Of Pedals, Bells, Tantrums of a Hooligan.
When my parents went abroad in the late sixties, my brother and I were promptly left behind in Madras with our grandparents—like so many children of that generation, raised on long-distance letters, international stamps, and a steady diet of rasam and restraint. Our days were ruled by routine, but my mornings had a rebellious twist. You see, my grandfather had a bicycle—a dignified black beast with a steel frame, a loyal creak, and a saddle that looked suspiciously like it was designed for a yogi, not a human bottom.
Every morning, like clockwork, I would stage an operatic tantrum to miss the school rickshaw—the kind pulled by an actual person who looked understandably exhausted by his lot—and instead plead to go with Thatha on his bicycle. There I’d be, a grinning imp perched on the crossbar as he pedalled with the serenity of a saint and the calf muscles of a Tour de France champion. No helmet, no fuss—just the wind in my face and the comfort of his presence.
The day I was gifted my own bicycle was nothing short of a coronation. We went to St. Anthony’s, right across from the Udupi church—a shop so serious about cycles, it felt like we were buying a companion, not a vehicle. The bicycle was an Atlas. Glossy, sturdy, glorious. And because this was no ordinary machine, it needed a name. You don’t just ride a bicycle—you befriend it. Mine was christened Scooty—a name that made no sense and perfect sense at the same time.
Scooty and I became inseparable. I rode her to school, to medical college, and on circuits around the campus that felt like world tours. Eventually, Scooty was upgraded—reincarnated, really—into a Hero Girl’s cycle, elegant and ladylike, with a basket up front that carried everything from textbooks to stolen guavas. But nothing quite matched the early adventures with Scooty, where every ride was a declaration of independence and a mild risk to public safety.
Evenings on campus were reserved for what can only be described as cycling theatre. A gang of us would take off—pedals spinning, laughter echoing—looping around familiar paths as though we were in a race only we understood. We weren’t graceful. We weren’t quiet. But we were unstoppable. The elders, with their folded newspapers and disapproving eyebrows, began referring to us as “those cycling hooligans”—though always with a smirk and, dare I say, a little envy. We had windblown hair, scraped knees, and a front-row seat to freedom. It was glorious.
Today, on World Bicycle Day, I find myself nostalgic—not just for Scooty, but for a time when cycling was woven into daily life. It wasn’t a “lifestyle choice” or a “fitness commitment.” It was how we got places, literally and metaphorically. Somewhere along the line, though, we traded in the humble cycle for horsepower and pollution, and what was once a joyful ride is now an extreme sport involving potholes, honking, and a prayer.
Other countries seem to have remembered what we forgot. The Dutch treat bicycles like royalty—no fuss, no fanfare, just seamless integration. Denmark built supercycle highways, which sounds like something out of a Marvel comic. Germany, Portugal, Japan, China—all have preserved cycling as a central part of their transport ecosystem. It’s not just a relic or a Sunday hobby; it’s a way of life.
Meanwhile, back home in India, cyclists dodge traffic like matadors and risk life and limb just to cross a junction. In cities like Bengaluru, cycle lanes appear and vanish like magician’s tricks—here one day, gobbled by metro construction the next. Cyclists account for a shocking percentage of road fatalities, which is both tragic and entirely preventable. We have the numbers—60% of short-distance trips can be made on cycles—but not the infrastructure or the will.
So, what do we do? We begin by remembering what cycling felt like. The wind, the laughter, the scraped knees and named bicycles. We advocate for safer roads, protected cycling lanes, and real integration with public transport. We support bike-sharing systems, we teach our children to ride confidently, and we make space—not just on the roads, but in our lives—for two wheels and a little freedom.
And if you, like me, have an old bicycle gathering dust somewhere, it might be time to pump up those tires and take her for a spin. Give her a name if she doesn’t already have one. Ride not to arrive, but to remember.
Because maybe, just maybe, the secret to moving forward lies in pedalling back to where we began.
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