The Taj Mahal Challenge, I soon realised, is many challenges rolled into one. There's the challenge of raising the sponsorship, of doing the training, of coping with roughing it in a third-world country. But, most of all, there is the challenge of completing the course itself: 250 miles, from Jaipur to Agra, of heat, sweat, dust and aching limbs.
Every day on the ride was much like another and each one started at 6am. We all paired up and slept in two-person tents that were erected for us each night and, in the morning, one of the crew would wake you with a cup of tea or coffee. He would also leave a bowl of warm water for a stand-up wash. The braver ones would walk over to one of the two loos, which were nothing more than freshly-dug holes in the ground surrounded by canvas awnings. Most of us preferred to wander off and find a shrub to hide behind.
Breakfast consisted of fresh fruit, porridge, usually an omelette, and mountains of toast. The next important task was to fill our water bottles. Gallons of water were boiled for at least 20 minutes every evening and left to cool overnight, making it safe to drink. Huge drums went with us on the buses so that we could refill our water bottles whenever we wanted. By 8am, with packs loaded, water bottles filled, sunscreen smeared, limbs stretched and helmets fastened, we were off.
The route took 28 of us across rural India. By midday, the temperature was nudging 80F. Most of the time we cycled along quiet country roads that were pot-holed and rutted, and which threaded their way through small villages. Mustard fields stretched to the horizon. We shared the roads with old men in dirty dhotis shepherding flocks of goats; carts going to and from market piled high with vegetables and heaved along by water buffaloes; and gaudily-painted public buses and delivery lorries decked out in tinsel that would announce themselves with a teeth-rattling blast of their horns and thunder by leaving inches to spare.
By lunchtime, I always felt capable of tucking into my inner tube, so the sight of the chuckwagon parked up in a field, with delicious smells wafting from the pots on the gas braziers, and the clink of cold drinks being handed round, was a life-saver.
The food was excellent: vegetarian dishes including dahl (lentil curry), bowls of differently-flavoured noodles, fried chicken and chicken curries, lamb dishes, rice, rotis and naan breads.
Lunch or dinner, the story was always the same: we would stop in the middle of nowhere and, as if by magic, hundreds of villagers would appear. Men would drop their tools and leave the fields, passing goatherds would detour, women would abandon their washing and schoolrooms would empty at a rush. It was as if the circus had come to town. It took a day or two to get used to the idea of eating your meal with a couple of hundred sets of eyes staring at you from a distance of three feet.
Cycling through the villages themselves was an experience not to be forgotten.
The roads were never any more than narrow strips of rubble. But the typical street teemed with auto-rickshaws, camel carts, lorries and buses, all with people hanging off them. Everything happened in the street: food was cooked, tools were sharpened, chins shaved, motors fixed, goats butchered, children taught, deals done, clothes washed and bowels opened. Every village street was also a farmyard. Pigs ambled by, burying their snouts into piles of foul-smelling rubbish and cows wandered wherever they wanted, stopping occasionally to unleash a stream of bright yellow urine. It was bedlam and it was brilliant.
What was already a seething hive of activity was spurred into even greater action by the arrival of 28 Brits on bikes. The effect was like dropping a bowling ball on a wasp's nest. Nobody stopped what they were doing but at the same time managed to shout a greeting or hold out a hand to be slapped in high-five fashion. People would clamber on to rooftops to get a better view of us, and naked children would bolt from their mothers' laps and almost run under our wheels to shout "Allo" or "Ram Ram" or "Namaste" in greeting. Then suddenly you would find yourself in open fields again.
On most days we finished riding by early evening. The crew would have gone on ahead and pitched camp. Darkness fell quickly and by 7.30pm dinner was served. We ate in the open air under the light of hurricane lamps. Then, the crew would build a fire and we would sit around swapping stories. By 10pm, people would start drifting off to bed and the last ones would follow not much later. There's nothing like pedalling 50 miles a day for guaranteeing you a good night's sleep. Each night, I closed my eyes relieved that I had completed another day and content in the knowledge that we were going to do it all over again tomorrow. And there was always the Taj Mahal to look forward to.
So what was it like? Like nothing else I had ever done. Was it physically demanding? Make no mistake, it was tough. For day two, my diary has a one-word entry: torture. What was the most amazing thing I saw? Incredible sights, too numerous to mention, jostle for position. Does the Taj Mahal live up to its reputation? Yes, and more. Is the poverty upsetting? Heartbreakingly so. Did I feel a sense of achievement? Definitely, not just for physically completing the challenge but knowing I had done something for someone else. What will I remember most? Life in the villages made the most vivid impressions on me, but the most memorable experience will be meeting up with a group of strangers who, within the space of only a few days, became like people I had known for years. Would I do it all over again? Like a shot.
Sponsored holidays
How do you apply?
I saw an ad in the paper and phoned the charity for a free pack that gave me the itinerary for the trip. We would fly to Delhi, be bussed down to Jaipur and then start the ride. Bikes would be supplied and we would be in the saddle for five days, averaging 50 miles a day, sleeping in tents, and finishing at the Taj Mahal.
What was the cause?
Whizz-Kidz is a registered charity that helps disabled children, supplying mobility aids such as motorised wheelchairs and trikes.
What was the deal?
You had to raise a minimum of £2,500 through sponsorship. There was also a registration fee of £250 that was refundable if you raised more than £3,500. If you failed to raise the target, you had to make up the difference yourself.
Where did the money go?
Out of a minimum £2,500, £897 went on sending each volunteer on the trip. This included flights, accommodation, meals and the services of the operating tour company that organised the ride and supplied the bikes. This left £1,603, which if added to the registration fee, meant £1,853 went directly to support the work of the charity. And many volunteers raised more than the minimum amount.
How fit do you have to be?
Whizz-Kidz tells you that "a reasonable level of fitness is essential". It is, after all, a challenge, but one that is designed for people from all walks of life. However, there's no substitute for putting the hours in on your bike for at least three months before you go.
Were we well prepared for India?
We were given all the information we needed: how to apply for a visa, what to bring and wear, what not to eat and drink, safety tips and advice on coping with the heat.
How can you be sure an overseas charity event is reputable?
All reputable charity organisations that raise money through overseas events comply with the code of conduct laid down by the Institute of Charity Fundraising Managers (ICFM). Ask that the charity complies with these guidelines, or, if you have any concerns, phone the ICFM on 020-7627 3436.
• Whizz-Kidz is still recruiting volunteers for the this year's Taj Mahal Challenge in November. For details and for information about other Whizz-Kidz overseas events, telephone Angela Wong, events fundraiser, on 020-7233 6600, e-mail a.wong@whizz-kidz.org.uk, or visit www.whizz-kidz.org.uk
