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.

Just my curiosity and clicks of 7th September.

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.