Cannondale goes to India Gate

There is no alarm clock. Simply because there isn't a strong enough resolve. By the time he is ready to leave, the sun is up and it's rays cast shadows. There is usually a time limit to everything and today just has to be the day. He decides to ride towards India Gate. It will be a 50km ride after a while.

The howling wind pushes him back and he is much slower through the initial stretches than he likes. He imagines the wind being behind his back when he returns and takes solace. It is a bit of a tedious ride, the scenery is the same dull grey expanse of roads and emptiness. After a while, he meets four cyclists coming from the opposite direction. They wave at him and he waves back. It's the cyclists' acknowledgement of one another. Today he is the lone rider. All in black except the helmet. He gradually tears through the wind, and quickens his pace when he can. There is one flyover that is sufficiently high and he remembers Hyderabad where almost every regular road would require such a climb. He does not compromise on the gear and is out of breath at the top. That is the only time.

After stopping by and asking for directions once in a while, he reaches close to the India Gate. Confusing "Delhi Secretariat" for "Central Secretariat" he loses his way and is diverted. From then on, he does aimless circles along some beautiful roads. It is a happy ride. The people whom he asks for directions aren't the most proficient and some apologize in advance in case they lead him astray. He finds a lone cyclist on a Firefox, carrying a bouquet of flowers and stops by for one last bid to find the elusive India gate. They stop by the side. A bus stops beside them, perhaps just to take a look! They talk for a couple of minutes. The other guy is on an errand and hearing how far he has come from, is inspired. His voice changes. It is funny, the effect a lone rider doing "long" distances can have. He also manages to find the correct directions at last and they part after he hears "you've made my morning" and returns a smile.

At the India gate, it is a stop for a couple of minutes. A few gulps of water, a quick photo and a conversation with some armed "riot control" police. The route back isn't the same and to him, not simple either. So when he asks, there are others who volunteer and he finds a precise and most helpful answer. Aviators and a thick curling moustache behind the iron netting of the truck will remain in his head. Asking for direction is a way of interacting with strangers, the people of a city he is new to. All the interactions are interesting and make his ride rather special.

The last stretch through barrenness and a fierce 40 degree sun isn't too pleasant, but it is perhaps the only little moment where he has to stretch himself. In the end, 60km are completed in 2 hours and 45 minutes, which by his standards are not too bad. But it does not prepare him for the hills.