Pedalling Past Labels

It was barely past sunrise when I reached the starting line in Thane. For one shimmering morning, I felt charged with something rare and electric: possibility. I wasn’t alone. A stream of children lined up beside bicycles of every size and colour. Helmets askew, shoelaces trailing, their faces were lit with a nervous, glowing excitement. We were all there for the Zorian Foundation’s Cyclothon for Neurodivergent Kids, an event stitched into the broader celebrations of World Autism Awareness Week.

I came there not as an organizer but as a parent. My son, Aarav, was one of the 50-odd participants, a proud member of what some neatly call the neurodivergent community. The term that sounds clinical, until you witness it burst into life on a bright April morning.

The Zorian Foundation, a Thane-based nonprofit, had dreamt up the idea with a simple yet radical goal of inclusion. Not just acknowledgment or tokenism, but real, joyous participation. Their vision dovetailed neatly with the Government of India’s Divyangjan initiative, which aims to create a more accessible and accepting society for people with disabilities. On paper, it sounded inspiring enough. On the ground, it looked like a revolution on two wheels.

The event had an impressive coalition of partners. The teams from The Cycle Wala and Ghodbunder Cyclist provided bikes and logistical support. The Akshay Institute for Special Children led by the tireless Akshay Ambekar, whose name is spoken with great reverence among special educators, brought a palpable energy of encouragement to the event.

Parents milled about with pride, the kind when you know your child is about to do something beautiful and unpredictable.

When the flag dropped, kids shot off like rockets, their focus less on winning and more on feeling the rubber kiss the road. Aarav, to my astonishment, found his rhythm immediately, his legs pumping furiously, his face set in determined concentration.

As I ran alongside shouting encouragements, I realized that this wasn’t about ability. It wasn’t even about cycling. It was about presence, about being seen, in all our complexities and quirks, and finding that the world not only tolerates but welcomes us.

One mother, tears streaming, cheered as her daughter wobbled triumphantly across a chalk-marked finish line. A father crouched, arms wide, waiting to envelop his son after a careful, cautious loop around the track. Strangers clapped for children they had never met. It was, in short, a celebration without reservations.

When medals were distributed, it was not about who won or lost but the real prize was something far less tangible: the sheer, irrepressible joy of participation.

For Aarav, it wasn’t just another Sunday. It was proof that he belonged. Not in some segregated ‘special’ space but out here, among laughter and applause and the sunlit whir of bicycle spokes. For me, it was a reminder that inclusion is not a lofty policy goal or a checklist item. It is a six-year-old boy racing down a road in Thane, chasing nothing but the wind.

As we packed up, Aarav looked at me and said in his matter-of-fact way, “Next year, I’ll go faster.”

Next year, we’ll all go faster.

(The author is president, Ghodbunder Cyclist Group)