These tracks in Russia are better made than any we have come across elsewhere, and they are laid out with much elaboration. First, an array of stones, neatly planned in patterns like an ornamental flower bed; then the footway; then another pattern of stones, and then the line. Whenever possible, we rode on the path between the two rows of stones; but we were frequently obliged to try the sleepers, the interstices between which were to some extent filled up with "ballast," which assisted our progress materially. The trains near the Caucasus are few and far between, and did not interfere with us to any extent. On our arrival at a station, everybody seemed to think it quite natural that we should come along on the line, and we took our meals in the railway buffets, and slept in the waiting-rooms. Our railway-track riding in Russia amounted to about 150 miles.
[Illustration: HOW WE CARRIED OUR BICYCLES OVER THE RAILWAY BRIDGES.]
Arriving in India, we were accompanied out of Karachi by a dozen Englishmen who were practically novices at cycling. We started on a good road, which ended a little way out of the town in deep sand, as is the way with roads in this part of India. We then suggested to our companions that we should ride on the track--a proceeding which they did not understand at all. However, they took to the idea very kindly after a time, and went with us thirty or forty miles on our way, returning by train.
We rode in this way for 800 miles, till we got within four miles of Lahore, where we struck the Grand Trunk road. At one of the little wayside stations we knocked up the native station-master and asked for food. He told us we could get nothing but rice and chupatties--a bill of fare which did not "smile upon us," as the French say.
"Are there no English people here?" we asked.
"Oh, no; no English people here--this jungle."
"But we saw some English ladies in white dresses," we persisted.
"Oh," said the official, scornfully, "those only missionary."
[Illustration: THE BRIDGE ON WHICH I RACED A TRAIN.]
We had to try the railway track again in Burmah, between Rangoon and Mandalay. There was a road here once, but it has fallen into decay, and in many places is returning to the primæval jungle. In the pelting rain of a Burmese monsoon the so-called road soon became a mere quagmire. Railway-track riding in Burmah is much the same as it is in India, only that, as the climate is moister and more malarial, the adventure involves greater danger to health. The line is banked up on either side to a considerable height--a detail of which I was to have a practical and painful impression. Riding along the footpath one day, my machine stuck in the mud, and unfortunately overbalanced on the wrong side, towards the cutting, so that I could not put my foot to the ground on the other side to dismount. Down I went some ten feet--fortunately with no serious consequences--while, from the bank, my two companions greeted my achievement with loud applause.