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 —

Fun that’s not fun while it’s happening, but becomes a good story in hindsight.

This is one of those stories.

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.

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.

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.

I slept like the dead.

Well — almost.

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.

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.

Everything was packed.

Time to put on my shoes.

Only… where were they?

I had left them at the temple steps, out of respect. They weren’t there. Not inside either. I checked again. And again. Nothing.

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.

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.

We found the man. He was laughing. He pointed at me. Then at the river.

One shoe had gone to meet the mighty Chenab. The other rested, soaked, on the riverbank.

I wasn’t pedalling anywhere with just one shoe.

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.

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.

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.

And I was just grateful to continue riding.

There’s no neat moral here — no Instagram quote or life lesson tied with a bow.

Except maybe this:

Bikepacking will humble you.

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.

That’s what makes it Type 2 fun.

It’s hell in the moment. And unforgettable afterward.