The morning air was heavy with the smell of last night’s rain. Roads glistened under a thin coat of water, puddles mirrored broken clouds, and the sky carried the promise of more showers. I stood by my single-speed, the chain taut on the familiar 48:18t gear ratio. It was the ratio I trusted for long rides—gentle enough for endurance, yet demanding enough to keep me honest. My fingers ran over the custom short bar end, a small addition that promised comfort in aero stretches. Today was not about racing the road but about letting the road reveal something to me.
Every ride begins not with the first pedal stroke, but with the ritual of preparing. My cycling shorts and jersey hugged me firmly, the new arm sleeves slid over my arms like armour, and my inner helmet cap settled snugly beneath my helmet. Gloves gripped my hands like old friends, ready to absorb every vibration of the road.
Then came the essentials, carefully divided among my bags:
In my crossbody bag, I packed my 500 ml bottle of tasty saline water—my secret weapon against dehydration—alongside 4 peanut bars for steady energy and 4 bananas, nature’s sweetest fuel.
In the bottle cage, I placed my 500 ml water bottle, cold and reassuring.
In the headtube bag, I slipped in my phone (as always) a packet of Grand Choice biscuits and around 150 taka, money folded flat, practical and discreet.
When I slung the crossbody bag across my shoulder and clipped the straps, I felt complete. My bike wasn’t just ready—it felt alive, carrying not just steel and rubber but the small details of how I survive on the road.
At 9:30 am, I rolled out of Momenbag Residential Area, the single-speed humming beneath me. The rain-washed streets were slick but forgiving. Each pedal stroke was deliberate, smooth, steady. I didn’t need to chase numbers yet; I only needed to settle into rhythm.
The ride took me first to the Bangladesh Forest Research Institute Gate. Crossing inside felt like passing into a quieter dimension, the city’s noise fading beneath the canopy of green. I slowed near the Forest Research Jame Masjid, the white walls serene in the damp air. A moment of calm, then onward.
Exiting the gate, I crossed over toward Robi Customer Care, Muradpur, threading my way past traffic to 2 No. Gate, then through GEC Moor, and onward till Tiger Pass. From there, the road widened, pulling me toward A.K. Khan Moor Bus Stand, and then further still, to the open highway that stretched toward Driver Hotel, Mirasarai.
By then, my body was warm, my cadence smooth. I held 25–28 km/hr, the sweet spot where my 48:18t gearing and my legs felt in perfect harmony. The single-speed gave me no excuse to slack. The chain’s taut hum was like a mantra: push, push, push.
But I wasn’t riding recklessly. I stopped now and then, unzipping my crossbody bag for a peanut bar, peeling a banana with damp fingers, sipping from the saline bottle like it was liquid endurance. I wasn’t ashamed of the pauses. In fact, they were part of the rhythm—the inhale and exhale of a long ride.
When I finally pulled into Driver Hotel, Mirasarai, the clock read 2 hours 40 minutes. My jersey was damp with sweat and rain, my gloves sticky from bananas, and yet my mind was calm. Inside, I ate, not as a cyclist refueling, but as a traveler pausing in the middle of his story. Rice, Chanar dal, the familiar taste of roadside comfort. A 25-minute rest later, I was ready for the next chapter.
The pace slowed after lunch, my speed falling to around 15 km/hr. But this stretch wasn’t about the body. It was about the soul.
I was riding not toward a random destination but toward Nizampur College, where my father once taught in his younger days. Every pedal stroke felt like retracing an old path—his, not mine. The closer I drew, the more it felt like a pilgrimage.
At the college pond, I stopped. The water was still, broken only by the ripples of rain that had started again around 1 pm. I leaned my bike against a tree and let the drizzle wash over me. My soaked arm sleeves clung to my skin, my shoes squelched slightly, but I didn’t mind. I imagined my father here, chalk dust on his shirt, students listening, life unfolding in a rhythm very different from mine. Yet somehow, through this ride, I felt tethered to him.
When the rain finally stopped, the sun returned like a second act. Heat baked my clothes dry as I sat by the pond, reflecting, unhurried.
By 1:30 pm, I hoisted my crossbody bag again and crossed the road over the foot overbridge, the steel echoing under the weight of each step. Mounting the bike once more, I steered toward home via the Bayzid Link Road.
This part of the ride demanded patience. My legs were tired, my energy dim, but the bike didn’t pity me. The 48:18t ratio never lies—you either turn the cranks, or you stop. So I turned them, one stroke after another, the hum of the chain steady and true.
By the time I rolled back into Momenbag, it had been 2 hours 30 minutes since I left Nizampur. My body was sore, but my mind was light.
This ride was never about speed or distance. It wasn’t even about the rain or the road. It was about presence.
The crossbody bag reminded me that life is about carrying only what you need, nothing more.
The water bottle in the cage was discipline: drink steadily, stay balanced.
The headtube bag, with its biscuits and folded money, was foresight: the small things that keep journeys smooth.
And the 48:18t single-speed? It was honesty itself: no gears, no lies, just strength, rhythm, and the will to keep going.
What my bike says about me is what I hope my life also says: that I value effort over shortcuts, that I don’t fear struggle, that I seek rhythm more than convenience.
The rain taught me patience. The road taught me humility. The ride taught me remembrance.
And so, soaked and sun-dried, with empty pockets of snacks but a full heart, I ended the day knowing this: simplicity is enough.
Ride. Write. Repeat.
Every time you turn the pedals, you’re not just moving forward on the road—you’re moving forward in life. Riding teaches patience, persistence, and presence. Writing teaches reflection, expression, and the courage to share. Together, they create a rhythm that keeps the body alive and the soul awake.
Don’t wait for the perfect bike, the perfect notebook, or the perfect day. Start with what you have. Ride the roads around you, feel the wind on your face, let your heart race with the climb and rest with the downhill. Then, when the ride is done, sit down and write. Capture the sweat, the struggle, the laughter, and the little victories.
Your words may inspire someone else to ride. Your rides may inspire someone else to write. That’s the beauty of this cycle—we keep passing forward what fuels us.
So, ride to discover. Write to remember. And keep both alive, because the world needs your wheels and your words.
Life Lessons Learned from Pedalling Without Gears
I’ve often been asked why I ride a fixed gear or a single-speed bike when the world is overflowing with options—multi-geared road bikes, carbon frames, electric assist cycles, and every shiny upgrade you can imagine. People wonder: why strip cycling down to its bones? Why make it harder?
But the truth is, cycling without gears isn’t about making things harder. It’s about making them clearer. And clarity, I’ve learned, is one of the rarest gifts you can give yourself in a world that constantly drowns you in choices, numbers, and noise.
When I push on my pedals, there is no escape route. No downshift to make the climb easier, no click of a derailleur to bail me out. The gear is the gear, the road is the road, and I am left to wrestle with both until one of us bends. More often than not, it’s me who bends, but in that bending, I grow.
My fixed gear, locked into a 48×17t ratio, is the closest thing I know to discipline on two wheels. At this gearing, every pedal stroke demands respect. On the flats, it feels fast, alive—like the bike was meant to cut through air at this cadence, this resistance. On descents, it tests me, because my legs are not allowed to rest; they must spin with gravity, finding rhythm in chaos. On climbs, the 48×17t reminds me of my limits. It doesn’t forgive laziness. It doesn’t let me slip into comfort. It simply asks: are you strong enough today?
That’s what I love most about the fixie: it mirrors life. In life, just like on a fixed gear, there are no freewheels. You can’t coast through heartbreak, through exhaustion, through work. You have to keep your legs moving, even when you feel like giving up. And the faster you adapt, the smoother the ride feels.
The 48×17t gear ratio, for me, is balance—speed, control, and power woven into a single rhythm. It’s the gear that reminds me I can’t rush through life without effort, but I also can’t crawl; I must commit to the cadence I’ve chosen and make peace with it.
But then there are days I choose my single-speed with a 48×18t. To outsiders, the difference seems tiny—a single tooth on the cog. But for me, it’s the difference between war and conversation.
The 48×18t is slightly softer, slightly more forgiving. It allows me to pause for a second after a sprint, to coast downhill without my legs flailing, to corner without fearing a pedal strike. It’s less rigid than the fixed gear, but still rooted in simplicity. On this bike, I can breathe differently. I can ride long delivery shifts during Ramadan and still have something left inside me when the day ends.
The single-speed whispers: rest is also strength. It teaches me moderation, balance, and grace. It’s not about proving myself every second, but about enduring every kilometre. When I’m out delivering food, tracking my rides on Strava, or logging another 45 km in the rain, the 48×18t is my companion—steady, reliable, unpretentious. It lets me go fast when I want, but also lets me live in the in-betweens.
When I look at my bike, I see a reflection of who I am—and maybe who I’m still trying to become.
The fixed gear says I’m stubborn, that I value rawness and honesty over shortcuts. It says I’m willing to fight for progress, to embrace discomfort as a teacher, and to keep my cadence even when the world tries to push me off rhythm. It says I’m chasing clarity, not convenience.
The single-speed says I’m human, that I know when to let go, when to coast, when to allow myself softness. It says I’m not only about discipline and grit, but also about balance, longevity, and compassion toward my own body.
Together, they remind me that life isn’t about choosing between difficulty and ease. It’s about knowing when to tighten your chain and when to loosen it. When to demand everything from yourself, and when to forgive yourself.
Every ride is a classroom, and these are some of the lessons my bike have carved into me:
Simplicity is power. Without gears, there are fewer distractions, fewer excuses. You’re left with the basics—your legs, your breath, your willpower. Sometimes, stripping life down to its essentials is how you discover what you’re really made of.
Consistency beats shortcuts. A fixed gear never lies. If you skip rides, if you slack off, your body will tell the truth when you try to push those pedals. Progress comes from showing up, not from finding an easier gear.
Balance matters. You can’t ride in 48×17t every day. Sometimes you need the 48×18t, just as in life you need rest, forgiveness, and gentleness. A relentless grind without reprieve leads to burnout.
Presence is everything. On a fixie, you can’t daydream too far or you’ll catch a pedal. On a single-speed, you still need to read the road and feel the rhythm. Both gear ratios teach me to be here now. Every moment matters, every stroke counts.
So, why do I ride without gears? Because every ride is a reminder that life isn’t about having every option—it’s about making the most of the one you’ve chosen.
The fixed gear teaches me to endure.
The single-speed teaches me to flow.
Both teach me to live.
My 48×17t and 48×18t setups may just look like numbers, but they are my philosophies, my companions, my truths on two wheels.
And if you ever see me pedalling down the streets of Chittagong or outside the city, know this: I’m not just riding a bike. I’m riding a mirror of myself.
There are days when I wake up and the first thought in my head is numbers—kilometres, average speed, cadence, elevation. Strava has wired me that way. It has turned rides into something measurable, something I can compare with my past self or even strangers halfway across the world. But there are also days when I roll out of my gate, feel the first push of pedal against chain, and know immediately that the ride isn’t about data. It’s about me, the road, the rhythm of breath, and the poetry that hums inside as wheels turn.
This tension—between Strava and soul—is something I carry with me on every ride.
I began using Strava as a courier. Delivering food in the streets of Chittagong isn’t just about speed, it’s about rhythm, consistency, and endurance. Some days, I work six hours straight, crisscrossing from Agrabad to Bahaddarhat, from Oxygen to A. K. Khan. Strava keeps me honest.
Each delivery becomes a segment. Each sprint to a restaurant and rush to a customer’s door becomes a record of time, effort, and distance. Without Strava, all those kilometres would vanish into the air like sweat evaporating in the sun. With Strava, they’re captured—mapped, coloured with lines that cut across the city like veins carrying stories.
It feels good to look back at a shift and say: Today, I delivered twenty orders and still rode 60 km. It feels good to compare weeks and notice progress: Last Ramadan, I rode 900 km while fasting. This year, I crossed 1200. Numbers become milestones, reminders that my legs, though tired, are growing stronger with every push.
And sometimes, Strava becomes my coach. It whispers: Push harder on this climb, hold steady on this straight, keep the average above 28 km/h. The app doesn’t care about my fatigue, my hunger, or the rain dripping into my shoes. It cares about pace, segments, records. And sometimes, I need that. Sometimes, I need Strava to remind me that I’m not just drifting through rides—I’m building, improving, aiming toward something bigger.
But then there are rides when Strava can’t measure the real story.
Like the evening it rained so hard that even my raincoat surrendered. Roads turned into rivers, customers stared at me dripping at their gates, and I pedalled home soaked and smiling. What was the average speed that day? Did it matter?
Or the dawn ride to Bhatiyari when the air smelled of salt and wet grass, and the sun cracked open the horizon like an egg spilling orange fire. Strava told me I averaged 26.8 km/h, but my soul told me: This is freedom. This is why you ride.
Or the Eid mornings, when I ride long distances just to honour single-speed cyclists. The cadence isn’t smooth, the legs burn, but every push of the crank feels like a prayer, a way of saying: I ride for love, for memory, for community.
Strava can’t record poetry. It can’t log the way a child waves at me from a rickshaw or the way tea stalls feel like lifelines on long routes. It can’t chart the relief of resting at a mosque after a sweaty delivery session. Soul rides have their own map—drawn not on screens but inside the heart.
So when do I ride for Strava, and when do I ride for myself?
I’ve learned to listen. On days when I feel like drifting, when the heart wants to wander without pressure, I turn off the app. I let the roads lead me. No numbers, no records, no pressure—just me, my bike, and the road stretching endlessly.
But when I’m working, when I need discipline, when I want to measure growth—I turn on Strava and let the numbers push me.
Both are necessary. Strava sharpens me; soul softens me. One teaches me progress, the other teaches me presence.
Even when I choose soul over stats, I still upload most of my delivery rides. Why? Because my story is in those lines. Each zig-zag across Chittagong is proof of work, of effort, of survival and passion stitched together. Strava may not capture the soul of every ride, but it gives me a canvas. And I can look back weeks, months, or years later and remember: Here, I was tired but kept going. Here, I crashed and got up. Here, I rode with rain in my shoes and laughter in my chest.
Maybe that’s the real balance. Strava tracks the skeleton of the ride, but the soul adds flesh, breath, and heartbeat. Without one, the other feels incomplete.
And as I ride, day after day, through sun, rain, traffic, and silence, I’ve come to realise something simple: whether I ride for Strava or for soul, what matters most is that I keep pedalling. Because every turn of the wheel is a reminder—I’m still moving, still alive, still whispering words on wheels.
In the end, cycling isn’t about choosing Strava or Soul—it’s about weaving them together. Numbers matter. Feelings matter. Progress matters. Presence matters.
The sun was already climbing high by the time my shift began, the kind of September heat that clings to your skin and makes even the slightest breeze feel like a blessing. I had fuelled myself the way I usually do before a session: bread mixed with egg, two sachets of Brazilian Coffee in 250ml hot water, and a banana. A rider’s fuel is never glamorous, but it’s enough to keep the pedals turning and the body steady through the chaos of the streets.
At 12:15 PM, I clipped in and rolled out for the afternoon’s ride.
The first order came from Degchi Bari at Golphar. Smooth pickup, steady ride, and a customer who greeted me warmly. His bill was ৳448.70, but he handed me ৳450. A tiny gesture—just ৳1.30 more—yet it always feels like a nod of respect, like the customer values the effort behind the delivery. That first order set the tone for the afternoon.
Not long after, the rhythm of the day picked up. I received three consecutive orders from 7 Dayz.
The first one was online paid, quick and easy.
The second customer’s bill was ৳442.50, but he only gave me ৳440. Technically, it was short, but I let it pass. Sometimes people just round things their way.
The third customer’s bill was ৳567.05, and he handed me ৳600. I returned his change, but once again, I noticed the quiet kindness in these little exchanges. Even when customers don’t say much, the way they handle the bill tells a story of their own.
Next stop was Hotel Zaman & Biryani House at GEC. The customer settled the bill exactly—৳285. By then, I could already feel the heat pressing against me, the city’s traffic like a furnace, but my legs kept steady on the pedals.
From there, the ping sent me to The Pizza Co. at Khushi. This one was online paid—no cash, no change, just a handover and back to the road. A relief sometimes, to not juggle notes and coins under the sun.
Then came another series of three orders from 7 Dayz.
The first one was again online paid.
The second customer’s bill was ৳396.75, but she gave me ৳400. That little ৳3.25 tip may not sound much, but for me it’s a reminder: someone thought of me in that moment, even briefly.
The third order, however, became the highlight of the day.
His bill was ৳237, and he gave me ৳550. I was supposed to return ৳300 rest ৳13 was tip, but I mistakenly handed him ৳400 instead. I only realized after he left. My heart sank. For a rider, even a small financial slip feels heavy, because every taka counts.
But what happened next was beyond ordinary. When the customer checked his wallet, he noticed the extra money. Instead of keeping quiet, he tried to contact Foodpanda to get my number. Company policy didn’t allow it. Still, his determination didn’t stop there. He went on Facebook, searched my name, and messaged me—at first unsure, asking: “Are you the Foodpanda rider who delivered from 7 Dayz to my location?”
I admitted it was me. He then explained he wanted to return the money. Later, he sent it back to me via bKash. He said something that struck deep: “It’s not a big amount, but I know how much difficulty a rider faces delivering food in this heat.”
That honesty, that kindness—it wasn’t just about the money. It was about respect. Not everyone would go through the trouble he did, but he did it anyway. In the middle of all the rush, his gesture felt like shade under a scorching sun.
The final order of the session came from Momos by 7 Dayz. The customer’s bill was ৳472.30, but he gave me ৳470. A slight shortfall, but by then my heart was still full from the earlier kindness.
By 5:30 PM, my delivery session came to an end. The legs were tired, my shirt clung to me with sweat, but my spirit felt steady.
When I returned home, I ate a simple meal: rice with egg, felon lentil, a banana with bread, and sweetened yogurt. Nothing fancy, just the kind of food that refuels both body and soul.
But what lingered wasn’t the food or the fatigue—it was the human moments:
The customer who tipped ৳30 extra without saying a word.
The customer who searched me out, not to complain, but to return money I mistakenly gave.
These are reminders that kindness exists in small pockets everywhere, even in the chaos of delivery life. A rider’s journey is not just about moving food from kitchen to doorstep—it’s about crossing paths with people, some indifferent, some generous, and a few who remind you that honesty and humanity are still alive.
And so, September 14th, 2025, wasn’t just another delivery shift. It was a story of sweat, wheels, and kindness carried across the streets of Chattogram.
The road was still half-asleep when I rolled out. My cycle leaned light under me, single gear steady, wheels humming like an old friend who doesn’t need words. I tapped the screen, started Strava, and felt the soft buzz confirm it—every kilometre would be recorded. Two hundred kilometres. A number that felt both beautiful and cruel. Not a race, not a delivery, not even a challenge on Strava. Just me, the bike, the numbers quietly ticking in the background, and the voices that would rise and fall inside my head.
At 20 KM, my courier instincts kicked in.
“This feels like a long shift, except no parcels, no app pinging, no customer waiting at the gate.” The thought made me smile. My legs spun smooth, the city slowly fading behind. The body was fresh, like the first drop of morning coffee. I told myself, “Two hundred won’t be so bad. It’s just riding, and riding is what I do best.” The Strava screen showed a steady pace, but I forced myself not to obsess over it. Today, the numbers were just witnesses, not masters.
By 50 KM, doubt whispered.
“Careful. You’re pushing too hard. Remember the 48×17t days—you know what burning out feels like.”
I argued back, “I’ve done deliveries through storms, Ramadan fasts, endless traffic. This is easier—just an open road.” But my thighs already warned me: respect the distance. A quick glance at Strava showed my average speed dipping, and I laughed bitterly. “Let it dip. This ride is bigger than digits on a screen.”
At 80 KM, my courier self got nostalgic. I thought of all those runs to Chowdhury Hat, Bhatiary, the long loops in the city. Each ride back then felt like training for something bigger, though I didn’t always know what. Now, here I was, chasing that “something” across 200 KM of tarmac. Still, another voice teased:
“You could stop here. Nobody’s waiting for proof. Why suffer more?”
But another, firmer part of me answered, “Because I’ll know. And my wheels whisper the truth—I can’t stop halfway.” Strava ticked over into three digits, 80 KM recorded in the log, but the real battle was inside me.
At 100 KM, the century mark, I allowed myself a smile. Halfway. A courier’s day worth of rides stacked together. The hunger in my stomach was sharp, the fatigue in my arms real, but I remembered the girl who used to deliver to women customers, the brother who lent me his cycle after my accident, the kindness of Kitchens when they let me sit and wait for food. All these little fragments lived inside me, keeping me pedalling. Strava sent a silent buzz—“100.0 km completed”—but the bigger milestone was the memory of why I ride at all.
At 120 KM, the road went quiet. My legs moved like machinery, but my head drifted. I remembered my first donation of blood to my mother, how I started giving every three months after that. I thought of Hajj dreams on a bicycle, of all the stories I had written on nights when my legs still ached from riding all day.
The doubts circled again: “Why? Why push this far when life already pushes you enough?”
And then I reminded myself: “Because this road is mine. This pain is chosen. This victory will be mine alone.” Strava blinked back the truth in cold numbers—distance, elevation, cadence—but my soul was tracking something it couldn’t measure.
At 150 KM, the suffering sharpened. The saddle felt like a knife, my back screamed, my wrists begged for mercy. The headwind rose like an enemy. I cursed under my breath, half-angry at myself.
“Normal people are resting, celebrating, enjoying food with family. And you? You’re here, breaking yourself.”
But then I remembered deliveries in the rain, Eid shifts when everyone else was at home, the way I’ve always found freedom in the struggle. And I muttered to myself: “This suffering is love. And love always hurts a little.” Strava’s pace graph showed ugly dips now, but I let them be. The ride wasn’t about perfect lines—it was about surviving jagged truths.
At 170 KM, hope flickered. Only 30 KM left. My voice grew louder, talking out loud to myself:
“You’ve carried heavier loads than this. You’ve climbed bigger hills inside your mind. Just hold on.”
The bike felt heavy, but my resolve was light. I imagined the Strava file that would upload at the end—200.0 KM, a complete line across the map—and smiled. Proof for the world, but more importantly, proof for myself.
At 190 KM, the world blurred. Every pedal stroke was a prayer, every turn of the crank a rebellion against the thought of giving up. I imagined finishing, leaning against the cycle, looking back at the road that tried to break me. The sunset glowed red, the sky stretching wide like a reward.
And at 200 KM, I stopped. My legs trembled, my shirt clung wet, but my heart was calm. The voices fell silent. Strava’s screen blinked final numbers: time, distance, speed. But no app notification, no parcel completed, no audience to clap. Only me, my bike, and the quiet victory of surviving my own doubts.
This ride wasn’t just 200 KM of distance. It was 200 KM of conversations inside my head—between the courier, the poet, the brother, the dreamer, and the tired man who almost gave up but didn’t.
And when I finally hit “Save Ride,” I knew the numbers would fade with time—but the soul of this journey would stay forever.
The first time I ever clipped into a fixed gear, I didn’t understand what it really meant.
Not the mechanics, not the history, not the culture. I only felt the pull of the chain — that endless dialogue between my legs and the wheel, a conversation with no pauses, no excuses, no breaks. The pedals turned, and so did I.
At first, it was just a machine, a steel frame and a gear ratio — 48×17, sharp and unforgiving, whispering to me that every road ahead would demand something more than comfort. But as the miles collected, I realized this was not simply a bicycle. It was a teacher. A confessor. A mirror.
On a fixed gear, there are no lies. No shortcuts. You don’t coast; you don’t rest; you don’t fake. The road tilts upward, and your legs must answer. The road dives downward, and your legs must resist. You learn to move not against the road, but with it — like water in a riverbed, flowing where gravity pulls, yet shaping it with rhythm.
Friends ask me why I attempt long rides with just one gear. Why not switch to a geared road bike, why not allow myself that mercy? They don’t understand that mercy, too, can be a burden.
The fixed gear forces me to strip away luxury. It is minimalism in motion.
It says: “You carry only what you must. You spin only what you can. You climb only with what strength is inside you.”
And so, on endless roads, I chase something more than kilometers. I chase honesty.
I still remember my first attempt at a long-distance ride — longer than I thought I could handle — on my fixed gear. The road stretched like a ribbon, vanishing into heat and horizon. Chattogram’s streets gave way to rural quiet, where rice fields mirrored the sky and children waved at me like I was some alien traveller.
At first, I felt invincible. My cadence was sharp, my legs pumping like pistons, my chest full of air. But as the kilometers grew, so did the silence in my head. No music, no traffic horns, no small talk — just the whisper of chain and the pounding of heart.
The fixed gear has a way of magnifying fatigue. Every incline feels steeper. Every decline tests your control. Every flat stretch becomes an argument between your will and your body. Somewhere past the halfway point, I wanted to give up. My thighs burned like firewood, my knees screamed with each push, my palms were raw from gripping the bars.
But something about the fixie doesn’t let you quit so easily. You can’t just coast to a stop. The pedals keep spinning, demanding a decision: keep moving, or fall. And so I chose movement. I chose to trust the wheel’s circle, the road’s invitation.
That ride did not break me. It remade me.
Since then, every long ride on my fixed gear has felt like chasing a dream written across the asphalt. Some dreams are small — reaching Bhatiary at sunset, breathing in the golden haze over the hills. Some are grand — imagining myself riding from Tetulia to Teknaf, the spine of Bangladesh beneath my wheels, one endless straight poem of sweat and chain.
People don’t realize: a fixed gear makes every kilometre feel earned. It’s not like a car, where the miles blur into forgettable numbers. It’s not like a geared bike, where you can soften the climb with a flick of the wrist. On a fixie, you taste every rise, every fall, every imperfection in the road.
The fixed gear turns distance into intimacy. By the time you’ve covered 100 km, you know every contour of the land, every rhythm of your own heartbeat. The ride and the rider become one.
There are easier ways to move through the world. But ease is not what I seek. What I want is presence. The fixie demands it.
It doesn’t let me drift into laziness, doesn’t let me escape responsibility. It says:
“If you’re here, be here. If you ride, then ride with everything you are.”
On endless roads, this philosophy spills into my words. When I write, I try to write like I ride — with no coasting, no shortcuts. One line after another, one sentence pushing against the next, like pedals that refuse to stop.
And when I deliver — food, parcels, dreams — I carry the same spirit. Each delivery is a promise, just as each ride is a vow. The gear cannot cheat, and neither can I.
Someday, I know I will take that full journey — a fixed gear ride across the length of Bangladesh. Not for glory, not for records, but for poetry. Because the truth is, these wheels are my pen, and the road is my page.
Every spin is a word.
Every kilometre is a verse.
Every endless road is a poem I am still learning to write.
Fixed gear dreams are not just about bicycles. They are about life stripped down to its simplest rhythm: movement, struggle, persistence. No coasting. No escape. Just the raw honesty of being alive, pedalling forward, carrying your purpose into tomorrow.
And so I keep riding.
Endless roads. Endless words.
A single gear, and a thousand dreams.
In the bustling world of Foodpanda deliveries, most days feel like a blur of orders, routes, and restless waiting. Riders like me live between the rhythm of wheels and the ticking clock, moving from one pickup point to another. And in this life of constant motion, the smallest gestures of kindness often shine the brightest.
Among all the restaurants and home kitchens I have picked orders from, two stand out—Sharia’s Kitchen and Delight & Maria’s Kitchen. They are not just names on the app to me anymore. They are warm corners of kindness tucked into my delivery routes.
Sharia’s Kitchen & Delight
The first time I went to Sharia’s Kitchen for a pickup, I expected the usual: stand at the gate, wait awkwardly, maybe call twice if the order was late, and finally receive the parcel with little more than a nod. But instead, something different happened.
“Bhaiya, come inside and sit. It’ll take a few minutes,” they said, with genuine hospitality.
I looked around, almost unsure if they really meant it. Riders like me are so used to being left outside gates, sometimes even under the scorching sun or in sudden rain. But here, they welcomed me into their home. They didn’t treat me as just a delivery man— but they rather treated me as a guest.
Since that day, every time I had an order from Sharia’s Kitchen or Delight, I carried an unspoken comfort. I knew I would not have to wait outside like a stranger. I knew there was a chair, a fan, and a little peace waiting for me, even if just for a short while. That simple kindness made me look forward to picking up from them.
Maria’s Kitchen
Then there is Maria’s Kitchen, which holds its own special place in my journey. Unlike many other home kitchens, Maria’s Kitchen thoughtfully arranged a few seats for riders. They placed them under a fan, so the heat of the day could ease while we waited.
Sometimes, they even went beyond that. I still remember the first time I was handed a small 250ml cold drink, without asking, without expectation. Another day, it was a glass of juice, refreshing after hours of cycling under the sun. Those moments might seem small to others, but to a rider running on sweat, fatigue, and a clock that never stops ticking, they were priceless.
The kindness of Maria’s Kitchen was not about grand gestures—it was about noticing the human being behind the pink jersey and the delivery bag came to pick up the order.
The Other Home Kitchens
In contrast, there are many other home kitchens that never once invite us in. The routine is the same: wait outside the gate, sometimes standing under the sun, sometimes just ignored. In those places, we remain invisible—only a pair of hands to carry food from one door to another.
And that’s why the memory of Sharia’s Kitchen and Delight and Maria’s Kitchen shines so brightly. They broke that invisible barrier. They acknowledged us not just as riders, but as people.
A Measureless Kindness
The gestures I received from these two home kitchens are, in truth, unmeasurable. You cannot weigh a kind word, or the comfort of being invited inside, or the cool relief of a fan. You cannot measure the sweetness of a cold drink given freely to a tired rider.
But you can feel it. And I have felt it, deeply.
Every time I walk into Sharia’s Kitchen or Delight, every time I sit under the fan at Maria’s Kitchen, I am reminded that kindness does not need to be big—it just needs to be sincere. And for a rider like me, whose days are spent weaving through traffic, braving sun and rain, and racing against time, that sincerity means more than gold.
These kitchens are not just food businesses. To me, they are places of rest, reminders of humanity, and symbols of how even in the busiest, hardest professions, there are still people who see you, respect you, and care.
And for that, I will always carry gratitude in my heart for Sharia’s Kitchen and Delight & Maria’s Kitchen—two names that remind me, every ride, that kindness is never wasted.
The morning was still young when I tightened the straps of my helmet and rolled my cycle out. The sky carried the soft grey of dawn, with the first rays of sunlight streaking through scattered clouds. My heart thumped with anticipation — this was a ride I had been planning for a long time, a journey towards a mosque whose beauty I had heard about from many but never witnessed with my own eyes: কাবিল ভূঁইয়া জামে মসজিদ (Qabil Bhuiyan Jame Mosque) in Feni.
The first few kilometers were a blend of urban chaos and morning calm. The roads were waking up — trucks rumbling out of the port city, rickshaws weaving between lanes, tea stalls already boiling kettles of steaming milk tea. As I pedaled past the City Gate, the familiar chaos of Chittagong slowly began to fade. The rhythm of my legs on the pedals found a steady beat, syncing with the hum of life around me.
The air was fresher now. Tall palm trees lined parts of the highway, swaying slightly in the breeze. CNG drivers looked at me curiously as I rode past, and a few young boys waved, shouting encouragement like I was on some kind of race. And in a way, I was — not against others, but against my own limits, my own procrastinations.
The Dhaka–Chittagong highway stretched ahead like a silver ribbon. Each passing kilometre told a different story. I passed small villages where early risers were heading to bazaars, farmers carrying baskets of fresh vegetables, and school children with heavy bags slung across their shoulders. Every face seemed to mirror resilience, and in those reflections, I found the energy to keep pushing forward.
Stopping at a roadside tea stall near Sitakunda, I poured a glass of tea into a small cup and let the sweetness settle on my tongue. The tea-stall owner asked me where I was headed. When I said “Feni,” his eyebrows rose in surprise. “Cycle diye jachhen? Shabash!” (You’re going by cycle? Bravo!). That one word — Shabash (“Bravo”) — echoed inside me like fuel.
The sun climbed higher, casting golden warmth on the road. The long, straight stretches near Mirsarai tested my endurance. Trucks zoomed past, leaving trails of dust, and sometimes I had to slow down to let them through. But whenever the road quieted, I could hear only the whirring of my wheels and the whisper of the wind.
Every now and then, I spotted little shops selling watermelons, cucumbers, and green coconuts. I stopped for a coconut, watching the vendor skilfully chop the top and hand it over with a straw. That cool, sweet water tasted like life itself. I sat there, legs stretched, looking at the horizon, thinking how life is a lot like a long ride — uphill climbs test you, but smooth descents reward your patience.
By the time I reached Feni, fatigue tugged at my muscles, but excitement carried me forward. The town buzzed with energy — roadside vendors shouting, buses honking, pedestrians moving about in hurried steps. Yet, amidst the noise, my heart was calm. I was nearing the destination I had been dreaming of.
Turning into the road towards কাবিল ভূঁইয়া জামে মসজিদ (Qabil Bhuiyan Jame Mosque), I felt a shift. The mosque slowly revealed itself from a distance, its modern and elegant design standing like a gem amidst greenery. My legs, tired though they were, pedaled faster as if drawn by an unseen force.
And then, there it was — কাবিল ভূঁইয়া জামে মসজিদ (Qabil Bhuiyan Jame Mosque), glowing softly under the afternoon light. Its unique architecture stood out with its flowing curves and intricate details. The glass, the metal lattice, the symmetry — all of it seemed like a blend of tradition and modernity, faith and art.
I parked my cycle under a tree and walked slowly towards the entrance. After ablution I started climbing the steps, I could feel my heart quieting. Inside, the air was cooler, calmer. The mosque radiated serenity, the kind of peace that washes over you after a long struggle. I stood there in silence, whispering a prayer of gratitude — for the strength to ride, for the beauty to witness, and for the dream fulfilled.
As I sat outside on the mosque grounds, sipping water and staring at my cycle leaning against the tree, I thought about journeys. Sometimes, we delay them — waiting for the “right time.” But the truth is, the right time is the moment we decide to begin. This ride wasn’t just about reaching Feni. It was about proving to myself that every dream — no matter how far — begins with a single pedal stroke.
After offering my prayers and sitting in silence for a while at the mosque grounds, I knew it was time to turn my wheels back toward home. My legs had already carried me many kilometers, and though fatigue pressed on me, there was a calm joy in my chest. The mosque stood behind me like a guardian, its curved walls and quiet strength imprinted in my memory.
I mounted my cycle once again, adjusted my gloves, and with one last look at কাবিল ভূঁইয়া জামে মসজিদ (Qabil Bhuiyan Jame Mosque), I pushed off. The afternoon sun was already starting its slow descent, painting the sky with a golden warmth. I knew I had to pace myself carefully to make it back before dark.
The roads of Feni bustled with life. Vendors were calling out prices, buses honked as they fought for space, and the smell of fried snacks drifted from roadside stalls. I weaved through the traffic, careful and steady, like a single thread slipping through a busy tapestry. Every corner reminded me that cycling isn’t just about endurance — it’s about awareness, patience, and rhythm.
Once past the busiest parts of Feni town, the highway opened up again. I breathed deeply, grateful for the stretch of open road waiting ahead.
The return ride always feels different. On the way forward, it’s anticipation that drives you; on the way back, it’s reflection. The same fields I had passed earlier now carried a different mood — farmers were returning home with tired steps, children’s laughter echoed as they played before dusk, and the air had cooled with the approaching evening.
I stopped briefly at a small shop near Mirsarai to refill my water bottle. The shopkeeper smiled as he saw my cycle and asked, “Feni theke firchen?” (Are you coming back from Feni?). When I nodded, he simply said, “Allah’r doa thakuk. Shafollo hok.” (May Allah bless you. May you succeed). Those words were like wind beneath my wheels.
The highway at that hour carried a mix of light and shadow. Trucks roared, buses raced, but I held steady, my mind calm. I thought about how the road teaches discipline: to keep moving even when every muscle aches, to stay focused even when distractions surround you.
As the sun dipped lower, the sky shifted into hues of orange and pink. My tires hummed steadily on the tarmac, and the rhythm of my breathing matched the fading light. The familiar signboards of Sitakunda gave me comfort — home was not far now.
By the time I crossed the final stretches of the Dhaka–Chittagong highway, the lamps along the road flickered on, guiding me like stars dropped close to earth. The city’s hum grew louder with each passing kilometre, and I knew the long loop of my journey was closing.
At last, I rolled back into Chittagong City Gate. My watch read close to 6:30 PM. The day had come full circle. My legs were heavy, but my heart felt impossibly light. I had left at dawn with a dream and returned at dusk with that dream fulfilled.
I paused there for a moment, looking back at the road that stretched endlessly behind me. The entire ride — the morning calm, the bustling towns, the golden mosque, and the serene ride back — felt like more than just a journey of wheels. It was a lesson about persistence, faith, and the beauty of beginning.
Life, I realized, is a series of roads we hesitate to take. But once we begin, each step — each pedal — teaches us strength we never knew we had. And when the day ends, just like my return at 6:30 PM, we discover that the journey itself was as beautiful as the destination.
✨ “لا تستسلم عند أول عقبة، فكل صعودٍ شاقٍ يقودك إلى قمةٍ أجمل.”
✨ “Do not give up at the first obstacle, for every difficult climb leads you to a more beautiful summit.”
Reflection from my Story Today
As I leaned against my cycle after the long ride, watching the mosque bathe in afternoon light and later returning home by dusk, one truth became clear: we often wait for the “right time” to begin. But the road teaches us that the right time is not tomorrow — it is now, in this very moment when you decide to take your first pedal stroke.
Life is a series of roads we hesitate to take. We think of the climbs, the distance, the fatigue. Yet every turn of the wheel carries us forward, every breath on the journey reveals strength we never knew we had. And when the day ends, we realize something greater: the beauty was not only in reaching the destination but in the rhythm of the journey itself.
Cycling gave me this lesson, but writing allowed me to keep it alive. Each ride can become a story, each moment of struggle a line of poetry. The road does not just test your legs — it whispers words to your soul, words that deserve to be written and shared.
So, I invite you: begin your journey. Ride your cycle, no matter how far or near. Write your story, no matter how simple. Shape your feelings into poems, no matter how short. For the world needs more riders of roads and riders of words. And maybe, just maybe, your wheels and your words will inspire another soul to begin their own journey.
The road stretched before me like a ribbon of promise, glowing under the soft embrace of the setting sun. My hands rested firmly on the drop bars, my legs pumping steadily against the resistance of my fixed-gear setup — 48×17. A ratio that wasn’t just a choice of gear teeth, but a philosophy of life. Hard enough to demand strength, light enough to demand rhythm. It was the perfect balance between muscle and poetry, speed and endurance, silence and story.
On my back rested my courier bag, that bag carried more than packages. It carried trust. It carried urgency. It carried love. And sometimes, it carried fragments of words, folded poems, or verses scribbled in haste — little reminders that deliveries could be more than just logistics. They could be messages of meaning.
The sun was low in the sky, a radiant sphere painted in warm gold. Behind me, orange streaks lit the heavens, blending into shades of deep blue as the day surrendered to twilight. Birds glided overhead — black silhouettes in flight — as if keeping me company on this long ride. They reminded me that movement was its own form of prayer, and that freedom, like wings, was born from persistence.
On the left side of the road, I spotted a small red-roofed house beside the tall tower in the distance. A simple home in the green fields, rooted in tradition, yet framed against the looming skyline of the city ahead. Two figures stood waving at me from the edge of the fields — a man in a hat, smiling wide, and a woman in a red sari, her hands raised in joy. Their gesture filled me with warmth. They didn’t know me, but they saw me. And sometimes, in a courier’s journey, being seen is enough to keep you pedalling.
The road was flanked by fields glowing in green, divided by the silver reflection of a river winding like a ribbon through the land. The water curved gently, carrying the sky in its surface. It felt like the earth itself was guiding me toward the city, toward the destination waiting ahead. The fields whispered of simplicity, the skyline of ambition, and the river — of transition.
Up ahead, the city rose tall, its buildings reaching into the sky. Towers of glass and steel contrasted against the softness of the countryside I was leaving behind. That was the duality of my rides — moving between simplicity and complexity, between village greetings and city demands, between handwritten notes and digital tracking systems.
Above all this, floating in the sky, was an open book. Its pages spread wide, carried not by hands but by imagination. To me, it wasn’t just an image — it was my truth. Every ride was a page. Every turn of the crank a sentence. Every delivery a completed chapter. The book was always writing itself, and I was both the author and the courier, the dreamer and the doer.
And written across the sky were the words that shaped everything I believed in:
“Ride with Purpose, Write with Passion.”
Purpose — that was the reason I clipped into my pedals each day, why I chose the harder gear, why I rode when the sun was merciless or the rain unforgiving. Purpose gave meaning to the grind, to the sweat dripping down my back, to the near misses with impatient traffic.
Passion — that was why, when I stopped to rest, I reached for my notebook and scribbled verses about the road. That was why I delivered not only food and packages but sometimes a folded poem, tucked into a parcel as a surprise for the receiver. My life existed in that space between the spinning wheels and the written words.
The birds, the road, the waving villagers, the skyline, the fields, the river — they were all parts of my story. They all flowed into the rhythm of my cadence, into the hum of my chain, into the pulse of my ride. And as I pushed forward, legs steady on the 48×17, I knew that every turn of the pedal was shaping not just the road behind me but the story I was leaving behind.
The sun was just beginning to lean over the horizon when I pushed off, my wheels humming against the road. Ahead of me stretched two worlds—the quiet of green rice fields and the rising towers of the city. Somewhere between them, I knew, was my place. Not fully rural, not fully urban. Not only courier, not only poet. I am both. And on this road, I am whole.
The weight of the courier bag pressed against my back. Some would call it a burden, but to me it feels like wings. Inside are parcels—food, medicine, maybe even birthday gifts. But inside, too, are dreams. Not mine alone, but the dreams of those who wait at doors, hungry for the knock, for the delivery. Each box is more than an object; it is a lifeline. I never forget that.
I ride a Single Speed/Fixie Bike—simple, stripped of excess, yet perfect in its purpose. My chain runs tight on a 48×17/48×18 gear ratio, a choice that says everything about me: fast enough to fly, light enough to endure. I etched those numbers onto the wheel, not as decoration, but as declaration. They are part of my identity now. When I push down on the pedals, when the crank spins, when the chain pulls, I feel the perfect rhythm of 48 teeth pulling 17/18, like a drummer beating the pulse of my journey.
I smile as I ride. Not because the road is easy—it never is. The bus beside me growls impatient, honking its horn as if I don’t belong here. Cars crowd, people rush, the city swallows space. But I smile anyway. Because even in the noise, I know something they don’t. I know that each kilometre I ride is not wasted. It becomes a verse. A hidden poem written with breath and muscle, invisible yet alive.
That is why I carry a book in my hand. Most riders clutch their phones, checking orders, answering calls. I carry pages, words inked by someone who once felt as I do now. A poet’s voice alongside my pedalling legs. I am not careless. I am careful. Because for me, reading and riding are the same act—they are both about balance. One balances the body, the other the soul.
Above me, the flag of my country flutters—red circle on green, Bangladesh alive in the wind. I look at it and feel both pride and promise. This is where I ride. My sweat falls onto its roads, my poems grow in its alleys, my kilometers map its shape. Some dream of leaving, but I dream of carrying Bangladesh with me, on my wheels, in my words, through my deliveries.
To my left, endless fields stretch wide. The paddy sways in the morning breeze, simple and eternal. A barn sits quietly in the distance, the hills beyond like folded blankets of earth. This is the softness of my country, the peace it holds.
To my right, skyscrapers rise sharp and proud. Their glass faces catch the light, reflecting ambition, greed, hunger, and hope all at once. Between their shadows rumbles a bus, green and white, packed with passengers who lean against windows, tired before the day has even begun. They watch me pass, maybe curious, maybe indifferent. For them, I am just a courier. For me, I am something else entirely.
Because I ride with words.
“Every KM, a Verse.”
It is more than a slogan. It is my truth. My kilometres do not vanish into sweat alone. They turn into stanzas, waiting to be written when I stop, when I finally put pen to paper. Until then, they ride inside me.
“Delivering Dreams on Two Wheels.”
Every parcel is a dream, and I am its carrier. To a grandmother waiting for her medicine, I deliver time itself. To a hungry student, I deliver relief. To a couple celebrating an anniversary, I deliver memory. But I also deliver my own dream—that poetry can live on wheels, that a courier can be more than a body bent to labor.
“Pedal. Write. Repeat.”
This is the rhythm of my days. Morning to night, night to morning. Push the pedals, open the notebook, start again. It is routine, yes, but not empty. It is ritual. A devotion. Some people pray facing east. I pray facing forward, on two wheels, notebook waiting in my bag.
I know what people see when they look at me. A boy on a bike. A delivery man. Another rider trying to survive. They don’t see the poems forming in my head as I weave through traffic. They don’t hear the verses whispered to myself at red lights. They don’t feel the way each drop-off, each knock on a door, carves meaning into my day.
But I don’t need them to.
Because I know.
I know that one day, these kilometers will gather. These words will pile up. These deliveries will transform into something larger than myself. Maybe a book, maybe a memory, maybe simply the knowledge that I lived fully—that I rode, and wrote, and gave.
The fields and the city will always pull at me from both sides. But I am not torn. I am the bridge. My wheels carry me forward. My words carry me inward. My deliveries carry me outward, to others.
This is my life. This is my art.
Every kilometre, a verse.
Every parcel, a dream.
Every day, the same prayer:
Pedal. Write. Repeat.
After Creating an awareness song for stroke and hypertension I was. Called by my Cenimagrapher to come make a shoot and it was beautiful peice
Every journey begins with a spark — a quiet whisper inside that tells you, “This is who you are meant to be.” For me, that spark came in two forms: the rhythm of cycling wheels and the rhythm of words on a page. Together, they wove the path that has defined my talent journey — from discovering a passion, to showcasing it, to creating with consistency, to monetizing it, and finally, to leading with impact.
Discovering My Passion
My story began with motion. Cycling was my first love, not just as a way to move from one place to another, but as a way to feel alive. On the saddle, with the road stretching ahead, I found freedom. Every kilometre was a lesson in persistence, every uphill a reminder of resilience.
But passion is rarely one-dimensional. Alongside the wheels came words. I discovered the power of poetry and storytelling — how emotions could be translated into language, how ordinary journeys could be framed as extraordinary stories. It was this combination — cycling and writing — that became the foundation of my passion.
Showcasing My Talent
Passion needs expression, and talent becomes real only when shared. I began showcasing my journey — first through poems written after long rides, then through reflections on everyday courier deliveries. Platforms like BSMe2e gave me the chance to step out of my notebooks and bring my words into the world.
At first, the audience was small. A handful of views, a few supportive comments. But I realized that impact doesn’t need millions; it begins with one person who feels inspired. With every post, I shared not just words, but pieces of my journey — the sweat, the fatigue, the quiet victories of a courier-turned-writer.
Creating with Consistency
The next phase was not about bursts of inspiration, but about discipline. Consistency became my mantra. Just as a cyclist trains not by riding once in a while but by pedalling every day, I wrote and posted regularly.
I committed to small steps — logging 45 km rides daily while delivering parcels, writing even when tired, and finding lessons in both successes and setbacks. My posts grew in number, and slowly, so did their reach. Some drew 20 views, others 50 or more. Each was a ripple that added to a growing current of recognition.
Consistency also helped me overcome challenges. When I faced a cycle accident in May 2025, I thought my journey might pause. But a younger brother lending me his cycle reminded me that persistence is stronger than setbacks. I turned the story into a reflection, proving that resilience itself can be a form of talent.
Monetizing My Passion
As my journey grew, so did the opportunities. Talent, when nurtured and showcased, opens doors. Through BSMe2e, my words began earning recognition — not just in views, but in rewards. Winning cash prizes for my writing, receiving premium memberships, and being acknowledged by platforms gave me a sense that my work had tangible value.
Beyond direct rewards, monetization came in another form: vision. I started conceptualizing projects like PedalPay and CycleLink — platforms that reward cyclists for every kilometre they ride. These ideas stem directly from my passion, turning what I love into something that can uplift an entire community.
Leading with Impact
Today, my focus is not only on riding and writing, but on inspiring. Impact is the true destination of any talent path. Through my poems, I’ve encouraged fellow riders to see beauty in ordinary roads. Through my stories, I’ve shown that resilience matters more than perfection. Through BSMe2e, I’ve connected with communities that believe in nurturing talent across borders.
The biggest lesson I’ve learned is this: talent is not meant to be kept. It’s meant to ripple outward. Whether through motivating young cyclists, writing books like Whispers on the Wind, or dreaming of tech platforms that turn passion into livelihood, my goal is to leave an imprint that outlives my own ride.
Conclusion: My Talent Path
My talent path — Discovering Passion → Showcasing Talent → Creating with Consistency → Monetizing Passion → Leading with Impact — is not a straight highway, but a winding road filled with climbs and descents. Yet, each step has strengthened me.
Cycling gave me endurance, writing gave me expression, BSMe2e gave me a platform, and persistence gave me growth. Today, I stand not just as a cyclist or a poet, but as someone striving to lead with impact — proving that even the simplest journeys can inspire others when lived with heart.