It started with a thought so simple that I almost laughed at myself for calling it a dream. I didn’t want to fly across continents, or buy a carbon-frame bike worth a fortune, or chase a podium medal. I only wanted this: to ride the same bike I ride every day, the one that carries me to deliveries and back, into a place of beauty — the hills of Chittagong.
People might not understand why that mattered so much. After all, I see those hills almost daily. They’re etched into the skyline, the way a poet carries half-finished verses in the back of his mind. But for me, the hills had always been background — the canvas against which I lived my courier life. What I wanted was to make them foreground. To climb them, to feel their gradient burning in my thighs, to let their silence teach me lessons that the noisy flat roads never could.
And I wanted to do it on my fixed gear/single speed cycle. The same one I ride every day, set up with either 48×17t (76.2 gear inches) or 48×18t (72 gear inches). People tell me hills aren’t meant for such bikes. That without gears I’ll struggle, that I should switch to something lighter, something more forgiving. But I never wanted forgiving. I wanted honest. And a fixie is nothing if not honest.
The journey began with Batali Hill, the crown of the city. It isn’t the steepest, nor the longest, but it stands as a reminder of Chittagong’s layered soul — history, politics, students, protests, poetry. Climbing it on my 48×17t gear felt like climbing into memory.
Each pedal stroke was heavy. 76.2 gear inches meant no mercy. My cadence dropped to a grind, and sweat rolled down into my eyes. But then came the view — a sweeping sight of the city below stretching like a ribbon of silver.
I realized then that hills are metaphors for effort rewarded. The harder the climb, the deeper the breath, the wider the view. Batali was my warm-up lesson.
From Batali I rolled towards Tiger Pass Hill. This one wasn’t about height but persistence. The road wound upward gently but endlessly, a test of rhythm rather than raw strength. On the 48×18t gear (72 gear inches), I found myself spinning — not easy, but steady, like writing long chapters without stopping.
Further on was Circuit House Hill, where officialdom and quiet residences overlooked the city. Its curves felt almost like whispers, reminding me that not every climb has to roar. Some climbs, like some lessons, arrive softly.
The road near Foy’s Lake was where beauty met gradient. Hills rolled up and down, flanked by water shimmering under the sun. On a geared bike, I could have played with cogs, shifting to match the slope. But on my fixie, I had no such luxury. One gear. One ratio. One rhythm.
Here the 72 gear inches of the 48×18t setup felt kinder. I could rise from the saddle, sway the bike side to side, and grind my way up. Every climb was a stanza. Every descent was punctuation. The wheels wrote poetry in circles, the road offered lines, and together we created verses unseen.
At one pause near the lake, I scribbled in my notebook:
“The road does not care who you are.
But it teaches you who you might become.”
Then came Bhatiari. Known for its army cantonment, its rolling greens, its lakes tucked away like secrets. But also for its roads — sharp, punishing, steep.
Here, the 48×17t gear felt like a chain of fire. Every pedal stroke was war. I stood on the pedals, arms pulling, lungs burning. Cars passed me with ease, their engines mocking my muscle-powered struggle. But I knew — this was where a single-speed bike came alive. No escape. No shortcuts. Just you, the hill, and the will to push.
At the top, sweat-soaked and trembling, I felt no shame in resting. For the view was breath-taking — hills folding into each other, trees whispering in the breeze, the city below softened by distance. It struck me then: fatigue is not the enemy. Fatigue is the price of perspective.
Past Bhatiari, the Kumira Ghat View Point rose like a quiet guardian of the coast. The climb was long, steady, and the ocean waited at the horizon. On a fixie, the rhythm became meditative. The chain hummed, the wheels turned, and time itself seemed to slow.
Further still were the Sitakunda Hills, where pilgrim routes wound towards Chandranath. I didn’t attempt the temple climb — too steep for my 76.2 gear inches — but I stayed on the motorable roads that snaked through the area. Even there, every gradient humbled me.
These were not just roads. They were sermons. They preached patience, humility, the courage to attempt what seems impossible.
After hours of climbing and descending, sweat and scribbles, laughter and exhaustion, I understood what I had been chasing. Not just hills. Not just kilometres. But lessons.
The circle of wheels is the circle of life: repetition that builds progress.
The eternal road is the reminder that journeys never truly end.
Motion heals: each climb carried away fragments of old doubts.
Discipline liberates: one gear, one ratio, but endless possibilities.
Fatigue enlightens: pain shows you the strength you didn’t know you had.
By the time I returned from Kumira towards the city, the sun was low. My legs were tired, but my spirit was alight. People might ask: Why ride hills on a single-speed bike? Why not make it easier?
And I would answer: Because life doesn’t give you gears either. You ride with what you have. You climb with the legs you’re given. And beauty is never in avoiding the hill — it’s in embracing it.
At Hamzarbagh, as I dismounted and leaned my bike against the wall, I looked at it with gratitude. A simple steel frame. A fixed gear setup. Ratios of 48×17t (76.2″) and 48×18t (72″). Nothing special in the eyes of the world. But on these hills, in this city, on this day — it had carried me into truths no classroom could teach.
I had started with a simple goal. Ride the same bike I ride every day in a beautiful place — the hills of Chittagong. And in chasing that, I found not just climbs and descents, but metaphors, poetry, identity.
The hills remain. The roads remain. Tomorrow I will ride again. But now I know: sometimes the simplest goals lead to the deepest journeys.
And as long as the wheels turn, as long as the words flow, as long as the hills call — I will keep riding.
It was still dark when I clipped the strap of my bag tighter, though this was no delivery shift. The clock read 5:30 a.m., and the world was heavy with silence, the kind of silence that feels like a blanket pulled over the earth. I rolled my single-speed bike forward, listening to the faint ticking of its chain. Today wasn’t about parcels, customers, or the daily grind. Today was about something bigger, something I had been planning quietly in my head: 300 kilometres in 12 hours.
Some might say it was madness, chasing such a distance on a single-speed bike, without gears to soften the climbs or ease the headwinds. Others might call it impossible, a foolish dream stitched together by stubbornness. But for me, it wasn’t about statistics or bragging rights. It was about something deeper — testing the line between freedom and discipline, between endurance and surrender, between the body that could break and the spirit that refused to.
Every long ride begins the same way: with doubt. As I pushed off from the familiar streets near my home, the doubt whispered louder than the morning birds. What if I can’t make it? What if my legs give up at 200 km? What if the road eats me alive?
But then came the rhythm. The circle of wheels turning, repeating, like the cycle of life itself. Pedal down, pull up, pedal down, pull up. It reminded me of writing — how a novel starts with one sentence, then another, then another, until the pages multiply into a world. Each pedal stroke was a word. Each kilometre a paragraph. By the end of this day, I wanted nothing less than to write a story in motion, 300 km long.
The road was empty, save for a few rickshaw pullers yawning into their shawls, heading for another day of endless pedalling. I nodded at them. We were the same, really: men powered by legs, carrying weight, moving forward even when the world didn’t notice.
By 50 km, the sun had begun to rise. Its first light painted the tarmac gold, and suddenly every pothole, every crack, every shimmer of dew on roadside looked alive. That was the first lesson of the day: struggle holds its own beauty.
Cycling long distances isn’t glamorous. Sweat stings the eyes. Fingers go numb on the handlebars. Your back burns under the sun. But when you ride through it long enough, you begin to notice the little things — the way dogs stretch lazily by tea stalls, the smell of parathas frying, the laughter of children chasing each other barefoot near a pond. Life reveals itself most honestly when you are stripped down to effort and fatigue.
I thought of how often we run away from discomfort in daily life — choosing shortcuts, soft cushions, and instant relief. But out here, on this road, discomfort wasn’t an enemy. It was a teacher. And its language was simple: keep going, keep breathing, keep turning the pedals.
At 120 km, I felt the first real crack in my body. My thighs screamed, and the thought of another 180 km seemed like punishment. I stopped by a small stall, bought a banana and a glass of salty lemonade, and sat by the roadside.
The fatigue wasn’t just physical. Inside me, shadows stirred — memories of failure, the sting of being underestimated, the shame of quitting in the past. A voice whispered: You don’t have to finish this. No one is watching. No one will know.
But then, as trucks roared by and the wind shook the leaves above me, I realized something: motion heals broken spirits.
Every time I had felt lost in life, cycling had carried me back. After an accident, after heartbreak, after rejection, after days when money was scarce and hope even scarcer — the bike had given me rhythm. Motion was therapy. Moving forward was prayer.
So I stood up, tightened my helmet strap, and rolled again. Slowly at first, then stronger, until my legs found their cadence. Every rotation of the wheels was like stitching together the torn fabric inside me.
By 180 km, the road stretched wide and endless. It felt like freedom — the ability to go wherever I wanted, powered only by myself. The horizon called me forward, and I wanted to chase it forever.
But freedom without discipline is chaos. If I pushed too hard, I would break. If I went too easy, I would miss my 12-hour mark. So I found a rhythm — 25 km/hr, steady, sustainable, calm. It struck me then: freedom is born from discipline.
People think cyclists are free spirits, drifting wherever the wheels take them. But the truth is, long rides demand strict rituals — hydration every 20 minutes, stretching at 100 km, pacing the climbs, resting the mind. Freedom is not the absence of rules; it is the wisdom to create the right ones.
That was a lesson bigger than the road. In life too, discipline makes dreams possible. Without it, freedom slips away.
At 220 km, the headwinds arrived. They were brutal, slapping me in the face, slowing me down even when I poured all my strength into the pedals. My average speed dropped. Doubt returned, louder than ever.
This was the zone where most people quit. The legs ache, the mind whines, the end feels too far. And I understood them — quitting feels like relief. Stopping the suffering, letting go of the impossible.
But here’s the difference between those who quit and those who don’t: some see pain as the end, others see it as the path.
I told myself: Pain is not punishment. It’s tuition. You pay it, and it teaches you.
So I kept going, kilometre after kilometre, fighting the invisible wall of wind. My pace was slow, but my will was steady.
At 260 km, with only 40 to go, my body was nearly empty. Food tasted like chalk, water sat heavy in my stomach, and my vision blurred at times. But faith kept me upright.
Faith that this suffering meant something. Faith that the road was not just tarmac but scripture, teaching me endurance, humility, and patience. Faith that if I kept going, I would discover a version of myself I hadn’t met yet.
I whispered prayers between breaths. Not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet calls for strength. And somehow, the wheels kept turning.
By the time I hit 300 km, the sun was setting. My odometer read 11 hours 48 minutes. I had made it. My legs were trembling, my back felt broken, but my heart was light.
I leaned against a tea stall, pulled out my small notebook, and began to write. Scribbles at first, then sentences, then reflections. That’s the thing about journaling — it doesn’t have to be polished. It just has to be honest.
Every ride deserves words. Because rides are not just about distance; they are about discovery. Writing captures what sweat and dust cannot. Writing remembers what fatigue forgets.
That evening, lying on my mattress, I replayed the day in my head. 300 km in 12 hours. A number, yes. An achievement, yes. But more than that — a mirror. The road had shown me who I was, what I feared, what I believed in.
And the lesson was clear: life is not about avoiding exhaustion. It is about embracing it until it transforms into enlightenment.
The wheels turn, endlessly. The road stretches, endlessly. And so must I.
Tomorrow, someone might doubt me again. Tomorrow, I might doubt myself. But I know now: as long as the wheels keep spinning, as long as words keep flowing, as long as faith keeps whispering — I will keep going.
Because in the end, cycling isn’t about moving from one place to another. It’s about becoming.
Struggling Against Nature and Finding Patience
It started like any other ride. I clipped my helmet, strapped my delivery bag tighter, and set off on my single-speed bike. The sun was kind that afternoon soft, hazy but the air was not. Just a few turns beyond my house, the first headwind greeted me.
It wasn’t the playful kind of wind that pushes your shirt against your skin. This one had teeth. It pressed against my chest like an invisible wall, each pedal stroke a negotiation with something I couldn’t see but could feel deep in my bones.
People often imagine cycling as freedom—the wheel spinning smoothly, the rider slicing through the air. They don’t see the days when the air slices back, when nature itself feels like an opponent daring you to quit.
That day, the headwind was my teacher. And I didn’t even know the lesson yet.
At first, I fought it. I leaned forward, gritted my teeth, pedalled harder. I tried to overpower the wind with raw force, but the harder I pushed, the more it pushed back. My thighs screamed, sweat poured, my single-speed gear ratio felt cruelly unforgiving.
I thought: Why today? Why now? I only wanted a simple ride, a few deliveries, nothing heroic.
But nature doesn’t bargain. Nature doesn’t care about plans, moods, or timetables. The headwind simply is. It doesn’t stop for you. It forces you to decide: fight, surrender, or adapt.
And in that moment of frustration, I remembered something I had once underlined in my notebook:
“The world is not against you. It’s just teaching you patience.”
So I stopped fighting. I relaxed my shoulders, slowed my cadence, let the rhythm find me instead of forcing it. And the wind, though still strong, felt less like an enemy. It became a reminder that progress doesn’t always mean speed. Sometimes, progress is simply forward motion, however slow.
The road emptied as I left the crowded intersection behind. No honking buses, no rickshaws—just me, my breath, and the endless whoosh of the headwind.
In solitude, the wind grew louder, like a voice stripping away distractions. Silence has its own sound, and when you cycle alone into a headwind, you learn to hear it.
I thought about my own life. How many times had I tried to fight circumstances the way I fought this wind? How many times had I exhausted myself pushing too hard, instead of accepting the rhythm life offered?
The solitude of that road made me realize: sometimes we run from silence, fearing it will expose our emptiness. But in silence lies identity. The headwind was not stealing my peace—it was carving it.
There was a time I didn’t know who I was. Just another courier with a food delivery bag, pedalling through Chittagong’s alleys, earning barely enough to fix a tire when it punctured. I felt invisible. Customers barely looked me in the eye. Drivers honked like I was an obstacle.
But the cycle never judged me. The road always welcomed me. In those long stretches of pedalling—whether against headwinds, rain, or heat—I began to feel something stir inside me: This is who I am.
Not just a courier. Not just a rider. I was a seeker, using roads as pages, using sweat as ink, writing my identity one kilometre at a time.
The headwind, in its resistance, reminded me of that truth. Resistance is what defines us. Without struggle, identity remains unshaped.
By the time I reached the outskirts, the city gave way to open fields. The headwind grew fiercer in the openness, but so did my patience.
Long-distance journeys have a magic that short rides cannot match. They strip away the layers of comfort until only essence remains. On a long ride, you stop pretending. You can’t fake strength, you can’t fake endurance—you either have it, or you learn it on the way.
As the wind roared, I felt both small and infinite. Small because nature dwarfed me. Infinite because I was still moving despite it. That paradox is the magic of long journeys—they humble and empower you at once.
As I leaned into the wind, I thought of my dream of riding to Hajj one day. Bangladesh to Makkah, a fixie carrying me across borders, deserts, and doubts. Many people laugh when I share this dream. Some call it madness, some call it impossible.
But what is life without impossible dreams? If the wind had its way, I’d have turned back long ago. But dreaming teaches the same thing as headwinds: patience. Every pedal stroke feels impossible, until you make it. Every kilometre seems too far, until you reach it.
The road whispered to me then: Your dreams are not measured in possibility, but in persistence.
Every adventure changes something inside you. It isn’t the destination—it’s the becoming. That day, with the wind clawing at me, I realized that adventures are not escapes from life; they are encounters with it.
We live protected in routines. Wake, work, sleep, repeat. Adventures rip those routines apart. They expose us to struggle, fatigue, failure. And in that exposure, we glimpse the soul’s rawest truths.
The headwind was an adventure disguised as a challenge. And by not quitting, I was already changed.
Halfway through, I stopped at a tea stall. The old man there poured me a steaming glass, refused extra payment when he saw my sweat-drenched shirt.
“Vai, thanda shorir,” he said. “Drink, rest.”
That small act of kindness, worth less than 10 taka, carried more weight than any paycheck. Gratitude, I realized, is not about grand gestures. It’s about seeing small mercies for what they are: proof that humanity survives even in the rush of the world.
I sipped slowly, whispered Alhamdulillah, and promised myself I’d carry that gratitude forward—not just in words, but in deeds.
Back on the saddle, fatigue returned sharper. A strong gust nearly stopped me, and for a moment, I unclipped my feet, ready to quit.
But I remembered all my past failures—the deliveries I messed up, the competitions I lost, the days I couldn’t afford repairs. Each failure had been a stone. At the time, they felt like weights dragging me down. But looking back, I saw they were stepping stones, forming a staircase I didn’t notice while climbing.
Failure isn’t the opposite of progress. It’s the material progress is built from. The headwind wasn’t stopping me; it was shaping me.
When I finally stopped for the evening, I opened my battered notebook. My handwriting was messy, my fingers trembling, but I scribbled anyway:
“Today the wind taught me patience. It reminded me that movement isn’t about speed but persistence. It stripped me of excuses, carved me into stillness, and gave me silence I didn’t know I needed.”
Journaling matters because it captures these lessons before fatigue erases them. The page remembers what the body forgets. Every note becomes a mirror to revisit on darker days.
On my way back through the city, I chose a different route—small alleys, narrow lanes where only rickshaws and bicycles fit. These alleys carried the hidden pulse of Chittagong: children playing barefoot, women hanging laundry, men chatting over betel leaf stalls.
The hidden alleys reminded me that life isn’t always in highways or grand destinations. Sometimes the most meaningful stories live in places most overlook. Cycling gives you access to those stories.
By dusk, the wind softened. The sky exploded in orange and violet, as if nature was apologizing for the punishment it gave earlier. The river shimmered like ink poured across a page.
And I thought: nature is the greatest poet. It doesn’t write in words but in winds, sunsets, rivers, storms. And we, as riders and writers, are merely translators of its eternal verses.
I reached home later than planned. Tired, sore, but strangely at peace. If the wind had been kind, I would have returned earlier. But then I would have missed the tea stall kindness, the sunset poetry, the lesson in patience.
Divine timing is rarely ours. Journeys unfold the way they must. The delays, the struggles, the winds—they are not obstacles. They are timing written by a hand greater than ours.
That night, as I counted the day’s delivery earnings, the familiar frustration returned. So much effort, so little return. Tires wear down faster than the money comes in.
But the ride had already changed me. Yes, the struggle is real. Yes, money is tight. But every headwind reminded me that value isn’t only in wages. Identity, endurance, gratitude—these are currencies that no one can take away.
And someday, I believe, these invisible currencies will open visible doors.
As the city outside rushed—cars honking, shops closing, lights flickering—I lay down in my small room, body heavy but soul light.
The world demands speed. Deliver faster, earn faster, live faster. But the headwind had taught me the opposite. Living slow is not laziness—it is depth. It is choosing patience over panic, presence over performance.
Cycling, journaling, dreaming—they are my ways of living slow in a fast world.
That day’s ride was not about distance, or speed, or even destinations. It was about resistance. The headwind showed me:
Struggle is not punishment—it is preparation.
Silence is not emptiness—it is identity.
Dreams are not impossible—they are patient.
Failure is not defeat—it is foundation.
Gratitude is not weakness—it is strength.
And most of all: the headwind is not the enemy. It is the lesson.
The first time I realized that cycling was more than a way of moving from one place to another, I was somewhere between fatigue and freedom. My legs were burning, my breath was shallow, and yet, the spinning of my wheels whispered something ancient. The road beneath me stretched forward endlessly, but it was not just asphalt or dust—it was a teacher, a mirror, a story written in every rotation of the pedals.
The eternal road has no end because it exists inside us. The circle of wheels mirrors the circle of life. Every revolution is a birth, a struggle, a death, and a renewal. You push down, the crank rotates, the chain pulls, the wheel rolls forward, and yet, after a few meters, you return to the same position, ready to push again. It is repetition, but not monotony—because with each cycle, you are not the same. The road changes you, just as life does.
There are days when the world races past me in blurs—buses growling like restless beasts, rickshaws weaving like stubborn poetry, pedestrians crossing without rhythm. And there I am, riding within this chaos, holding onto a fragile sense of balance. It feels like writing. Writing while the world rushes by.
When I scribble on paper or type words onto a glowing screen, the world outside doesn’t pause. Cars honk, people argue, phones ring, storms gather, yet inside the act of writing, there is stillness. The pen glides, the keystrokes click, just as the pedals spin. Both acts demand balance—control without rigidity, rhythm without haste.
Cycling through crowded streets teaches me that words too must find their own lane. Sometimes they dart, sometimes they pause, sometimes they collide with each other before finding flow again. And just as a rider learns to anticipate a sudden brake light or an unexpected turn, a writer learns to listen for what comes next in the silence between lines.
There was a time when exhaustion felt heavier than my own body. The kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from pedalling, but from carrying invisible weights—disappointment, heartbreak, unanswered questions. On those days, I would take my bicycle out not to reach anywhere, but to escape.
I’d start slow, just to breathe, just to remind myself that the sky still belonged to me. The chain’s clinking would replace the noise in my head. The spinning of the wheels was my heartbeat, steady and loyal. And then, something miraculous would happen—words would come. Poetry would slip between the spokes, prose would ride the tailwind, metaphors would appear at every turn.
Cycling became therapy because it taught me that exhaustion is not an ending—it’s a doorway. When the body aches, the mind softens. When sweat pours, thoughts unclog. And when you return home, tired but alive, the page welcomes you differently. The pen no longer feels heavy. The words no longer resist. The therapy is not in escaping pain, but in transforming it into rhythm, into motion, into something you can ride with.
Every long ride begins with eagerness. The fresh morning air, the hum of tires against the earth, the excitement of distance ahead. But inevitably, exhaustion creeps in—first in the calves, then in the lungs, and finally in the spirit.
This is the hardest part: when the mind whispers to stop. The easy choice is always to turn back, to settle into comfort. Yet, the eternal road doesn’t teach comfort. It teaches surrender. You surrender to the pain, and in that surrender, you discover something beyond it.
That is enlightenment—not fireworks, not sudden clarity, but a quiet awareness: “I am still moving.” The road doesn’t care how fast. The road doesn’t measure your worth in kilometers. The road only asks: will you continue?
And when you do, something shifts. The exhaustion turns into fuel, the aching muscles sing, and suddenly you are no longer just riding a bicycle—you are touching the core of life itself.
I have sat in many classrooms, staring at chalk dust floating in sunlight, listening to theories written neatly on blackboards. Knowledge, yes, but often lifeless. But on the road, lessons are written in sweat, in rain, in potholes that test your reflexes.
The road teaches patience when traffic refuses to move. It teaches resilience when the wind pushes against your every effort. It teaches humility when a hill rises taller than your pride. It teaches presence—because if your mind wanders too far, you could crash.
No classroom ever taught me how to breathe through pain, how to smile at strangers I pass, how to keep faith in myself when the destination feels unreachable. The road did. And in return, I learned to read the world not through textbooks, but through tire marks, shadows, and the eternal hum of motion.
Every ride is a poem waiting to be written.
The cadence of pedals is a meter. The rise and fall of terrain is rhythm. The wind in my ears is a chorus. The sweat rolling down my back is punctuation. Even the pauses at red lights feel like line breaks.
I have written verses in my head while riding under rain-soaked skies, each drop a word falling onto invisible paper. I have written haikus on hilltops, where the silence was so pure that the road itself seemed to speak. I have composed stanzas in the middle of traffic, where horns and curses wove themselves into unexpected metaphors.
Cycling inspires poetry because it forces me to live fully in the moment. And poetry cannot be written from absence—it must be born from presence, from the here and now, from the breath that moves through a body in motion.
The wheel turns. Always. Whether I am pedalling or resting, the cycle continues. Just like life.
There are uphill’s—struggles that test patience. There are downhills—moments of pure grace when effort feels like flight. There are flats—those endless stretches of monotony where nothing seems to change. But all of it matters. All of it belongs.
The eternal road doesn’t end at the horizon. It ends inside us, where we finally accept that we are not racing against time, not competing with others, not chasing perfection. We are only circling—round and round—learning, falling, rising, writing, pedalling.
And in that endless circle lies the secret: life is not about arrival. Life is about motion. The poetry of being alive is written not when the ride is finished, but in every single turn of the wheel.
So I keep pedalling. I keep writing. I keep breathing. Because the eternal road does not promise answers, only journeys. And maybe that is enough.
The wheels spin, the pen scratches, the heart whispers. And somewhere between exhaustion and enlightenment, I finally understand:
The eternal road never ends because it is not meant to.
It is life itself.
The clock neared 3:00 pm, and Rahmania School’s walls stood quietly, their afternoon shadow stretching across the pavement. I stood there beside my single-speed bike, one foot resting on the pedal, the other steady on the ground. The sun still burned high, but softer than its midday fire, as if giving me permission to begin this journey. The handlebars felt cool against my palms, the chain hummed with readiness.
I knew the route. I had memorized it like a prayer: Rahmania School → Muradpur → 2 No. Gate → Bayezid Link Road → Salimpur → Bhatiari → Kumira Ghat View Point → A. K. Khan → GEC → Hamzarbagh.
A loop of the city, a dance with its roads, a dialogue with its chaos.
I pushed off.
Rahmania School → Muradpur
The wheels turned, and with every spin the world began to flow. The streets near Rahmania School carried the echoes of students’ laughter fading into memory. My pedals pressed down rhythmically, left-right-left-right, the single gear whispering its eternal demand: steady, no shortcuts, no freewheeling.
As I rolled toward Muradpur, the air grew busier. Buses rumbled, rickshaws clattered, vendors shouted over baskets of fruit. The city was alive, restless, impatient. But within that noise, I felt calm. The bicycle had its own language, softer, deeper. It told me: Don’t fight the city. Flow through it.
At Muradpur, traffic swirled like a whirlpool. Horns stabbed the air, pedestrians darted, engines coughed black smoke. I became a thread in this chaotic fabric, weaving carefully, trusting the instinct born of countless rides. My legs burned a little as I pushed forward, but that burn was familiar — almost comforting, like the voice of an old friend.
Muradpur → 2 No. Gate
The road leaned upward slightly. My thighs protested but adjusted quickly. On a single-speed, there is no luxury of shifting gears. You grind, or you give up. And I never give up.
At 2 No. Gate, life gathered in layers: tea stalls buzzing, mechanics bending over greasy chains, shopfronts spilling with noise. I pedaled steady, refusing to let the city’s distractions break my rhythm. My bike hummed beneath me, the tires kissing the road, each push forward turning the afternoon into a story only I could write.
I thought of others sitting in buses, staring out the window, never feeling the heartbeat of the city this way. For them, it was traffic. For me, it was a test of patience, of trust, of resilience.
2 No. Gate → Bayezid Link Road
The transition came like a breath of fresh air. Bayezid Link Road stretched ahead, long and demanding, but offering freedom in its own way. Here the ride felt different — less cramped, more open, the horizon widening just enough to make me believe in escape.
The rhythm of my pedalling found a steady song. Clack, clack, clack went the chain, steady as a metronome. The afternoon sun softened into a golden haze, and the shadows of trees flickered across the tarmac like silent applause.
I passed small shops, speeding motorcycles, and groups of children who shouted “Racer, Racer, bhai!” as I glided past. Their laughter stuck to me like sunlight — weightless, but powerful.
Bayezid Link Road → Salimpur
By now the city had loosened its grip. The roads thinned, the noise dulled, and green spaces peeked out from corners. My breath deepened, sweat ran down my temples, but the beauty of movement carried me forward.
Salimpur rose like a gateway, marking the city’s edge. I slowed for a moment, letting the wind cool my face. The scent of the countryside mingled with the dust of the road. Here, the ride shifted gears — not mechanically, but spiritually.
The city’s tension faded. Ahead lay the path toward Bhatiari and Kumira, roads where the horizon stretched longer, where the soul had more room to breathe.
Salimpur → Bhatiari
The hills of Bhatiari whispered in the distance. The road curved gently upward, demanding more strength. My thighs ached, but I pushed harder, knowing the single-speed would not forgive weakness.
Bhatiari always felt like a teacher. Its climbs tested resolve, its descents rewarded courage. I leaned into the effort, breathing heavy, feeling my heartbeat rise. At the top of a small incline, the view opened — trees lining the edges, sky spilling wide above me.
Cycling here felt less like transport and more like meditation. Every push of the pedals was a mantra: patience, resilience, endurance.
Bhatiari → Kumira Ghat View Point
The anticipation grew. Kumira Ghat View Point waited at the far end, the halfway mark, the promise of the sea.
The road flattened slightly, and I picked up speed. The wind wrapped around me, tugging at my shirt, filling my lungs with salt-tinged air. My eyes searched the horizon — and then it appeared: the river meeting the sky, the water stretching endless, shimmering in afternoon gold.
I stopped at the View Point, placing one foot down, chest heaving, face wet with sweat. The sea breeze hit me, cool and forgiving. Fishermen’s boats floated gently, their masts cutting silhouettes against the horizon. The world felt wider, quieter, more complete.
I rested for a few minutes, sipping water, watching the waves. Here, the ride wasn’t about delivery, or money, or time. It was about presence — about knowing I had carried myself here, with nothing but my legs, my breath, and a single-speed cycle that asked only for patience.
It was 4:45 pm. Time to return.
Kumira Ghat View Point → A. K. Khan
The return felt faster, though the body was tired. My muscles had learned the road, my breath had adjusted to the rhythm.
Through Bhatiari again, the climbs punished me, but I smiled at the pain. The setting sun painted the hills orange, shadows long and elegant across the tarmac. By the time I crossed Salimpur again, the city’s pulse began to throb louder, tugging me back into its chaos.
At A. K. Khan, traffic swarmed like restless bees. The road was alive with buses, CNGs, rickshaws, and impatient horns. But I had already touched the sea; no noise could disturb the calm it had given me. I weaved through carefully, carrying silence inside my chest like a hidden treasure.
A. K. Khan → GEC → Hamzarbagh
The ride home was lit by the soft fire of dusk. The GEC Circle buzzed with evening life: lights flickering, shops glowing, streets crowded with people buying snacks, sipping tea.
I rolled past, my legs steady though weary, my mind replaying the entire journey like a film strip. Rahmania School felt far away, yet close enough to touch again with every pedal stroke.
By the time I reached Hamzarbagh, the day had folded into twilight. My watch read 6:28 pm. I had returned — exactly within my window, tired but alive with something words could barely capture.
The Ride Within the Ride
A round trip from Rahmania School to Kumira Ghat View Point and back is more than a ride. It is a metaphor in motion.
The city had taught me patience. The hills had taught me resilience. The sea had taught me silence. And my single-speed bike had reminded me of life’s simplest truth: progress comes not from shortcuts, but from steady, consistent effort.
As I leaned my bike against the wall at Hamzarbagh, I realized something: I hadn’t just cycled through roads. I had cycled through myself — through my doubts, my limits, my endurance. And I had returned stronger.
A Poem for the Ride
Between school bells and sea breeze,
The road stretched endless, demanding knees.
Single speed, no gear to spare,
Yet every climb was answered prayer.
Traffic roared, but wheels stayed true,
Whispering lessons the city never knew.
Hopes were carried, patience spun,
Each kilometre a victory won.
From Rahmania’s walls to Kumira’s sea,
The road became eternity.
And when I returned at twilight’s call,
I learned the ride was life, after all.
I didn’t find myself in a mirror. I found myself in motion.
Not in the quiet stillness of staring at a reflection, but in the rush of wind against my face, the creak of pedals under my weight, the chain pulling me forward. Identity didn’t come to me sitting still—it arrived kilometre after kilometre, on two thin wheels rolling through the restless veins of Chittagong.
For many, a bicycle is just a machine of steel, rubber, and grease. For me, it became a mirror, a teacher, a companion, and ultimately the pen with which I write my life.
I used to believe that identity was something declared, official, and fixed: stamped on a card, etched into documents, carried as proof in a wallet. But no ID card ever told me who I really was. It was on the road, pushing through traffic, delivering parcels and food, sweating under a relentless sun, that I began to uncover the raw edges of myself.
The first lesson cycling taught me was humility. The streets don’t care about your pride. Whether you’re pedalling a fixed gear bike with a 48×17t ratio chasing horizons or struggling on a loaded single speed, the road tests you the same. It throws potholes at your wheels, buses at your shoulder, storms in your path. And every time I faced them and kept pedalling, I discovered another layer of who I am.
Courier by day, creator by night.
Two sides of the same wheel, forever turning.
Not every day is smooth. There are mornings when my body feels heavier than the bike itself, when my legs ache before I even start, when the air feels too hot, too heavy, too suffocating. There are evenings when deliveries run late, when traffic crushes patience, when I ask myself why I do this.
But still, I clip in. Still, I push off. Still, I ride.
Because cycling has taught me that the wheel is a promise: it keeps turning. No matter how bad a day seems, the moment I pedal, I am reminded that movement is medicine. The motion itself is healing. On bad days, cycling doesn’t erase my struggles, but it transforms them—converting pain into rhythm, fatigue into progress, frustration into distance covered.
The wheel whispers: This too shall pass, just keep turning.
I love reading. But no book ever taught me patience the way a red light does when I’m fasting under the sun. No chapter on endurance ever hurt my lungs the way a 100 km ride on a fixie does. No story about joy ever matched the rush of a long downhill after a climb that nearly broke me.
Books give me wisdom in words.
Wheels give me wisdom in sweat.
Every ride is a library, every kilometre a lesson. A sudden pothole whispers humility. A climb whispers resilience. A descent whispers gratitude. And the silence of a late-night ride whispers peace louder than any meditation guide could.
That is why I say: wheels whisper wisdom louder than books.
Writing and cycling live on the same breath.
When I first started writing, I thought it was about sudden inspiration—a spark, a rush of words. But I learned quickly that real writing, like real riding, is about endurance. It’s about returning to the page even when it feels empty. It’s about pedalling into headwinds of doubt, holding rhythm when fatigue sets in.
A sprint is exciting, but it is endurance that reveals who you are.
On the road, it means pushing past the point of comfort.
On the page, it means writing even when the words feel clumsy.
Cycling trained me to endure. Writing gave meaning to my endurance. They are two wheels of the same cycle, turning in rhythm.
People often look at delivery riders and see only labour. But to me, being a courier is not separate from being a creator—it’s one continuum.
When I deliver, I’m not just carrying food or parcels. I’m carrying stories. Every customer waiting on the other side, every alley I pass, every stranger who nods or frowns, becomes part of a larger narrative.
The city is my canvas.
The bike is my brush.
Each delivery is a stroke.
At night, when I sit to write, I borrow from the day’s palette. The sweat dried on my shirt, the smell of fried food from a parcel, the kindness of a stranger holding open a gate—all of it becomes poetry. Courier work feeds my art. Art gives meaning to my courier life.
The hardest rides of my life happened during Ramadan. Imagine riding 45 km under the sun with no water, no food, and the weight of fatigue pressing harder with every pedal stroke. Some would call it foolish. But to me, it was alchemy.
Fasting and cycling together taught me restraint. It taught me that strength is not in having endless energy, but in spending limited energy wisely. It taught me to measure my breath, to honor patience, to ride not with recklessness but with faith.
The wheel and the fast became one rhythm: hunger in the stomach, strength in the soul.
Most people see delivery riders as invisible. Just another courier weaving through traffic, rushing parcels from door to door. But I see something else.
I see choreography. The dance of braking, turning, accelerating. The way the city becomes a stage where timing and rhythm matter. I see poetry in the repetition: pick-up, pedal, drop-off, repeat. Each day is painted in different colours—sometimes sunshine, sometimes rain, sometimes loneliness, sometimes laughter.
Delivery work, to me, is not just survival. It is an art form. A living performance where wheels, sweat, and streets create beauty unseen by most.
There is one dream that lingers in my heart: the ride from Tetulia in the north to Teknaf in the south. The ultimate ride across Bangladesh. A line drawn across my homeland, stitched together by my legs, powered by nothing but faith and the 48×17t gear ratio of my fixie.
It is more than a ride. It is a metaphor.
Pedalling toward horizons that never end.
Learning life lessons at every kilometre.
Crossing bridges both real and symbolic.
On that ride, fatigue would become my teacher. Repetition would become progress. Every turn of the crank would be a sentence, every kilometre a paragraph. By the end, the road itself would become a novel written in sweat, breath, and determination.
But beyond Tetulia to Teknaf, another dream burns brighter. The ride to Hajj.
To set out from Bangladesh, carrying only faith, a bicycle, and the will to endure. To cross borders, mountains, deserts, villages, and cities—all to reach Makkah on two wheels. People may say it is impossible. But to me, it is not just a ride. It is a pilgrimage of body and soul.
Hajj is about surrender. To do it by cycle would be surrender at its purest form: no engines, no shortcuts, just legs, lungs, and faith. Every kilometre a prayer, every rotation of the wheel a dhikr, every drop of sweat a testament.
One day, Insha’Allah.
Some people write their life stories in diaries. I write mine in odometers. Every kilometre logged is a line in my autobiography. Every delivery is a paragraph. Every century ride is a chapter.
I don’t measure my worth by how much I earn per delivery. I measure it by how much of myself I discover per ride. By the distances that teach me patience, by the fatigue that teaches me resilience, by the quiet midnight roads that teach me peace.
My story is not written in ink. It is written in motion.
To me, cycling is not transportation. It is transformation.
It is not just moving through the world, but moving with the world. It is how I breathe, how I pray, how I write, how I live.
Every day when I clip in and pedal away, I feel the truth: I am not escaping life on a bike—I am living it more deeply. With each turn of the crank, the wheels whisper wisdom, louder than any lecture, louder than any book. They whisper that life is not about arriving but about enduring. Not about speed, but about rhythm. Not about moving, but about becoming.
Cycling is not my hobby. It is my language, my prayer, my art, my way of life. And as long as the wheels keep turning, so will I.
Because on good days, cycling is joy.
On bad days, cycling is survival.
On every day, cycling is identity.
I am not just a courier.
I am not just a creator.
I am the road, the wheel, the whisper, the word.
And so I keep riding.
One kilometre at a time.
One story at a time.
One life, lived in motion.
The Dream of the Ultimate Ride
Every cyclist has a horizon they dream of chasing. For me, it wasn’t just a horizon of distance, but of meaning: to take a Fixed Gear Bicycle, with a 48×17t gear ratio, and ride the entire length of Bangladesh from Tetulia in the far north to Teknaf in the deep south.
A simple line across the map, yet a line that would cut through every layer of my body and mind.
Why a fixed gear? Because it does not forgive. No coasting, no resting, no escape from effort. Every rotation of the pedals is earned. Every descent is still work. Every climb is a test of faith. Riding a fixie is the purest conversation you can have with the road.
And so the dream was born. Not of medals, not of records, not of crowds. Just of me, my wheels, the road, and the horizon that never ends.
The northernmost edge of Bangladesh carries a certain silence. In Tetulia, the morning air smelled of tea gardens and wet soil. The land was still, as though waiting for something. And there I was, tightening the straps on my shoes, adjusting the chain tension, listening to the soft metallic hum of 48×17t.
The first pedal stroke was shaky, like writing the first line of a novel. But once the chain caught and the wheels began their circle, I was moving.
The road to Panchagarh unfolded in narrow ribbons, lined with tea bushes and small huts. Farmers waved as I passed. A little boy shouted, “Vaiya, kothay jachchen?” (Brother, where are you going?). I wanted to tell him: I am going to chase the horizon. But I only smiled and pedaled on.
The lesson of the first 50 kilometers was humility. No matter how much I trained, the road reminded me: you are small, I am endless. My legs burned earlier than expected. My lungs gasped at small inclines. The fixie punished every mistake in cadence. But still, the wheels turned.
By the time Panchagarh came into sight, the sun was setting low, painting the horizon with strokes of gold and crimson. I had only written the opening chapter, but it felt like an entire book already.
Morning mist hung over the fields, heavy and damp. My body felt the residue of yesterday — sore thighs, tender knees, but also a strange eagerness.
The road to Thakurgaon was busier, lined with more markets, more tea stalls, more curious eyes. At every stop, I became a traveler and a storyteller.
At a tea stall, an old man asked, “Where are you going on that cycle, beta?”
“To Teknaf,” I answered.
He chuckled, not in disbelief but in wonder. “All the way south? With no gears to rest?”
“Yes, with no rest.”
His laugh was like a blessing. “Then you will see every face of this land. Ride safe.”
That became my fuel for the day. Every kilometer reminded me that this was not just a ride — it was a pilgrimage of wheels.
Fatigue visited me early in the afternoon, a dull ache creeping into my calves. I fought it with rhythm. On a fixie, rhythm is survival. Pedals up, pedals down. Chain tight, chain singing. Repetition became my refuge.
By the time I reached Thakurgaon, sweat had soaked through every fibre of my jersey. But I had also found the lesson of patience. Like a novel, the story unfolds slowly. No chapter can be skipped.
If Day 1 was humility, and Day 2 was patience, then Day 3 was rhythm.
The road from Thakurgaon to Dinajpur felt longer than it looked on the map. Wide open fields stretched out like blank pages. Trucks roared past, coughing black smoke, shaking the ground beneath my wheels. Yet in between, there were quiet stretches where the only sound was my chain, my breath, and the endless repetition of pedal strokes.
A group of children ran alongside me for nearly half a kilometer, laughing, trying to keep up. One of them shouted, “Vaiya, give me your cycle!” I laughed back, thinking: If only you knew what it takes to keep it moving.
By afternoon, fatigue took on a sharper edge. My thighs were lead, my back stiff, my shoulders begging for mercy. But fatigue is like a stern teacher: it doesn’t destroy you, it refines you. It strips away comfort and forces you to face yourself.
That day I learned: without rhythm, suffering multiplies. But if you surrender to cadence, suffering becomes manageable.
Dinajpur welcomed me with the chatter of rickshaws and the glow of evening lights. My legs trembled as I dismounted, but in that trembling was strength.
By the fourth day, I no longer felt like I was beginning. I felt like I was inside the story now, one of its characters.
The road to Rangpur crossed bridges — small ones over quiet streams, larger ones where trucks thundered beside me. Each bridge was both a physical crossing and a metaphorical passage. To ride onto a bridge was to leave one version of myself behind and arrive as another.
I stopped midway on one bridge to watch the river below. It flowed endlessly, like time, like wheels, like words on a page. A man fishing nearby looked at me curiously. I pointed at the water and said, “It feels like life.” He nodded, as though he understood.
Arriving in Rangpur was like arriving at a new chapter of the novel. The city was louder, the traffic heavier, the air thicker. But I had crossed my first real threshold. Four days in, and I was no longer just a rider chasing Teknaf. I was part of the road itself.
By the time I rested that night in Rangpur, I realized something: I had already traveled further inside myself than on the map. Each day was a chapter. Each kilometer was a sentence. The novel was writing itself in my legs, my lungs, and my sweat.
Tetulia was the beginning. Teknaf was the horizon. But the real story was unfolding in between, kilometer by kilometer, and lesson by lesson.
The road out of Rangpur was flat, yet heavy. Flat roads can deceive; they look easy but stretch so far that the mind begins to ache before the body does.
Morning began with mist, soft on the face, until the sun slowly burned it away. Trucks and buses pressed onto the road, their horns blaring like impatient gods. I kept to the side, the chain taut, and the rhythm steady.
After 30 kilometers, the monotony set in. The endless line of tar, the sameness of fields, the repetition of strokes. My fixie forced me to move — there was no pause, no coasting — and in that compulsion, I found a strange clarity.
By midday, I stopped at a tea stall. The stall owner, a young man with sharp eyes, poured tea into a glass and asked, “Vaiya, Dhaka jachchen?”
I smiled: “Dhaka and beyond.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Beyond? Where?”
“Teknaf.”
He whistled softly, as if the word itself was a mountain. “Then you are not cycling. You are praying with your legs.”
That line stayed with me for the rest of the day. Cycling as prayer. Wheels as rosary beads. Kilometers as whispered chants.
By the time Bogura arrived in the late afternoon, I was exhausted. The day’s lesson was patience with monotony. Not all chapters of a novel are filled with drama. Some exist only to carry the story forward.
This was the day of rivers.
Leaving Bogura, I knew I would be crossing bridges — and with bridges, comes transformation. The Karatoya first, then smaller ones, and eventually the mighty Jamuna.
The road was alive with chaos: rickshaws, vans, trucks overloaded with goods, cattle wandering carelessly across lanes. My fixie darted between them, legs burning with every sudden acceleration.
By noon, I reached a long bridge across a broad river. The air changed there. Water has its own silence, its own weight. Riding across, I felt suspended between earth and sky. Below, boats moved slowly, fishermen casting nets as though time itself were caught in them.
Halfway across, I stopped. I leaned on the railing and stared at the river. The bridge was not just a structure of steel; it was a reminder. Life is a series of crossings. Each one takes you away from who you were and toward whom you must become.
Sirajganj greeted me with dust, heat, and the fatigue of a hundred revolutions. That night, lying on a thin mattress, I thought about bridges. They are never still. Even when you cross them, they stay inside you.
The day’s lesson: rivers demand surrender, bridges demand courage.
The road south bent into wind.
If fatigue is a stern teacher, wind is a merciless one. On a fixie, there is no shifting to ease the strain. The 48×17t became a grind, every pedal stroke a battle against invisible resistance.
I cursed at the air. I laughed at it too. Sometimes the wind roared in my ears as if mocking me. Yet in its cruelty, I learned something: the road does not care about your pace, only your persistence.
Tea stalls became sanctuaries. I stopped at one where a group of students crowded around. They asked questions rapid-fire:
“How many kilometers?”
“Why no gears?”
“Don’t you get tired?”
To each I answered simply: Yes, it’s far. Yes, no gears. Yes, I get tired.
But in my heart, I wanted to tell them: Tiredness is the point. Without it, the journey would mean nothing.
By evening, Tangail appeared, glowing faintly in the orange dusk. I rolled into the town like a shadow, my legs hollow, my throat dry, my back stiff. Yet I smiled, because I had learned the value of persistence against resistance.
The day’s lesson: headwinds are life’s way of asking, “How much do you want it?”
Dhaka — the beating heart of the country and one of the hardest thresholds for a cyclist.
Leaving Tangail, I pedaled into highways that swelled with noise and impatience. The closer I drew to Dhaka, the denser the traffic became. Trucks growled, buses swerved, motorbikes sliced past with reckless abandon. My fixie was small among giants, yet each turn of the pedals felt defiant.
Crossing into the capital was like plunging into another world. The villages and fields disappeared. The road became smoke, horns, and chaos.
But chaos, too, has lessons.
In the madness of Dhaka traffic, I realized that long rides are not only about landscapes but about survival within storms. Fatigue clawed at me, but adrenaline held me upright. Each intersection was a war, each acceleration a test of instinct.
When I finally reached a friend’s home to rest, I felt not relief but transformation. Dhaka was a threshold. To ride into it and not break was to become something else entirely.
The day’s lesson: fatigue is the real teacher. It strips away illusion. In chaos, you find clarity.
By the time I lay down to sleep in Dhaka, the ride had already carried me through rivers, winds, monotony, and madness. Each kilometer had carved something deeper into me.
Tetulia felt distant, Teknaf still impossibly far. But the novel was now in its middle chapters — where tension rises, where characters are tested, where the journey shapes the soul.
The horizon still moved ahead, but I was no longer just chasing it. I was becoming it.
Leaving Dhaka was like trying to swim out of a storm. The traffic clung to me, honking, swerving, pushing me back into the chaos. My fixie felt fragile among the beasts of steel. Yet each pedal stroke was an act of defiance: I will move forward.
Once I broke free of the capital’s grip, the road to Cumilla began to soften. The fields stretched wider, the noise eased, and the air carried the smell of wet soil after a brief shower.
But my body was tired. The chaos of Dhaka had carved into my nerves, and the 48×17t gear offered no mercy. Every time I thought of easing, I remembered: on a fixie, there is no easing. The road demands your full devotion.
By midday, I stopped under a banyan tree. A stranger offered me water and asked, “How far?”
“To Teknaf,” I whispered.
His eyes widened, but he only nodded and said, “Then the road itself will protect you.”
That line stayed with me as I rolled into Cumilla in the evening, legs heavy, but spirit lighter. The lesson of the day: when the storm is behind you, the silence is a blessing.
The stretch to Feni was long, lined with endless streams of trucks. Their horns screamed, their shadows covered me, their dust filled my lungs. Riding between them felt like being pressed between the pages of a book too heavy to close.
Yet the wheels kept turning.
In the middle of this chaos, repetition became salvation. My legs burned, but they burned in rhythm. Chain pulling, pedals rising, cranks turning — all in one endless loop. The noise of trucks faded into background static.
At a roadside stall, a man repairing a cycle looked at my fixie and asked, “Where’s the freewheel?”
“There isn’t one,” I replied.
He grinned. “Then you are trapped.”
I smiled back. “No, I am free. Because the road decides, not me.”
That day, I realized: freedom is not the absence of limits, but the acceptance of them.
By the time I reached Feni, exhaustion had soaked into every tendon. But the rhythm had carried me. Wheels as metaphors: progress is built on repetition.
The road bent south into familiarity — Chattogram, the city of hills, ports, and old alleys.
This stretch carried me through changing landscapes. The flatlands gave way to rolling rises, the first taste of climbing on a fixie. Every incline was punishment. My thighs screamed, my cadence slowed, but surrender was not an option.
The city greeted me with noise — Old Town’s narrow lanes, rickshaws weaving like threads, hills looming in the distance. Riding here felt like revisiting childhood memories: the smells of spice markets, the call of the sea somewhere beyond.
At one alley corner, a boy shouted, “Wheels whispering!” — and for a moment I felt like the road itself had spoken back.
The day’s lesson: familiar places test you differently. They don’t surprise you, but they remind you of who you were, and who you’ve become.
Chattogram was not just a stop; it was a mirror. I saw my own reflection in its crowded streets — a courier, a poet, a rider chasing horizons.
This was the long stretch toward the ocean.
The highway south opened wide, and the air carried hints of salt. I could almost smell the sea before I could see it. But the road was merciless: endless trucks, roaring buses, heat pressing down like a hand on my back.
Fatigue had become constant by now — not a visitor, but a companion. Every kilometer was pain, but every kilometer was also prayer. I whispered silently with every pedal stroke: Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving.
By afternoon, the wind shifted. A salty breeze kissed my face. The horizon shimmered differently. And then, at last — the ocean.
Cox’s Bazar sprawled before me, waves crashing endlessly, like wheels too vast for human measure. I stood by the shore with my fixie, watching the tide. For a moment, I thought: If the road is life, then the sea is eternity.
The day’s lesson: journeys do not end at arrival; they dissolve into something greater.
The final push.
The road from Cox’s Bazar to Teknaf was quieter, narrower, closer to the edge of the country. The sea followed me to my right, shimmering, vast, infinite. The land narrowed, villages thinned, and the horizon felt near at last.
My legs were fire. My lungs were stone. Every muscle begged me to stop. But the wheels kept whispering: Not yet, not yet, not yet.
At the final kilometers, I stopped on a small bridge. I leaned over, staring at the water below. It struck me that bridges had carried me all along: wooden ones, iron ones, concrete giants. Each had been both obstacle and gift. Now, this last one felt like a quiet farewell.
And then — Teknaf. The edge of Bangladesh. The end of the line, yet the continuation of the circle.
There was no crowd waiting. No banners, no music. Only the sea, endless and patient.
I stood there with my fixie, salt on my skin, sweat in my eyes, and silence in my chest. The ride was over. The horizon had moved again.
The final lesson: the road never ends. It only changes shape. The sea is just another kind of wheel.
Tetulia to Teknaf. A line across a map, but more than that — a line across my soul.
Every kilometer had been a teacher. Humility, patience, rhythm, endurance, surrender, persistence, gratitude. The road was not just asphalt; it was scripture.
And the fixie? It was the purest pen. Every pedal stroke wrote a sentence. Every wheel turn carved meaning. The novel of the ride was complete, yet unfinished, because the horizon always moves.
The road never ends.
The road becomes you.
And you, in turn, become the road.
The first time I pressed my foot against the pedal, I didn’t know I was stepping into a lifelong meditation. I thought it was just movement, just getting from one point to another. But years later, after thousands of kilometers of deliveries, long rides, and stolen moments of quiet reflection, I’ve realized this: between tires and roads lies a life. A life that whispers, teaches, and shapes me in ways I could never have imagined.
Tires carve roads, but I carve words. My bicycle is not just a tool—it is a companion, a silent witness to my joys, struggles, and dreams. And so, let me tell you this story: part memoir, part meditation, part letter to the machine that has been my truest confidant.
Dear Bicycle,
You are steel, rubber, and chain. Yet, somehow, you are more alive than many people I have known. Every squeak, every hum of your tires against asphalt is a language only I can understand.
You have carried me through heavy rains, when delivery bags grew heavier with each drop. You have stood firm when my legs trembled climbing CTG’s unforgiving hills. You have absorbed the shock of potholes so my body wouldn’t break. You have whispered freedom when traffic tried to cage me in.
People see you as a machine, but I see you as a translator. You translate my will into forward motion, my discipline into distance, my poetry into rhythm. You carry not just parcels for strangers but also fragments of my soul—stitched together between spokes, sealed in tubes, shining in polished rims.
Thank you for never leaving me stranded. Even on the day of my accident, when my rim cracked and my heart sank, you still carried me home. You did not give up on me, and I could not give up on you.
You are my altar, my prayer mat, my blank page. On your frame, I lean. On your wheels, I trust. With your pedals, I move. You are not just my bicycle. You are the co-author of my life.
With gratitude,
The one who whispers words on your wheels
Discipline, I used to think, belonged only to athletes in stadiums or soldiers on parade grounds. But cycling revealed a gentler, quieter version of discipline—one that doesn’t demand obedience but teaches persistence.
Every ride is a contract between body and mind. The legs must obey the rhythm, even when they scream to stop. The lungs must stretch, even when they burn. The eyes must focus, scanning for danger in the chaos of CTG’s streets.
There were mornings when I wanted to stay in bed, when the weight of fatigue pressed heavier than any delivery bag. But my bicycle was waiting, wheels patient, like a friend who believes in you more than you believe in yourself. I learned that discipline isn’t about punishment; it’s about showing up. Again and again. Whether the road is smooth or cracked, whether the day is sunny or stormy, whether my heart is light or burdened.
Discipline is logging kilometers on Strava not for show, but to prove to myself that I am still moving. Discipline is tightening bolts after a long day because tomorrow demands another ride. Discipline is refusing shortcuts, on the road and in writing, because the truth of the journey lies in every pedal stroke, every word written.
Some people meditate with closed eyes and folded legs. I meditate with open roads and spinning wheels.
Cycling is writing, just without ink. Each ride is a paragraph, each turn a punctuation mark, each climb an exclamation point, each downhill a sigh. My breath syncs with cadence, my mind clears with rhythm. I enter a flow state where time disappears, and all that exists is motion.
Writing is cycling, just without roads. The page is terrain. Blank, at first, like the silence before dawn. Then one sentence—like the first pedal stroke—breaks inertia. Another follows. And another. Soon, words gather momentum, forming trails of thought that climb, descend, and meander just like routes on a map.
Both demand patience. Both reward consistency. Both are mirrors that reflect who I truly am. On the saddle or at the desk, I confront the same truths: I am not limitless, but I am capable of more than I imagine. Pain is temporary, but the creation—distance or words—endures.
Cycling and writing together are my twin meditations. The roads teach my body. The words teach my soul.
Life, I’ve realized, is nothing but a series of deliveries. Not just parcels, but also promises, emotions, and dreams. Each ride is an act of service—to myself, to others, to the universe.
Sometimes, the city roads test me with chaos: buses roaring, rickshaws weaving, pedestrians darting. Other times, the hills of Chittagong cradle me in silence, where only my breath and birdsong exist. In both, I find lessons. The roads demand awareness, resilience, and humility. The tires demand maintenance, attention, and gratitude.
Tires carve roads: leaving faint traces that vanish by morning. I carve words: leaving faint traces in readers’ hearts. Both are fleeting, yet both matter. Because what is life, if not the attempt to leave behind whispers—whether etched in asphalt or in paper?
When I ride, I am more than a courier. I am a poet in motion. When I write, I am more than a poet. I am a rider of silence. And between these two worlds, I exist fully.
So here I am, looping endlessly:
Pedal, deliver, write, repeat.
And I would not trade this loop for anything else. For in this cycle, I find purpose. In this rhythm, I find peace. Between tires and roads lies my life. And with every word I write, with every mile I ride, I whisper:
The road is my page. The tire is my pen. And my life—my life is the poem.
Pedal, Deliver, Write, Repeat
Life, for me, has always been caught in a cycle. Not the cycle of alarms, office shifts, and deadlines that most people wrestle with, but a cycle much simpler—and yet, infinitely deeper:
Pedal. Deliver. Write. Repeat.
It sounds mechanical at first, like a program running in the background of life. But if you live it, if you feel it, if you let it shape your days, it becomes more than repetition. It becomes rhythm. A rhythm that hums beneath my tires, whispers through my pedals, and echoes in the words I carve onto paper long after the ride is done.
On a century ride, when the road stretches like an endless ribbon and the city’s edges blur into countryside, the pedals never stop whispering. They speak a language only the legs and lungs can truly understand.
At first, in the opening kilometers, they tease:
“Fresh legs, light strokes, you think you can conquer us today?”
By 40 or 50 km, the whispers sharpen:
“Slow down. You’re not a machine. Find rhythm, or we’ll teach you pain.”
By 80 km, they begin to sound like prophets, demanding respect:
“You can’t rush through life. You can’t skip steps. Each turn matters. Each crank must be earned.”
And when the century is done, when sweat has salted every inch of my skin and fatigue sits in my bones, the pedals whisper softer:
“See? You survived because you listened. Not because you fought us, but because you flowed with us.”
There is a strange truth about riding in Chittagong: it feels like two different worlds depending on whether I’m in a group or alone.
With a group, the ride becomes a symphony. Wheels hum in harmony, conversations spill between breaths, jokes and encouragement weave the kilometers together. The pace is smoother because it isn’t just mine—it’s ours. Someone pulls ahead, another drifts behind, and in that constant ebb and flow, the ride feels lighter. Even pain feels shared, and somehow, shared pain is easier to carry.
But riding solo—ah, that’s the sacred loop. Alone, the city feels like it belongs only to me. Every rickshaw bell, every bus horn, every crow cawing from an electric wire becomes part of my private orchestra. There are no words exchanged, only the dialogue between my pedals and my mind. Alone, I am exposed to every doubt, every whisper of weakness, but also to every spark of clarity that only solitude can ignite.
Chittagong’s Old Town is not a place most cyclists dream of for a century ride. But for me, it’s where poetry hides in plain sight.
The alleys are narrow, paved with stories more than with asphalt. Rusted tin roofs lean against each other, laundry flutters like flags of everyday survival, and the air smells of fried snacks, cardamom tea, and salt carried inland from the port. Pedalling through those tight spaces, dodging rickshaws and stray chickens, I realize: life is not about smooth highways. It’s about navigating chaos with grace.
Sometimes, I stop at a tea stall I’ve visited a dozen times. The man behind the stove recognizes me—not by name, but by the bike, by the sweat, by the ritual. “Another long one today?” he asks, pouring tea into a chipped cup. And in his voice, I hear the city’s embrace: a reminder that even in the busiest maze, you can find stillness.
If the Old Town is poetry, then the main roads of CTG are percussion—loud, relentless, impossible to ignore.
Traffic in this city doesn’t flow, it crashes. Buses swing their weight like blunt instruments, CNGs dart like mischievous insects, motorbikes carve lines that defy geometry, and pedestrians walk as if protected by invisible shields of faith.
In that orchestra of madness, I ride. Not by overpowering it, but by finding the gaps—the rhythm within the chaos. My cadence matches the heartbeat of the city. My brakes, both front and back, act like punctuation marks. Every red light becomes a comma, every green light a new stanza.
And inside my head, poetry forms uninvited:
Horns blare,
Tires hiss,
Sweat beads,
Patience thins—
Yet in the traffic’s roar,
I find my quiet.
It’s strange, but the worse the traffic gets, the more meditative my pedalling becomes.
Every cyclist in Chittagong knows this feeling: a road is never just a road. It’s a scrapbook.
Passing Chowdhury Hat, I remember delivery shifts—26 km round trip, repeated so often it feels carved into my calves. Passing Bhatiary, I recall the rides where I tested myself on climbs, lungs burning, but spirits soaring. Passing those kitchens, I smile at the kindness of being allowed to wait for food, a small mercy that lingers longer than calories ever did.
Even empty stretches of road hold ghosts: the accident I had. Each place isn’t just geography—it’s memory stitched into the tarmac.
And so, when I ride past them again, I don’t just pedal through space. I pedal through time.
Some days, the hills of Chittagong call me. They rise like challenges, daring me to leave behind the comfort of flat ground. On a fixed gear, especially with 48×17t, the climbs are brutal, honest, unforgiving. Every rise is a test of willpower. But the descents—ah, they are prayers answered. Legs spinning fast, heart leaping, gravity and chain conspiring in wild harmony.
The flat city roads, in contrast, are steady teachers. They don’t thrill me, but they discipline me. They make me practice cadence, pacing, patience. Hills teach me courage; flats teach me consistency. Both, together, remind me that life isn’t all peaks or all plains—it’s a shifting balance.
By now, I no longer separate riding from writing. One feeds the other.
On the bike, words form with every crank:
Push, pull, breathe, repeat.
Off the bike, the memory of cadence becomes sentences:
Whispers, wheels, miles, meaning.
My diary and my Strava feed are just two sides of the same coin. One records numbers—speed, distance, time. The other records feelings—struggle, doubt, triumph. Both matter. Both are true.
And so, the loop continues. Pedal, deliver, write, repeat.
Deliveries keep my body sharp. Writing keeps my soul awake. Long rides stretch my limits. Short commutes sharpen my instincts. Rain reminds me of fragility. Sun reminds me of strength.
The pedals whisper lessons every day, but the biggest one is this:
Life isn’t about escaping the loop. It’s about embracing it.
Because the loop is not a prison—it’s infinity. Each ride leads to words, each word inspires another ride. Each delivery leads to another story, each story keeps me delivering.
The road goes on, and so do I.
So when I am out there, somewhere between Old Town alleys and Bayezid Link Road, past the port cranes and under the shadow of the green hills, I hear the pedals whisper again:
“Don’t chase the finish. Don’t fear the repeat.
Just ride the infinite loop, and write what you find there.”
And I smile, because I know that’s what I was born to do.
Chittagong wakes up in fragments. First the rickshaws rattling like tin drums, then the buses bellowing smoke, then the endless line of cars honking at shadows. But when I swing a leg over my cycle and clip into the pedals, the city becomes a living book, and I become one of its pages.
People think delivery riding is about speed. They see us darting through traffic, cutting alleys, leaning into turns, and they think: Fast hands, fast wheels, fast money. But they don’t see what’s inside the box strapped to my bag, or the unseen weight it carries.
A parcel of biryani weighs maybe 700 grams. A coffee cup, even less. A grocery bag from Pandamart might tug on my shoulder with ten or fifteen kilos at most. But the true weight? That’s invisible. It’s the hunger of a child waiting at home, the smile of a wife whose husband brings her ice cream after work, the quiet relief of a patient receiving fruit in a hospital bed.
Each time I deliver, I’m not just moving food—I’m carrying people’s small hopes. I’m the bridge between craving and comfort, between need and fulfilment. That’s heavier than any backpack, but it’s a weight I carry with pride.
I’ve learned that trust is hidden in every order. Customers don’t think about it consciously, but when they press that “Order Now” button, they are trusting a stranger—me—to ride through rain, dodge trucks, wait at traffic lights, and still arrive with their food safe, warm, intact. That trust is bigger than traffic. It’s more powerful than speed.
Chittagong is no gentle teacher. The roads are uneven, the buses impatient, the hills rising like sudden fists. The rain comes in sheets, flooding the lanes, while the sun burns hotter than fire when the clouds disappear. But from this saddle, I’ve learned lessons no classroom ever offered.
I’ve learned how to read people by the way they speak when they call me for directions. Some are kind: “Bhai, take your time.” Some are impatient: “Where are you? I ordered thirty minutes ago.” And some surprise me with generosity: a glass of water, a smile, sometimes even a tip that feels less like money and more like recognition of the human behind the helmet.
I’ve learned how to respect the rhythm of the city—the surging traffic near GEC Circle, the calm roads near Bhatiary, the tight corners in Halishahar. Every road has its mood, and every ride teaches me to flow with it, not fight against it.
Most of all, I’ve learned that being a rider is more than being a courier. We are silent threads holding the city together, one parcel at a time.
People shout advice all the time: “Work harder, save more, chase bigger dreams.” But my two wheels don’t shout; they whisper. In the hum of the chain, I hear them saying: Keep steady. Keep moving. You’ll get there.
When I’m stuck in traffic, horns exploding in my ears, my bike whispers patience. When I face a steep climb near Badshah Mia Road, thighs burning, my wheels whisper resilience. When deliveries are slow and my earnings barely cover lunch, my cycle whispers: Every ride counts, every kilometre matters. Don’t stop.
The city’s voices demand. But my two wheels teach. And somehow, their whispers stay longer in my heart than a thousand loud instructions.
Some think riding is lonely. A man in a pink Foodpanda jersey, weaving through streets, no one talking to him. But I know better. Silence isn’t emptiness—it’s wisdom.
When I ride alone, I listen to my breath, the rhythm of my pedalling, the pulse of my own body against the world. That silence teaches me what no noise can: how to endure, how to pace myself, how to find joy in repetition.
Alone on the road, I realize that life doesn’t always need applause. Sometimes it only needs motion. The quiet strength of showing up every day, whether for work, for a ride, or for yourself—that’s the wisdom silence gives.
Not every ride is epic. Most are ordinary: pick up, drop off, check the app, repeat. But even in those simple motions, motivation hides.
It’s in the sweat dripping down my face after a 45 km day, reminding me that consistency builds strength. It’s in the smile of a customer who says, “Thank you, bhai,” reminding me that small acts matter. It’s in the numbers on Strava, miles stacking up like bricks in a house I’m building quietly, day after day.
Motivation isn’t always a big speech or a grand event. Sometimes it’s just finishing one more ride when you’re tired, knowing that tomorrow you’ll be stronger for it.
This is what my life on two wheels has taught me: every delivery is more than speed. It’s about trust. It’s about resilience. It’s about carrying invisible weights heavier than parcels, and listening to whispers quieter than crowds.
I don’t just deliver food. I deliver hope, care, connection. And in return, the city delivers its lessons to me—patience, discipline, silence, and motivation hidden in the most ordinary of days.
That’s why, when people ask me why I keep riding, I smile. Because every time I mount the saddle, I know: I’m not just cycling through traffic. I’m cycling through life.
Sometimes I wonder why I fell in love with two wheels. Was it the speed, the freedom, the sweat dripping down my face as the city blurred past me? Or was it something quieter, something clocks and calendars never managed to teach me—something only the steady rhythm of pedals could whisper?
Clocks tick in arrogance. They remind you of deadlines, of minutes slipping away, of the constant pressure to do more in less time. But wheels—ah, wheels teach you patience. A climb never ends faster just because you want it to. A headwind won’t soften because you begged it to. You pedal, slowly, steadily, knowing that every revolution counts. Patience doesn’t come from waiting at a desk; it comes from feeling your thighs burn on an uphill stretch, knowing the downhill reward will arrive—but only when the road decides it’s time.
I’ve learned to accept that. On the saddle, time isn’t minutes and hours. It’s measured in turns of the crank set, in beads of sweat, in breaths drawn deep into my lungs. The road stretches forward, indifferent to my haste. It says: learn patience, or turn back.
Self-discipline, too, is hidden in those quiet revolutions. Waking before dawn to ride, lacing my shoes when sleep still calls me back, choosing hydration over another bottle of sugary drink—these are the little wars I fight daily. Cycling isn’t about how fast you go; it’s about whether you show up.
Discipline is refusing to give up when my legs scream after forty kilometers and the sky above Chittagong turns heavy with monsoon rain. It’s continuing to deliver food even when the traffic snarls, even when customers are impatient. Cycling teaches that you can’t fake discipline; the road knows if you’ve trained or not. The chain, the gear ratio, the spinning wheels—they don’t lie.
Some days the rides are ordinary, like blank pages filled with errands and deliveries. Other days they bloom into full chapters—unexpected kindness from a tea seller offering me a free glass of water, or a child clapping as I race past. Each ride adds something to my book of life.
I think about it often: when I look back years from now, I won’t remember the dates on a calendar. I’ll remember the day I rode 100 kilometers on a fixie, the day I crashed and still found the will to rise, the day I felt the city of Chittagong stretch endlessly under my tires. Life writes itself not in hours, but in rides.
Maybe that’s why cyclists count memories in kilometers. I don’t say, “That was a good Sunday.” I say, “That was the day I rode 65 km.” Or, “I’ll never forget that 200 km journey.” Kilometers become memory-markers, engraved into my legs, lungs, and heart.
Each distance tells a story:
10 km deliveries, weaving between buses and rickshaws.
45 km of daily grind, logged into Strava, reminding me that consistency is a victory in itself.
200 km, where fatigue gave way to euphoria, and I discovered how far willpower can carry a body.
The kilometers aren’t just numbers; they’re chapters, victories, scars, and smiles all rolled into one.
And yet, not every ride needs a goal. Some of the best rides are the ones where I pedal aimlessly, letting the city fall behind me as the countryside opens its arms. No delivery deadlines, no training metrics, no finish line. Just wheels humming, birds calling, and the rhythm of breath syncing with the earth.
Those rides remind me that joy doesn’t always come from achievement. Sometimes it comes from surrender—letting the road lead, letting the wheels roll, and trusting that the journey itself is enough.
But wheels also demand resilience. They test you in ways life often does: flat tires in the middle of nowhere, sudden storms when you’ve got no raincoat, hunger pangs when you’re miles away from the nearest shop. The lesson is always the same: don’t quit. Fix the flat. Ride through the rain. Endure the hunger until you find food.
Resilience isn’t a grand speech; it’s the small decision to keep pedalling when quitting feels easier. Every revolution of the wheel says: you are stronger than you think.
And through it all, two wheels whisper. They whisper truths no crowd could shout, no mentor could lecture. In the hum of tires on asphalt, I hear life telling me: patience, discipline, resilience, freedom, joy. Two wheels don’t argue, don’t demand—they whisper. And somehow, those whispers carry more weight than a thousand voices of advice.
When people see me ride, they think it’s just cycling. But for me, every ride is a sermon, every kilometre a verse, every wheel a teacher. The road is my classroom, the bike my pen, and life writes itself in motion.
So I keep riding. I keep writing. I keep delivering—parcels, poems, memories, and lessons. Because as long as I’m on two wheels, I’m always learning, always listening, always becoming.
Life Lessons Hidden Inside Numbers Like 48×17t and 48×18t
Numbers. Most people fear them, some chase them, and others dismiss them as cold and lifeless. But to me, certain numbers breathe. They whisper. They tell stories.
My favourite ones aren’t printed in textbooks or shouted from calculators. They live on my chainring and rear cogs: 48×17 & 48×18. Ratios, but more than ratios. They are gospel—rules, prayers, and truths hidden in steel and sweat.
I still remember the first time I felt the brutal honesty of 48×17t on my fixed gear. It was a gear that gave me speed and silence but demanded respect. Every pedal stroke meant responsibility—there was no freewheeling, no luxury of coasting. If I wanted to move, I had to earn it. If I wanted to stop, my legs had to resist the wheel’s momentum.
It was like life in its rawest form: no shortcuts.
Riding that setup, I realized how often we coast through days, waiting for comfort or ease. But on a fixie, comfort doesn’t exist. It’s legs against the machine, breath against gravity, will against weakness. 48×17t became my teacher in discipline—fast on flats, fierce against winds, unforgiving on climbs.
People often asked, “Why make it harder? Why not get gears?”
I would shrug, smile, and whisper to myself: Because life doesn’t shift for me either.
Later, I found balance in 48×18t on my single-speed. Slightly easier, slightly kinder. A gear that still kept me honest but allowed space for breath. Where 48×17t was strict, 48×18t was merciful.
On long rides, it felt like meditation. My cadence steady, my heart aligned. I could ride all day, logging 50, 80, even 100+ kilometers without collapsing into despair. It wasn’t about winning; it was about flowing.
In that rhythm, I discovered something important: life isn’t always about the hardest choice. Sometimes, it’s about the sustainable one. Choosing 48×18t didn’t mean I was weaker; it meant I understood endurance—the art of lasting longer, of finding joy in repetition.
The gospel of gears spreads on the road, too. Strangers always ask:
“No gears? How do you climb?”
I grin. “One pedal at a time.”
“What if you get tired?”
“I listen to my body. On a fixie, fatigue isn’t failure, it’s feedback.”
“Why not buy a road bike?”
“Because I don’t need a thousand gears to discover myself. I need just one.”
Sometimes they laugh, sometimes they shake their heads. But often, their eyes carry curiosity. Some even try my bike, wobbling at first, then smiling wide as the simplicity hits them: so this is it, just legs and road.
48 teeth in the front, 17t or 18t at the back.
That’s math. But it’s also philosophy.
48×17t taught me aggression.
48×18t taught me patience.
Both taught me acceptance.
Every ratio carries a lesson: the balance between effort and reward, between speed and sustainability. In life, we all choose our ratios—between work and rest, between ambition and gratitude, between chasing dreams and savoring what we already have.
I’ve taken these ratios into rain-soaked rides, where puddles blur the edges of the road. 48×17t in the rain is risky—it punishes hesitation, demands sharp reflexes. 48×18t, though, feels forgiving, letting me spin through storms with grace.
On those days, soaked to the skin, I feel closest to truth. Because the gear doesn’t lie. You either turn it, or you don’t. You either move forward, or you stand still.
And maybe that’s the heart of it: life is just one long ride in a chosen ratio.
I could change my setup, buy a high-end road bike, chase watts and heart-rate zones. But my heart belongs to these simple numbers. They keep me grounded.
When I look at my fixie with its 48×17t gearing, I see discipline—the version of me who refuses shortcuts, who leans into suffering with pride.
When I look at my single-speed with its 48×18t gearing, I see endurance—the version of me who wants to last longer, ride further, and smile at the end of the day.
Together, they define me. A courier, a poet, a dreamer on wheels. Someone who doesn’t just ride but listens to what the chain is saying.
So when strangers ask again why I ride this way, I’ll keep answering with the same quiet smile:
“Because inside these numbers, I find myself.”
48×17t and 48×18t aren’t just gear ratios.
They’re chapters of a book I write every time I ride.
They’re verses in the gospel of simplicity.
They’re lessons of resilience, humility, and presence.
And like any gospel, they’re meant to be shared—not preached with words, but lived with pedals.
So I ride.
And my wheels whisper their truth:
Numbers matter. Lessons matter. Life matters.