The first time I pressed my foot against the pedal, I didn’t know I was stepping into a lifelong meditation. I thought it was just movement, just getting from one point to another. But years later, after thousands of kilometers of deliveries, long rides, and stolen moments of quiet reflection, I’ve realized this: between tires and roads lies a life. A life that whispers, teaches, and shapes me in ways I could never have imagined.
Tires carve roads, but I carve words. My bicycle is not just a tool—it is a companion, a silent witness to my joys, struggles, and dreams. And so, let me tell you this story: part memoir, part meditation, part letter to the machine that has been my truest confidant.
A Letter to My Bicycle
Dear Bicycle,
You are steel, rubber, and chain. Yet, somehow, you are more alive than many people I have known. Every squeak, every hum of your tires against asphalt is a language only I can understand.
You have carried me through heavy rains, when delivery bags grew heavier with each drop. You have stood firm when my legs trembled climbing CTG’s unforgiving hills. You have absorbed the shock of potholes so my body wouldn’t break. You have whispered freedom when traffic tried to cage me in.
People see you as a machine, but I see you as a translator. You translate my will into forward motion, my discipline into distance, my poetry into rhythm. You carry not just parcels for strangers but also fragments of my soul—stitched together between spokes, sealed in tubes, shining in polished rims.
Thank you for never leaving me stranded. Even on the day of my accident, when my rim cracked and my heart sank, you still carried me home. You did not give up on me, and I could not give up on you.
You are my altar, my prayer mat, my blank page. On your frame, I lean. On your wheels, I trust. With your pedals, I move. You are not just my bicycle. You are the co-author of my life.
With gratitude,
The one who whispers words on your wheels
How Cycling Taught Me Discipline
Discipline, I used to think, belonged only to athletes in stadiums or soldiers on parade grounds. But cycling revealed a gentler, quieter version of discipline—one that doesn’t demand obedience but teaches persistence.
Every ride is a contract between body and mind. The legs must obey the rhythm, even when they scream to stop. The lungs must stretch, even when they burn. The eyes must focus, scanning for danger in the chaos of CTG’s streets.
There were mornings when I wanted to stay in bed, when the weight of fatigue pressed heavier than any delivery bag. But my bicycle was waiting, wheels patient, like a friend who believes in you more than you believe in yourself. I learned that discipline isn’t about punishment; it’s about showing up. Again and again. Whether the road is smooth or cracked, whether the day is sunny or stormy, whether my heart is light or burdened.
Discipline is logging kilometers on Strava not for show, but to prove to myself that I am still moving. Discipline is tightening bolts after a long day because tomorrow demands another ride. Discipline is refusing shortcuts, on the road and in writing, because the truth of the journey lies in every pedal stroke, every word written.
Cycling and Writing as Meditation
Some people meditate with closed eyes and folded legs. I meditate with open roads and spinning wheels.
Cycling is writing, just without ink. Each ride is a paragraph, each turn a punctuation mark, each climb an exclamation point, each downhill a sigh. My breath syncs with cadence, my mind clears with rhythm. I enter a flow state where time disappears, and all that exists is motion.
Writing is cycling, just without roads. The page is terrain. Blank, at first, like the silence before dawn. Then one sentence—like the first pedal stroke—breaks inertia. Another follows. And another. Soon, words gather momentum, forming trails of thought that climb, descend, and meander just like routes on a map.
Both demand patience. Both reward consistency. Both are mirrors that reflect who I truly am. On the saddle or at the desk, I confront the same truths: I am not limitless, but I am capable of more than I imagine. Pain is temporary, but the creation—distance or words—endures.
Cycling and writing together are my twin meditations. The roads teach my body. The words teach my soul.
Between Tires and Roads Lies a Life
Life, I’ve realized, is nothing but a series of deliveries. Not just parcels, but also promises, emotions, and dreams. Each ride is an act of service—to myself, to others, to the universe.
Sometimes, the city roads test me with chaos: buses roaring, rickshaws weaving, pedestrians darting. Other times, the hills of Chittagong cradle me in silence, where only my breath and birdsong exist. In both, I find lessons. The roads demand awareness, resilience, and humility. The tires demand maintenance, attention, and gratitude.
Tires carve roads: leaving faint traces that vanish by morning. I carve words: leaving faint traces in readers’ hearts. Both are fleeting, yet both matter. Because what is life, if not the attempt to leave behind whispers—whether etched in asphalt or in paper?
When I ride, I am more than a courier. I am a poet in motion. When I write, I am more than a poet. I am a rider of silence. And between these two worlds, I exist fully.
The Infinite Loop
So here I am, looping endlessly:
Pedal, deliver, write, repeat.
And I would not trade this loop for anything else. For in this cycle, I find purpose. In this rhythm, I find peace. Between tires and roads lies my life. And with every word I write, with every mile I ride, I whisper:
The road is my page. The tire is my pen. And my life—my life is the poem.
ENG
