The idea came to me not in the middle of a race, not while scrolling through cycling forums, not even from a coach or training plan. It came while I was locking up my single speed outside a coffee shop. My bike stood there—simple, clean, purposeful—its one gear catching the sunlight like a badge of honour. No derailleurs, no unnecessary complexity, just chain, crank, wheel, and faith.
It was at that moment I decided:
One gear. One objective.
No excuses, no shortcuts. The challenge wasn’t to be faster than others, but to be truer to myself.
People often ask me why I ride single speed or fixed gear when the world is full of multi-speed carbon dreams, with electronic shifting and featherlight wheels. To them, a single speed feels primitive, even masochistic. But here’s the truth I’ve found:
Simplicity is Freedom.
With one gear, the world becomes less cluttered. No more thinking about the right gear for a hill or a sprint. You have what you have. Your body adjusts, your rhythm adapts. Life feels cleaner.
Maintenance is Minimal.
Fewer parts mean fewer problems. A quick wipe, a chain check, and I’m rolling. While others spend hours tuning derailleurs, I spend mine riding.
Strength and Endurance.
One gear doesn’t forgive laziness. If it’s a hill, you climb it. If it’s wind, you push against it. Over time, the body grows resilient, legs stronger, lungs deeper.
A Pure Connection.
There’s no machine in between me and the road. Just my cadence, my breath, my willpower. Every pedal stroke feels honest.
A Statement of Intent.
In a world obsessed with shortcuts, a single speed whispers: I choose the long road. I choose effort. I choose clarity.
That’s why the Single Speed Bike Challenge isn’t just about distance—it’s about living differently.
Cycling has always been more than just recreation to me. It’s rebellion against pollution, noise, and dependency. When I mount my bike, I remind myself: every kilometre I ride is one less litre of fuel burned, one less puff of smoke in the air.
I ride for my lungs, yes, but also for the world’s lungs.
The Pedal for the Planet mindset is what makes me smile when sweat pours, when my thighs burn, when strangers in cars look at me like I’m crazy. They don’t realize—I am not just riding for myself.
I’m carrying the message that the planet deserves simpler choices, slower choices, cleaner choices. And nothing embodies that more than the stubborn honesty of a single speed bike.
One Sunday morning, I decided it was time to push beyond the daily courier miles, beyond commutes and errands. My goal was clear:
100 kilometers. Solo. Fixed gear.
My bike of choice: a 48×17t setup—a gear ratio that gives me about 76.2 gear inches. Enough speed for the flats, enough grind for the climbs, but never forgiving.
The route wasn’t about chasing PRs or drafting behind groups. It was about me, the road, and the hum of the chain.
The city still yawned awake. I passed tea stalls where steam rose from kettles, rickshaw pullers stretching their backs, children in sandals chasing footballs. My cadence found its groove. No rush, no panic—just legs spinning, lungs filling.
This is where the chatter begins. Why are you doing this? You could’ve been home sleeping. What’s the point of pushing so far?
But each pedal stroke whispered back: Because I can. Because I must.
On a fixed gear, there’s no coasting. Downhills aren’t rest; they’re wild, spinning legs keeping up with momentum. It forces mindfulness—no distractions, just presence.
Something changed here. My body stopped resisting. My breath found rhythm, my legs felt lighter. I noticed details—the smell of fried snacks from roadside stalls, the laughter of school kids waving as I passed, the endless green fields shimmering under the sun.
This is what I call cycling meditation.
Fatigue arrived uninvited, as it always does. The fixed gear felt heavier, every rise in the road an insult. But this is where faith becomes fuel. I whispered prayers under my breath, not for speed, but for strength.
And in those final kilometers, something clicked. The bike and I weren’t separate anymore—we were one machine, one heartbeat, one stubborn streak of will.
When I finally reached 100 km, I didn’t raise my hands in victory. I just smiled, unclipped, and whispered to myself:
One gear. One objective. Done.
Not every ride has to be epic. Sometimes, the greatest joy of a single speed is in the little rituals.
Riding to a coffee shop is my version of a pilgrimage. The journey matters as much as the destination. The clink of the cup, the smell of roasted beans, the quiet hum of life around me—it feels earned after miles on the saddle.
Some of my best writing has been done this way. Arriving sweaty, legs tired, but mind sharp. I pull out my notebook, jot down thoughts about rides, struggles, dreams. The bike leans against the wall outside, a silent partner, a reminder of the morning’s effort.
Coffee and cadence—both fuel different parts of me.
The Single Speed Bike Challenge isn’t about numbers or medals. It’s about proving that in a world of endless choices, sometimes the greatest strength comes from choosing less.
It’s about showing that discipline and freedom are not opposites—they are partners. The one gear disciplines you, but in that discipline, you find true freedom.
It’s about riding not just for fitness, but for meaning. Not just for yourself, but for the planet.
It’s about discovering that every 100 km solo ride is a journey inward, not just outward.
It’s about sitting in a coffee shop afterward, sipping slowly, knowing that what you just did was more than cycling—it was living deliberately.
Life itself feels like a single speed ride. There are no shortcuts, no easy gears to shift into when things get hard. You just keep pedalling. Some days the wind is against you, some days the road lifts you forward. But the objective remains:
Keep going. Keep believing. Keep riding.
One gear. One objective.
Not just on the bike, but in everything.
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.