The Silent Pedals of Freedom
The rhythm of my life began with the clicking of a bicycle chain. My father, a hardworking man who spent his days collecting money from the city’s bread shops, was my first hero. As an only child, I was the center of his universe—a position that came with immense love, but also the heavy chains of overprotection.
My earliest memories are of sitting on the dando (crossbar) of his bike, my small hands gripping the handlebars as he steered us through the streets. But even then, I wanted to be the one steering. When his bike sat idle, I would sneak it behind our house, pedaling "monkey-style" under the main bar, my legs barely reaching the pedals. Those secret wobbles were my first taste of a world my parents were too afraid to let me see.
The Gift of Flight
The day my father bought me a Raleigh bicycle, my world cracked open. It was the happiest moment of my life. To my parents, it was a way to get to school; to me, it was a vessel for adventure. I remember the crisp night air during Christmas midnight masses, cycling from Ponda to Navelim with Socirto Barreto and Vincent Mendes, the moonlight reflecting off our spokes as we chased the horizon.
The Great Lie of 1982
By the time I joined the NCC in college, my thirst for the road had become unquenchable. My friends—Bharat Prabhu, Albert Fernandes, Durgadas Nadkarni, Laximidas Mangueshkar, Govind Desai—and I conceived a plan that was as reckless as it was magnificent: a cycle expedition to Pune.
But there was a hurdle. Being an only child, my parents would never have permitted such a "risky" endeavor. The college, too, refused to take responsibility. Driven by a desperate need for the experience, I did something I still remember with a mix of guilt and pride: I lied. I told my parents I was heading to a standard NCC camp. Under the guise of official duty, I packed my bags for a journey into the unknown.
Five Days to a New Life
We took the Patradevi-Sawantwadi-Amboli route. Every uphill climb was a battle of will; every downhill was a celebration. Without the college's backing, we relied on the kindness of strangers and a letter from SP (Traffic) Kiran Bedi, IPS, which turned police chowkis into our hotels.
The Struggle and the Shortcut: The steep inclines of the Ghats tested our mettle to the breaking point. There were moments where the grade was so punishing we had to dismount and walk our bikes, our breath coming in ragged gasps. However, we soon noticed heavily loaded trucks wending their way slowly up the winding roads. In a moment of youthful daring, we decided to hitch a ride on their momentum. We would cycle up close and firmly catch hold of the chains hanging from the back of the trucks. It was risky—one wrong move could have been disastrous—but as the engines roared and pulled us upward, we felt a surge of adrenaline that made the difficult ascent feel like flying.
The Reward: Reaching Pune on December 31, 1982, just as the world prepared for a New Year. We celebrated our survival and our brotherhood at the Bundgarden Police Station.
The Culture: Meeting Jayantrao Tilak at Kesari, feasting on raw sugarcane from passing tractors, and feeling the sudden weight of being "men of the world" when local journalists interviewed us.
From Guilt to Glory
When we returned, the truth came out—not through a confession, but through celebration. The college was so impressed by our grit that they featured our photograph in the college magazine, Vidhya. Seeing my face in print, my parents' fear finally gave way to a quiet, bewildered pride. They realized then that their only son had outgrown the dando.
That victory fueled our next journey to Mantralaya, Karnataka, passing through Belgaum, Hubli, and Bagalkot. We were no longer boys lying about a camp; we were expeditionists, treated to lunch by cadets in Hubli who looked at us with the same wonder I once had for my father’s bike.
Reflection
A bicycle expedition gives you more than just strong legs; it gives you a soul made of iron. It taught me that sometimes, to find your own path, you have to pedal away from the safety of home—even if it means a little deception and hitching a ride on the back of a truck along the way. I started on my father’s crossbar, but I found myself on the open road.
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