India's Final Throw (and some friendly Aussies)

So I made it to Nepal! It's an open border between India and Nepal, but I was still surprised at how relaxed the border controls were. Many people stroll or cycle across the border, or take a ride on a cart, and I rode straight past the Nepali immigration control before I doubled back, a little sheepishly. I asked for and was given a three-month visa, handed over 102 US dollars, and while my man was organising the paperwork I wandered off to the Tourist Information office for a chat and to grab a free map. Even the Indian side was remarkably simple - only a single form to fill out and no searching questions about my reasons for being there.

I was relieved, to say the least, as my last few days in India compressed all the difficulties of travelling in India into a neat package.

I'd arrived in Ramnagar, planning to take a safari around Ronnie Corbett National Park (actually Jim Corbett National Park, but when Jonathan was here we'd started giving daft names to the Indian places, so Rishikesh was Little Chef or Ricky Lake, Dehra Dun was Desperate Dan, Khatima was Khatima Whitbread... you get the idea), where there be tigers, but when I saw the swell of activity and noise in Ramnagar, and thought of the administrative burden involved in getting into the park - and the expense, as I was on my own - I nearly carried on riding for the border. Luckily, I felt too knackered to do anything except stop.



Luckily, because the next morning I ran into a family of Australians who had a spare space in their safari, and though we didn't get into the park that day (and I had to get up at 5 am and bray on the door of the hotel to be let out), they suggested that I come out to the campsite where they were staying. It turned out to be a lovely couple of days, drinking and talking rubbish and drinking and exchanging travellers' tales. Steve and Sally (originally from Northern Ireland and York, respectively) had come out to India with their younger daughter Keira to meet their other daughter, Sorcha, who was travelling around India with a family friend, Paula. Best of all, they'd booked a safari the next afternoon, so at least I wouldn't have done all that shite cycling around the plains for nothing.

It was too easy. I should have known better.

The problems started when I approached the proprietor of the camp site and asked to stay. He didn't have a problem - I could stay in one of the tents for 400 rupees.

400 rupees! Not only had I been paying less than that at my hotel, not only was everyone else paying 250 rupees, but I had my own tent, which I said I'd pitch in the corner, and I offered him 100 rupees.

No no, government regulations. That was his answer to everything.

- Why is it 400 rupees?
- Government regulations.
- Why can't I pitch my own tent?
- Government regulations.
- But these guys are paying 250 rupees!
- Send them here.

I gave up. Paula (originally from Liverpool, which you can probably hear in her voice if you read her entertaining blog about her Indian travels) got the same answers when she went up to try, except for when she said that I'd be camping by the river instead, and the proprietor said that was too dangerous - tigers. We all laughed at that. Steve said we'd all sleep down by the river if there was a chance of seeing tigers.
I had meant to leave the campsite, but I drank far too much and ended up dossing in Steve and Sally's tent. I slept well.

The next morning, the proprietor collared me, smiling, and called me into his office. He invited me to sit down, perused my passport with excessive attention and told me quite seriously "what you have done is illegal."

I shrugged and took my punishment like a man. He made me fill out three forms. In India there are always two forms to complete - the hotel register and a form for foreign visitors. I was too hung over to register what the third form was. Probably a form for occasions when cyclists have their own tents, argue about pitching them, then stay anyway without paying or completing the forms in advance. There's a form for everything. I was reminded of the saying that the British introduced administration to India, so in revenge the Indians perfected it. It was nearly as bad as the time I had the police called out on me at the Caravan and Camping site in Keswick when I pitched my tent without booking in as it was late and the office was closed. I smiled my way through it, and nipped back into Ramnagar to post a parcel of old diaries and maps back to the UK, before our safari in the afternoon.



The safari was very good. I hadn't expected to see tigers, and sadly we didn't, but we came close. The guide pointed to fresh tiger prints in the track, and as we were leaving the park a black-faced monkey was putting out a warning call from the treetops to warn that a tiger was close. It was too dark by thencto see (despite the driver flashing his headlights through the trees), but the guide said that the tiger would have been laying low in the undergrowth, and as we drove by I commented that it was very easy to imagine a tiger stalking through the trees a hundred yards from the road.



What struck me most about the park was how well kept it was. Unlike the sad situation in much of the rest of India, there wasn't litter everywhere, and entry is closely controlled to ensure that the wildlife takes priority over tourism. We saw loads of deer, and oodles of birdlife. Paula said that it should be renamed Corbett Peacock Reserve, we saw so many peafowl, and heard so many of their evocative calls echoing between the trees. We saw an eagle perched on the rocks at the river's edge, and great hornbills cawing from branch to branch, making the trees shake as they shifted their huge weight. I should have been able to spot more - it's a shame, really, that I sent my guide to Indian birds back to the UK that morning.
I had been expecting lush, rich rainforests, but it's a dry deciduous forest, and the crackle of dead leaves announced the presence of animals creeping through the trees. I expect it's very different after the monsoon. Still, I really enjoyed the sense that I was interloping in these creature's habitat.

Back at the campsite, the proprietor and his mates were getting hammered on whisky, and invited me over. Aha, I thought, all is forgiven.

No. The next morning, after I'd said my farewells to Paula and the Douglas family, I went up to pay, and he made me fill out the forms again! Only two this time, at least, so perhaps his hangover wasn't as bad as it seemed to be.

Nor was India done with me - it was a pleasant enough ride along smooth quiet roads on the fringes of the national park, with lots of shelter from the encroaching trees, but I simply had no energy, and stopped at the next big town, Haldwani. Haldwani must rank (deliberate choice of word there) as one of the least pleasant places I have ever visited. It was just too busy, and I've had enough of random grinning loons staring at me when I pass by. The traffic was appalling - I had a slight sense of humour breakdown when I eventually summoned the will to leave the hotel at about 11.30, and shouted abuse at the drivers who left-hooked me while on their mobiles, at the tuk-tuk driver who thought that I'd welcome him riding alongside me and grinning inanely while I was trying to navigate the traffic and potholes, and at the beggar who grabbed my arm while I was stopping at a traffic light. Even when I got onto the open road, I missed the direct route I'd wanted to take and ended up going around the point of the triangle to the border. Only because I was given duff directions by the people I'd asked, who for some reason assumed that I'd prefer riding an extra 30 miles to my destination, rather than taking the direct road.

Ah well. At least the weather was playing its part - it was cool and overcast, and the blessed rain fell on me for the first time since Kayseri, in central Turkey. I've missed the rain. I did worry that it would become a storm and make the roads even more dangerous than in the dry, but it was a cooling rain which only lasted long enough to take the edge off the heat.

I am pleased to be out of India. The intensity of the attention is overwhelming at times, and even this nondescript border town instantly feels more relaxed. I have enjoyed India (mostly, for the same reasons I sometimes hate it), but the cycling on the plains was getting me down, and it's bound to be better here in Nepal, where there are fewer people, less traffic, and more mountains.

We Gotta Get Out Of These Plains

There's a streak of masochism in cycle tourists. At least, that's the outside view. I sometimes feel as though I'm constantly fielding questions from curious, if doubting, passers-by. Why are you doing that, why don't you take a flight, or a bus, or take a car? Why do you go to Scotland in winter, or ride through Iran? I was in cold, soğuk, eastern Turkey at the start of last winter, and when I stayed with Ercan in Sivas he and his friends tried to stop me from going east across the icy passes and up to the Erzurum plateau, and Ercan firmly believed that no more cyclists would be passing his way that winter. But while I was there he was contacted by a couple of British cyclists who were also heading east, and still they came. It was cold, but the mountains were beautiful, and possibly the hardest part was fending off kind-hearted truckers who wanted to give me a lift into Iran.

Still, there is some truth in the stereotype. I left Delhi about a week ago, and it has been some of the most unpleasant cycling I've ever experienced, for three reasons. First, I've been suffering from an underbubble of mild illness. Second, it's damn hot, and with me being a late riser, I don't often take advantage of the cool early mornings - the one time I had an early start was when a cockroach landing on my pillow woke me at 4.45, so I have to do most of my cycling in the hottest part of the day. Third, the plains are flat, and tedious. With all due respect to Panipat and Saharanpur and Kashipur, it's been a tour of shit towns. Panipat's defining feature was the concrete flyover of the Grand Trunk Road grumbling through the centre of town, and the only thing I remember about Saharanpur is that it had a very busy interchange near the railway station. Oh, and the roads around it were in an awful state. Loose hardcore and rocks embedded into concrete do not a happy cycling surface make. And the heat just saps my strength. I thought I was going to get a good ducking when I saw storm clouds on the horizon as I was riding towards Kashipur, and I would have been glad of a bit of rain to cool me off, but I missed the rain, and I only caught the winds at the edge of the storm system, which whipped the dust off the fields and sand-blasted my face and arms.

I'm sick of flat riding. I'm sick of pedalling all the time. I'm sick of seeing nothing on the horizon. Even my plan to get into the mountains for my route to Ramnagar was kiboshed by road closures, so after a day and a half in the Himalayan foothills around Dehra Dun and Rishikesh, enjoying the views and the cool air, I was sucked back into the clammy, smoggy, congested plains.

I should have just ridden straight to Ramnagar from Delhi, really. I never once considered taking a bus or a train, however, and not only because I get seriously travel sick on buses (especially the way they're driven here) and because I couldn't face once again the trauma of trying to navigate the administration requirements involved in getting a bike on a train in India. I set out to cycle, so cycle I shall. It isn't one of those times when I've fought my way through hardships to get to my destination and arrived with the glow of achievement, of a challenge overcome. It's just been bloody hard.

But, when I look back at this from happier days in cooler climes, these will be the times I've paid the price for the happy cycling. As I say, there is some truth in the stereotype. We push ourselves through the crap times, knowing or hoping that there are better roads and places over the next horizon, and that every day of shit roads and shit towns brings you closer to that.

Still. I need some inspiration, and I'll be immensely relieved when I leave behind the humidity, and the heat, and the plains.

The Miracle of Jahanabad-Panditkapura Kunda-Pratapgarh

I hopped a train back from Kanpur to Delhi in the end, which was only disappointing to me because I'd put in so much effort to keep my bike running. It was my body which let me down, or rather my carelessness with the local water, but as I leaned out of the carriage full of Indian Communists on their way to Delhi for the People's March to Parliament (we discussed the UK riots, and I tried to sing the Red Flag as they didn't know it), I watched the flat plains of the Ganga roll by, and reminded myself that I was only missing the flat, easy, dull riding back to Delhi.

So don't think that catching a train was the easy option. Carrying a bike on a train in the UK, where the network has been fragmented amongst umpteen different operators, each of whom has a different policy, is a simple matter by comparison with India's ludicrous administration. I was at Kanpur Central for eight hours before I and my bike boarded a train, most of which time was taken up with cajoling, negotiation, explanation, firmness and eventually narkiness to ensure that I travelled on the same train as my bicycle. Even so, I came within five minutes of boarding the wrong train. And when we did arrive into Delhi at 1.30 am as a huge storm was threatening, and forked lightning split the sky, instead of scarpering before it hit, I was led off to an administration compound where I had to provide several proofs of the ownership of my bike before I could take possession of it back from the custody of the Indian Railway Authority. I hung around under the corrugated iron shelter as the rain hammered down and the thunder raged, watching street dogs mock-fighting until the storm subsided.

It had started so well. I'd hoped to ride the 800 km from Varanasi to Delhi in four or five days, to be back in time to arrange visas for the next stage of my journey, and to meet my sister who's flying from the UK to meet me in Delhi. I had an early start, winding my way out of the shit-strewn alleys by the Ganga and stepping aside respectfully for a funeral procession going to the burning ghats (though nobody else did).

I'd ridden over 100 miles into a persistent headwind when I was on the Allahabad bypass, a deserted stretch of highway circling the congested city. There were few facilities or villages, and I was having to take water from public pumps and treat it with chlorine tablets before I could drink it. I was about to cross the Ganga and get to the more populous section of the highway before nightfall.

Then my crank fell off.

I couldn't find the bolt in the roadside debris, but it would have been pointless anyway, as I'd neglected to pick up my 8mm allen key in Dubai. I pedalled on, one-legged and cursing.

I tried to beg water or an 8 mm allen key from passers-by. All knowledge of Hindi deserted me, and I became intensely frustrated that I'd stop someone to ask for water, they'd stop, become curious, and I'd explain the problem, but they could never help with water, or tools. Meanwhile, the sun was setting, I had nowhere to stay, no water to drink or to camp with, and one-legged cycling wasn't getting me anywhere fast.

I knocked at a house, which was full of women. They panicked at my arrival - various expressions of outrage, confusion, amusement and fear flickered across their faces. I made my apologies and returned to the road.

At the next village, I called up to a woman on a rooftop to ask for water, or if there was a pump in the village. "Wait there," she said. I waited obediently. She returned with nothing. Nothing.

Becoming increasingly frantic, I asked the next group for water, or a pump, but I couldn't make myself understood. They gathered around my bike, looking at the gears and other bits, and I lost my temper. Instead of people who'd try to help with my urgent problems, I'd found a pack of loafers who just wanted a nose at something new. I walked away, ranting about water.

Nearly in tears, I asked at the last house in the village, where a grandson and grandfather were sitting outside taking the evening air. This time, and at last, they understood me. The loafers had followed me, and paid close attention as I explained the problem, and clutched my water to me.

The grandad, who had mesmerising bushy black hair sticking out of his ears, sent me down to the other end of the village with my bicycle. Naturally the whole village came out to see. There was a guy with a bagful of ancient bicycle parts, and we tried to find a suitable bolt.

I left them to it. I sat on the step and played with the village kids for a while. I tried to stop them putting in a bolt which nearly fitted, but the thread wasn't fine enough and it was going to ruin the threads inside the bottom bracket, if it fitted at all. They assured me that they could fix it, and since I was fucked either way, I let them get on with it. Use of a hammer was involved, which was more ultra-violence than I'd have been prepared to use on my bike.

The whole village was there, and the scene was lit by the full moon. An angry man had taken charge of affairs, and when he declared that it was fixed, everybody cheered. I let him have a go on it around the village, and tried to give the guy with the bagful of bits some money for his trouble. He smiled and refused. "This is India," he said, "we won't take anything."

Even better, the head honcho was offering me back for tea, and a bed. As we went back through the village, the angry man demanded a labour charge, so I slipped him 10 rupees with a smile and a handshake. This is India, alright.

That night, under the shelter of the huge Tripathi family, was wonderful. They did ask me a few questions which put me on edge a bit such as "are you alone?" and "do you carry Indian or foreign currency?", but that's pretty common in India. They did seem very insistent on telling me how safe I was in the bleak, lightless shed which was to be my abode, but somebody explained that they'd recently been burgled by robbers from the riverbank, so their concerns were understandable. I was never worried: the atmosphere was warm and convivial, I was fed, and entertained, and... well, the feeding was fabulous. A bowl of dhal, a bowl of paneer, a bowl of something else which didn't last long enough to be identified, half a dozen chapatis, a plate of rice and another bowl of paneer. They were an enormous family, and I believe I met them all, apart from the women.

They even mocked me gently for my ranty behaviour when I'd arrived at the village. One youth who spoke excellent English told me "you will meet many challenges on your journey, and you must bear an open heart". I smiled and said "you have no idea." Turns out, he always spoke like the Little Book of Indian Koans.

The name of the village was one thing I tried to establish: someone said Jahanabad, someone else said Kunda-Pratapgarh. And someone else said Jahanabad-Panditkapura Kunda-Pratapgarh. I never quite got to the bottom of it, but I think there are two villages side by side. I asked if it was like the Sharks and the Jets, but no one got the reference.

I was tired, though, and they left me to my sleep, which was as the sleep of the dead.

In the morning, I felt quite despondent as I expected the crank to last 5 or 6 miles before falling off again. I wandered through the village and took more photos and played with the family cows before they told me I should get going and continue my journey.

Fatehpur was 50 miles away, I hoped to get there and get a train back to Delhi. But, miracle of miracles, the fix held. The angry man must have Igored the thing on with all of his strength. It even lasted the 100 miles to Kanpur, and I was fantasising about being able to ride all the way back to Delhi. As the crank has since come loose again while riding around Delhi, I was probably right to get to the train, but it was the water which I so carelessly drank in Jahanabad-Panditkapura Kunda-Pratapgarh which did for me. I couldn't keep anything down (or up) for the two days I was in Kanpur.

I've said before that things going wrong can be the best thing to happen. I'd have never met the Tripathis or been to their village if my crank hadn't fallen off. Even now, when I still can't find a suitable repair in Delhi, I'm not sure that it wasn't the best thing to happen in India.

The story has quite a punchline, as well. I'd asked what they all did for a living. "Agriculture," they said. Crops? "Yes, crops."

In the morning, one of them asked if I smoked ganga. Not quite sure where this was going, I said no.

"We are ganga farmers," he said proudly.

And rightly enough, out the back, there were fields of the stuff.

Varanasi

Two things drew me to Varanasi. It's most famous for the burning ghats by the Ganga, where corpses are first bathed in the holy waters, then set aflame. Second, I wanted to see Holi, the festival of colours, which is a riotous celebration of spring.

OK, three things. I also wanted a few days off to rest up before getting back to Delhi to apply for visas. Felix had told me that Varanasi is an interesting place, as had Teddy in Rishikesh, both of whom mentioned the rivers of shit. they weren't wrong. It's quite the most pungent place I've ever been. My guest house is in the maze of narrow alleys which line the waterfront by the ghats (baths), alleys along which cows wander freely, and raw sewage runs down to the river. These photos really should be scratch n sniff, to get the full experience.



Obviously, since I spent two days fixing my bike, that kiboshed some of my plans, but Arnaud and I took the walking tour yesterday, and went down to the ghats to see the burnings. I had seen one of the biers being taken through the alleys when I first arrived in Varanasi. It was a colourful procession, and the body was wrapped in rich red robes, and I thought "ooh, that looks pretty," until I realised what it was.

The ghat and the surroundings are piled high with wood for the burnings, which is so expensive that many families struggle to afford it, and a common scam is to grab a tourist and tell them that they can take photos, then make a fuss and demand that they pay for the wood. Photography is completely forbidden, but we saw people with camera phones, video cameras, and even a tourist who'd made a half-baked attempt to disguise her camera by wrapping it in an orange plastic bag. It's an extremely public event, and even watching felt a bit ghoulish, so I wasn't keen on taking photos, especially if I'd end up paying for it.

The bodies are first dipped in the river, then laid down at the burning site, where a priest blesses it, and sets it aflame. This is the end of the ceremonial part. The bodies burn in public in front of huge crowds, and to make sure they all burn, workmen throw kindling onto the biers and use huge sticks to crack open the ribcages and feed the flames. As the flames grow, the wrappings burn first, revealing blackened flesh, which shrivels away from the skull and bones in the open air. There is no privacy or distance allowed. It's quite different from a cremation in the UK, where grandad's coffin vanishes behind a metal plate and you get an urn at the other end.

Arnaud and I stood on a balcony overlooking the burning site. We were downwind of the smoke, and I remembered Teddy's comment that he came away shaking, when it struck him that he was breathing in dead people. It was an intense atmosphere of burning wood and charred flesh. The heat was incredible, even at that distance. We could hear flesh popping and bones cracking under the pressure.

I came back to the guest house, and as I was sitting drinking my coffee, I noticed the stench. My clothes still reeked, the heady aroma of barbecued flesh.



And today was Holi! It's a riotous event marked by lots of drinking, bacchanalia and the chucking about of coloured dye. The guest house wouldn't let women go out into the streets, as the celebrations can go over the top, and they only let us out when we assured them that we didn't have our wallets or cameras or any valuables on us.

Even walking up the alley from the guest house, we were soon sopping wet and colourful as dye and water were being thrown from the balconies and rooftops around us. We got in a water pistol fight with some local kids, and a guy ran out of a doorway and tore the t-shirt off my back. It was hilarious. Again, there was no privacy or escape from it: if you were on the street, you were a target. A kid on a motorbike ducked his head and shouted "No Holi! No Holi!" but we paid no attention.



We decided we didn't really want to go into the main town, where things do get very rowdy indeed, and finding your way in and out of these alleys is tricky at the best of times, let alone while under fire. We decamped to the guest house, and joined the crowd on the rooftop, flinging about yet more coloured dye, covering the street below and engaging in battles with the kids on the next rooftop.

The two events, wildly different in character, both have the same traits which make India such a culture shock when you come from the West. The public nature of the celebrations and commemorations is difficult to appreciate, and what would be ghoulish or inappropriate in the UK is everyday here.

One tourist on the rooftop got very annoyed when the waiter covered him in orange dye, but if you get involved in it, you have to accept it for what it is, you can't impose another set of values on it.

Of course, another similarity is that I had to go and get a shower to wash all the dye off - it's stubborn stuff. I'm going to go and get my third shower of the day.

photos from Holi

Is This the Way to Allahabad?

The day into Allahabad to briefly cross paths with Phileas Fogg was marked by a series of minor catastrophes. The hostel tried to skank me out of fifty rupees, I had a puncture after only 3 miles and had to fix it in the blazing sun before yet another goggle-eyed audience, bellowing questions into my face while I was trying to find the hole, then I lost my iPhone when the road - National Highway 76 - turned into a rutted track of loose hardcore and four-inch stones. I rode that section twice, quartering the ground for my phone.

I was accosted by a holy man in the village, who insisted on daubing green dye on my forehead. I don't count that as a catastrophe - it cheered me up a bit, and I rode on, saying farewell to my phone. I was probably more annoyed at having to do a double turn along the awful surface, which snapped the cable tie repair on my rear pannier, which I had to fix again, and above all it cost me time which I didn't have as I wanted to get to Allahabad that evening. I'd been riding mostly long days since Bundi to get to Varanasi for Holi and have a couple of days off, and consecutive days of 85, 95, 75 and 80 miles had taken it out of me, especially in the heat. I had to take long breaks in the afternoons to get out of the sun, and as anyone who knows me can testify, I'm not good at getting up in the mornings, so I usually failed to take advantage of the cool dawn air.

The road surface improved, and I was making good time at last, until the next setback, when I had a rear wheel puncture. And I had to replace the cable ties on my pannier again. Then I couldn't repair the tube, as it was split at the valve, so I hoyed it. This left me with only one spare tube; I'd had to throw the other two out as they'd been chewed up by a rat which bit its way into my drybag at a ratbag hotel in Shivpuri, also perforating my sleeping mat and condemning me to an uncomfortable night's sleep on the stony ground when I camped up.

I fitted my last tube. Then, riding into a village, the road turned to cobbles, and I noticed that the rear tyre was deflating again. I rode on. The cable ties on my pannier couldn't cope with the cobbles, so the pannier landed in the dust.

It was getting dark, and I'd had enough. In the heat and humidity and with a huge crowd, I fixed the puncture and re-attached the pannier. Then, I opened one of the beers I'd bought and drank it. That was my best move of the day. I was having a grand old time chatting with the crowd which had developed, and for once they had to tell me to clear off, as it was getting dark and I needed to get to Allahabad.

Night riding in India is insane. I always try to avoid it, but on a couple of occasions I haven't had a choice. The sheer heedlessness seems to go up a few notches, as drivers have their headlights on full beam (those who bother switching them on) and drive down the middle of the road. A few times, I simply couldn't see where I was going in the dazzle of headlights. The roadsigns to Allahabad petered out, but a few locals pointed me in the right direction, onto the huge suspension bridge which crosses the Ganga. At night, when the mist was rising from the river, it was an eerie experience, and I was completely worn out. I fell off a little bit in traffic -I clipped my front pannier on a bit of corrugated iron which jutted out into the road and which I hadn't seen in the dark. I dropped the bike, but unclipped and stayed on my feet, and the tuk-tuk driver behind me had good enough reflexes to stop before smacking into me. I smiled an apology - he seemed more amused than anything else.

Yes, I was feeling sorry for myself. I had a near-meltdown at a hotel where, after I'd said I didn't have enough cash and specified that I'd have to pay by credit card, they made me go through the whole rigmarole of looking at the room and trooping up and down the stairs before they told me that the machine wasn't working so I'd have to pay cash. I left in a ranting fury and found a different hotel, a much nicer hotel than I'd stayed in since Jonathan went back to the UK, as this was no time to go hunting for the budget option. A comfy bed, pleasant staff, a shower, TV and a lie-in were on the cards. It had been a very long day - 13 hours and 92 miles, which was at least 10 miles further than I needed to travel.

I made it to Varanasi the next day, in contrast riding the 85 miles in about 8 hours. I picked up yet another puncture, and the skewer on my rear wheel has snapped, which will require major surgery to my bicycle and probably the use of a machine shop to get me back to Delhi. Every other bike I've seen has solid axles, and Delhi's the only place I can get a replacement quick release.

India is tough. But, I alwas knew it would be, and if there's anywhere in the world where you'll get loads of help when things go wrong, it's mega-populous Uttar Pradesh. OK, the help isn't always very helpful, but the warmth and the desire to be useful is heartwarming. There are bike shops and puncture-wallahs every couple of miles. I'll ride back to Delhi somehow, even if I have to bodge a single speed wheel into my frame and strap the old wheel to the back. Dammit, this isn't going to beat me. It's a test, everything's a test.

But it can wait until tomorrow. Now, I'm off to negotiate some beer.