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

Two Wheels, One Soul:

 

A Cycle’s Tale of a

 

Thousand Kilometers

 

As told by Sunil’s Bicycle

I am made of metal and motion…

Two wheels, a frame, and a spirit that hums when the wind brushes past my handlebar.

I was built to move … but I never knew that someday, I’d move a soul.

For years, I stood quietly in the corner of the house … wiped clean, oiled on Sundays, ready for short rides to work. My rider, Sunil, often took me through city lanes … to his research center, to the market, to thoughtful evening rides when he needed to clear his mind.

I loved those rides … short, but meaningful.

But then, one morning… everything changed. He looked at me differently … not as transport, but as a companion.

“Let’s go on a pilgrimage,” he said aloud.

“All eight Ashtavinayak temples… on cycles.”

At first, I thought it was one of those passing human dreams … bright in the morning, forgotten by night. But soon, I saw him planning, polishing me, checking my gears, loading a saddlebag on my back.

There was excitement in his eyes … the kind that only dreamers carry.

And beside him, another young rider … his son, Shriram … stood with a spark I hadn’t seen before.

His own cycle, shiny and eager, stood next to me like a younger sibling.

We looked at each other … two machines, one seasoned, one new … knowing we were about to share something unforgettable.

The First Pedal: From Routine to Reverence

When our journey began, I could feel the tremble in Sunil’s legs … part excitement, part fear.

The road was long, the destination far, but his faith was firm.

As the first rays of dawn touched our frames, I whispered to the road beneath us … “We are ready.” The road whispered back … “Then begin.”

Through cities and villages, we rolled.

I carried him not just on my seat, but in spirit … his laughter, his thoughts, his silent prayers.

Every time he leaned forward to climb a hill, I felt his heartbeat through the pedals.

Every time we coasted downhill, I heard his sigh of freedom.

I saw people turn and stare.

Children waved, elders blessed, dogs chased … each adding a note to the music of our pilgrimage.

At Jejuri, I waited near a wall while Sunil and Shriram disappeared into the temple crowd.

My wheels cooled from the heat of the road, my frame resting.

But I could still feel the vibration of their devotion returning through the ground …

as if the earth itself was alive with prayer.

Lessons from the Road

Cyclists say they ride for freedom.

I say we ride for truth.

Because when you are on two wheels, you cannot lie, not to yourself, not to the world.

Every mistake shows. Every effort counts.

I’ve seen Sunil ride through rain … drenched, smiling, unstoppable.

I’ve seen him battle the sun’s fire, lips dry, yet still whispering, “Ganpati Bappa Morya.”

I’ve felt his muscles weaken, then rise again with the thought of his son beside him.

And oh, the son!

Shriram, young, strong, impatient, curious. His cycle would often race ahead, then wait, turning back to see if we were coming.

Sometimes, I’d hear his laughter echo behind me, teasing his father with youthful energy.

Other times, silence, the kind of silence that happens when a boy is learning something deep about life, about his father, about himself.

At Theur, when Sunil rested his hand on my seat and said softly, “The road teaches more than books,” I knew he was right.

The Beauty I Witnessed

If humans have eyes, I have wheels and they too can see.

I’ve seen fog kiss the mountains at Lonavala like a dream still half-asleep.

I’ve seen trees bend like mothers offering shade to their traveling children.

I’ve seen small villages come alive with morning prayers and cows returning home by dusk.

I’ve seen temple bells swinging in rhythm with my spokes. I’ve seen kindness on unknown faces … a tea vendor, a fellow cyclist, a stranger offering directions like blessings.

And I’ve seen the bond between father and son bloom like sunlight after rain.

They spoke less, but shared more.

Their pauses were deeper than their words.

Sometimes, I’d feel Sunil slow down … pretending to adjust me, but really, he was letting his son lead.

And sometimes, I’d feel his hand tighten on the grip, a father’s instinct to protect.

Rest, Reflection, and Renewal

There were days when I ached … my tires thin, my chain heavy with mud.

But the care I received was almost tender. At every stop, Sunil would check my brakes, clean my gears, tighten my bolts.

To others, it was maintenance.

To me… it was love.

At night, when we were parked outside a temple or resting in a humble lodge,

I’d listen to their conversations …dreams, plans, laughter. Sometimes silence.

And I think, silence is sacred when shared between hearts that understand.

I also learned something about faith.

Humans go to temples to meet their gods. But for me, the road was the temple, and the journey itself was the prayer.

The Final Stretch

When we reached Pali … the last Ashtavinayak temple … I felt something divine flow through my frame.

The road had tested us.

The weather had shaped us.

And faith had carried us.

Sunil stood beside me, eyes moist, looking at Lord Ganesha’s idol.

Shriram stood next to him … hands folded, head bowed. I couldn’t pray… but I think I did —

in my own silent language of steel and spokes.

That night, when they took a holy dip in the warm spring waters,

I waited under the starlit sky.

Raindrops rested on my handlebar like blessings. For a moment, I felt alive, not as a machine, but as a witness to something eternal.

The Journey Home

On the way back, I could sense their eagerness to reach home,

to return to the ones waiting for them.

The same legs that had pedaled thousands of turns now carried gratitude instead of fatigue.

When we finally reached Nashik, I stood outside the house, muddy, tired, and shining.

Inside, laughter filled the air.

Hugs bridged the days apart.

And the aroma of home-cooked food filled the space like divine prasad.

No one noticed me much.

And that’s fine.

Because I was never meant to be the hero. I was the bridge…

between a father and son,

between faith and freedom,

between silence and understanding.

My Reflection

People often think cycles are lifeless,

but I believe we are keepers of human stories.

We remember the sweat, the laughter,

the prayers whispered while riding uphill,

and the peace felt when the road evens out again.

If I could speak to all humans, I’d say this:

Don’t rush through life.

Ride it slowly.

Feel the bumps, the wind, the effort, and the joy. Because the road doesn’t just take you somewhere, it makes you someone.

And if Lord Ganesha were to bless me,

I’d ask for nothing more than this …

Let me always carry hearts that seek meaning, not miles.

For I am just a bicycle…

But on this journey of a thousand kilometers, I became something more,

a silent witness to love, faith, and the human spirit in motion.

Wheels of Wonder: A

 

Young Cycle’s Journey

 

with Shriram

 

As told by Shriram’s Bicycle

 

They say every adventure begins with a spark. For me, it began with a smile, Shriram’s smile. That mischievous, unstoppable, “let’s do this” kind of smile.

I still remember the day he picked me up from the store. His eyes gleamed brighter than my polished frame. He ran his fingers over my handlebar like an artist feeling a new instrument.

And when he said softly, “You and I will go places,” I knew he meant it, literally.

At that time, I had no idea how far those places would be. A thousand kilometers later, I’d learn that roads don’t just stretch across maps,

they stretch across hearts.

The Journey Begins: Pedals, Prayers, and Playfulness

The first day of the Ashtavinayak Cycling Pilgrimage felt like the beginning of a festival.

The morning air was crisp, the roads were open, and my wheels were singing.

Beside me rode another cycle … older, heavier, quieter … carrying his father, Sunil.

I looked at her and nodded, like a young colt to an old horse: “Let’s see who keeps up.”

She didn’t reply, just rolled forward gracefully. But over the next few days, I understood her silence. She wasn’t competing; she was meditating.

Meanwhile, my rider was all enthusiasm.

He clicked photos, waved at villagers, and shouted, “Ganpati Bappa Morya!” every few kilometers. Sometimes he’d race ahead; sometimes he’d stop just to feel the breeze.

I loved his rhythm … impulsive, yet sincere.

Where his father sought devotion, Shriram sought discovery. And I? I carried both.

Through Rain and Radiance

Ah, the rain, my favorite companion!

It would drum on my frame, run down my spokes, and wash away the dust of the miles.

I remember Jejuri, that golden town where turmeric floated in the air like sunlight.

Shriram laughed through the streets, his face painted with yellow dust and joy.

When he called home on video to share the scene, even his phone camera couldn’t keep up with his excitement.

That night, parked under a lodge window, I listened to father and son talk softly.

Shriram was tired, but his voice had that tone of victory, that quiet pride of having earned sleep through effort.

I think humans underestimate what exhaustion can teach, that tiredness can be sacred when it comes from purpose.

Lessons in Motion I saw my rider grow on the road, not just in stamina, but in spirit.

He learned to fix a puncture without complaining. He learned that downhill speed feels glorious only because uphill climbs demand grit.

He learned that silence on the road isn’t emptiness, it’s peace.

There were moments when he’d stop suddenly, just to look around,

a herd of cows crossing, an old farmer smiling, children shouting “Cycle! Cycle!” and running beside us.

I could sense the gears turning in his mind, not mine, his. He was beginning to see the world, not just move through it.

At Lonavala, as fog hugged the hills, he went speechless. I could feel his breath slow, his heart steady. The boy who began this trip with energy was now learning stillness.

That’s the thing about long rides,

you start by chasing the wind, and end by listening to it.

The Bond Beyond Miles

Sometimes, I’d glance at the other cycle.

She carried Sunil with quiet dignity, a steady companion to a steady man.

When both of us rested at a temple or roadside tea stall, she’d say softly,

“He’s teaching his son to live, not just to ride.”

And I’d reply,

“And the son is teaching him to smile again.”

Together, we carried two generations,

one seeking meaning, one creating it.

They didn’t always speak much, but their bond was in their rhythm.

When one slowed down, the other waited. When one was silent, the other hummed a tune. Even their laughter sounded synchronized, a perfect cadence of father and son, man and boy, past and future.

Moments I’ll Never Forget

I’ll never forget that hot, sunny afternoon when we stopped at a roadside tea stall.

The lady served steaming chai in tiny glasses. Shriram took a sip, made a face, and said, “Too sweet!” … and then laughed, finishing it anyway.

Simple joy, no filters.

Or that night in Pali, when they went for the holy hot-water bath.

I waited under the stars while the temple bells echoed in the distance.

I could imagine Shriram splashing in the sacred water, his laughter mixing with the chants …

youth meeting divinity in the most innocent way.

And the next morning, as we started for home, he patted my seat gently and whispered,

“You did great, buddy.”

For a cycle, that’s like receiving a medal.

The Ride Home: Reflections and Realizations

The road back was quieter …

not because there was less to see, but because there was more to feel.

I think Shriram had changed.

He wasn’t just cycling anymore; he was understanding.

He began to ride slower, noticing details he’d missed before …

the way light broke through clouds, the smell of wet soil, the sound of temple bells fading behind.

He no longer raced ahead.

He matched his father’s pace … side by side, wheel to wheel. It was no longer a journey of two speeds, but of one heartbeat.

By the time we reached Nashik, his smile had matured. It wasn’t the grin of a boy who conquered roads, but the peace of a young man who discovered himself.

What I Learned as His Cycle

I was born to move … but in this pilgrimage, I learned to pause.

I learned that the meaning of travel isn’t in kilometers, but in connections.

I learned that companionship … whether between man and machine, or father and son … is the true fuel for any journey.

Most of all, I learned that growing up doesn’t mean losing curiosity.

It means finding wisdom in wonder.

When we reached home, I stood outside … wet, muddy, tired …

but my heart, if I had one, was full.

Inside, the family’s laughter echoed like temple bells. I heard Shriram telling his sister stories, his father smiling quietly beside him.

And I realized, for all my thousands of rotations, the most meaningful distance I helped him cover was not on the road, but the one between childhood and understanding.

If I could speak to other young riders, I’d tell them this:

“Ride far. Get lost. Sweat. Fall. Fix. Learn.

Because on the road, you don’t just find new places … you find new versions of yourself.”

I am just a bicycle … gears, brakes, and a bell that still rings faintly of rain and laughter.

But to me, this was more than a ride.

It was a chapter of life written on asphalt and faith, a story of two hearts, two wheels, and one beautiful road home.