A boy sits in a van in the middle of a pile of garbage in the morning.
Dawn breaks with the first whistle of the train.
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.