A short flight.
An overnight train.
A long bus ride that erases the distance in a single stretch.

Most travelers choose one of these, and in doing so pass over a stretch of coastline that remains, even now, just outside the main current of travel—the Konkan coast.

Pressed between the Arabian Sea and the long wall of the Western Ghats, the Konkan unfolds quietly. It does not present itself all at once. It reveals itself in fragments: a fishing village at the edge of an inlet, a road winding beneath coconut palms, a ferry crossing that interrupts the day without apology. For long stretches, there is simply space—between places, between encounters, between moments.

It is this continuity, more than any single highlight, that defines the experience.

The Ride

Cycling from Mumbai to Goa is not about covering distance. It is about moving through a landscape at a pace that allows it to take shape.

The journey begins at the Gateway of India, crossing the harbor to Mandwa, where the city quickly gives way to quieter roads. From there, the route follows the coastal spine southward—through Alibag, Murud-Janjira, Harnai, Guhagar, and beyond—before eventually reaching the southern edge of Maharashtra near Vengurla.

Along the way, the coastline bends and folds.

There are no continuous roads here. The land gives way to water, and the ride pauses at ferry crossings—small boats carrying people, bicycles, and the occasional vehicle across wide estuaries. Progress is never entirely linear. You follow the shape of the coast, and the coast decides the rhythm.

The terrain is never extreme, but it is never flat. Short climbs rise over low headlands, followed by descents toward the sea. Inland stretches offer relief from the heat, while the return to the coast brings the horizon back into view.

And always, there is the heat—part of the experience, shaping the day, dictating when to ride and when to stop.

Why This Route Still Matters

The Konkan is changing.

Roads are improving, access is easier, and development is slowly extending south from Mumbai and north from Goa. It is not difficult to see what this coastline may become in time.

But for now, much of it remains as it has been—quiet, local, and largely unmediated.

There are no curated stops here. No carefully constructed experiences. What you encounter is simply what is there: villages that exist for themselves, not for visitors; roads that connect places rather than showcase them; a coastline that reveals itself gradually, without explanation.

To cycle through it is to experience that continuity directly.

The Book

I first rode the Konkan coast years ago, as part of a longer journey through South India. It stayed with me—not because of any single moment, but because of how the entire stretch unfolded.

This new paperback, Cycling the Konkan Coast: Mumbai to Goa, a PDF, is a reworked and updated version of that original journey.

It is not a traditional guidebook.

There are no exhaustive listings, no step-by-step instructions. Instead, the book follows the route as it is experienced—stage by stage, with practical detail where it matters, but always grounded in the ride itself.

The aim is simple: to give you a clear sense of what it feels like to travel this coastline by bicycle.

In the End

Cycling the Konkan coast is not the fastest way to reach Goa.

It is not the easiest.

But it is, in every sense, a more direct one.

A way of arriving not just at a destination, but through a landscape—one that, for now, still allows itself to be experienced on its own terms.

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We started preparing for the trip since before my son became 3 years old. Living at 11,000 feet in the Rocky Mountains, I took countless walks with my son when he was a toddler. When he was 3, we backpacked for four months around Europe. Before we embarked for the Himalayas, only two months before his 4th birthday, my son summited a 13,000 foot peak in the Rockies all on his own power; we camped one night on the mountain just to shorten the trek by dividing it into two days it took to climb the mountain leaving from our house. Our routine walks in the Rocky Mountains were always easy going with constant stops to teach him about the nature and its cycles. Although we frequently walked on longer outings, I always kept our walks to what I sensed he could comfortably handle. Sometimes he was tired or not in the mood to go around where he had already been so many times with me. By the end of the summer before his fourth birthday, I felt he could do much, if not all, that I envisioned we do in the Himalayas and we could have fun doing it. Above all, I knew I needed to stay aware and not press for the unattainable for him and the two of us together, no matter what lay ahead where we headed. We would need to stay flexible and only do what the circumstances would allow. I was always prepared having to abort our journey for whatever the circumstances, whether medical, political, financial, or just any reason plainly beyond our control. I had a loose plan and itinerary in mind that I was confident would fit together, and we would accomplish our journey. As I ran an adventure and cultural travel company, I could work my business from anywhere. In the Himalayas, we often camped, and I cooked. Other times we stayed in people’s homes or simple rest houses.

Our first trip to India became a stepping stone to six years of travel that followed, always traveling just the two of us. I got a permit to homeschool him and we did so until he started public school when in the 6th grade. By the time he was 7 years old, we traveled to India a second time and had been twice all over China, as well as Bhutan, Sikkim, Thailand, and Vietnam. By the time he started school, we travelled to Guatemala, Honduras, Panama, and all the way to the bottom of South America, to Tierra del Fuego, around Argentina, Chile, Uruguay and Brazil. We always traveled adventure style, backpacking, always on entirely self-supported trips, and often in remote areas, including a trek in the Andes.

If you have small children and wish you could see the world but can’t because your children are small, you can! Travel with small children is utterly enriching, eye-opening for you and them. Twenty-some years ago, I have given a few lectures on the topic of adventure travel with children, from institutions as the Sierra Club to universities, often encountering many people who dreamed of what my son and I were doing but felt they could not until hearing about our travels. While many became inspired to follow our example, perhaps only some of them indeed did, and perhaps even only a handful of you, if any of you at all, seeing this post may follow as well.

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Their history in India dates back to the British Raj, when they were introduced as a cheap and efficient form of transport. However, their numbers have dwindled in recent decades, with Kolkata being one of the few cities where they are still a common sight.

The job of a rickshaw puller is physically demanding and often poorly paid. Many come from marginalized communities and see it as a last resort for earning a living. Despite the challenges, there’s a certain romance associated with the profession, often depicted in films and literature.

While they contribute to Kolkata’s unique character, their presence also sparks debate. Some argue that they contribute to traffic congestion, while others highlight the ethical concerns surrounding their working conditions. The future of hand-pulled rickshaws in Kolkata remains uncertain, caught between tradition, economic reality, and the growing cityscape.

On my recent trip to India, while in Kolkata, being a cyclist, I wanted to drive a pedal-rickshaw again; I have before on one occasion. Surprisingly, I found there are only a few pedal-rickshaws in Kolkata left. Virtually all rickshaws are now auto-rickshaws, the motorized version of the hand-pulled rickshaws or cycle-rickshaws. With the alarming traffic in India’s big cities, it’s not so surprising that the human-powered versions of rickshaws are on their way out. But you can certainly buy an electric trike with pedal power on Amazon!

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Reassured that only at nighttime lions may come by, I push off to tackle the body of water. Told it’s only a foot deep or so, I realize I forgot to ask whether a mugger crocodile or two may inhabit these waters; never mind the cobras and pythons I read about.

Confident with my bicycle handling, I enter the pond …

From Cycling Mumbai to Diu

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The three pictures above are from a 112-km-stage Koraput to Rayagada, a quiet road across the highlands with elevations averaging 800 to 900 meters above sea level.

For more go to: Cycling Odisha

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