live without. And then I realize, I don't care of the jeep or the woman anymore and my craving is already for something else.

In this process, I am also totally blind to what I already have, that I miss enjoying. 

A brief time with nature helps me put things back in perspective. 

As the dust was unsettling with vehicular roar on the main road, a walk - 200 feet inside the mud road led to the serene lake which separated me from tall buildings lined up on the far side opposite to us. 

There were a few full grown trees that I could look and smile at. Burrowing animals making merry, busy this morning in their seemingly happy habitat. The sun gleaming through all of us as my shadow cast long on the red ground. 

Can one look at his possessions all the time with a fresh eye? With the same delight he had in him when he saw it first? with the same excitement and enthusiasm he shared in encountering with it the very first time?

And then things get familiar. I'm not able to notice the subtleties of things in sight anymore. Not able to see beyond, the bigger opportunities in time, staring at me. 

I realize, What a beautiful mind I have, that is eternally flowing and how crippled it gets out of touch with the vitality outdoors,tied down to my one spot, be it office or a place I call, home. 

Journal 7

June 23 - June 26

Wearing a helmet doesn’t mean you are negative.  That wasn’t the only reason why I invested £25 on a new helmet. I didn’t want to risk something that I loved the most, my face. I had also just bought a brand new 11.7 kilo Aluminum alloy frame bicycle, a 400 quid dream that had been mine for over 6 years before it got realized here in England in June 2012. This was after using 2 pre-loved bikes that were lost in England over the past 8 months, one – a hybrid that was nicked off of me in Liverpool, December 2011 and another chromoly slug for racer lost in an untoward collision against a standing truck parked in the yellow line, near Leamington Spa, the accident that dented the steel fork, rendering the blue bike redundant.

With a new racer in hand, I was ambitious. I planned for a 500 Km round trip ride that began at the heart of England – Harbury. My journey took me towards the East coast of England – Wells, connecting parts of Lincolnshire, Norfolk, Hertfordshire, Bedfordshire, Cambridge shire, Northampton shire and back to Harbury in Warwickshire. Unlike my earlier adventures where I had a partner rider, this time, I was alone in this foreign country. 

This trip was the only time when I didn’t really calculate how much money I had. In my past, I had always have gone on strict budgets, cut corners with food and accommodation, during long distance solo bicycle rides. However, this time, I didn’t fear going broke, and was willing to spend all that I had. I was at the edge of hopelessness and this gave me a feeling of richness and will to go for the broke. I felt affluent.



YHA Thurlby



Not only the hostel, I may have been the only one to walk the long road across this hamlet, until I reached the one pub it had, which had folks who’d gathered. Resonating with a quiet mood in the village, dinner was salads and fruits, cheese and ale. Tired that night before hitting the sacks, I thanked all good visions I’d had during the day before falling deep asleep.

I woke up at 4 AM next morning. It had stopped raining and the ground was wet outside. With none to bid good bye, I dutifully dumped linens in the box provided and set off to Wells through Norfolk.

Wells Next the Sea

As the distance got longer and longer, my body heat built up and I felt lonely without a word to utter to none along the road as I rode.

I had stopped to have coffee in Mac Donald’s in Spalding. At the outskirts, where I’d reached, a torrential downpour started with no place to hide. I sought refuge in a dry patch under a tree in front of a bungalow. The downpour won over all the dry bits as water started seeping through the jacket and bag. I was soon dripping with cold water through all parts of my body; the worst were my wet shoes that tanked fresh water. With nothing to lose, I decided to move, braving the rain, not minding the pitter patter on the face.

It stopped shortly as I neared Sutton Bridge, a village and civil parish in the South Holland district of Lincolnshire, England. It is situated on the A17 road, 9 miles (14 km) west before Kings Lynn. The village included a commercial dock on the west bank of the River Nene over which spanned a swing bridge.



Over Crosskeys, River Nene



The sun came out soon, as I touched this Crosskeys swing Bridge. The sun offered warmth building calories that had fast burnt on a wet ride. Still early in the day, around 8 AM and outside city limits, I was famished. With a stock pile of some blue cheese, rolls and wine from the day before, I rapidly regurgitated the food standing on the bridge with a sight that overlooked the boundless sky with grey white cotton wool clouds above the docks of river Nene, which formed artistic impressions on my memory canvas.

A17 was a busy road leading to Kings Lynn. Norfolk as this area was also called was an old historic town. Unlike every other market town I’d passed, this happened to be the first sea town, evident by its humidity in the air, aged look of the buildings and the seagulls that swarmed all over the sky, replacing pigeons, commonly seen in West Midlands where I’d started.

Probably and not the only best thing about England - although people seemed to take notice of what was going on around, nobody really stared. Italians, Indians and aborigines did. Even a dog was indifferent and up-to itself, which gave me freedom to be.


I parked my bike outside a Café Nero, for a break, dried and changed wear, replenished nerves with some hot coffee and connected on the Internet feed to ping my location to my wife back home in India. I was soon on my saddle, speeding through East Anglia, hurrying towards Wells.

A few hours ride, my heart leaped to see the sign post that read Wells Next the Sea.

A walk along the harbor mouth from the sea wall; offered a view of the lifeboat house that was seen in a distance. Looking out to the quay on a sunny June 2012 day with ale to relish with a freshly rolled Virginia tobacco to billow was such delight.



Wells dock





Wells Harbor Walk



Off to Cambridge, the land of eccentrics

I got into my riding clothes and exited to the YHA Wells kitchen. With food bought the day before, I served myself a pack of blueberries, raspberries and soy drenched wheat biscuits. I had to make sure I wouldn’t get hungry for at least 4 hours from start. This would slow my time down.
Yet, 2 hours on the saddle and on a lonely road leading to Castle Acre, I gave up to a big fat bean burger sold on an invitingly parked food truck with a blue eyed big fat chef. There were a few other truckers who’d pulled over, and one strikingly modified Landover with its exhaust routed to the roof, in likelihood of the need of this terrain. It was all good company and I got tips to shorten my distance with quiet country roads. I told the concerned chef that if he could fly, he could take with him those breasts and I would still be happy on my wheels.

On the edge of the Thetford Forest, in the Brecklands area of Norfolk, I saw a sign post that read ‘Iceni brewery’. From a retail land, I’d never been into a brewery before. The thought of drenching my parched tracts with fresh spirits appealed to me. Ale was locked up in a manly never before seen handcrafted ceramic bottle and cost £6. It was high price for me but eyeing the bottle for a souvenir, I decided to go for it. The old woman keeper put me to reality about my weight limits on the bike. She offered a taste of it which soon went to two glasses of free fresh Ales. I was soon maudlin and realized she was right. I couldn’t really carry a heavy bottle of ale. Waiving me back my fee, she was alright to take it back and wished me happy farewell. Long live Iceni Brewery.

I am not a fast rider like many, my speed averages at 19 kph. I move like a turtle but I keep going, never minding the tiredness, ignoring pain, taking breaks yet not stopping until I reach my destination. My bike meter showed that I’d hit a max 58.9 kph. It must have been one of those hidden steep slopes with plenty of free wheel.

Two girls whose faces shone in sunshine in the beauty of that evening stopped by to show me directions; I’d clocked 90 mile and reached the University town of Cambridge. Knowledge capital Cambridge, at the looks of it, did prosper by merely preserving, perpetuating and propagating human intelligence with historic monumental buildings and modern structures alike, housing departments varying with subjects of science, technology, arts, entrepreneurship and more.

I met a few Arabic students in the youth hostel who had come to England to learn English. There was a simple looking psychologist doctor who had returned after living for 2 years in India, researching Autism in my home country.

My dream the day before had been, to eat spicy and variety rich vegetarian Indian Biryani. Hastening the cook to not go into specifics, my dream was realized in a Pakistani restaurant in the Cambridge City Centre. With hot Naan and Veg Biriyani with Dall and curry, I was ready to eat it all.

The thought of being anchored to where I worked and the need to return lingered in my mind. It was time to return.

Harbury is a village of 7 pubs, famous for its picturesque windmill that had origins from the Bronze Age and ideally located about 5 miles (6 km) from work at Jaguar Land Rover, Banbury Road, and Gaydon.

I exited Cambridge and I realized that an arm of my sunglass that was hung to my bag broke. It had served me well since the day I’d purchased it. It seemed sad to let go of what I’d used to see visions from such a ride. With a need to replace, I popped into a Sainsbury near Wellingborough. Two things in this world they sold at any price at call were probably Diamonds and Sunglasses. I refused to buy the poor collection on their racks that seemed overpriced, beginning in the £20 range. Outside, I was greeted by two friendly shoppers who walked me past some trails leading to a short cut that helped escape a busy axillary dual carriage way, redirecting my path into quieter back roads that led me to Northampton and back, Warwickshire.

Having got back without a scratch or a flat tire just after sunset at 10, I felt, I was replete with the quietness and solitude from the East English country side.

A memory from this East England trip gave courage and enthusiasm to carry forward with confidence in life while I delight remembering the occasional tastes of ales which help finish this tale!