After a fairly normal night of sleep, by far the best since coming to India, I decided to head out to Betul by rented bicycle. After polishing off the first ten-kilometer stretch from Benaulim to Mobar in excellent time, followed by the ferryboat crossing into Betul, I asked around about the ‘secluded idyllic beach’ that I had read about and was told it was four kilometers down the road.

After covering what seemed like roughly four K’s, which included a very steep incline at which point my left knee began to speak to me, I spoke with a woman who was walking by the road in the middle of an area that most people would liken to ‘nowhere’. She assured me that the beach lay ahead. Just follow the road for another ten to fifteen minutes. That’s odd, I thought. The book had said it was a half-hour’s walk from Betul. I was beginning to think that perhaps I’d missed the beach that the book had written of and was being directed to another. Oh well. I continued riding on what felt like a raised plateau. I eagerly awaited the drop in altitude that would take me down to the Sea.

Finally it came. I descended into a more humid and jungle-like atmosphere. The beach couldn’t be far now. Unfortunately, the road began to climb back up. The outside of my left knee was really beginning to act up, forcing me to walk the bike. After a painful uphill hike I found myself on the plateau once again. No beach. The landscape was burnt and dry. I was feeling more like I was in Spain than in India. Onward I biked. After riding for at least another ten minutes I stopped to speak with a woman who was waiting at a bus stop. Like the first person, she assured me that the beach lay ahead. Just keep biking in the same direction, she motioned.

With the Sun climbing ever so close to its peak in the sky, across the parched plateau I continued. Now my knee was hurting all the time. But on the flat the pain was minimal so I just cycled at an easy gentle pace, all the while telling myself that the pain was not real, or at the very least, that it was insignificant. I believed that the time I had was as good or bad as I would make it. The knee situation could be made irrelevant by the right frame of mind.

Five minutes further the road began to drop. This must be it, I hoped. Although the poor quality of the brakes made down hilling a little stressful, not to mention cramp inducing for the hands, it was nice to coast effortlessly. It made my rather heavy knapsack feel weightless and the created breeze was most welcome. But before long I was headed back uphill once again. I was getting a little frustrated now. Negative thoughts ran rampant. Couldn’t they judge time or distance a little more accurately? I ranted silently. Couldn’t they see that I was on a bicycle?

I quickly calmed myself, attempting to make the journey part of the fun rather than waiting solely for the reward (the beach) that I had already decided would be the day’s good time. After all, outside from the knee, I felt terrific. I was never short of breath on the hills, never really even close to being too hot, and had what felt like endless energy. It was actually quite phenomenal. As well, I had a bag full of great food. A good thing, for by this point I was getting quite hungry.

Continuing around a bend, all the while still gaining altitude, I noticed the incline continued into the distance. At the same time I saw a young cashew nut orchard offering some nice shade and grassy undergrowth; a perfect place for a snack.

Oh! Did sitting down feel good? Folding my legs beneath me made all the discomfort vanish. The taste and texture of the papaya ran a close second. Exquisite.

Fully rejuvenated I mounted the bike and tackled the incline. After ten minutes or so of biking on a road cut into the side of a steep mountain, I came across another road that lead deep into the valley below. That must be it. That’s got to be the beach road. I asked two women who were coming up the valley road. Yes, this was the road to the beach.

Brake levers fully squeezed, I glided into the shade of the valley. Only a couple of minutes passed before the road began to rise up. Frustration returned.

Now back up on yet another parched plateau I could see the Ocean with its swaying beachside coconut palms approaching, albeit at a lower altitude. A few more minutes and I began to feel the road was bypassing the Sea altogether. Although the drop to the Ocean was not far at my right, the pavement was taking me away and leading up into the mountains again. At this point I noticed a parked motorcycle by the road. I looked around for its owner. It was a tourist walking towards the cliff who I speculated must have been on his way to the beach. He informed me that he wasn’t but that he had been there a few times and so told my eagerly awaiting ears how to get there. A couple of minutes back in the direction from which I’d just come, there was a gravel lane that passed through a stone gate. Following this would lead me to the path down to the beach. Joy!!

Adhering to his instructions, I found myself descending a natural stone and red earth trail that dropped down to the Sea. It was all so beautiful. A five-hundred meter stretch of white sand with a fresh water river feeding the Ocean at one end. At both ends were hundreds of coconut palms growing out of gigantic rocky headlands. The palms provided plenty of shade for a relaxing dinner of greens. But before lunch was possible, I had a much-needed swim in the fresh water. Since arriving in India I’d yet to experience this pleasure. In fact I hadn’t done so since Thailand. Glorious!

Not long into my bathing a most disturbing question arose in my mind. Are there crocodiles in India? Oh. And here I was at the mouth of a freshwater river leading into the salty Sea. Isn’t this where crocs like to hang out? I’d never heard of crocodiles in India but that didn’t mean that there weren’t any. Surely there would have been a sign or something, I figured, but then I realized where I was. Public safety wasn’t necessarily a pre-occupation here. I decided not to worry and to enjoy my swim. It was so nice to have my hair totally encompassed by the cool waters.

Finding a nice shady spot under the palms, I sat down for a lunch of red leaf vegetable, tomatoes and coriander. With the ominous return bicycle trip on my mind I was unable to catch that leafy vegetable high that I had actually been looking forward to. Regardless, after a brief period of rest, off I went. All the while figuring I might be able to flag down a bus that would take my bike and I to Betul. As I ventured up my first incline my knee immediately rejected the idea. There would be no uphill cycling; I’d have to walk. There was no bus in sight.

Into the valleys I coasted and out of them I struggled, my knee causing considerable pain both cycling and walking. Across the hot plateaus, pedaling slowly, I periodically looked over my shoulder for a bus. Nothing. But the odds were in my favour. If I just kept going, however slowly, I would inevitably get back home. Before long I came upon a sign indicating distances to various cities. Only two and a half kilometers to Betul. I knew from memory that there would be no more uphill runs between this point and the guesthouse. Yay!

As per the instruction of the first ferryman, I continued along the fishing docks toward another ferry that would cross the river much closer to Benaulim. The docks went on and on. I saw no ferry. As I reached the end of the docks I asked directions from a man relaxing on his veranda. He pointed to continue on a road that seemed to lead away from the river. I couldn’t believe this was happening again. Onward I biked, all the while heading further and further into rice paddies. But the scenery was beautiful and hunger called, so I pulled over under the shade of a tree and finished the last of my papaya. Moments later I was back at it again. I had definitely abused myself that afternoon and now my leg muscles in general were getting sore. But I believe physical ills only come when a wrong decision is made. Where did I go wrong? I felt my desires were honorable. I was in search of a simple beach. I had never intended to cycle so far, but I felt continually lured by every person I asked along the way who repeated, “Not much further.”

It’s kind of hard to turn and go back home when you’re told it’s only one or two kilometers away. Considering that at least half the ride out was spent on a very trafficked and polluted highway, I just couldn’t accept the idea of not getting to the beach, or something equally as fulfilling. As I ranted and attempted to justify my ‘never give up attitude’, the answer to my original question, “Where did I go wrong?” seemed to present itself. The response came in two parts:

First, I didn’t know ‘when’ to turn around. Knowing ‘when’ seemed to elude me completely. It didn’t even seem like an option. Secondly, I realized that this was because the time prior to that had not been properly enjoyed. Regardless of the supposed unpleasantness of the journey, I had not been living in the ‘now’.

A third possible answer vaguely presented itself, as well. How real was the physical pain after all?

Now cycling through tiny roads lined with cute little Portuguese-style homes sitting behind stonewalls, I really began to feel that I was not on a road that led to any ferryboat river crossing. As well, I felt I was still heading away from the river. I stopped and asked directions. But yes, indeed, I was on the right road after all. Shortly, I reached a dead end. I couldn’t believe it. A man standing one hundred feet or so away saw my confusion and pointed to a tiny footpath which led out of the cul-de-sac.

OK. Whatever. Off I went. Suddenly I was pulled in the direction of the river. But what if I had a car? How would I get there? What kind of a river crossing was this?

Five minutes or so on this track, which had since widened to street size, I asked two bewildered looking Indian women if this road headed to the ferry boat. They didn’t understand me. Suddenly a man whisked by on a motorcycle gesturing for me to continue in the same direction. He waited for me at a T-junction a minute away from where he first passed me and pointed to the right. I obliged. I could see the flowing water. I was getting somewhere.

The wind was blowing hard off the river now, and as I pedaled passed a young coconut palm playing host to some rather thin-necked black birds, a couple of blobs of bird poo came soaring at me out of the tree, one hitting me on the chest and the other on my new, purple cotton pants. It had come out of the tree directly at me like a missile. Fuck. But then I remembered that getting pooped on by a bird meant good luck! People will say anything though. Immediately following I looked up and there it was, yes, the ferry. It was headed towards my side of the river, too!

Myself, a local person, and two other tourists boarded. It left right away.

Finally, I was now on familiar territory. Only the act of cycling lay between home and me. I knew where I was! The main road to Benaulim lay only five minutes ahead.

Once on the primary highway not only was my knee feeling thick and painful, my bum was really beginning to hurt, too! Perhaps the perpetual honking, the sounds of the engines and their fumes were bringing it all out. I could hardly sit properly on the bike seat. I had to move from side to side, alternating bum cheeks. Every minute that passed seemed to bring an increase in pain. As every large vehicle passed I would drop off the pavement onto the dirt shoulder, each time bringing a renewed awareness of my bodily aches. Onward I rode knowing I would inevitably be there soon. Continually holding my hat from blowing off as each bus or truck passed seemed to add to the agony of it all. Kilometer after kilometer passed. Where the fuck was Benaulim? However, my attitude remained positive. This was a test – but just knowing where I was brought about a certain comfort.

As my buttocks were extremely sore by now, I was biking at a slow pace. Everything looked familiar, but again I asked myself, where is Benaulim?!

I was beginning to feel like I was reaching the end of the rope. So close to the finale of the journey was I. I’ve often wondered why time and time again, just when I feel I’ve had enough, I arrive at the destination. Is it some kind of subconscious knowledge of knowing the trip is almost over which allows my body to break down? Whereas if I still had ten kilometers to go I simply could not just shut off with such a distance still remaining.

Sure enough the intersection that signaled Benaulim came into view. Yes! I stopped at the vegetable stand at the crossroads to buy some spinach. Oh boy! Did it feel good to get off the bike? Such a relief for my bum. I hid my agony from the public by walking slowly – trying to look super relaxed.

Now I had only to return the bike and I would be free of it. Rather than getting back on it, I decided to walk to the rental shop, only a minute away. Walking felt really good. I mean really good.