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.