The Eternal Road That Never Ends

The first time I realized that cycling was more than a way of moving from one place to another, I was somewhere between fatigue and freedom. My legs were burning, my breath was shallow, and yet, the spinning of my wheels whispered something ancient. The road beneath me stretched forward endlessly, but it was not just asphalt or dust—it was a teacher, a mirror, a story written in every rotation of the pedals.

The eternal road has no end because it exists inside us. The circle of wheels mirrors the circle of life. Every revolution is a birth, a struggle, a death, and a renewal. You push down, the crank rotates, the chain pulls, the wheel rolls forward, and yet, after a few meters, you return to the same position, ready to push again. It is repetition, but not monotony—because with each cycle, you are not the same. The road changes you, just as life does.

Writing While the World Rushes By

There are days when the world races past me in blurs—buses growling like restless beasts, rickshaws weaving like stubborn poetry, pedestrians crossing without rhythm. And there I am, riding within this chaos, holding onto a fragile sense of balance. It feels like writing. Writing while the world rushes by.

When I scribble on paper or type words onto a glowing screen, the world outside doesn’t pause. Cars honk, people argue, phones ring, storms gather, yet inside the act of writing, there is stillness. The pen glides, the keystrokes click, just as the pedals spin. Both acts demand balance—control without rigidity, rhythm without haste.

Cycling through crowded streets teaches me that words too must find their own lane. Sometimes they dart, sometimes they pause, sometimes they collide with each other before finding flow again. And just as a rider learns to anticipate a sudden brake light or an unexpected turn, a writer learns to listen for what comes next in the silence between lines.

Writing as Therapy

There was a time when exhaustion felt heavier than my own body. The kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from pedalling, but from carrying invisible weights—disappointment, heartbreak, unanswered questions. On those days, I would take my bicycle out not to reach anywhere, but to escape.

I’d start slow, just to breathe, just to remind myself that the sky still belonged to me. The chain’s clinking would replace the noise in my head. The spinning of the wheels was my heartbeat, steady and loyal. And then, something miraculous would happen—words would come. Poetry would slip between the spokes, prose would ride the tailwind, metaphors would appear at every turn.

Cycling became therapy because it taught me that exhaustion is not an ending—it’s a doorway. When the body aches, the mind softens. When sweat pours, thoughts unclog. And when you return home, tired but alive, the page welcomes you differently. The pen no longer feels heavy. The words no longer resist. The therapy is not in escaping pain, but in transforming it into rhythm, into motion, into something you can ride with.

From Exhaustion to Enlightenment

Every long ride begins with eagerness. The fresh morning air, the hum of tires against the earth, the excitement of distance ahead. But inevitably, exhaustion creeps in—first in the calves, then in the lungs, and finally in the spirit.

This is the hardest part: when the mind whispers to stop. The easy choice is always to turn back, to settle into comfort. Yet, the eternal road doesn’t teach comfort. It teaches surrender. You surrender to the pain, and in that surrender, you discover something beyond it.

That is enlightenment—not fireworks, not sudden clarity, but a quiet awareness: “I am still moving.” The road doesn’t care how fast. The road doesn’t measure your worth in kilometers. The road only asks: will you continue?

And when you do, something shifts. The exhaustion turns into fuel, the aching muscles sing, and suddenly you are no longer just riding a bicycle—you are touching the core of life itself.

When the Road Teaches More Than Classrooms

I have sat in many classrooms, staring at chalk dust floating in sunlight, listening to theories written neatly on blackboards. Knowledge, yes, but often lifeless. But on the road, lessons are written in sweat, in rain, in potholes that test your reflexes.

The road teaches patience when traffic refuses to move. It teaches resilience when the wind pushes against your every effort. It teaches humility when a hill rises taller than your pride. It teaches presence—because if your mind wanders too far, you could crash.

No classroom ever taught me how to breathe through pain, how to smile at strangers I pass, how to keep faith in myself when the destination feels unreachable. The road did. And in return, I learned to read the world not through textbooks, but through tire marks, shadows, and the eternal hum of motion.

How Cycling Inspires Poetry

Every ride is a poem waiting to be written.

The cadence of pedals is a meter. The rise and fall of terrain is rhythm. The wind in my ears is a chorus. The sweat rolling down my back is punctuation. Even the pauses at red lights feel like line breaks.

I have written verses in my head while riding under rain-soaked skies, each drop a word falling onto invisible paper. I have written haikus on hilltops, where the silence was so pure that the road itself seemed to speak. I have composed stanzas in the middle of traffic, where horns and curses wove themselves into unexpected metaphors.

Cycling inspires poetry because it forces me to live fully in the moment. And poetry cannot be written from absence—it must be born from presence, from the here and now, from the breath that moves through a body in motion.

The Circle of Wheels, the Cycle of Life

The wheel turns. Always. Whether I am pedalling or resting, the cycle continues. Just like life.

There are uphill’s—struggles that test patience. There are downhills—moments of pure grace when effort feels like flight. There are flats—those endless stretches of monotony where nothing seems to change. But all of it matters. All of it belongs.

The eternal road doesn’t end at the horizon. It ends inside us, where we finally accept that we are not racing against time, not competing with others, not chasing perfection. We are only circling—round and round—learning, falling, rising, writing, pedalling.

And in that endless circle lies the secret: life is not about arrival. Life is about motion. The poetry of being alive is written not when the ride is finished, but in every single turn of the wheel.

So I keep pedalling. I keep writing. I keep breathing. Because the eternal road does not promise answers, only journeys. And maybe that is enough.

The wheels spin, the pen scratches, the heart whispers. And somewhere between exhaustion and enlightenment, I finally understand:

The eternal road never ends because it is not meant to.

It is life itself.