Strava vs. Soul | Passion Projects | Education | 57443

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.

The Strava Side

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.

The Soul Side

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.

Finding Balance

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.

Why I Still Upload Every Delivery

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.