Cycling from Mumbai to Goa
Nine adventure seekers pedal on the road less travelled past seas and hills
The 680km bicycle ride from Mandwa to Madgaon was to last eight days in March, but the journey began three months earlier. A practice regime was set up and the drill included climbs to Lonavala, Matheran and Igatpuri, not far from Mumbai. If the team could handle the rigours of these ascents, it could actually enjoy the ride later.
On 4 March, nine excited cyclists set off on the 6.15am ferry from the Gateway of India to Mandwa. Like knights setting off to scour for dragons, each expected his exploits to be enshrined in song and prose. The team logo, Goan Cases, was emblazoned across each throbbing chest.
The first morning was a gentle 54km rock-and-roll to Kashid. An overcast sky and a gentle drizzle smiled on us. Our homestay there, Shubham, rests on a private beach and offers, on tap, the most faultless sol kadhi one can dream up.
The joie de vivre in the camp was thick enough to be sliced with a chainsaw. The plan was to set off at six the next morning, but as you can expect with a large, strong-headed group, chasing dragons was all very well but sleep was better.
Most journeys are a dance of time. You hop on to a flight, queue up when the plane lands and scurry past other passengers at the claim carousel. If you reach the destination in the quickest possible time, you are the bee’s knees.
For me, a bicycling tour is never about the destination. It is the journey that holds you by the scruff. The winding paths, the playful breeze in your hair, the changing colours on the horizon—each tugs at your heart, pleading you to stay, to savour, to cherish.
For the second evening’s halt, my heart was set on Kelshi, a dusty hamlet with one main street and a hundred houses. Over 130km of climbing roads separated us, as well as two ferry crossings. We had planned for a dip in the peerless Diveagar beach, as well as a pit stop at the Velas Turtle festival.
The weather gods almost spoiled the ambitious plan—the cloud cover evaporated as quickly as water in a Marathwada dam. The March heat sapped our energies and we trundled into Velas early in the evening, ragged but undefeated.
To our disappointment, no turtle hatchlings emerged that day, but lady fortune did smile on us an hour later. There is a forbidden creek that separates Velas and Kelshi, and only the locals know that you can cross it in a rowboat.
Despite the late hour, there were a couple of hodis (rowboats) fishing for dinner, and a boatman eagerly ferried us to Kelshi. It was a novel experience for him too, having cyclists plead for a ride, and he did not know how much to charge us. His kindness saved us around 30km of riding on an already stretched evening.
The charm of the Konkan lies in the hospitality of the villagers. In our twisted modern lives, we think twice about dropping in unannounced on relatives or friends. But in the Konkan, you merely land up and there is always a place to stay.
Homestays are not difficult to find, and most of them are not online. To top it all, the home-cooked fare at these informal lodging is manna from the heavens. That evening, we stayed at Biwalkar’s, a homestay run by the temple head priest in Kelshi. We still smack our lips when we remember the generous and delicious vegetarian fare that evening.
Everything had gone according to plan and the mood in the bivouac was like that at a comedians’ convention. The only sore point was the absence of fish at the dinner table, owing to the unseasonal showers. The tallest and hungriest Goan Case, Tambhuraj (Tams), who had started the journey salivating about crabs and other edible crustaceans, was sulking.
In the morning on Day 3, we were cruising into Harnai when a curious villager rode past in his scooter. He gave me the customary quiz: Where are you from, where are you heading, how many days, how many riders? I returned the courtesy, and learned he was heading to the dock for the famous fish auction. I told Tams to tag along and bid for some fish that we could enjoy in the afternoon at our homestay in Guhagar.
Tams needed no second invitation. “The auction was lively and colourful, the fisherwomen ‘murderous and aggressive’," he reported later with a broad smile. “The fisherwoman said something very fast, I did not understand a word. I just pointed at things, and she glared at me. Five minutes later, they handed me four kilos of fresh assorted fish."
That evening, we set up a candlelit table on the beachfront at Guhagar, and enjoyed a memorable feast of rum and fish under the stars.
The most attractive part of the Mumbai-Goa coastal route is, of course, the beach. Worldwide, the best beaches are formed on low-lying alluvial coasts. No wonder, then, that the Konkan coast has some of the cleanest and longest beachfronts in India. The sand is fine, the slope gentle and you don’t need an epiphany to tell you to dive into the water.
The best beach along the 600km coastline has to be Undi, around 10km north of Ganapatipule. The water is clean and gentle, almost like a private pool. There is little sand movement and the ocean floor is clear even when you are chest deep in the water. It is easier to swim here than at the stormier beachfronts of Diveagar, Guhagar or Tarkarli.
That is what we did on the afternoon of Day 4: parked our cycles, jumped into the water and waded around for an hour before we headed to Ganapatipule for beer and fish. The stay that evening was in tents a further 15km away, at Kalbadevi near Ratnagiri.
An early start on Day 5 brought us to Devgad by noon, clocking over 100km in growing heat. I had to stop three or four times at wayside homes and ask for water for a quick shower. The warmth in the Konkan is unmatched: not only do villagers rush you help without hesitation, they are also extremely encouraging.
Another rider who was humbled by the rustic generosity is Vijay Beladkar, an avid trekker who rode solo to Goa in four days along NH17 during the Holi weekend this year. He says, “An ice-cream seller at the top of Parshuram Ghat near Chiplun told me, ‘You have cycled from so far, you must take an ice-cream from me and if you have time, let us go to my house. It is nearby and we can eat together’."
Beladkar also cannot forget the support of rickshaw drivers and cycle repair shops. “Aho ya unhat aamhi dukanachya baher nahi padat aani tumhi ghaatcha chadhoon aalat… kamal aahe tumchi… asoo de paise naka deu… khoob laamb challa aahat… tumhi sambhaloon ja bassa." (On such a hot afternoon, I hate to leave the shop and go out in the sun, and you have climbed a ghat and come to my shop. Please don’t offer me any money. You have cycled very long, please ride safely.)
Tams recounts, “I will always remember the innocent kids waving to us from the top of the hillocks, from the top of the houses, from inside their classrooms. Most came running behind us just to wish us good luck... I became a 10-year-old once again."
The stay at Devgad had a swimming pool where we cooled off in the evening—435km were in the bag and we had Goa well within our sights. The energy level in the camp could electrify a small town. A few serious maintenance issues—missing ball-bearings, broken derailleurs, wheel alignments—were dealt with as ruthlessly as Garry Nash was by Garfield Sobers in a six-ball over on 31 August 1968. No Goan Case was going to throw in the towel.
Day 6 took us to Malvan for lunch. The plan for a riverside lunch and siesta in a villager’s backyard fizzled out and we had to settle for a charmless fish meal at the sub-par MTDC, Tarkarli. We left Malvan by three, bidding farewell to the coastal road, and headed to Kudal.
Three years ago, on my first ride along this route, I had continued up the coast to Vengurla. At night, we had snuggled into sleeping bags at a wayside temple at Mhapan, and the priest had woken us at dawn by tolling the bell.
But the Malvan-Vengurla stretch is treacherous and hilly with indifferent roads. Heading inland to Kudal was a safer bet. We stayed at a pleasant bungalow owned by a retired couple, and the host would not let us go without hearing our exploits and clicking photographs with us.
The next morning, the NH17 was a brisk cruise. It was just after 11 when we uncorked the beer at Baga beach in north Goa.
Over seven days, the Goan Cases had whistled past four districts and traversed 100 bridges. We conquered 45 climbs and screamed down 45 descents. Each ascent took us to a crest with a rewarding view of a calm sea tossing gently till it came to hiss and coo at warm golden sand. Each insane downhill yanked us back to a contented village on a sheltered shore that whispered to us: this is where you came from, this is where you shalt rest.
Shankar Ramachandran is a cyclist with a master’s degree in education.
Photographs courtesy the Goan Cases. Graphics by Prajakta Patil/Mint.
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