It started with a thought so simple that I almost laughed at myself for calling it a dream. I didn’t want to fly across continents, or buy a carbon-frame bike worth a fortune, or chase a podium medal. I only wanted this: to ride the same bike I ride every day, the one that carries me to deliveries and back, into a place of beauty — the hills of Chittagong.
People might not understand why that mattered so much. After all, I see those hills almost daily. They’re etched into the skyline, the way a poet carries half-finished verses in the back of his mind. But for me, the hills had always been background — the canvas against which I lived my courier life. What I wanted was to make them foreground. To climb them, to feel their gradient burning in my thighs, to let their silence teach me lessons that the noisy flat roads never could.
And I wanted to do it on my fixed gear/single speed cycle. The same one I ride every day, set up with either 48×17t (76.2 gear inches) or 48×18t (72 gear inches). People tell me hills aren’t meant for such bikes. That without gears I’ll struggle, that I should switch to something lighter, something more forgiving. But I never wanted forgiving. I wanted honest. And a fixie is nothing if not honest.
Batali Hill – The First Ascent
The journey began with Batali Hill, the crown of the city. It isn’t the steepest, nor the longest, but it stands as a reminder of Chittagong’s layered soul — history, politics, students, protests, poetry. Climbing it on my 48×17t gear felt like climbing into memory.
Each pedal stroke was heavy. 76.2 gear inches meant no mercy. My cadence dropped to a grind, and sweat rolled down into my eyes. But then came the view — a sweeping sight of the city below stretching like a ribbon of silver.
I realized then that hills are metaphors for effort rewarded. The harder the climb, the deeper the breath, the wider the view. Batali was my warm-up lesson.
Tiger Pass and Circuit House Hill – The Roads of Persistence
From Batali I rolled towards Tiger Pass Hill. This one wasn’t about height but persistence. The road wound upward gently but endlessly, a test of rhythm rather than raw strength. On the 48×18t gear (72 gear inches), I found myself spinning — not easy, but steady, like writing long chapters without stopping.
Further on was Circuit House Hill, where officialdom and quiet residences overlooked the city. Its curves felt almost like whispers, reminding me that not every climb has to roar. Some climbs, like some lessons, arrive softly.
Foy’s Lake Hills – The Poetry of Water and Stone
The road near Foy’s Lake was where beauty met gradient. Hills rolled up and down, flanked by water shimmering under the sun. On a geared bike, I could have played with cogs, shifting to match the slope. But on my fixie, I had no such luxury. One gear. One ratio. One rhythm.
Here the 72 gear inches of the 48×18t setup felt kinder. I could rise from the saddle, sway the bike side to side, and grind my way up. Every climb was a stanza. Every descent was punctuation. The wheels wrote poetry in circles, the road offered lines, and together we created verses unseen.
At one pause near the lake, I scribbled in my notebook:
“The road does not care who you are.
But it teaches you who you might become.”
Bhatiari Hills – The Real Test
Then came Bhatiari. Known for its army cantonment, its rolling greens, its lakes tucked away like secrets. But also for its roads — sharp, punishing, steep.
Here, the 48×17t gear felt like a chain of fire. Every pedal stroke was war. I stood on the pedals, arms pulling, lungs burning. Cars passed me with ease, their engines mocking my muscle-powered struggle. But I knew — this was where a single-speed bike came alive. No escape. No shortcuts. Just you, the hill, and the will to push.
At the top, sweat-soaked and trembling, I felt no shame in resting. For the view was breath-taking — hills folding into each other, trees whispering in the breeze, the city below softened by distance. It struck me then: fatigue is not the enemy. Fatigue is the price of perspective.
Kumira and Sitakunda Hills – The Roads Beyond
Past Bhatiari, the Kumira Ghat View Point rose like a quiet guardian of the coast. The climb was long, steady, and the ocean waited at the horizon. On a fixie, the rhythm became meditative. The chain hummed, the wheels turned, and time itself seemed to slow.
Further still were the Sitakunda Hills, where pilgrim routes wound towards Chandranath. I didn’t attempt the temple climb — too steep for my 76.2 gear inches — but I stayed on the motorable roads that snaked through the area. Even there, every gradient humbled me.
These were not just roads. They were sermons. They preached patience, humility, the courage to attempt what seems impossible.
The Lessons in Circles
After hours of climbing and descending, sweat and scribbles, laughter and exhaustion, I understood what I had been chasing. Not just hills. Not just kilometres. But lessons.
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The circle of wheels is the circle of life: repetition that builds progress.
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The eternal road is the reminder that journeys never truly end.
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Motion heals: each climb carried away fragments of old doubts.
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Discipline liberates: one gear, one ratio, but endless possibilities.
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Fatigue enlightens: pain shows you the strength you didn’t know you had.
Returning Home
By the time I returned from Kumira towards the city, the sun was low. My legs were tired, but my spirit was alight. People might ask: Why ride hills on a single-speed bike? Why not make it easier?
And I would answer: Because life doesn’t give you gears either. You ride with what you have. You climb with the legs you’re given. And beauty is never in avoiding the hill — it’s in embracing it.
At Hamzarbagh, as I dismounted and leaned my bike against the wall, I looked at it with gratitude. A simple steel frame. A fixed gear setup. Ratios of 48×17t (76.2″) and 48×18t (72″). Nothing special in the eyes of the world. But on these hills, in this city, on this day — it had carried me into truths no classroom could teach.
The Simple Goal Fulfilled
I had started with a simple goal. Ride the same bike I ride every day in a beautiful place — the hills of Chittagong. And in chasing that, I found not just climbs and descents, but metaphors, poetry, identity.
The hills remain. The roads remain. Tomorrow I will ride again. But now I know: sometimes the simplest goals lead to the deepest journeys.
And as long as the wheels turn, as long as the words flow, as long as the hills call — I will keep riding.
ENG
