The final in the trilogy of Cycling in the Western Ghats. This one goes Cycling to Ooty, after we descend from Kodaikanal and once again start climbing from Mettupalayam. First we rode from Kochi to Munnar, then we cycled to Kodaikanal.
Me: On a scale of 10, how difficult is it to climb Ooty on a cycle?
Friend: Yes
The conversation I had with a friend before setting out on this ride. Needless to say, we were still woefully unprepared… For us mere mortals, climbing Munnar, Kodaikanal and Ooty in a single ride is akin to the grand meisters racing Giro d’Italia, Tour de France and Vuelta a España in a single year!
Cycling to Ooty: One Pedal Stroke At a Time
But I am getting ahead of myself. Before we could climb the mighty hills of Ooty, we first needed to cross the dry, flat and monotonous plains around Coimbatore.
Kodaikanal to Dharapuram: Gravity FTW
Leaving the murky waters and chocolate-scented clouds of Kodai behind, the day was a masterclass in gravity. The first kilometres from Kodaikanal were a relentless, brake-melting drop, straight down the winding ghats.
We rolled out into a dense, ghostly fog that wrapped around the ghats like a damp wet blanket. Just like our descent from Bodimettu, visibility was an absolute joke. I couldn’t see the road, Chaitra couldn’t see me, and my beard quickly became a highly efficient sponge harvesting atmospheric moisture. It was treacle-speed all over again. Our brakes squealed in a chorus of protest as we gingerly navigated the narrow roads of the Kodaikanal Wildlife Sanctuary.
The moment we finally spat out of the mountain descent, the flat roads of Tamil Nadu smacked us in the face. We stopped at a small tea shop run by Keralites. I thought I had tasted the absolute nadir of tea earlier in the trip. But this establishment set a brand-new benchmark for gastronomic despair. It was the worst imaginable tea known to humanity.
Flat Land
Seeking to cleanse our palates, we pedaled into the plains toward Palani, entering the spiritual heartland of hilltop temples. By the roadside, an old lady was selling guavas. In a brilliant display of holy marketing, she told us she was willing to forego the actual cost of the fruit—provided we made a generous “donation” toward her up-and-coming local temple. We paid for the guavas and hammered onward into the dry heat.
We cruised into Dharapuram, our legs feeling deceptively fresh from the gravity-assisted head start. At the hotel, we parked our bicycles far away. It was one of the rare occasions where we needed to pull out the lock to secure the bikes.
Dinner that night in the small town taught us patience. We waited for an eternity for our food to be served. A reminder that outside the frantic rush of the metro cities, time is merely a suggestion and not a rulebook.
Dharapuram to Mettupalayam: Chasing the Base
As we got our bags and gear to set out for the day, we met a cyclist hidden in plain sight. He was sitting all along behind the reception counter of the hotel! He had seen our bikes and bags, and as we were about to step out, he struck up a conversation. A young fella, who a couple of years prior, had left for his own adventures. Camping, pedalling and living life on the road for 6 months, before he was called home to man the hotel counter! Sadly, I didn’t take a photo with him and forgot to write down his name… and as such that lovely interaction has been partially lost.
We set off after that inspiring conversation and immediately stopped for breakfast at a small eatery. The setup was spectacular. The owner was a local Tamil lady, but her entire kitchen staff consisted of migrant workers from North India. Neither side understood a single syllable the other was saying. Watching them navigate orders was a beautiful, chaotic comedy of errors that entirely made up for the food.
Soon after pedalling away from breakfast, the sky opened up. We ducked under the shelter of another tiny eatery to escape a sudden bout of rain. While waiting it out, a lady employee stared at our loaded bikes and asked the ultimate existential question: “Why on earth are you cycling? Wouldn’t it be much better to just ride a motorcycle?” Before we could offer a deeply philosophical defense, an old man sitting in the corner sharply corrected her. “No,” he proclaimed grandly, “cycling is the true spirit of youth, fitness, and sport!” I nodded along bemused, since I had no ‘correct’ answer to that existential question.
Wind Fuelled Monotony
The rain cleared, leaving behind a hot, windy, and thoroughly boring stretch of flat plains. Drivers of cars and riders of motorcycles are known to sleep off on the move. That was the first time I almost slept while cycling. Not due to exhaustion, but pure and simple dreary boredom of flat roads.
For lunch we stopped at a fishy looking joint on the outskirts of Sulur, near Coimbatore. As we ordered and ate fish, I realised once again how even Tamil Nadu has now come to depend on unskilled labour from the north. The political class of the state might oppose Hindi all they want. But the working class have to learn the language to communicate with their staff!
Just before reaching Mettupalayam, monotony forced us to pull over. There, we crossed paths with four government schoolteachers. They were enjoying an unexpected holiday courtesy of a state-wide union strike over government pensions. We sat with them, sharing juice and chocolates, while they cracked a series of highly amusing schoolboy jokes in Tamil. One of them tried to have an earnest conversation with us in English, while the other 3 made fun of his English skills in Tamil.
They assumed we were clueless outsiders, completely oblivious to the fact that Chaitra understood every single word and joke of theirs. Finally when she let the cat out of the bag, the schoolmasters looked like sheepish schoolboys caught in the act.
Celebrating Life after Boredom
To celebrate surviving the flats, we indulged in a glorious double dinner in Mettupalayam. Round One was biryani, Round Two was dosa, and we finalized the carb-loading protocol with hot jalebis from a roadside halwai.
With the biryani came another round of conversation with the staff, building on the same theme. The waiter – who was also cook, cashier, manager and everything else in between when the need arose – was from Odisha. He spoke fluent Tamil (or so he claimed!), as he had been working in and around Coimbatore for the better part of a decade. As we were parting, I asked him his name. He said, Hasan, and immediately clarified that he is Hindu and not Muslim, even if his name suggested otherwise. When I told him, that I couldn’t care less about his religion, he piqued up, that yes, religion doesn’t matter, we all have the same colour of blood running through our veins…
Vertical Reality: The 14 Hairpins while Cycling to Ooty
There are climbs that test your fitness, and then there are climbs that question your life choices. The road from Mettupalayam to Ooty falls squarely into the latter.
A mere 40 km sounds like a casual morning spin, until you realize you have to claw your way up 2000 metres of vertical elevation. It felt less like cycling and more like a low-intensity mental crisis.
As we were reaching the peak crescendo of our ride, we started the big event correctly, by being fashionably late! We crossed the Bhavani river as we exited the town and stopped for breakfast at one of the many eateries, choosing the perfect spot, overlooking Black Thunder. As we munched on dosas and idlis, the final nail in the language coffin was dispensed. A state transport bus went past, blasting out DDLJ songs from the 90s!
Meeting Cyclists
Post breakfast as we hit the base of the climb, a car suddenly pulled over. The driver offered a fraternal thumbs-up. He was a seasoned cyclist from Coimbatore who had ridden up to Ooty multiple times. He gave us a few words of encouragement, which acted as a much-needed psychological booster as the road tilted sharply toward the sky. His teenaged son, sat by his side, and in typical adolescent fashion was suitably embarrassed that his dad was animatedly conversing with strangers!
The heat of the plains evaporated as we ground our way up the Kallar switchbacks, beginning our assault on the road to Coonoor. Much like our climb to Munnar, hordes of monkeys lined the stone parapets, acting like rowdy spectators waiting for passing cars to toss them contraband biscuits. As we pushed past Burliar, the grade became downright sadistic. My heart rate spiked. Every pedal stroke felt like digging trenches to fill them back up again.
Midway up, while locked in a bitter struggle against gravity, we were passed by another cyclist. Prasanth from Ooty was flying up and down the mountain, casually ticking it off to do brutal ‘hill repeats’ for an online leaderboard competition. We exchanged a look of mutual madness as he whizzed past after a quick chat.
For our Viewing Pleasure
We were treated to exceptional views, which is saying something considering the views post Coonoor are gorgeous. First we got up close and personal with a gaur. The massive and muscled beast stood in perfect contrast to us scraggly cyclists. People whizzing past in cars barely seemed to notice, but for us pedal pushers, it was a sight to remember. The second majestic view we enjoyed was when the clouds gathered in the sky, allowing just a few rays of sunlight to filter through over the green carpet covering the Nilgiris.
The air grew crisp, smelling faintly of eucalyptus and damp earth. As we passed Coonoor we stopped at a bakery of a tiny one horse town. We downed hot chai with freshly baked buns lathered with butter. Just what our flailing spirits needed. As we sat there munching, we noticed the bakery’s display cabinet. There were at least 20 cakes in it and then the kitchen door swung open, with a baker carrying another 5 cakes on a tray to add to the shelf. We were left astounded, a village which seemed to have more cakes than humans inhabiting it!
The incline refused to relent, as the sun threatened to set we finally saw the town limits of Udhagamandalam (Ooty). The sense of relief was absolute. We checked into our extremely picturesque hotel overlooking beautiful tea gardens. Once again the hospitality staff were composed of Bengalis who had lived in the Nilgiris so long they spoke fluent Tamil and Kannada. The linguistic loop of the Western Ghats was officially complete.
The downside of staying in beautiful cottages outside the city, is that food is a long walk away. And we tottered off for grub, ending the day with sore legs and elevated spirits.
Shaking our Booty in Ooty
The next day, we woke up to a bracing 18°C and a severe reluctance to do any more serious cycling. Naturally, we celebrated by getting right back on the saddles for a victory lap around the town.
But before we could leave, we were accosted by the auntie who owned the property. She lamented about the cold in Ooty, and told us how she preferred Coimbatore, as it was warm there throughout the year! I could attest to that emotion, because down there in the Tamil plains, even ‘chilled beer’ is warm…
Even a “casual” ride inside Ooty manages to sneak in 600 metres of climbing. We pedaled past the chaotic tourist hubs around the lake and wound our way to the railway station. There we locked our bicycles under the watchful gaze of the parking attendant. Who didn’t charge us a rupee, because he had never seen a cycle parked in the railway station premises! We then trudged on foot around the Ooty marketplace for lunch, seeing the sights and taking in the smells of the hill station. It was decidedly cleaner than Kodaikanal and significantly better maintained by the government.
A Cuppa Factory of Tea
After lunch we were once again reunited with our bikes, and we went for a ride to the tea factory sitting atop the hill overlooking Ooty. The tea factory was instructive, while the tourists there were disruptive! Once again being pedal powered, the parking attendants refused to take money from us and gave us a prime parking spot. After having purchased some local tea, we let gravity assist us back to town, where we went in search of a cuppa of hot chocolate. A shop by the side of it selling chocolate and cocoa, promised us that the cocoa he was selling was locally grown. Spolier Alert: It was not!
Under the Watchful Gaze
We decided to hoof it to dinner and we left after dark from our hotel. We rounded a corner before I switched on the torch in my hand. Lo and behold there were two massive gaurs grazing and gazing at us. We quickly backtracked, not wanting to become their dinner, even if they are vegetarian. We waited for a passing car, who gave us a lift to the main road, while telling us those were ‘baby’ gaur and thus quite small. Lesson learnt, baby gaurs are still bigger than adult humans!
With our gaur confrontation behind us, we went for a celebratory dinner to the ‘oldest’ Chinese restaurant of Ooty. The food was decent, but it was where old uncles came to drink from hidden bottles, while being served by even older waiters. The restaurant a relic from the past… with the oldest label correctly defining it in more ways than one.
Its a Wrap
Reflecting on the entire journey from the coastal warmth of Kochi to the chilly heights of the Blue Mountains, the contrasts were stark. Kerala gave us unparalleled culinary joy and drivers with surprising socialist courtesy. Tamil Nadu gave us relentless sun, unforgettable roadside characters, and a reminder that gravity always wins.
As Chaitra and I stood overlooking the vast Nilgiri basin, our legs throbbing in silent agreement, we knew the truth. The tourist buses can keep their crowded selfie spots. The real magic of the mountains belongs to the daft, damp, and determined souls who choose to look at a wall of green and think, “Yeah, I can pedal up that.”
Epilogue
Going from cyclist to bus traveller doesn’t just require a change in mindset, but also a stomach reset. I made the mistake of gulping down breakfast, as if a long bicycle ride lay ahead of us. But the cycle ride only lasted a few kilometres to the bus stand. We were on time, but the bus was late. The conductor told us that the bus was not starting and after a prayer, the engine came to life and they were not planning on switching it off, till Bangalore!
As we sat in the bus and lurched down the hill, my breakfast also lurched in my stomach. Rather than enjoying the beautiful countryside, I closed my eyes and focussed on keeping things inside. Finally we hit the plains and then drove through the Bandipur Tiger Reserve, spotting loads of deer, elephants and many pretty birds.
All good things must come to an end. And end it did, but badly. 2 km into Bangalore city limits, the bus sputtered to a halt. The conductor looked at us, shrugged his shoulders in resignation and said, so long and thanks for all the fish…
Also read our blog of cycling from Goa to Ooty from the other side of the hill station. And our ride in the beautiful hills of Meghalaya…