If someone had informed my younger self that one day I’d cycle 700km across the Indian Himalayas for charity, I definitely would not have believed them. The revelation would undoubtedly have been met with hysteria at the thought of mounting a bicycle, never mind the unnerving prospect of cycling 700km in the blistering heat that India has to offer. However, life often veers off our expected path and presents us with opportunities that we are unable to turn down.
My
life as I knew it changed when I attended my friend James' presentation which hoped
to recruit volunteers to cycle the Himalayas in a bid to raise money for Childreach International, a charity aiming to unlock the potential of the world’s most
marginalised children and provide families with basic rights such as access to
food, water, education and healthcare. Something that began as moral support
for a friend soon transformed entirely and I found myself captivated by images
of India’s sprawling mountains, bustling urban cities and golden sandy beaches. Almost immediately, the adrenaline racing
through my veins motivated me to sign up for the adventure of a lifetime. Like myself, my future cycling companions Lizzie and Katy found the prospect of cycling such a long distance hilarious, whilst Lauren and Ruth were consumed with nerves.
Astonishingly,
my main disquietude was not about the intensity of a 700km uphill cycle, nor
did I consider the culture shock awaiting me. My initial thought after
committing to an Indian cycling excursion was meeting my fundraising
target of £2500. In a burst of excitement, I promptly began brainstorming ideas
and within a week I found myself in the centre of a crowded dance floor dressed
in a banana costume whilst shaking an equally brightly coloured fundraising
bucket. It is no exaggeration to claim that I was the centre of attention and I
began to understand how animals confined within a zoo must feel. Thankfully, the
awkward phase soon vanished and I began to enjoy the liberation my banana suit
delivered. Queues of drunken people staggered up to me to request photographs
and, oddly, I began to revel in my newly acquired celebrity status. I can confirm
that dressing up and acting the fool in public is indeed a highly effective
fundraising technique, much to the dismay of Lizzie who was reluctant to participate for fear of appearing idiotic. I couldn't believe my eyes when I counted my earnings at
the end of the night and realised that a lone, dancing banana had raised a
total of almost £150.
As the weeks flew by, I realised that a large-scale event would be necessary to boost my fundraising total and reach my distant goal. There was only one thing for it: Join forces with the cycling team that I would grow to view as family, and host a speed dating event. After weeks of planning, preparing and advertising, the big day arrived. The turnout was better than my team and I could ever have envisioned. There was an increasingly long queue of people waiting outside our venue of choice, Mr Lynch in Jesmond, all of whom were eager to discover what our night had in store. It seemed that the posters we’d distributed around the city centre had achieved their aim. By the end of the night, we had matched up several potential couples, hosted a raffle with big prizes and managed to raise £700!
As
the months drew on and my fundraising target was met, I began to equip myself
for the expedition of a lifetime. Browsing several specialist bicycle shops, I
realised I didn’t have the slightest clue about cycling. It was only after I began
intense spinning classes, after which I ached for days at a
time and even began to view walking up and down stairs as a great challenge,
that I realised my Indian endeavour was bound to be my most physically and
mentally demanding venture to date. I wasn't the alone. After one particularly difficult class, Lizzie joked that the other members of the gym must have thought she had been swimming as she was soaked with sweat. I could sympathise. Every spinning class was
agony and I was in need of a considerable morale boost for the expedition that
lay ahead.
The
finishing touches on my preparation checklist included applying for my Indian visa, which requires forward planning and impeccable timing as it becomes valid
from the date of issue rather than the date of entry. The same rules apply for
Inner Line Permit applications, an essential permit regardless of activity
type, allowing tourists and Indian citizens alike to enter and exit protected
areas of the Himalayas, such as the serene Ladakh, in an unproblematic
manner.
In
addition to this administration work, the sheer number of vaccinations required,
although unarguably an essential part of Indian travel, took a serious hit on my
bank balance and left me resembling a pin cushion of the human variety. These
less than desirable factors were counteracted by the comforting knowledge that
I would not be a victim of rabies or Japanese encephalitis any time soon. When
we were told to ensure our travel insurance included medical repatriation, the
fear really began to kick in and I anxiously wondered what I was letting myself
in for.
The
seasons changed rapidly. June arrived, and although I had been preparing for
months, I found myself on my bedroom floor at 1am on the morning of my
departure frantically attempting to cram my belongings into my backpack. I had
no idea that cycling required so much gear. 18kg later and I was ready to vacate,
harbouring a deep sense of apprehension regarding the journey from Newcastle to
Heathrow (via two trains and a tube), with an exceptionally heavy backpack in
tow.
Before
I knew it, I was located within the depths of a gargantuan aeroplane and filled
with eager anticipation regarding the physical and spiritual journey that lay
ahead of me. As we zoomed down the runway and rose above the clouds, I
acknowledged that the challenge awaiting me had the potential to change my life
as I knew it forever.
