200 KM of Thoughts | Passion Projects | Education | 57431

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.