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73 lines
4.3 KiB
Markdown
73 lines
4.3 KiB
Markdown
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title = "The Tale of the Missing Shoe"
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date = 2023-02-22
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categories = ["Stories"]
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tags = ["bikepacking", "himalayas", "adventure", "real life"]
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slug = "missing-shoe-bikepacking"
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image = "missing-shoe.webp"
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description = "What began as a simple overnight stop on a solo bikepacking trip turns into a tale of madness, community, and a lost shoe in the Chenab river."
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Bikepacking is cool — or so Instagram would have you believe. Beautiful backdrops. Clean, expensive gear. Friends laughing around a campfire. But out on the road, under a bruised sky and on the edge of exhaustion, bikepacking isn’t filtered and curated. It’s Type 2 fun —
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> Fun that’s not fun while it’s happening, but becomes a good story in hindsight.
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This is one of those stories.
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---
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It was Day 1 of my 5-day solo trip. A hundred kilometres behind me, my body caked in dust from 30 km of roadworks. The kind that turns roads into ruts, drivers into maniacs, and cyclists into ghosts. I rolled into a small town beside the Chenab river, chosen not for its charm, but because it had a temple — and temples are where I often sleep. They're usually calm, respected, and in small towns, the pujari is always more stoned than suspicious.
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This one was no different. The priest, high on Shiv's prasad, barely acknowledged me. "Stay if you want," he shrugged, then warned me of a madman who sometimes wandered in at night. I laughed it off — I’ve heard wilder things. My mind was more focused on the aroma of ghee-laden parathas wafting from a nearby dhaba.
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Dinner was spectacular. Butter-drenched, belly-filling, and deeply earned. I returned to the temple steps, slipped off my shoes, locked my bike to a pipe, and carried my bags and sleep system inside. There was even a plug point by the sanctum to charge my phone. Bliss.
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I slept like the dead.
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Well — almost.
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At some point in the night, thunder rolled but the skies held. I rolled over. Later, laughter pierced the quiet. A man — probably the one I'd been warned about — was muttering and pacing. He stared at me. I stared back. My best stern face. My best evil eye. It worked. He wandered off. I checked my bike from my bivvy — still locked. All good.
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At 5 AM, my alarm buzzed. I moved through my morning with practiced quiet — toilet, pack bags, check wallet, phone, roll up bivy. My legs felt heavy, but the road was calling.
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Everything was packed.
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Time to put on my shoes.
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Only... where were they?
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I had left them at the temple steps, out of respect. They weren’t there. Not inside either. I checked again. And again. Nothing.
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A creeping dread began to rise. These weren’t spare shoes. These were **the** shoes. My one pair. I ride in flats — one shoe for everything. Ride, walk, camp, repeat. Without them, I wasn’t going anywhere.
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By 6 AM I was fuming. Locals began to arrive for morning prayer and soon, my missing shoes became a community issue. Three men joined my search. The chowkidar mentioned the crazy guy had been by the river. We followed him there.
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We found the man. He was laughing. He pointed at me. Then at the river.
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One shoe had gone to meet the mighty Chenab. The other rested, soaked, on the riverbank.
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> I wasn’t pedalling anywhere with just one shoe.
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Rage boiled up. I grabbed the man by his collar. Then stopped. What was I doing, threatening a man who barely knew what he’d done? I let go. Sat back on the temple steps. Shoeless.
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The town rallied. They called the local shopkeeper who sold shoes. Problem: he lived in a neighbouring village and the shop only opened at 10. But someone had his number. They called. Explained. He agreed to come early.
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At 9:15 AM, I walked out of his shop in brand new **Lakhani** sneakers, flanked by a crowd that had become part of the saga. The whole town, it seemed, had shown up to see the ending.
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And I was just grateful to continue riding.
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---
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There’s no neat moral here — no Instagram quote or life lesson tied with a bow.
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Except maybe this:
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**Bikepacking will humble you.**
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It doesn’t care how much you planned or what gear you carry. There will always be a madman. A missing shoe. A moment where everything unravels — and you just have to laugh, wait, and let the river carry your expectations downstream.
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That’s what makes it Type 2 fun.
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It’s hell in the moment.
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And unforgettable afterward.
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