It was still dark when I clipped the strap of my bag tighter, though this was no delivery shift. The clock read 5:30 a.m., and the world was heavy with silence, the kind of silence that feels like a blanket pulled over the earth. I rolled my single-speed bike forward, listening to the faint ticking of its chain. Today wasn’t about parcels, customers, or the daily grind. Today was about something bigger, something I had been planning quietly in my head: 300 kilometres in 12 hours.
Some might say it was madness, chasing such a distance on a single-speed bike, without gears to soften the climbs or ease the headwinds. Others might call it impossible, a foolish dream stitched together by stubbornness. But for me, it wasn’t about statistics or bragging rights. It was about something deeper — testing the line between freedom and discipline, between endurance and surrender, between the body that could break and the spirit that refused to.
The First Pedal Stroke
Every long ride begins the same way: with doubt. As I pushed off from the familiar streets near my home, the doubt whispered louder than the morning birds. What if I can’t make it? What if my legs give up at 200 km? What if the road eats me alive?
But then came the rhythm. The circle of wheels turning, repeating, like the cycle of life itself. Pedal down, pull up, pedal down, pull up. It reminded me of writing — how a novel starts with one sentence, then another, then another, until the pages multiply into a world. Each pedal stroke was a word. Each kilometre a paragraph. By the end of this day, I wanted nothing less than to write a story in motion, 300 km long.
The road was empty, save for a few rickshaw pullers yawning into their shawls, heading for another day of endless pedalling. I nodded at them. We were the same, really: men powered by legs, carrying weight, moving forward even when the world didn’t notice.
Beauty in the Struggle
By 50 km, the sun had begun to rise. Its first light painted the tarmac gold, and suddenly every pothole, every crack, every shimmer of dew on roadside looked alive. That was the first lesson of the day: struggle holds its own beauty.
Cycling long distances isn’t glamorous. Sweat stings the eyes. Fingers go numb on the handlebars. Your back burns under the sun. But when you ride through it long enough, you begin to notice the little things — the way dogs stretch lazily by tea stalls, the smell of parathas frying, the laughter of children chasing each other barefoot near a pond. Life reveals itself most honestly when you are stripped down to effort and fatigue.
I thought of how often we run away from discomfort in daily life — choosing shortcuts, soft cushions, and instant relief. But out here, on this road, discomfort wasn’t an enemy. It was a teacher. And its language was simple: keep going, keep breathing, keep turning the pedals.
Motion Heals
At 120 km, I felt the first real crack in my body. My thighs screamed, and the thought of another 180 km seemed like punishment. I stopped by a small stall, bought a banana and a glass of salty lemonade, and sat by the roadside.
The fatigue wasn’t just physical. Inside me, shadows stirred — memories of failure, the sting of being underestimated, the shame of quitting in the past. A voice whispered: You don’t have to finish this. No one is watching. No one will know.
But then, as trucks roared by and the wind shook the leaves above me, I realized something: motion heals broken spirits.
Every time I had felt lost in life, cycling had carried me back. After an accident, after heartbreak, after rejection, after days when money was scarce and hope even scarcer — the bike had given me rhythm. Motion was therapy. Moving forward was prayer.
So I stood up, tightened my helmet strap, and rolled again. Slowly at first, then stronger, until my legs found their cadence. Every rotation of the wheels was like stitching together the torn fabric inside me.
The Paradox of Freedom and Discipline
By 180 km, the road stretched wide and endless. It felt like freedom — the ability to go wherever I wanted, powered only by myself. The horizon called me forward, and I wanted to chase it forever.
But freedom without discipline is chaos. If I pushed too hard, I would break. If I went too easy, I would miss my 12-hour mark. So I found a rhythm — 25 km/hr, steady, sustainable, calm. It struck me then: freedom is born from discipline.
People think cyclists are free spirits, drifting wherever the wheels take them. But the truth is, long rides demand strict rituals — hydration every 20 minutes, stretching at 100 km, pacing the climbs, resting the mind. Freedom is not the absence of rules; it is the wisdom to create the right ones.
That was a lesson bigger than the road. In life too, discipline makes dreams possible. Without it, freedom slips away.
Why People Quit — And Why Some Don’t
At 220 km, the headwinds arrived. They were brutal, slapping me in the face, slowing me down even when I poured all my strength into the pedals. My average speed dropped. Doubt returned, louder than ever.
This was the zone where most people quit. The legs ache, the mind whines, the end feels too far. And I understood them — quitting feels like relief. Stopping the suffering, letting go of the impossible.
But here’s the difference between those who quit and those who don’t: some see pain as the end, others see it as the path.
I told myself: Pain is not punishment. It’s tuition. You pay it, and it teaches you.
So I kept going, kilometre after kilometre, fighting the invisible wall of wind. My pace was slow, but my will was steady.
Faith as Fuel
At 260 km, with only 40 to go, my body was nearly empty. Food tasted like chalk, water sat heavy in my stomach, and my vision blurred at times. But faith kept me upright.
Faith that this suffering meant something. Faith that the road was not just tarmac but scripture, teaching me endurance, humility, and patience. Faith that if I kept going, I would discover a version of myself I hadn’t met yet.
I whispered prayers between breaths. Not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet calls for strength. And somehow, the wheels kept turning.
Journaling the Journey
By the time I hit 300 km, the sun was setting. My odometer read 11 hours 48 minutes. I had made it. My legs were trembling, my back felt broken, but my heart was light.
I leaned against a tea stall, pulled out my small notebook, and began to write. Scribbles at first, then sentences, then reflections. That’s the thing about journaling — it doesn’t have to be polished. It just has to be honest.
Every ride deserves words. Because rides are not just about distance; they are about discovery. Writing captures what sweat and dust cannot. Writing remembers what fatigue forgets.
The Road Never Ends
That evening, lying on my mattress, I replayed the day in my head. 300 km in 12 hours. A number, yes. An achievement, yes. But more than that — a mirror. The road had shown me who I was, what I feared, what I believed in.
And the lesson was clear: life is not about avoiding exhaustion. It is about embracing it until it transforms into enlightenment.
The wheels turn, endlessly. The road stretches, endlessly. And so must I.
Tomorrow, someone might doubt me again. Tomorrow, I might doubt myself. But I know now: as long as the wheels keep spinning, as long as words keep flowing, as long as faith keeps whispering — I will keep going.
Because in the end, cycling isn’t about moving from one place to another. It’s about becoming.
ENG
