Struggling Against Nature and Finding Patience
The First Gust
It started like any other ride. I clipped my helmet, strapped my delivery bag tighter, and set off on my single-speed bike. The sun was kind that afternoon soft, hazy but the air was not. Just a few turns beyond my house, the first headwind greeted me.
It wasn’t the playful kind of wind that pushes your shirt against your skin. This one had teeth. It pressed against my chest like an invisible wall, each pedal stroke a negotiation with something I couldn’t see but could feel deep in my bones.
People often imagine cycling as freedom—the wheel spinning smoothly, the rider slicing through the air. They don’t see the days when the air slices back, when nature itself feels like an opponent daring you to quit.
That day, the headwind was my teacher. And I didn’t even know the lesson yet.
Struggling Against Nature
At first, I fought it. I leaned forward, gritted my teeth, pedalled harder. I tried to overpower the wind with raw force, but the harder I pushed, the more it pushed back. My thighs screamed, sweat poured, my single-speed gear ratio felt cruelly unforgiving.
I thought: Why today? Why now? I only wanted a simple ride, a few deliveries, nothing heroic.
But nature doesn’t bargain. Nature doesn’t care about plans, moods, or timetables. The headwind simply is. It doesn’t stop for you. It forces you to decide: fight, surrender, or adapt.
And in that moment of frustration, I remembered something I had once underlined in my notebook:
“The world is not against you. It’s just teaching you patience.”
So I stopped fighting. I relaxed my shoulders, slowed my cadence, let the rhythm find me instead of forcing it. And the wind, though still strong, felt less like an enemy. It became a reminder that progress doesn’t always mean speed. Sometimes, progress is simply forward motion, however slow.
Lessons from Solitude and Silence
The road emptied as I left the crowded intersection behind. No honking buses, no rickshaws—just me, my breath, and the endless whoosh of the headwind.
In solitude, the wind grew louder, like a voice stripping away distractions. Silence has its own sound, and when you cycle alone into a headwind, you learn to hear it.
I thought about my own life. How many times had I tried to fight circumstances the way I fought this wind? How many times had I exhausted myself pushing too hard, instead of accepting the rhythm life offered?
The solitude of that road made me realize: sometimes we run from silence, fearing it will expose our emptiness. But in silence lies identity. The headwind was not stealing my peace—it was carving it.
Finding Identity After Being Lost
There was a time I didn’t know who I was. Just another courier with a food delivery bag, pedalling through Chittagong’s alleys, earning barely enough to fix a tire when it punctured. I felt invisible. Customers barely looked me in the eye. Drivers honked like I was an obstacle.
But the cycle never judged me. The road always welcomed me. In those long stretches of pedalling—whether against headwinds, rain, or heat—I began to feel something stir inside me: This is who I am.
Not just a courier. Not just a rider. I was a seeker, using roads as pages, using sweat as ink, writing my identity one kilometre at a time.
The headwind, in its resistance, reminded me of that truth. Resistance is what defines us. Without struggle, identity remains unshaped.
The Magic of Long-Distance Journeys
By the time I reached the outskirts, the city gave way to open fields. The headwind grew fiercer in the openness, but so did my patience.
Long-distance journeys have a magic that short rides cannot match. They strip away the layers of comfort until only essence remains. On a long ride, you stop pretending. You can’t fake strength, you can’t fake endurance—you either have it, or you learn it on the way.
As the wind roared, I felt both small and infinite. Small because nature dwarfed me. Infinite because I was still moving despite it. That paradox is the magic of long journeys—they humble and empower you at once.
Chasing Impossible Dreams
As I leaned into the wind, I thought of my dream of riding to Hajj one day. Bangladesh to Makkah, a fixie carrying me across borders, deserts, and doubts. Many people laugh when I share this dream. Some call it madness, some call it impossible.
But what is life without impossible dreams? If the wind had its way, I’d have turned back long ago. But dreaming teaches the same thing as headwinds: patience. Every pedal stroke feels impossible, until you make it. Every kilometre seems too far, until you reach it.
The road whispered to me then: Your dreams are not measured in possibility, but in persistence.
Why Adventures Change the Soul
Every adventure changes something inside you. It isn’t the destination—it’s the becoming. That day, with the wind clawing at me, I realized that adventures are not escapes from life; they are encounters with it.
We live protected in routines. Wake, work, sleep, repeat. Adventures rip those routines apart. They expose us to struggle, fatigue, failure. And in that exposure, we glimpse the soul’s rawest truths.
The headwind was an adventure disguised as a challenge. And by not quitting, I was already changed.
Acts of Gratitude that Inspire Change
Halfway through, I stopped at a tea stall. The old man there poured me a steaming glass, refused extra payment when he saw my sweat-drenched shirt.
“Vai, thanda shorir,” he said. “Drink, rest.”
That small act of kindness, worth less than 10 taka, carried more weight than any paycheck. Gratitude, I realized, is not about grand gestures. It’s about seeing small mercies for what they are: proof that humanity survives even in the rush of the world.
I sipped slowly, whispered Alhamdulillah, and promised myself I’d carry that gratitude forward—not just in words, but in deeds.
Why Failure is a Stepping Stone
Back on the saddle, fatigue returned sharper. A strong gust nearly stopped me, and for a moment, I unclipped my feet, ready to quit.
But I remembered all my past failures—the deliveries I messed up, the competitions I lost, the days I couldn’t afford repairs. Each failure had been a stone. At the time, they felt like weights dragging me down. But looking back, I saw they were stepping stones, forming a staircase I didn’t notice while climbing.
Failure isn’t the opposite of progress. It’s the material progress is built from. The headwind wasn’t stopping me; it was shaping me.
Why Journaling Matters
When I finally stopped for the evening, I opened my battered notebook. My handwriting was messy, my fingers trembling, but I scribbled anyway:
“Today the wind taught me patience. It reminded me that movement isn’t about speed but persistence. It stripped me of excuses, carved me into stillness, and gave me silence I didn’t know I needed.”
Journaling matters because it captures these lessons before fatigue erases them. The page remembers what the body forgets. Every note becomes a mirror to revisit on darker days.
The Hidden Alleys of the City
On my way back through the city, I chose a different route—small alleys, narrow lanes where only rickshaws and bicycles fit. These alleys carried the hidden pulse of Chittagong: children playing barefoot, women hanging laundry, men chatting over betel leaf stalls.
The hidden alleys reminded me that life isn’t always in highways or grand destinations. Sometimes the most meaningful stories live in places most overlook. Cycling gives you access to those stories.
Nature as the Greatest Poet
By dusk, the wind softened. The sky exploded in orange and violet, as if nature was apologizing for the punishment it gave earlier. The river shimmered like ink poured across a page.
And I thought: nature is the greatest poet. It doesn’t write in words but in winds, sunsets, rivers, storms. And we, as riders and writers, are merely translators of its eternal verses.
Trusting Divine Timing on Journeys
I reached home later than planned. Tired, sore, but strangely at peace. If the wind had been kind, I would have returned earlier. But then I would have missed the tea stall kindness, the sunset poetry, the lesson in patience.
Divine timing is rarely ours. Journeys unfold the way they must. The delays, the struggles, the winds—they are not obstacles. They are timing written by a hand greater than ours.
Financial Struggles as a Courier
That night, as I counted the day’s delivery earnings, the familiar frustration returned. So much effort, so little return. Tires wear down faster than the money comes in.
But the ride had already changed me. Yes, the struggle is real. Yes, money is tight. But every headwind reminded me that value isn’t only in wages. Identity, endurance, gratitude—these are currencies that no one can take away.
And someday, I believe, these invisible currencies will open visible doors.
Living Slow in a Fast World
As the city outside rushed—cars honking, shops closing, lights flickering—I lay down in my small room, body heavy but soul light.
The world demands speed. Deliver faster, earn faster, live faster. But the headwind had taught me the opposite. Living slow is not laziness—it is depth. It is choosing patience over panic, presence over performance.
Cycling, journaling, dreaming—they are my ways of living slow in a fast world.
The Headwind’s Gift
That day’s ride was not about distance, or speed, or even destinations. It was about resistance. The headwind showed me:
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Struggle is not punishment—it is preparation.
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Silence is not emptiness—it is identity.
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Dreams are not impossible—they are patient.
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Failure is not defeat—it is foundation.
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Gratitude is not weakness—it is strength.
And most of all: the headwind is not the enemy. It is the lesson.
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