Some communities we step into. Then there are some that quietly rebuilds us.
This morning was one of those reminders. A BCC felicitation meet. They do it once every couple of months. Mementos. Certificates. First 100. First 200. 300. 400. Applause warmer than the coffee later.
This time it was bigger. The Anil Kadasur Awards. 100 x 100s. 200 x 100s. 300. 400. And one crazily unhinged human with over 1400 centuries under his belt.
Then the Jigani Everesters. An FE, several HEs, including me… and proudly, my kid.
And then they asked me to stay, and give away the QE mementos.
I stood there smiling, pretending that I belonged. Inside, I was burning. I quietly remembered the early 23 version of myself. It was Feb of 2023 when I first attended a BCC gathering in front of the Venkatappa Art Gallery. I didn’t even know how to lube a chain properly. I recall being stunned by how seriously they celebrated milestones. The first 100 wasn’t just a 100. It was initiation. A quiet handshake into something larger.
I never imagined I’d receive a certificate.I certainly never dreamed I’d be handing one over.
Receiving an award is recognition. But giving one... That is trust. And trust is heavier. This wasn’t the first time I’ve felt that weight. Last year, Velokofi asked me to hand over a scholarship to a child they sponsor. I remember holding that envelope. Holding my composure. Holding back tears. That moment wasn’t about cycling. It was about being allowed to represent something bigger. Bigger than miles. Generous
And then there is Chavittuvandi. The name sounds playful. But they carry the same quiet fire. Different group. Same spirit. Less noise. More heart. The kind of people who show up at dawn without announcement and stay long after the ride ends.
Between these three spaces, something shifted in me. I arrived clueless. I stayed curious. And somewhere along the way, they decided that I was one of them.
These groups don’t just measure milestones. They measure consistency. They measure presence. They measure whether you return after a bad ride. After a bad month. After life knocks the wind out of you.
Cycling has given me far more honour than I deserve. And I don’t mean medals or mementos. I mean belonging.
This isn’t a thank-you note to any of these clubs. That’s not the intent. There are a few who have seen my battles. My failings. And my rare wins. The few who read this should know. That when I stand on a stage to hand someone a certificate, I’m not thinking about the kilometres ridden or the elevation gained. I’m thinking about the man who pedalled into a meetup two years ago and felt small. I’m thinking about the hands that showed him how to adjust a saddle. How to clean a chain. How to keep sipping water on the Anchetty climb, when pride says you’re fine. I’m thinking about how a community can make a grown man cry. And yet, somehow protect his dignity while doing it.
If I seem overly attached to cycling, now you know why. It isn’t the sport. It’s the people. And I carry their generosity like a second medal. One that doesn’t split into two... but multiplies. Quietly. Everytime that someone else is called to the stage.
