What’s it like to cycle in India? Postscript
“Why do people think you’re Russian Luke?” Dev asked, as we walked along the ghats (long steps) on the bank of the Ganges.
“I think it’s something to do with my face Dev,” I muttered.
“Oh yeah, you do have a pointed nose and your face is like a triangle,” Dev observed, looking sideways at me.
“Love you too mate. At least I can reply in Russian. Keeps the illusion intact.”
Dev and I had arrived into Varanasi. We had cycled over 1000 kilometres together. I was super chuffed for Dev, who had started his journey with me almost as if he wanted to make it as difficult as possible for himself: no cycling for two years, no training, no cycle kit, no idea of what he was letting himself in for. He had braved potholes, buses, my grumpiness, and of course, horns, with remarkable cheerfulness. He had given himself every possible excuse in the book to quit and, well, he didn’t. Huge, huge, kudos.
Together we had successfully negotiated India’s roads with nothing more than a bump on the trailer.
But that evening, for the first time in a month I was walking India’s streets without being under Dev’s watchful eye. I was in search of milk (what can I say? The morning cup of tea and bowl of cereal are cherished rituals!). It was dark and the street lights only provided beads of light in the sky, rather than illuminate the street. The lights of motorcycles and rickshaws whizzed up and down the road. The only milk I found was hot and sweet, served from an enormous basin into clay pots, though I did find a beer stall, which, oddly enough, was the busiest shop on the street. Resisting temptation, I walked back empty-handed. A rickshaw was parked ahead, and I slipped into the gap between it and a chai stall.
The innocuous chai stall
A headlight appeared in front of me. In a split second, I caught the vague outline of a motorbike moving very fast, straight at me.
BAM!
The man’s forehead smashed into my nose. It knocked me back a metre. “Ah-awh-oh,” I groaned. Blood was already streaming from my nose and onto my blue jacket. Tie-dye effect I suppose. I pinched the bridge with my right hand, wondering if it was broken. Oddly, it wasn’t painful; in fact there was no pain at this point, just a heightened awareness, mixed with a tunnel vision focus of what was in front of me. Do I have concussion? Was my main thought at this point, and would I get warning before I blacked out?
In front of me, the motorcyclist got up, his bike still on the ground. Blood was coming from a gash in his forehead, and he bent over holding his head.
I’ve been acutely aware for many years that I have a sharp nose. But little did I expect that it could be wielded to such great effect. In the contest of forehead vs nose, it appeared that the great Grenfell-Shaw nose had emerged victorious.
The motorcyclist, despite his bruising encounter with my cartilage, seemed fine enough, and I rapidly toddered my way back to my hotel to lie down and get patched up.
A few days later, the black eyes have mostly subsided, leaving me with alluring purple – and yellow – eyeshadow, though several plasters remain over my nose. Strangely, for the first time, people seem less keen to take photos with me and in fact give me a wide birth.
In Varanasi, in one piece, just about
For all my pride at riding the tandem through India’s traffic unscathed, it seems like I can’t manage a short walk on my own two feet.
But my nose, which might have been expected to be somewhat blunted by the encounter, remains as sharp as ever. And I’ll let it continue to lead the way as I carry on cycling across India, with just a little more caution.