Fixed Gear Dreams on Endless Roads | Passion Projects | Education | 57415

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.