Pedaling Through Life: A Father–Son Ashtavinayak Cycling Pilgrimage by Sunil Khandbahale - HTML preview

Day 6: Journey

Continued

The night at Jejuri pulsed with the rhythm of drums, music, and chants, a final farewell to Lord Ganesha after ten divine days. Yet, despite the echoing celebration, both of us slept deeply and peacefully. Perhaps it was the pure exhaustion of the road, or maybe, as I often say, true tiredness is nature’s best lullaby. Physical effort grants the kind of rest no luxury mattress can ever promise.

At dawn, we woke with renewed spirit. The festive scent of turmeric still hung in the air as we packed our bags, checked our bikes, and rolled out of Jejuri. The cool breeze kissed our faces, carrying whispers of devotion from the distant hills.

Ahead of us lay Theur, the abode of Lord Chintamani, the remover of worries.. before we would cross the bustling city of Pune by evening.

The sky stretched like an artist’s palette, soft greys, bright whites, a gentle blush of blue. We rolled downhill, gliding smoothly for a few glorious minutes before the inevitable climb began again.

And just like life, cycling teaches you rhythm, every descent is followed by an ascent. Every moment of ease prepares you for the next challenge. We paused for a sip of lemon water, nature’s perfect energy drink.. before pedaling onward through the morning calm.

Spiritual Stop at Theur As we neared Theur, the scent of wet earth and blooming fields filled the air. Theur, once built and loved by the Peshwas, stood before us.. peaceful, ancient, and welcoming.

We parked our bikes near the temple gate, where a kind security guard urged us to hurry.. “The Prasad will be over soon,” he said. We smiled. Lord Ganesha never lets his devotees go hungry.

Under a shaded wooden pavilion, volunteers served steaming food with warmth and joy. They looked at our dusty cycling gear and insisted we take second helpings. Their kindness fed more than our bodies, it nourished our spirits.

Inside the temple, carved sagwan wood and the sound of old bells filled the air with history. One of those bells, they said, was a gift from the Peshwas themselves. And again, we found the portrait of Jagadguru Shri Morya Gosavi Maharaj, the visionary who had first given form to this sacred Ashtavinayak pilgrimage.

Before leaving, we met the temple manager, Mr. Bodre, a soft-spoken man with an eye for travelers’ needs. Over a cup of tea, he suggested an alternate route through Pimpri– Chinchwad to avoid Pune’s heavy traffic. His advice, as we would soon discover, was a blessing in disguise.

Rain and Rush of Pune

As we left Theur behind, the peaceful countryside slowly gave way to the chaos of the city. The quiet hum of crickets was replaced by honking cars, flashing billboards, and restless energy.

And then, the skies opened.

Rain came down in torrents, heavy and unrelenting. But instead of seeking shelter, we embraced it. Two riders, soaked to the bone, laughing in the downpour, rolling through half-empty streets as the city ducked for cover.

The rain became our companion, washing away fatigue and turning each puddle into a playful challenge. Yet as the kilometers passed, the exhaustion of navigating chaos crept in. Maps struggled to make sense of narrow lanes and flyovers. Both of us began to long for the peace of open fields again.

And somewhere between the splashing tires and city noise, a quiet thought arose, Have we really progressed with our cities, or just complicated our simplicity? Why do people work so hard in these concrete jungles only to crave escape into nature on weekends? The question stayed with us as we pedaled through the drizzle.

Cyclists Along the Way

Just as we were maneuvering through the crowded roads, a friendly motorist waved and pulled over. “Hey, cyclists!” he called. His name was Mr. Gajanan Khaire, a fellow cycling enthusiast. His excitement was infectious as he offered us tea and breakfast. We politely declined, determined to cross the city before dark.

When we mentioned the pain from long hours of riding, he immediately recommended a friend at the Decathlon store nearby who could help. “He’ll take care of you,” he said.

And he was right. The moment we reached the store, we were greeted by a smiling man who introduced himself as Mr. Bipin Undhre, a seasoned cyclist who had already clocked over sixty-five thousand kilometers on his bike! His goal, he told us, was seventy-five thousand by year’s end. I laughed and challenged him to aim for one lakh. He grinned, “Challenge accepted.”

Bipin helped us pick the perfect padded shorts, a small change that brought us immense relief. After six long days of riding, that comfort felt like a miracle.

Meanwhile, Shriram’s eyes sparkled as he admired the sleek Triban RC100, a model he had been eyeing since Daund. “I’ll own it one day, Baba,” he said, his voice full of quiet determination.

I smiled. “And you will,” I replied. Some dreams don’t need encouragement but just acknowledgment.

With renewed comfort and lighter hearts, we pedaled out of the store, grateful for the unspoken brotherhood among cyclists everywhere.

The Metro Miracle

By late evening, the rain returned, heavier this time. We stopped under a flyover to plan our next move when a young man approached us.. cheerful, curious, and helpful.

“Are you on the Ashtavinayak Yatra?” he asked, pointing at the nameplate on our bikes. We nodded.

He smiled. “Then take the Pune Metro! You can carry your bicycles inside, it’s allowed. You’ll cross the city in minutes.”

It sounded unbelievable but true. Just ahead stood Ramwadi Metro Station. We rolled our bikes in, purchased tickets, and for the first time in six days, our bicycles became passengers.

As the elevator doors closed, a few onlookers stared curiously. Some even mistook us for railway workers in bright red jackets. Inside the air-conditioned metro, we laughed quietly, watching the flooded streets glide by below.

It felt divine, a moment of rest gifted by the universe itself. Our fellow commuters asked about our journey, inspired by the sight of two drenched riders with bikes in tow. That young man.. our spontaneous guide.. truly felt like an angel sent for that exact moment.

Night at the Guest House

We alighted at Pune Station, the city lights glowing like scattered jewels. Traveling further to Lonavala at night didn’t feel wise. So, I phone called my elder brother, a judicial magistrate who had once served in Pune for guidance. On his advice, we headed to a nearby Government Guest House.

The night-duty manager greeted us kindly and offered a simple dormitory room. No frills. No fancy decor. Just a clean space and to us, it felt like luxury.

We parked our bikes safely inside, washed off the day’s grime, and made our way to the canteen, still open and bustling. Dinner was warm, humble, and comforting. As we ate, the rhythmic sound of rain on the tin roof became our music.

Lying on our beds later, we looked at our faithful bicycles resting quietly by the wall, still wet but gleaming with pride.

Shriram turned to me and whispered, “Our bikes must be happy today.”

I smiled. “Yes,” I said softly. “For once, they got to rest while we did the riding.”

Reflections on the Road

Every day of this pilgrimage was teaching us something new.. patience, humility, surrender. The forest and the city, the climb and the glide, the effort and the ease, all part of the same divine rhythm.

As we drifted to sleep, ready to catch the local train to Lonavala at dawn, I realized something quietly profound.

This journey was never just about reaching temples or ticking off miles.

It was about transforming within.. one pedal, one prayer, one realization at a time.

Day 7: Journey

Continued

They say, “To experience life, slow down.”

Our seventh day began not with the rush of wheels or sunrise excitement, but with a little surprise from the road itself. By 5 a.m., we were all set, bags tied, helmets snug, hearts eager to roll.. when I noticed my bike’s rear tire had gone flat. The rain from the night before had clearly played mischief, carrying tiny sharp debris into the tube.

For a moment, I felt a pang, like watching a companion fall ill mid-journey. But before I could even worry, Shriram, as always, had a spark in his eyes.

“Baba,” he said, “let’s not wait for shops to open. Let’s take the train to Lonavala. We’ll fix it there and skip the morning traffic.”

Brilliant. Practical. Adventurous.

Train Ride to Lonavala, A Different Kind of Journey

By six, we were at Pune Station.. tickets in hand, cycles carefully loaded into the luggage compartment. For once, our loyal bikes weren’t carrying us; they were the passengers.

As the train rolled out, the city blurred into streaks of color. Watching life flash past at such speed felt both fascinating and strange. On a bicycle, you feel every breath of the world — the smell of wet soil, the greeting nods from strangers, the rhythm of your own heartbeat. But from a train, life passes by like a slideshow.. visible, yet untouchable.

Cycling slows life down and in that slowness, you start truly living.

Shriram sat by the window, quiet and thoughtful. I didn’t disturb him. I knew that reflection is as vital as motion. Sometimes, the journey within begins long before the next destination appears.

The Rain, the Ghat, and the Mechanic Who Believed in Service

By 8 a.m., we reached Lonavala under a misty drizzle. We needed a mechanic, but no one seemed to know of any. For many, the world of cyclists is invisible until you step into it.

Shriram pulled up Google Maps. “Two kilometers from here,” he said. And so we walked through rain-washed lanes, past mist-covered cottages and ancient bungalows. The world was quiet, dreamy, and almost sacred.

At one field, young men were doing military-style training.. shouting commands, pushing through mud and pain. Watching their focus stirred something in us. Perseverance that’s the real muscle behind every victory.

We finally reached a small cycle repair shop, the only one open that early. The mechanic, already at work, greeted us with a smile. He fixed the puncture swiftly. A tiny metal spike had been the culprit. But he didn’t just repair a tire; he restored our rhythm.

He was more than a mechanic. He was a man of the road, a believer in service. We left with his blessings and a renewed sense of gratitude.

Breakfast, Fog, and Freedom Our stomachs soon reminded us that devotion also needs digestion. A small eatery nearby welcomed us with steaming idlis, dosas, vada pav, and sandwiches. The warmth of the food, mixed with the cool morning mist, felt divine.

By 9:20, we were back on our saddles. The rain was soft, almost playful, as we rode downhill through the fog-kissed valleys of Lonavala and Khandala. The air was rich.. cold, fragrant, and alive. Clouds wrapped around us like gentle arms. Every few meters, we stopped for tea, for photos, or simply to breathe.

At one small stall, a woman offered us hot chai. As we sipped, she spoke about her life. How the rains hurt farmers but brought more travelers, helping her keep her family afloat. Her words carried gratitude wrapped in simplicity. That cup of tea under rain, fog, and compassion became one of our sweetest memories.

People of the Road, Wisdom and Warmth

Further downhill, an elderly man waved to us with joy. He lived nearby, helping his daughter-in-law sell roasted corn to tourists. His stories were simple, but his peace profound.

Between bites of corn and laughter, he reminded us that true wealth is not in possessions, but in love, faith, and honest work.

As we continued, the mountains turned into poetry.. waterfalls cascading like silver ribbons, fog drifting like silk, and valleys echoing laughter. For Shriram, this stretch became the heart of our journey. For me, it was the joy of watching him live it and not just ride it.

Mahad, The Grace of Shri Varad Vinayak By afternoon, we reached Mahad, home of Lord Varad Vinayak, the seventh of the sacred Ashtavinayak shrines.

There was no exhaustion, only peace. Standing before the deity, our hearts were still. The temple was quiet, and the lake behind it mirrored everything.. sky, trees, and devotion.

I thought to myself, To truly see yourself, be still like a lake. When the water is calm, it reflects truth. When disturbed, it shows illusion.

Soon, we met Mr. Rajendra Badgujar and the temple trustees. Among them was Mr. Joshi, a cyclist from Thane. Overjoyed by our journey, they blessed us and offered sacred prasad.. sweet lapsi, food for both body and soul.

Their warmth was a reminder: faith connects faster than words ever can.

Onward to Pali, The Final Stretch Beckons

With hearts full, we began pedaling again toward Pali, home of Lord Ballaleshwar, the final stop of our thousand-kilometer pilgrimage.

The road turned poetic.. green valleys, sleepy villages, the monsoon mist hanging like a hymn over trees. We rode mostly in silence, speaking only through smiles.

Soon, the Konkan highway opened wide before us. Smooth, fast, busy. But somehow, we missed the slow village roads, the ones that taught patience, humility, and the value of small joys.

Truck drivers passed, waving or honking encouragingly. Respect on the road, a rare gift.

As we passed Imagica Park, Shriram’s eyes lit up. We had once planned a family trip there but never went. Watching his quiet excitement, I felt the passage of time.. how children grow and dreams wait. But this journey… this pilgrimage of sweat, spirit, and smiles. It had given us more happiness than any amusement park ever could.

The Roadside Angel

We stopped by a small stall to throw away our waste. The shopkeeper, an elderly man with kind eyes, pointed to the bin… then, almost like a messenger, said, “You’re going to Pali Ganpati? Don’t miss the hot water lake nearby. Take a holy dip there. It’s divine.”

His words felt less like advice, more like destiny whispering directions. We thanked him and moved on — unaware that those words would soon guide our night.

Arrival at Pali, The Final Darshan

As dusk settled, we entered the serene lanes of Pali. Old wooden houses, clay roofs, and the quiet hum of temple bells welcomed us home.

And then, at last… the temple of Lord Ballaleshwar. Our final destination.

After a thousand kilometers of devotion and discovery, we stood before the divine idol… eyes moist, hearts silent. Shriram whispered, “Baba, it feels like Ganpati is everywhere… in the trees, the people, even the rain.”

I smiled. “That’s because, beta, when your heart awakens, you start seeing God in everything.”

The air was filled with a spiritual discourse on Advaita Vedanta, echoing exactly what we felt. The One is everywhere. The journey within is the real pilgrimage.

The Gentle Soul of Pali – Mr. Soman After darshan, we met Mr. Chandrashekhar Soman, the temple manager, a man of rare calm and kindness. His very presence was comforting.

He insisted we stay the night at the temple guest house and even offered a beautiful suite. “You must rest,” he said. “Tomorrow, take the train from Nagothana toward home.”

Over dinner, he shared simple yet profound lessons about karma, faith, and the timing of life’s rewards. His humility reminded me of saints from scriptures… ordinary in words, extraordinary in wisdom.

The Mysterious Hot Water Lake

Just as I was ready to rest, Shriram reminded me of the lake the old man had mentioned. It was dark and late. I hesitated. But his enthusiasm was unstoppable.

“Let’s go, Baba. We can’t end our journey with a maybe.”

So we went, towels packed, hearts curious. But fate had one more surprise… my rear tire went flat again.

A local mechanic checked and sighed. The tube was gone. Replacement needed. But he didn’t have one. Then, with a smile, he said, “Take my cycle. Visit your lake. I’ll fix yours while you’re away.”

A stranger trusting us with his own bicycle, pure faith in action.

We rode through the dark, guided by faith more than light. The road wound through fields and forests, at times eerie, at times peaceful. Finally, faint lights shimmered ahead. And there it was! the Hot Water Lake.

We stepped in… and instantly, warmth wrapped around us like grace itself. All fatigue melted away. The water soothed every cell, every thought.

Science might call it geothermal heat. But to us, it was divine energy… nature’s way of saying “Well done.”

The Night of Gratitude

By the time we returned, our bike was fixed. The mechanic’s trust had been rewarded, and ours reaffirmed. At the temple dining hall, volunteers served us hot prasad. We ate in silence, hearts overflowing.

Later, as we lay in our comfortable beds, rain tapping gently on the window, I whispered a thought that had formed within me:

“The end of every pilgrimage is not in reaching the temple… but in realizing that the temple was always within.”

That night, the rain sang us to sleep, a lullaby of gratitude for two travelers who had found not just the road… but themselves.