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Shishir and I'd turned in for the night in our tent on the pine-studded Mahesh Narayan hill. I'm a light sleeper; Shishir was sleeping like a log. A scratching sound suddenly awakened me; my mobile showed the time at 3 am. I listened with bated breath—nothing. Maybe I was mistaken; I curled into my sleeping bag and tried to go back to sleep. It sounded again, and I was sure it came from very close. My imagination ran riot—a leopard, perhaps? Hey, what do you know? It turned out to be an accursed rat as I trained my flashlight on it through the tent's mesh vent. The weather the next day at eight in the morning felt fresh, and the sweet-smelling pines cloaked in the thick fog had a revitalizing effect on me. “Good morning, the weather looks great,” I said. Shishir just smiled and busied himself with dismantling the tent. My eyes then fell on the flysheet that had collected a little dew water, almost half a liter; I hastened and spooned it into a bottle, confident we could drink it as we carried Aquatabs. As I checked for something to eat for breakfast, I saw Shishir holding a plastic bag and picking something up—turned-out trash strewn about the site. Not ours, though! Previous campers had littered the site. Soon, it looked spotless. None of us friends understood Shishir, who often relapsed into one of his eccentricities. A man of few words, he liked to call himself the Super Tramp. Like a friend said, nobody could fathom Shishir—only Shishir understood Shishir. Well said. The trash left by others was 10-times ours. But that did not bother Shishir. He did that every time he camped. "Great job," I called out to him. And as expected, he just smiled back. Soon, we were munching on last night's leftover khichadi—our breakfast. With the packing of our gear done and a last-minute check, we left for the Gupteswor Mahadev. On the way, Shishir stopped to click at something, which turned out, a fallen tree stump with a brace of wild mushrooms on top, looking like purple cabbage. I'd seen nothing like it. A thick fog enveloped us as we hit the singletrack across the tall pines, visibility 10 feet across but far better than the previous night. It was a brief ride to the Mahesh Narayan Shrine and took 20 minutes. The elevation commanded a view of fog-shrouded, lush northern hills. A three-foot-tall cave-like hollow enclave lodged the deity on the face of a sheer granite hill. There was no idol, only a jumble of vermillion-streaked rocks in odd sizes and shapes. A string of bells and a trident stood by their side; more bells hung by the roof. A little further, another opening gave an impression of a cave. Shishir crawled and wriggled through the narrow gap to investigate. I could see his derriere in the beam of my headlamp. I remained out because caves gave me the jitters. He managed some five ft. into the crack and looked around to see if it went any further. All this time, I just watched. He was out soon. Not a cave; maybe it was once, he said. Shishir then scouted around for the trail to Gupteswor Mahadev. He found none. The steep crude stone steps that led to the shrine had caved. A dang dogged guy, Shishir never gave up, easy. He knew the cave lay some 200 meters down. He nimbly stepped on fallen rocks like a mountain goat, dropped to the bottom, and disappeared into the heavy undergrowth. After 20 minutes, he was back, and my hunch proved correct. He had failed to track down the cave and the Gupteswor Mahadev shrine. After 200 meters, the trail under heavy cover vanished, he said; he could go no further, tried as he did to spare no effort. He was mighty surefooted about the place when we planned the trip, and he had been there two years back. So much for my friend Super Tramp's itching desire to explore the mysterious cave of Gupteswor Mahadev! [email protected]

For three years in a row, an old friend, Khashing Rai, and I planned to cycle to Kalinchok, Dolakha, but something would always come up, and our long-coveted tour would be scrapped. Our trip finally saw the light of day in 2014. I couldn’t wait to get started. The first leg of our journey included a drive to the hill-town Dolakha, Charikot, some 183km from Kathmandu—a six-hour drive with frequent stops for tea, refreshment, dal-bhat, and the breathtaking landscapes. Next day, our epic cycling on the Makaibari to Kuri route kicked off, in what was a 17km dirt road uphill climb to 3,450m. It was the most grueling off-roading of my life—with about 60 percent shoving. Khashing, close to half my age (I was 61 then), took it in his stride but soon followed suit when the near-vertical inclines seemed impossible. It took almost seven hours to get to Kuri by sundown. Early the next day, we hit the trail on foot to Kalinchok (3,842m), a knee-buckling climb on winding fieldstone steps. Today, a cable car whisks you to the temple in 10 minutes. After paying homage to Goddess Kalinchok Bhagwati, we took a brief respite, marveling at the chain of parading snow-clad mountains. The iconic Gauri Shankar (7,134 m) stole the show—and my heart. Absolute bliss! After dal-bhat at Kuri, we made it to Makaibari by 4 pm, and after stowing the bikes in my car, we left for Kathmandu. Darkness closed in as we sped past the town of Thulo Pakhar; the highway appeared near-deserted. As we cruised down a gradient, we could see distant lights way down. A milestone read Khadi Chaur, 7-km. I stayed alert behind the wheels as we navigated the dark, tricky highway past a maze of twists, loops, and hairpins followed by wooded hills down a steep slope—the time past eight pm. What tarnation! Unawares, a motorbike appeared out of the blue with a blazing headlight. In the wrong lane, the bike was headed straight towards our car. A headlong collision seemed inevitable. In a flash, I swerved to the right, missing the incoming bike by a hair’s breadth, and swung the steering wheel on the double to my left, hitting hard on the brake pedal as the right had a sheer drop. The rear tires skidded with an ear-splitting squeal. With a sinking heart, I realized the right rear tire had veered off and overshot the road perimeter, and within seconds, the car started sliding rearward down the ridge. Next followed a loud bang from the front, and before Khashing and I could gather our wits, the car lurched to a stop. Horrified, I watched the windshield crack and crackle in slow motion, but it held on. For several seconds we stayed put in pitch darkness—shell-shocked. I took a deep breath and asked Khashing if he was okay. He nodded. I was, too—not a scratch. The car, propped at a 45-degree angle, rested on a tree and what appeared like a stump. Still reeling under trauma, Khashing held on to the grab-handle lest he topple over me; I lay pinned down to the right car door, facing the steep drop. We stayed glued to our seats for several minutes without flinching a muscle, fearing so much as a slight commotion might trigger a slide down the drop. Khashing looked at me questioningly as my mind raced what to do next. Khashing got off first, cautiously avoiding any jerky motion. As my side was a no-go, he next helped me get out by pulling my hand. That was the scariest moment for us. We had no choice but to lock the car and leave. A passing-by truck gave us a lift to Khadi Chaur. We checked into a lodge as no help was possible at that late hour. We visited the crash site early the following day. Whatever vague pictures, imagery, and chaos of the previous night fell into place, and the gravity of the crash stood out a mile. When I peered down the precipice, I turned white and shook like a leaf. It steeply fell some 250 meters below. What made Khashing and my jaws drop was the dramatic way the car with a smashed right fender came to rest on a solitary tree and a stump with both left-side tires suspended in mid-air. No other trees flanked the ridge for quite some distance. A coincidence? A fluke? Our destiny? Or was it the grace of Kalinchok Bhagwati that saved our lives? mansinghravi@gmail.com

It was almost nine at the wooded campsite on the Mahesh Narayan hill, and we were as yet unpacked. The 20-minute shoving of my bike up the darkened steep hill had burned me out flat.

An old hand at bike-packing, Shishir, swung into action and started pitching the tent. I began rummaging through our backpacks for foodstuff. We both had our designated jobs: Shishir would set the tent (I’d lend a hand), collect wood for the fire, and fetch water from a close-by natural spring. I was to cook.

The supper included a mix of rice and dal Shishir’s mom had packed for him. For the curry, we had the garden-fresh spinach we had collected from the charming Tamang ladies on the way and cabbage we bought at Bhanjyang Pokhari.

I was all set, but the fire was not. The twigs and wood we collected were too soggy. Shishir looked wretched, unable to light the fire. It was late, and both of us were starving.

Hang on! To my surprise, Shishir fished a portable stove out of his backpack. He figured it worked well for boiling water for tea or coffee—not for cooking rice and curry. We had to gamble, though, as the firewood proved a disaster. The gas burner lighted like a beauty, and I set upon it the degchi (saucepan) with the rice-and-dal-mix (khichadi). 

I then tried my hand at lighting the fire as the rice pot sat on the burner—to no avail. We had little choice but to wait for the rice. Shishir kept eyeing the stove with distrust. It seemed to work just fine, however. And all this time, we got hungrier. 

I had the cabbage and spinach chopped and ready, but the burner was not. The rice was taking longer on the shallow flame. “Shishir, if you had not thought of the burner, we would have had to munch on raw rice and dal,” I said, trying to ease the sticky situation. He just smiled back. 

The night appeared leaden, with no sign of a single star. I wished it would not rain. Soon, fog swept the hill we were on, and the tall pine trees stood like silent apparitions in a ghost movie. I walked further into the woods with my headlamp on—just curious.

The hush of the night seemed soothing; only the sounds of the night bugs, katydids, or bush crickets broke the silence. I expected an owl to hoot, announcing strangers. Funny, there was none.

As I watched the night sky, still trying to locate some stars through the pine tops, Shishir said the rice looked done. I hastened to put another pot for the curry, fearing the stove might conk out (it did not). I sautéed the cabbage-spinach mix and let it simmer with the lid.  

And after some 20 minutes, it was done, too. We wasted no time and began eating like pigs. I did not know how the food would taste. Shishir went for a third helping, and I did a second. So, it seemed the master chef of the night, I, came off with flying colors (ha-ha!). 

As I prepared to sleep, Shishir announced he would fetch water for the morning. It was almost midnight, and I did not want him to go alone (or I left alone?). I volunteered. Off we went, squelching down a dark narrow trail with slippery moss-crusted stones. 

The track appeared water-logged because of the rain. The thick wood and brush in the dead of night with no moon gave me the creeps. He said it was close, but it seemed like miles away. Anyways, we were soon back in one piece.

It was a little past midnight when we ducked into our two-person tent. The night was clement and peaceful, save for the sound of the playful night bugs and the soothing, whispering melody of the light breeze coursing through the soaring conifers—the smell sharp, sweet, and refreshing.

“Wow, your stove today proved a savior, Shishir,” I said. He just smiled back. Bleary-eyed, we finally ducked into our tent. 

Close to 15 years ago, my wife, Radhika, fancied buying a treadmill for home. I went along; it sounded better and more convenient than going to a gym—a handful then. We bought one.                                      

We began our workout regimen, walking and jogging without further ado. In our eagerness, we sometimes got carried away and pushed ourselves to the limit—only to end up with sore muscles and aching legs. After a layoff of a day or two, we resumed with a vengeance. Radhika lost tidy weight, too. 

With each passing year, the earlier enthusiasm waned, followed by frequent time-outs. But we did not quit and kept wearing thin our trainers on the treadmill belt. As age caught up, we settled on walking alone.  

Then, some eight years later, my wife developed lower back pain. Her work-out on the treadmill came to a grinding halt. The doctor prescribed some pills, recommended some stretches, and suggested cutting down on her weight as her BMI (body mass index) was high.  

Then, to my great surprise, she quit using the treadmill. She said a friend told her it was ‘terrible’ for the lower back and the knees. She further said she heard the same story from someone else and suchlike. That baffled me. 

I was sure she was misled. I tried to convince her the other way round, bringing up some study I’d done—but she stood her ground, and the matter was dropped.  

Our treadmill took a longish respite as I’d developed a passion for cycling and spent more time on it. Then, one day, Radhika raised the issue of disposing of the machine. Begrudgingly, I gave a yes to it; I’d my cycling to cheer me up. There were no buyers.  

I never gave up using my trusted old machine; it worked wonders during the monsoon as my cycling rides got cut down. Radhika never took kindly to the treadmill, however. Her knee problem and back pain stayed on. Her outdoor walks became erratic, and she put on weight.  

I thought it was high time that I convinced her to make a comeback. I buried myself in the Internet to learn more, especially the downsides of it—if any. 

The benefits of walking, whether the traditional way outdoors or on a mechanical treadmill, are a mile long. Following my research, I found some disadvantages of walking on a treadmill. Hang on! Those drawbacks came in the way only if done improperly, though. Here are some tips I gleaned from my research:  

1. Maybe you are overdoing it—always stick to moderation. Start at a slow, easy speed to gradually work your way up to a moderate pace without the support of the handrails. 

2. Proper trainers are a must; use closed-toe athletic shoes for comfort, grip, and better cushioning for those with back or knee problems—no high-impact exercises like running to avoid jarring and pounding.  

3. Treadmill walking, by and large, is better than walking on the asphalted surface like roads as the belt offers extra cushioning.

4. Are you maintaining a natural gait on the machine as you walk outside, including arm movement? A sine qua non. Keep the machine's incline flat while recovering from back pain. Go for a trusted brand with the minimum belt rebound. 

5. Poor walking posture can lead to lower back pain. Leaning on the treadmill bars or walking with your body hunched forward causes lower back muscles to work harder.

6. Avoid taking long strides; walk on the center of the belt, strike the belt first with your heel, roll through the step from heel to toe and push off with the toes. Look straight ahead.  

As a bonus, the treadmill offers an unparalleled cardio advantage over walking outdoors; it allows retro/reverse or backward walking, enabling your heart to pump faster than moving forwards and a metabolism boost. 

Reverse walking burns 30-40 percent more calories than walking forward and works as a therapy for knee problems and lower back pain; it improves gait and mobility in the lower extremities. And science backs this theory. 

There is an old saying in Nepali: Kasai le, Kag le Kaan lagyo bhanyo bhane, Kag ko pachhi daudane hoina, afno Kaan chamne (If somebody tells you the crow has snatched your ear away, you don't run after the crow but feel your ear. No?)  

That said, it still remains touch-and-go. Convincing Radhika would be like moving mountains. 

Disclaimer: Those with lower back pain or knee problems need to consult a health care provider before starting walking/reverse walking on a treadmill. 

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Following an animated chat with the septuagenarian Dev Maya Tamang at Damdame, Shishir and I headed for Thumki Danda. Before long, a piercing note sounded, which continued unabated. It appeared to be someone blowing a whistle, the resounding drone bouncing off the hills. 

“Bhai (bro), what noise is that?” I asked a guy we met on the way. “They are Ghanti keera (bugs) called Kankuli by some,” he said. I’d a hunch they were cicadas (jhyaunkiri) as I had done a little research on them. They sounded different from those from the Shivapuri forest, though.

You won’t believe it! The male cicada’s chirp can reach over 100 decibels during the mating season, close to as loud as a motorcycle, nay, a tractor, or a subway train! 

After Bhattarai Gaun, the entire area seemed predominated by the ethnic Tamangs: Bhal, Jimba, Thing, and Syangtang. Strange, every time my cycling took me across a Tamang settlement, I ran into a new ethnic Tamang community.  

As we pedaled uphill, my eyes fell on two women; they had just picked tori ko sag (mustard spinach) and tied them up in bunches to take some home and sell some. Shishir suggested we take a little for the night’s camp kitchen—it sounded swell. I took out my wallet to pay, but the Tamang ladies refused payment. We thanked them, and following a brief banter, we left. 

As we hit the road to Thumki Danda, the hills seemed obscure as the fog set in. We arrived at Bhanjyang Pokhari, named after a small pond built by the Rana Prime Minister, Juddha Shumsher. As Shishir stopped by the bazaar, my curiosity drew me to the historic pond. To my horror, it turned out to be a dumping site.  

Darkness crept in as we headed off a stiff hill towards Lama Gaun. The climb was not only grueling but needed lugging our bikes; a recent landslip had washed away the entire hillside and the dirt road. 

With the backpack and the crippling weight of the bike, we had to heave ourselves over enormous boulders—nothing short of a nightmare for me.

We switched on our bicycle lights and detoured onto a single track that cut across a wooded hill. The tall pines shed shadowy figures in the beam of our bicycle light, creating almost a spooky atmosphere—so quiet I could hear my heartbeat in the bargain.

Unawares, Dev Maya’s words struck me: Baghs (tigers) infested the isolated forest of the Mahesh Narayan shrine. The village folks call leopard a bagh. Once, I was a fan of the legendary British hunter/author/naturalist Col. Jim Corbett (Man-Eaters of Kumaon); his stories always recounted how the predators pounced on their prey from behind—and to my misery, I brought up the rear as Shishir led the way.

We soon dismounted as the track got only a foot apart and slippery with steep drops to our right. The trees and underbrush seemed to play tricks on my eyes in the narrow flare of my light. 

We finally arrived at Mahesh Narayan. The night was coal-black with no moon or stars. We did not dare go further to Gupteswor Mahadev as the pitch-dark trail seemed buried under dense brush.

We put it off until tomorrow and hastened to find a spot to pitch the tent. It was already eight, and we’d a pile of work, including the cooking. Shishir signaled and led the way.

“A little above, there is an ideal level spot amid the pine trees with easy access to water,” he said. But he looked disoriented, as he could not locate the access trail; then, for 10-long minutes, he got swallowed by the inky night. 

The sudden hush after he left felt creepy, and I kept looking behind me, a jumble of thoughts crawling across my mind. I felt relieved when I saw the beam of his headlamp inching toward me. 

One look at the track made me almost buckle. It was a near-vertical wall with steps dug into red mud, slippery with rain. Shishir helped me heave up the bike over, though. Next followed a 20-minute punishing shove through pine woods. 

I was gasping for breath by the time we cleared the incline. The site was smack dab in the thick pines, with a large clearing where we could play badminton. ‘Wow, a magnificent spot for pitching our tent!’ I said aloud.

The hush seemed profound, and the noisy cicadas seemed to have turned in for the night. Good for us, I mused and felt at peace.

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Bike-packing? Do you mean we ride, spend the night in a tent and cook our supper—no lodge or teahouse? It sounded wild—but exciting. Shishir, my cycling companion, nodded. He proposed a ride to Gupteswor Mahadev, some 30 km away in Dhading.  

I was skeptical, though; I always keep my riding trips light. The tent and stuff meant heavier backpacks—way out of my comfort zone. But I still gave it a ‘yes’. 

It has been 35 years since I last camped out. Guess what! That time, the first thing my wife and I learned in the morning was that we had chosen, of all places, a cemetery ground to pitch our tent. 

Coming to the present, after Ramkot, the dirt track turned due south. As we climbed on, we got a bird’s eye view of the sprawling town. Terraced rice fields next to the burgeoning houses lent a breath of greenery to the township. Dense Nagarjun hills commanded the northern skyline. 

If early post-monsoon riding has its downside in muddy stretches and unlooked-for rains, it’s also the time lush-green landscapes beckon with open arms.   

Around 1pm, we headed up a steep wooded hill to Nursery Bhanjhyang (pass). At the crest, there was a tin shack that served as an eatery. We were not very hopeful about dal-bhat, our favorite; and indeed, we had to settle for egg-veg-noodle soup.   

As Shishir busied himself with the camera, clicking at random, I scrutinized the dense woods around, trying to single out the species of trees—not very successfully, though.  

At one spot, I noticed a landslip that had taken massive chunks off the greenery from the chain of verdant hills, showing hideous scars—reminding a fair-skinned face of a lady disfigured by burns.  

That was a common sight throughout our trip. What was to blame—deforestation, massive stone-quarrying, land-plotting, newly dug roads, or everything thrown in together? I wondered. 

Voilà, our steaming hot noodle soup arrived and we wolfed it down in a mighty hurry. The host turned out to be a pleasant fellow, forthcoming and conversant. We struck up a conversation and I asked him what trees they had in Nursery Bhanjhyang.  

I got bowled over when he recounted the whole shebang in a single breath: Kafal (bayberry or box myrtle), Katus (chestnut), Rhododendron, Utis (Nepalese alder), Chilaune (Needlewood, Schima Wallichi), Kapur (camphor), Saur (Betula alnoides), Chaamp (Magnolia Champaca), and different species of pine.  

The mention of Seti Kath (wood) caught my interest. “It’s a hardwood used in sickle, hammer, and ax handles,” he said. After a filling meal and an enlightening chat, we hopped onto our saddles again.   

The dirt track got progressively muddier, and trickier. The rustic setting remained unchanged, green with sparse habitation, copses of wood, and rice terraces that dropped to the foothills. We left behind clusters of roadside villages with forested hillsides.  

Next, we stopped at Damdame, a small Tamang settlement, for tea and a brief rest. Our bikes, caked in red mud, looked queer. My Trek’s disc-rotor squealed funny every time I squeezed my brakes—Shishir’s Giant was none the worse. A massive tree stood by the shack, doubling as a tea-shop and living quarters. 

An elderly Tamang lady appeared, and we asked her for tea. She barked the order to two young women, one presumably was her offspring and the other a daughter-in-law. A young lad by the side turned out to be her grandson. I went for a second cup and biscuits while chatting with the old lady. 

Curiosity had me asking the widowed septuagenarian, Dev Maya Tamang, about the hoary tree. She told me it was a Chiuri (Indian butter tree). “It has been there since I was a toddler,” she said. I learned that Chiuri seeds produce ghee.  

Man-o-man, Dev Maya seemed mighty chatty for her age, even had her hair dyed jet-black. She got married when she was just 10. Even her body language created a feel-good vibe. I consider myself a jokester, always up to some wisecrack—but she beat me to it every time.  

After refreshing cups of tea and a lively chinwag at Damdame, we bid farewell to the ladies, particularly the 77-year-old Dev Maya. I’d hit it off well with her the next time we met. 

I had to admit, albeit miles from urban comfort, the village folks were insatiably curious, smiled profusely, got into playful jabs, and carried a remarkable sense of humor even in deprivation. 

The little time spent with the chatty Tamang lady at Damdame made me forget my aching muscles from the long, grueling ride—and off we went again. 

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I often sit back on my sundeck/patio attached to the front of my house to enjoy fresh air and an open atmosphere. Staying cooped up all day in the house makes me feel cramped. My hardwood deck with a canvas awning allows me a view of my entire tiny garden. 

One March day, I caught sight of a pair of red-vented bulbul (Pycnontus cafer, Jureli in Nepali) darting around my pencil-pine tree.

Red-vented bulbuls are a common sight around Kathmandu. You can identify this bird by its short black crest, dark brown body with a scaly pattern, white rump, red-colored vent, and black tail tipped in white. 

Confident, curious, and gregarious, it’s amusing to behold the feather on their crest bristle when they are flustered, alarmed, or angry. 

As I watched, I figured the bulbuls were building a nest on my pencil-pine tree, which is almost as high as my two-and-a-half storied house. Pencil pines are a joy to behold. Also called Italian pencil pine (Cupressus sempervirens ‘glauca’), it’s an exotic, slim, fastigiate, evergreen, hardy conifer with dark green foliage. 

It seemed my pencil-pine had outgrown itself—almost 30 ft in four years—near-vertical and tapering to the top—quite an eyeful for my guests. It always reminds me of the columnar structure of the Red Machhindranath chariot.

Days passed, and the brace of bulbuls became an everyday sight. Highly vocal, their chirps, whistles, trills, and excited chattering became a routine, day in and day out. For several days, the twosome eyed me with suspicion but soon realized I was no threat to them. Guess what! They ignored me after a couple of weeks and continued with their business.

The bulbul pair approached in a hawklike glide, perched on a TV cable next to the tree, looked around, and then ducked into the bushy branch some 12 ft from the ground, carrying tiny dry grass and weed straws in their beaks. As weeks followed, the frenzied activity of the birds escalated. 

One day, I observed their beaks held what looked like insects and worms instead of sprigs. Then it crossed my mind that the eggs must have hatched into chicks. A red-vented bulbul lays two to three eggs at a time. So, the nest held two or three baby birds—I reckoned. Wow!

The birds never appeared to relax as their visitations to the nest became endless. Their calls, too, grew louder. I watched in awe at how wary they were of predators. As the mother entered the nest, her male partner rested upon the cable and kept watch. 

One day, a loud shriek shook me while sitting in the living room before my laptop. Startled, I dashed out, fearing something was amiss about the bulbuls. Indeed, it was.

An absolute pandemonium had broken out. An ominous-looking house crow seemed bent on snatching the bulbul nestlings from the nest. With piercing squeals and flailing wings, the frantic parents were snapping at the crow to ward it off. I froze. It took several seconds for me to get a hang of the situation.

I sprang up, grabbed a close-by mop stick, and rushed to the tree, brandishing it, yelling at the top of my voice. That did the trick. The crow panicked and took off. The enraged bulbul-duo gave it a good chase. They flew back soon and attended to their nestlings fawningly. Phew! That was a close call.

Life for the bulbuls seemed to bounce back again. I made it a point to watch them more often than not. But the villainous crow did not appear in the ensuing days, and everything fell to normal.  

One morning as I hung around my garden, I did not see the usual flurry of the bulbuls. Maybe they were gone to forage for food for their nestlings, who I assumed had grown into fledglings.

To my great surprise, I did not see them the entire day—the following day or the next. Then I reckoned the babies must have fully grown and flown off. 

I kept an eye on my pine tree for almost a week but there was no sign of the bulbuls. Both the parents and the fledglings were gone. I couldn’t help feeling nostalgic—how truly I missed them. But I felt flattered that I had helped rescue the bulbul nestlings from mortal danger. 

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“I don’t ride a bike to add days to my life. I ride a bike to add life to my days.”—Writer unknown

Looking back on it, I realize I have been riding my mountain bike for 15 years today—I reckon even more. Although the years are showing (I’m 69 today), I still seem hung up about it. There must be some well-founded reasons. In fact, there are—five, among others.

When first I got down to cycling, it was a mighty tough bargain; I’d had to go through all the blood, sweat, and tears. The first few months were impossible—entirely out of my comfort zone. The steep downhills were almighty unnerving and the grueling inclines and gravel grinds made me gasp for every ounce of strength.

For me, painful falls, injuries, and bruises were commonplace—but the trials and tribulations got forgotten at the end of every ride. And I could not wait to strap on my backpack and hop onto the saddle.

Adventure

Mountain biking took my fancy out of plain curiosity. I got into it a little late in life, though—aged 53. It led to a sense of infinite newness, something out of the ordinary—an exciting discovery.

With time, it has stuck with me. I did not need to try paragliding or bungee jumping to get that heart-pounding, adrenalin-pumping kick. Mountain biking dished it out for me—tackling impossible climbs, riding single tracks through the woods or rice fields, or hurtling downhill at 40kmph—I got all the thrill I wanted.

Well-being and self-confidence

I cannot describe my feelings when climbing a steep hill or shredding down a near-vertical gradient. It helped boost my self-esteem, confidence, and overall sense of happiness; I learned to take up the challenges nature threw my way. Nothing compared to that sense of accomplishment I’d never dreamt of my whole life.

Health benefits

After a few years of cycling (I was already a diabetic when I started), that my blood glucose glycemic index, including HbA1c and lipid profile, made a tidy headway. My research on the benefits of cycling also guided me to newer findings. 

One of the best cardio workouts, cycling combines aerobic and anaerobic exercise. It holds an edge over other forms of exercise, such as running or walking, as it uses far more muscles. Physiotherapists often recommend marathoners do stationary cycling to get through runners’ knee problems. 

Cycling strengthens your quads, guts, and calf muscles and nourishes the core strength of tendons. It reinforces the knees and the lower back. After a few years of cycling, I never got lower back pain or knee problems.

As we age, our brain cells deteriorate. A regular cycling regimen helps stimulate and build new brain cells in the hippocampus—the region responsible for our memory. It further supports muscle tone, bone density, and brain neuroplasticity. 

There are more benefits: You sleep better, look younger, smoothen bowel movements, boost body immunity, improve sex life, cut down on weight—the list is a mile long.

Manages stress

Stress, anxiety, and depression are part of urban life. Active biking charges the endorphin (a hormone produced in the brain that reduces pain) levels and stimulates the building of a stress hormone known to improve mood.

It also reduces the build-up of adrenaline and cortisol (a steroid hormone), reducing stress and anxiety. One biker friend confided to me once that he would jump onto his saddle and ride the trails to take the edge off his frayed nerves whenever he had a blazing row with his spouse. What an idea!

Far from the madding crowd

The 18th-century poet Thomas Gray said that. How true it sounds to this day. Cycling whisks you off the chaotic urban sprawl to the lush woods, the laid-back country, and the intimate hills to breathe in a lungful of fresh air by the ton or be one with nature at its best—absolute felicity. 

My riding took me to places I could not have even fantasized about going on pedal power. In 2014, I bicycled to Kalinchowk (Kuri), and in 2018 to Muktinath and Lo Manthang. Most likely, it will be Manang next. 

Need I say more? Bicycling is my true calling, which has given me a fresh lease of life. So the bottom line is I will not give up spinning—not for all the tea in China!