Cycling from Zurich to Munich

Sssh! Cyclist at rest.

In a Swiss summer, you can be excused for thinking you just cycled into a picture postcard, with emerald green fields on either side, and plump cows grazing against a horizon of deepest blue. Then the sun reminds you that this is reality, hot and thirst-inducing. That, and the two familiar young men a hundred yards ahead. “Stop, Kedar!”, I yell to my son, as I look up into the dark shade of a cherry tree. By the time Kedar and Simon join me, my hands and mouth are stained a deep red with the juice of fresh cherries, tart, sweet and possibly stolen.

Beyond the tree, the light is harsh, but the forest is only a couple of kilometers away, and soon we’re pedalling along a shaded path. The air cools, and through the trees we spy patches of silver water. The Rhine! In a tiny clearing, a young woman and her mother cheer their dog as she swims out to retrieve a tossed twig. We dismount, and while I refill my water bottle from a spout, Simon checks out the river. “It’s not too cold”, he encourages me. I jump in, and swim out to mid-stream. A tiny launch putters by, the dog shakes a silver shower of drops out of his fur, and Kedar spreads our picnic out onto a log - crusty bread, Emmental cheese, dried apricots, and a bag of nuts. I could get used to this.

The Rhine!

Schaffhausen is still an hour’s ride away, and in the afternoon, there’s no escaping the unseasonal heat, which rises from the cobblestones, and bounces off the walls. We fill our bottles from a medieval fountain, and under the awning of an Italian restaurant, realise we’re too exhausted to cycle on. We’ve covered a respectable 75 kilometers from Zurich, anyway, and while we tuck into our pasta and red wine, the Bangladeshi waiter makes a phone call, to book us lodgings for the night.

We leave by first light, and only the stray jogger greets the swans on the Rhine as we bowl out of town. The air is cool as we nip through little towns that are suddenly German, then Swiss, then German again. By mid-morning, we’re coasting past the Untersee, the lower Constance lake. We reach the elegant city of Konstanz before the afternoon heat. We find a gelato vendor, then a shady beach, and soon we’re savouring the coolth of the lake waters. Lunch is in a charming cafe in the University quarter, and while I devour my bar of dark chocolate in the cathedral square, Kedar does a quick tour of the interiors.

A catamaran swooshes us over to Friedrichshafen, where we spend a delightful hour among the exhibits of the Zeppelin Museum. The airship Hindenburg met a fiery end in 1937, but in the faithful replica of its spacious lounge, we sit in leather couches, and imagine we’re floating a few kilometers over the Amazon forest.

Every town in Germany has a museum to visit, or a historic cathedral. In Ulm, we spent the afternoon in an intriguing museum of “Bread Culture”.

A whimsical Salvador Dali at the Brot Museum

In Kronburg, we decided to give the agricultural museum a miss; instead we sought out the clear waters of a natural lake. The shade was deep, the grass wet and cool, and the coffee from the cafe by the shore strong and freshly brewed. I logged my afternoon swim, Kedar snacked, and Simon pulled out a paper-back. We waited until the sun’s heat was spent, then climbed into the hills, and into the late evening. Another hostelry waited, another freshly cooked dinner, a different local brew. We rinsed our cycling jerseys, and hung them out to dry.

Next day, repeat - breakfast as the village bakery opened its doors, a picnic by the Danube, Lebanese lunch on a busy street, coffee and cakes in Viennese elegance.

We left Zurich to cycle to Munich. Instead we pedalled ourselves a moving feast of strawberries and yogurt, of sunlight and dappled green, fragments of history, glimpses of modern life. We measured out 600 kilometers of togetherness, clean air and the benediction of days well met.

Farmer's market, Munich

An Open-water swimming log

Manchanabele

January 3rd:
 
"Chai-paani ke liye kucch de do", the guard's friend told me when I looked appealingly at the barrier, between us and the open water of Manchanabele reservoir.

"No way", I said, so Georg reversed the car up the dirt track, and back on to the tarmac of the access road. We parked in a depression, out of sight of the guard house, ducked under the barbed wire, and tramped down a grassy slope to the weeds and cool mud of the lake shore.

We'd had a long day visiting a construction site near the dry red rocks of Ramnagaram village. Here, the water was deliciously cool, and the suspended silt gave it a sense of reality, akin to the fragrance of 'geel', the ittar that celebrates the falling of rain on hot, dry soil.

"The far shore must be about a km. away", Georg estimated. The light was already fading, and getting there and back before dark was going to going to be a close call. We struck out, relishing the changing light, the freedom of open water, and the joy of companionship. Georg turned back a bit before me, and just as his silhouette emerged onto the darkening shore, an army truck ground to a halt, and three figures jumped out to engage with him. I felt like a truant schoolboy, caught in the act.

I was still out of earshot when I heard them shout out to me. "You'll have to wait till I get ashore", I thought, and continued to stroke. When I looked up again, to get my bearings, they were shouting again, "All OK, Sir?"

Indeed.

Couldn't be better.

Smiles all around. "You went all the way to that shore, Sir?" I nodded.

"Too good, Sir"

Good night.

Porbandar
January 7th

To be continued

Cycling through the buzz

"Sugar is a harmful industrial grade drug", a friend WhatsApped me yesterday.

I know, and I'm addicted to it.

And when I severely overdose, as I did for Rakhi yesterday, then my head buzzes me awake after the first wave of sleep. At 3 a.m., I stared at the clock, wondering what to do with the rest of the night.

At 4, I crawled back into bed and slept fitfully until my son, Kedar, poked his head into our bedroom at 5:30. He already had his cycling shorts on, so I decided to grit my teeth, and ride through the buzz.

Tentatively at first, and when we saw Supratim running up the road from Andrews Ganj, I was still only clocking 27 km per hour. We swung right under the South Ex flyover, negotiated the merging traffic of school vans and DTC buses, rounded the short section of the Ring Road, and then gathered speed as we rode past Defence Colony. By the time we passed the Lajpat Nagar metro station, the endorphins were kicking in, the air, though heavy with damp, was still cool, and I revved up the pace to gather momentum for the long ramp of the flyover.

Sunday's long slow ride must have been good for my legs, because the climb did nothing to slow me down, and even as I crested the flyover, I was still clocking 33 km. an hour. I crouched to make the most of gravity, and hit 40 before I started pedaling. We were on a roll, and roared up the Oberoi flyover with the same gusto, past Delhi Public School, and under the massive neem trees of Mathura Road. We slowed a bit as we crossed the Zoo, then veered left past the High Court, meeting traffic again on the impeccable tarmac of India Gate's C hexagon.

By now, I needed a drink, and there's something compelling about the Amar Jawan Jyoti, so we turned in to stop by India Gate. A young cyclist stopped by us, in silent communion. Kedar's tires needed a little more air, and his pump was proving fiddly, so our new companion proffered his. We chatted for a bit, then rode out to the traffic together. The rehydration salts in my bottle felt good in my system, and the hexagon is free of traffic lights, making for a great sprint round it: 33, 34, 36, 37. It's great to be alive, and kicking those pedals around.

Even at 7, not a soul stirred along the road fronting the villas of Golf Links. Billionaires need to sleep in late. We cruised past the Lodi Road crematorium; in a last burst of enthusiasm, I decided to test my legs again, and pumped up the Def Colony flyover. I held 33 till a hundred yards short of the top. Then I got the gearing wrong, dropped tempo, and was a little dismayed to see my speed drop to 29. Ah well..we rode back home at a easy canter.

The pink papers were waiting on the dining table, car prices have been kicked back up, as the GST council adds a post-script cess. I call for a chai. The buzz is gone, replaced by the mild excitement of an unfolding day.

"Khooni Jheel", or pinning the blame

Gory headlines sell, and sub-editors ply their trade in response.

However, the article under this Hindustan Times headline* on May 19th came my way not because of its bloody title, but because I frequent the area in which the lake is situated.

"A lake in the Aravalli Hills near Surajkund Road, which has earned notoriety for a number of deaths over the years, claimed three more lives on Wednesday. Police said the victims were among a group of eight people who visited the lake, locally known as ‘khooni jheel’."

Near Surajkund, just south of the Delhi-Haryana border, there is a large outcrop of the Aravali hills, with red, undulating soil, grey-green keekar, and 'blue bulls', or nilgai, which are neither blue nor bulls, but a species of antelope. Till the 1970s, this area was quarried for sand and rocks. Then a Supreme Court order banned quarrying in the region, and decreed that, since it was forest land, construction would not be allowed either. 

Some of the quarries had scooped out earth down to a layer of impervious soil, and over the decades, these became substantial water bodies. At least 3 make for serious swimming. The one I frequent, right in the heart of the wilderness, is called Bhardwaj lake, named for the quarry owner who once operated it. In the monsoons, when the water level is high, it runs over 400 meters from the sandy beach at its southern end, to the red cliffs in the north. For our little group of dedicated open-water swimmers, it is our training paradise. In rain or high sun, we log our weekly kilometers there; in winter, the weak of flesh sport wetsuits; my braver companions make do with a spot of cognac after. 

We approach Bhardwaj lake from the northern end, through the broad roads of Kant Enclave, where the plot lines have disappeared to keekar scrub, as the owners and the developers await yet another court decision. Where the development ends, the patchy tarmac yields to a track of dirt and rock. 

A kilometer in, two shipping containers house a liquor vend, which retails alcohol at prices dictated by Haryana state excise rates. Less than 100 meters away, across a line that exists only on bureaucratic maps, the higher Delhi excise rates prevail. "Arbitrage", I told a young friend one day, as we watched motorcycle delivery boys leave the vend, and head for the rocky tracks that lead into the densely populated settlements of Delhi's Sangam Vihar.

On the south-eastern side, closer to Faridabad, you can approach the lakes from opposite the Manav Rachna International University, and the College of Traffic Management. Bhardwaj lake is almost 5 km away, but the CITM Lake II is a lot closer, and judging by the beer bottles, cigarette packs and metallic snack wrappers that litter its shores, many student groups find their way there. Alcohol and deep water, unfortunately, do not mix well, and the false bravado of intoxication has led to many drowning in the lake. 

“Our students used to visit the lake till a few years ago. When some of our students drowned, we had to dig the road,” said Prashant Bhalla, chancellor, Manav Rachna International University. 

Someone has, indeed, carved a deep trench into the road that approaches CITM lake; however, our 2-wheeler drivers are an intrepid breed, and traverse cycle tracks, side-walks, DDA parks and the red soil of the Aravalis with equal facility. 

Deterrence is not the answer - the lakes are a gorgeous haven from the dense living of urban India. Instead, the chancellor might think about educating his young charges -  to respect nature; to enjoy it, without polluting it. Bring your namkeens, but take the packs home; drink your beer, but don't smash the bottles on the rocks. 

And above all, don't swim if you don't know how. 

Open waters, even the still waters of an abandoned quarry, are challenging. I have twice rescued talented tri-athletes much younger and fitter than I, who panicked in the middle of the lake, the depths of the water suddenly darkening the lizard brain.

Under the influence of alcohol, the emotions are even more volatile, and motor control a great deal worse. Death by drowning is a ghastly end to what could be a joyous outing in nature, a celebration of life. 

It is not the lake that is the killer - it is the alcohol, the lack of education and responsible advocacy. 





http://www.hindustantimes.com/delhi-news/three-men-from-delhi-drown-in-a-surajkund-lake-cops-yet-to-recover-bodies/story-0LnQhcvpoQfcz7QW1rIQII.html