The Biggest Battle

Where did it all begin?

To my recall – as imperfect as it is – the first solid intimations that there may be something not quite right with my physical health came around 2010, though even earlier there were inklings.

It’s a warm afternoon in spring in the northern Indian state of Rajasthan. I am on a ten-day cycling trip with my daughter, Ondine, and son-in-law, Dror. We weave through rural villages, see women in brightly coloured sarees going about their work, their children at their sides, and take in the stunning desert vistas that typify the region. It is a welcome respite from the earlier part of our trip, which had begun in Delhi. There, I had witnessed the dire poverty that besets so many, the broken-down infrastructure, the noise, the sheer pressure of the masses, the cacophony of animals and vehicles, the crush of endless activity. Later, in Jaipur and Jodhpur we will enjoy the architectural beauty of the colonial palaces for which the regions are famed.

Throughout my business career in finance, cycling had been my go-to recreation. It is a departure from the cares and woes of fund management, the perfect opportunity to immerse myself deeply in the day to day lives of other cultures and step off the professional highwire.

I enjoyed numerous such trips often with Ondine and like-minded adventurers from the early 1990s onwards, and took them on with all my vitality. Italy, France, Ireland, Alaska, China, Cuba and Israel were among the places I rode, each for around seven days, in the company of friends, family – often Ondine and Dror – and tour groups, all of us eager for a down to earth, street-level experience of the textures and flavours of life in foreign lands. I was generally strong, fit and able, and confident in my riding, and I took enormous pleasure in it.

This time, however, I am not myself. For months before the trip I am uneasy. Somehow I don’t feel right. I am unsure if I am up to the task of a demanding ride. Thinking back to the trip I took in Cuba some six years earlier with my brother Ron and his wife Mary, I recall that I had inexplicably overheated, and found myself taxed beyond expec- tations. Dror and Ondine, always with my best interests in mind, had encouraged me to commit to the India trip despite my protestations. They believed the adventure would do me the world of good.

It had been a harrowing three or four years prior to departure, and the thinking was that cycling would be a tonic. Now, hovering tenta- tively on the saddle of my teetering bike, I wonder if I still have it in me.