The clock neared 3:00 pm, and Rahmania School’s walls stood quietly, their afternoon shadow stretching across the pavement. I stood there beside my single-speed bike, one foot resting on the pedal, the other steady on the ground. The sun still burned high, but softer than its midday fire, as if giving me permission to begin this journey. The handlebars felt cool against my palms, the chain hummed with readiness.
I knew the route. I had memorized it like a prayer: Rahmania School → Muradpur → 2 No. Gate → Bayezid Link Road → Salimpur → Bhatiari → Kumira Ghat View Point → A. K. Khan → GEC → Hamzarbagh.
A loop of the city, a dance with its roads, a dialogue with its chaos.
I pushed off.
Rahmania School → Muradpur
The wheels turned, and with every spin the world began to flow. The streets near Rahmania School carried the echoes of students’ laughter fading into memory. My pedals pressed down rhythmically, left-right-left-right, the single gear whispering its eternal demand: steady, no shortcuts, no freewheeling.
As I rolled toward Muradpur, the air grew busier. Buses rumbled, rickshaws clattered, vendors shouted over baskets of fruit. The city was alive, restless, impatient. But within that noise, I felt calm. The bicycle had its own language, softer, deeper. It told me: Don’t fight the city. Flow through it.
At Muradpur, traffic swirled like a whirlpool. Horns stabbed the air, pedestrians darted, engines coughed black smoke. I became a thread in this chaotic fabric, weaving carefully, trusting the instinct born of countless rides. My legs burned a little as I pushed forward, but that burn was familiar — almost comforting, like the voice of an old friend.
Muradpur → 2 No. Gate
The road leaned upward slightly. My thighs protested but adjusted quickly. On a single-speed, there is no luxury of shifting gears. You grind, or you give up. And I never give up.
At 2 No. Gate, life gathered in layers: tea stalls buzzing, mechanics bending over greasy chains, shopfronts spilling with noise. I pedaled steady, refusing to let the city’s distractions break my rhythm. My bike hummed beneath me, the tires kissing the road, each push forward turning the afternoon into a story only I could write.
I thought of others sitting in buses, staring out the window, never feeling the heartbeat of the city this way. For them, it was traffic. For me, it was a test of patience, of trust, of resilience.
2 No. Gate → Bayezid Link Road
The transition came like a breath of fresh air. Bayezid Link Road stretched ahead, long and demanding, but offering freedom in its own way. Here the ride felt different — less cramped, more open, the horizon widening just enough to make me believe in escape.
The rhythm of my pedalling found a steady song. Clack, clack, clack went the chain, steady as a metronome. The afternoon sun softened into a golden haze, and the shadows of trees flickered across the tarmac like silent applause.
I passed small shops, speeding motorcycles, and groups of children who shouted “Racer, Racer, bhai!” as I glided past. Their laughter stuck to me like sunlight — weightless, but powerful.
Bayezid Link Road → Salimpur
By now the city had loosened its grip. The roads thinned, the noise dulled, and green spaces peeked out from corners. My breath deepened, sweat ran down my temples, but the beauty of movement carried me forward.
Salimpur rose like a gateway, marking the city’s edge. I slowed for a moment, letting the wind cool my face. The scent of the countryside mingled with the dust of the road. Here, the ride shifted gears — not mechanically, but spiritually.
The city’s tension faded. Ahead lay the path toward Bhatiari and Kumira, roads where the horizon stretched longer, where the soul had more room to breathe.
Salimpur → Bhatiari
The hills of Bhatiari whispered in the distance. The road curved gently upward, demanding more strength. My thighs ached, but I pushed harder, knowing the single-speed would not forgive weakness.
Bhatiari always felt like a teacher. Its climbs tested resolve, its descents rewarded courage. I leaned into the effort, breathing heavy, feeling my heartbeat rise. At the top of a small incline, the view opened — trees lining the edges, sky spilling wide above me.
Cycling here felt less like transport and more like meditation. Every push of the pedals was a mantra: patience, resilience, endurance.
Bhatiari → Kumira Ghat View Point
The anticipation grew. Kumira Ghat View Point waited at the far end, the halfway mark, the promise of the sea.
The road flattened slightly, and I picked up speed. The wind wrapped around me, tugging at my shirt, filling my lungs with salt-tinged air. My eyes searched the horizon — and then it appeared: the river meeting the sky, the water stretching endless, shimmering in afternoon gold.
I stopped at the View Point, placing one foot down, chest heaving, face wet with sweat. The sea breeze hit me, cool and forgiving. Fishermen’s boats floated gently, their masts cutting silhouettes against the horizon. The world felt wider, quieter, more complete.
I rested for a few minutes, sipping water, watching the waves. Here, the ride wasn’t about delivery, or money, or time. It was about presence — about knowing I had carried myself here, with nothing but my legs, my breath, and a single-speed cycle that asked only for patience.
It was 4:45 pm. Time to return.
Kumira Ghat View Point → A. K. Khan
The return felt faster, though the body was tired. My muscles had learned the road, my breath had adjusted to the rhythm.
Through Bhatiari again, the climbs punished me, but I smiled at the pain. The setting sun painted the hills orange, shadows long and elegant across the tarmac. By the time I crossed Salimpur again, the city’s pulse began to throb louder, tugging me back into its chaos.
At A. K. Khan, traffic swarmed like restless bees. The road was alive with buses, CNGs, rickshaws, and impatient horns. But I had already touched the sea; no noise could disturb the calm it had given me. I weaved through carefully, carrying silence inside my chest like a hidden treasure.
A. K. Khan → GEC → Hamzarbagh
The ride home was lit by the soft fire of dusk. The GEC Circle buzzed with evening life: lights flickering, shops glowing, streets crowded with people buying snacks, sipping tea.
I rolled past, my legs steady though weary, my mind replaying the entire journey like a film strip. Rahmania School felt far away, yet close enough to touch again with every pedal stroke.
By the time I reached Hamzarbagh, the day had folded into twilight. My watch read 6:28 pm. I had returned — exactly within my window, tired but alive with something words could barely capture.
The Ride Within the Ride
A round trip from Rahmania School to Kumira Ghat View Point and back is more than a ride. It is a metaphor in motion.
The city had taught me patience. The hills had taught me resilience. The sea had taught me silence. And my single-speed bike had reminded me of life’s simplest truth: progress comes not from shortcuts, but from steady, consistent effort.
As I leaned my bike against the wall at Hamzarbagh, I realized something: I hadn’t just cycled through roads. I had cycled through myself — through my doubts, my limits, my endurance. And I had returned stronger.
A Poem for the Ride
Between school bells and sea breeze,
The road stretched endless, demanding knees.
Single speed, no gear to spare,
Yet every climb was answered prayer.
Traffic roared, but wheels stayed true,
Whispering lessons the city never knew.
Hopes were carried, patience spun,
Each kilometre a victory won.
From Rahmania’s walls to Kumira’s sea,
The road became eternity.
And when I returned at twilight’s call,
I learned the ride was life, after all.
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