The Tarebhir Uphill Challenge Mountain biking race held on January 8, 2022, the first among the 7-Series-Race, was my maiden bid. I'd decided it would be my last, given my age (69). Guess what! I pressed on with the subsequent races against my better judgment, unaware that successive races would turn lengthier and more taxing. When I learned the second challenge was Kalu Pandey, I thought I was nuts to dare. Gosh! I could not believe my eyes when I took the third podium position—it worked like a shot in the arm. The organizers had granted a break of two-three weeks after each race. It worked wonders as my burnt-out legs got enough time to recover.

A half-marathon is what the third race, Matatirtha-Deurali Bhanjyhyang (7.5 km), appeared to me. I felt frustrated when every racer seemed to pull ahead of me—no podium position this time.

Toward the fourth race, Pharping-Hattiban, I learned, to my surprise, that the rest of my fellow contenders in the Senior Category (60+) had just stepped into their 60s. So, at 69, I was senior to them by eight years—and the greyest among the rest, 100-plus racers. It was anything but comforting to learn that Lakuri Bhanjhyang was the next. I knew how grueling the uphill was as I'd ridden there five years back. Come rain or shine—I did it. And it paid off—I walked away with the third standing. Surprisingly, my commitment seemed set in stone as the races progressed with the hardships stomached. In all sincerity, I enjoyed each moment at the race—no words to relate those adrenalin-pumping seconds when I finished amidst boisterous cheering and clapping. I adored the warm and like-minded comradery among the bikers—giving off a palpable vibe. I'd never imagined I'd make so many friends in the bargain. Incredible! The sixth challenge—the Godavari to Chapakharka (2,300m), east of the Phulchoki ridge, cut across dense forest, so quiet I could hear my heart thump. The overcast weather with no sun appeared cut out for the grueling ride. Unawares midway, the sky rumbled, and I felt the first droplets on my face, then drizzle, followed by an uglier weather mood swing. A sudden gust turned into a windstorm, driving the pedaling near impossible and threatening to hurl me off my bike. To my misery, the rains resumed and lashed me, sopping wet. I could not figure out how I made it to the finish, struggling hard against the gale and the rain. Once atop, I broke into a terrible shudder from the intense cold despite changing into dry clothes; I feared I might collapse from hypothermia. I survived. To every racer's discontent, the seventh and the last race got announced within a week following the Chapakharka tormenting ordeal with no extended rest period. It was no less than the formidable Phulchoki (2,700m), the lengthiest at 14km, with the inclines a sure killer. The big day arrived—all appeared apprehensive, me the most. It meant moving the mountains for me. Worse yet, I'd developed a nagging pain in the neck from the last race. The turnout of contestants, too, had dropped. The weather looked gloomy under dark clouds, with the race flagged off. At midway, a loud thunderclap sounded, soon followed by a nasty cloudburst. I feared the torrent of red-clay rainwater that had turned the dirt road into a gushing brook might wash me down the slope. It looked like I was the only soul straggling behind on that godforsaken forested incline, let alone the thrashing rain. Upon seeing the 4 km milestone, I wavered. A jumble of thoughts raced through my mind. "What on earth? Man, it's just an ordinary race, not an international contest, you moron! Just give up." Still in a quandary, the other half of my mind goaded me on. "Do you want to give up when you're less than four kilometers away?" In a stupor as I debated with myself while my legs kept working the pedals. At the crest, the sight of a whooping crowd felt exhilarating, if not euphoric. I'd done it. But at a cost—I have had to nurse my sore neck for over a month. [email protected]