A Journey through the Lives of Those Who Commute by Bicycle — Their Struggles, Their Joys, and the Freedom That Awaits in Every Pedal Stroke
When the City Wakes
Chattogram does not wake gently.
It does not stretch slowly with its endless yawns of honking buses. No, Chattogram wakes like a worker late for a shift. It erupts.
By 6 AM, the port roads already rumble with trucks loaded with containers, engines groaning like tired giants preparing for another day of burden. CNGs buzz like angry insects, darting between potholes. Rickshaws clang their bells, trying to claim what little space is left and yet, amidst this orchestra of metallic chaos — something softer moves, something quiet, something human, a Bicycle.
Just one at first, then another, then another — like subtle brushstrokes painting resistance against the fevered rush of engines.
The First Rider — The Office Worker on a Hill
His name is Farhan, thirty-two, father of one daughter who still sleeps when he slips out of his small apartment in Khulshi.
He used to own a motorbike once — a shiny red one, had to buy on EMI. More money would be spent on fuel. Every month it drained him more than it carried him. Insurance, registration, repairs — one accident later, hospital bills. He sold it. His colleagues laughed.
“Is he school kid? Going to office on cycle?”
He didn’t reply. He bought a used 21-speed MTB for 8,000 taka. It creaked. The gears jumped sometimes. But it moved when he moved, and that was enough.
Now, every morning, he rides down from Khulshi hills, wind whipping his shirt like a freedom flag. He rides past GEC Circle, past lines of cars melted together in standstill traffic. Some drivers watch him with envy, others with confusion; few with silent respect. He does not wave. But inside, he smiles.
The Second Rider — The Delivery Boy With Too Much Speed and Too Little Sleep
Halfway across town, in Amin Jute Mill area, Shakil — nineteen, wiry, restless — ties the straps of his giant Foodpanda delivery bag onto his back.
His bicycle is single-speed, no gears, back-pedal brake, bought from Bakalia second-hand market. The chain squeaks like a complaining elder. But he loves it.
He didn’t choose cycling because he was an athlete. He chose it because he had no bike license, no money for a motorbike, and no one to co-sign a loan.
So he rides. Not for sport. Not for fitness but for survival.
He knows every turn of Agrabad, every shortcut through Chawkbazar. He weaves past buses like a fish escaping nets. Sweat pours, legs burn, lungs ache — but his earnings depend on speed.
Motor bikers look down at him sometimes.
“Cycle rider! Getting tired!”
But they don’t know.
Every order he delivers is not just food — it is his rent, his mother’s medicine, his little sister’s school fee.
So he pedals like his future depends on it — because it does.
The Third Rider — The Girl Who Refused to Wait for Permission
In Pahartali, a girl is standing with her bicycle.
Her name is Nusrat, second-year student at Government Women’s College, Chattogram. She wears a black hijab and sports shoes. Her cycle is a bright purple Phoenix passed down from her cousin.
People stare. Some smile. Some whisper.
Her parents didn’t like it at first.
“What will people say? Being a girl riding cycle?”
But she had one argument no one could defeat.
If I go on a rickshaw people will see instead I am going on a cycle, what is the difference?” Silence!!!
Now she rides to class every morning, feeling like the whole world belongs under her wheels. When she overtakes boys her age, she doesn’t gloat. But her confidence becomes armor.
Girls at the campus asked if she feels scared.
“First I used to get scared but not anymore now.”
One day, she dreams of starting Chittagong’s first all-women cycling meet-up. But for now — she rides alone.
And that is still a revolution.
The Fourth Rider — The Old Man Who Never Stopped Riding
Far from the young riders chasing time, in Patenga, a different cyclist rolls slowly along the beach road near the lighthouse.
His name is Abdul Hakim, sixty-eight. His bicycle is older than some of the trees planted along the road. A rusted black Hero with handlebar wrapped in worn-out cloth.
People know him. Fishermen wave. Bus conductors nod. He has been riding this same road for over forty years — first to textile factory, then to dockyard, now just to keep his knees alive.
He could take the bus. He could walk. But he says:
“When I can move my legs then why not ride.”
One City. Four Stories. One Thread.
Different lives. Different ages. Different reasons.
One rides for convenience.
One rides for income.
One rides for defiance.
One rides for dignity.
But every morning, their paths intersect — at traffic signals, tea stalls, roadside breakfast counters of paratha and tea.
They do not always speak.
But they recognize each other.
Not by face.
By leg scars from pedal strikes.
By oil stains on ankles.
By sweat that feels like sunrise instead of struggle.
They nod.
A silent brotherhood — and sisterhood — forged in motion.
The Struggle — Sweat, Traffic, and the Unseen Risks of Riding in Bangladesh
The sun climbs higher over Chattogram, burning gold onto the port roads. It’s 8 AM, the hour when the city is at its fiercest. Trucks groan with containers, buses roar with passengers, and the occasional auto rickshaw squeals to life as if competing with every other engine. Dust curls into the air, thick enough to make you taste it. Somewhere in the middle of this industrial chaos, the cyclists continue, pushing pedals with sweat on their backs and determination in their eyes.
Farhan: The Office Worker on the Edge
For Farhan, the hills of Khulshi are not just scenic; they are a daily battlefield. His legs scream as he climbs each incline, lungs burning, sweat dripping down his temples. The chain of his old MTB rattles against the gears, threatening mutiny at the worst moments. A bus lurches past, showering him with dust and fumes. A careless driver barely gives a honk to warn of the near collision.
And yet, he rides on. Why? Because each morning, each kilometer, is a small victory over the suffocating grip of gridlock and dependency on engines. The office won’t wait for him, the deadlines won’t pause, but the freedom he feels while pedaling — even in this chaos — is unmatched.
He passes Tea Stall near Agrabad, and the aroma of freshly fried paratha and tea lifts him for a moment. He doesn’t stop. He can’t. Every second counts. But he breathes, inhales the city’s energy, and thinks: This is why I ride.
Shakil: Speed, Risk, and Responsibility
Shakil, the delivery rider, knows every danger intimately. A pothole hidden under stagnant water can throw him off balance. A motorbike swerving without warning could crush him if he isn’t alert. He dodges pedestrians crossing at the wrong moment, shopkeepers stepping into the road, and hawkers who suddenly appear with bamboo poles.
Sometimes, he miscalculates. A sudden swerve to avoid a lorry sends his backpack skidding against the road. Orders drop. His heart pounds. He curses himself but continues. Each delivery is a lifeline for his family, and there is no alternative.
Yet, despite all these dangers, there is a rhythm. Cyclists like Shakil develop a sixth sense. He can anticipate the bus driver’s moves, feel the gust from a truck’s tires, and sense when a pothole lies beneath murky water. It’s a tense dance, a battle of reflexes and instinct, and every successful ride feels like winning a small war.
Nusrat: Defiance in Motion
For Nusrat, the challenge is not just the physical strain. Social perceptions weigh heavily on her. Riding through crowded streets as a woman, she faces stares, occasional ridicule, and subtle warnings: “Girls shouldn’t be cycling.”
Rain or shine, she rides. She has learned to anticipate the unspoken obstacles — a male classmate questioning her presence, a passer-by attempting to intimidate, or even a curious child asking why she chooses a bike over a rickshaw.
Her strength is quiet but unyielding. Every pedal stroke is an assertion of independence. The hills near Pahartali challenge her muscles, but more importantly, they challenge the city’s assumptions about what women can and cannot do.
Abdul Hakim: Experience Versus Chaos
The old man, Abdul Hakim, rides slowly but deliberately along Patenga Beach Road, a place where the city feels less chaotic yet still demanding. Trucks roar along the adjacent highway, sand and salt spray from the nearby sea.
Every young rider passing him seems frantic. Farhan speeds past, Shakil zips by with his delivery load, Nusrat glides with quiet determination. Abdul Hakim smiles at each one, recognizing the shared struggle, the sweat, the unpredictability, the risks.
Experience has taught him to ride as if invisible, to respect every vehicle, to respect the rules that do not exist. He knows the roads will never be perfect, but the act of riding itself is resistance against stagnation — physical, social, and spiritual.
Shared Risks, Shared Triumphs
Across the city, these cyclists face the same dangers:
- Unmarked potholes that swallow wheels whole.
- Sudden U-turns from buses that appear without warning.
- Congested intersections where horn-honking is the only law.
- Rain-soaked roads where slick patches hide deep puddles.
And yet, every ride produces triumph. Arriving at the destination, breathing heavily, muscles aching — there is a profound sense of accomplishment. Unlike commuters trapped in cars, stuck watching the city crawl past, cyclists are participants in the city, not prisoners of it.
The sweat, the risk, the exhaustion — all become part of a ritual of liberation. Each ride is exercise for body and mind, a meditation in motion, a daily affirmation: I am here. I am moving. I am alive.
The Hidden Rewards
- Endorphins and mental clarity: Office work or deliveries feel sharper, less stressful.
- Physical resilience: Legs, core, lungs, and heart— all strengthened in the crucible of Chattogram traffic.
- Community: Silent nods at traffic signals, shared shortcuts, mutual respect among cyclists.
- Efficiency: What takes a car 40 minutes in gridlock, a cyclist can achieve in 20, manoeuvring through narrow streets and alleys.
For some, like Shakil, the reward is survival. For Nusrat, it is independence. For Farhan, it is freedom from the monotony and frustration of traffic. And for Abdul Hakim, it is joy in persistence, dignity in motion.
Conclusion: The Price and the Glory
Riding a bicycle in Bangladesh is never easy. Sweat drips, muscles scream, the city conspires to throw obstacles. Yet, those who ride know something the car-bound do not: there is a profound intimacy with the city, a connection to every turn, every slope, and every breath of wind.
This is the unseen reward of cycling — the price is effort, the glory is liberation. The struggle is constant, yet the satisfaction is enduring.
The Joys — Freedom, Endorphins, and Life Lessons Learned on Two Wheels in Bangladesh
There is a moment in every cyclist’s day, somewhere between breathlessness and breakthrough, when the chaos of the city disappears and all that exists is rhythm. Pedal. Breathe. Glide. Repeat.
For the first few kilometers, it’s all noise — honks, fumes, potholes, and frustration. But then, without warning… you slip into flow.
The bicycle becomes an extension of your body, the road becomes familiar, and your mind drifts — not into distraction, but into clarity.
Dawn on Two Wheels — The Sacred Silence of Chattogram Before It Wakes
Ask any cyclist and they’ll tell you: the city at 6 AM is a different world. Chattogram before sunrise is soft, forgiving. The hills of Tigerpass shimmer under morning mist, trees are still dripping dew, and the gulls near the port are just beginning their arguments with the waves.
Farhan, the office warrior, discovered something unexpected in his early commutes — the joy of beating the sun.
There is no traffic yet. No race against buses. No one rushing. Just the sound of chains spinning and tires whispering against asphalt.
He stands at the top of Batali Hill, sweat-soaked but smiling, watching the city below. Not from a rooftop café, not from an AC apartment balcony — but from his own earned elevation.
No fuel was burned. No money spent. Just muscle, breath, and willpower.
That feeling? You can’t buy it with petrol.
The Descent — Gravity As a Reward
The climb hurts. Everyone complains about it, but the descent?
Oh, the descent is pure poetry.
Wind rushing like applause, face stretched into an involuntary grin, speed building without effort — it feels like cheating gravity. Like the city is finally paying you back for all the uphill battles.
Shakil, the delivery rider, often finds himself laughing like a child during these downhill runs. It doesn’t matter if there’s biryani on his back or invoices waiting at the shop — for those few seconds, he is not working. He’s flying.
The Language of Cyclists — The Silent Brotherhood (and Sisterhood)
Cyclists in Bangladesh don’t always talk to each other. They don’t need to. Their language is made of gestures.
- A quick nod at a signal = Keep going.
- A hand wave to warn of a pothole = I’ve got your back.
- A thumbs up after a climb = You survived. Good job.
One day, Nusrat struggled up a steep segment near Pahartali. She was about to get off and walk when an unknown rider — an older woman on a rusty Chinese cycle — passed her slowly and simply said:
“Just a bit more. Don’t give up.”
That sentence stayed in her mind longer than any fitness slogan or motivational quote online. It wasn’t advice. It was inheritance. Passed from one fighter to another.
Sweat as Meditation
People sitting in cars often think cyclists ride for fitness.
Yes, fitness comes. Weight drops. Muscles grow. But that’s not the real reward.
The real joy is mental.
Cycling is therapy disguised as transport.
When Farhan rides, emails and deadlines stop mattering. When Shakil pedals furiously through traffic, his poverty, his worries — all go quiet. When Nusrat rides past people staring, she hears their judgments — but they grow softer, fading behind the whirring of her tires. Her confidence becomes louder than their opinions.
Abdul Hakim, the wise veteran, once said:
“A bicycle doesn’t just take you to destinations — it takes you into yourself.”
Life Lessons Learned at 25 km/h
Every cyclist eventually learns:
- Momentum is precious. Stop unnecessarily and you struggle to restart. Same in life.
- Look far ahead, not just at the front wheel. Focus too much on small bumps and you’ll lose balance. Keep vision.
- You can’t control traffic, but you can control cadence. External chaos will always exist — internal rhythm is your weapon.
- Climbs always end. Descents always follow. So does hardship. So does joy.
Conclusion — The Quiet Victory
By the time they reach their destinations, these cyclists are tired — but never defeated. While others slump into workplaces annoyed and sleepy from car traffic, the riders arrive radiant, alert, alive.
They didn’t just commute.
They conquered.
Every ride is a fight.
Every ride is a meditation.
Every ride is a love letter to resilience.
The Future: Can Bangladesh Become a True Cycling Nation?
The wheels are already turning. What was once a necessity for delivery riders and rural commuters is now becoming a conscious choice for urban citizens but the question remains:
Can Bangladesh truly transform into a cycling nation?
Not just a country where people ride because they must, but a country where people ride because they want to — proudly, safely, and with dignity.
Imagine This Future
- Dedicated bike lanes stretching from Agrabad to Patenga, protected from buses and trucks.
- Overpasses and crossing bridges designed with ramps for cycles, not just stairs for pedestrians.
- Every school in Dhaka and Chattogram having at least one bicycle parking stand.
- Every company offering bicycle incentives — parking space, showers, casual rides-to-work Fridays.
- University students competing not in bike races — but bike commutes. Who can cover the wildest journey through traffic without putting a foot down?
Sounds impossible?
So did Padma Bridge. So did Metro Rail. So did 300-foot-high flyovers through port hills.
Bangladesh does big engineering. But now — it’s time for small engineering with big impact.
Numbers Don’t Lie — A Small Shift Can Change Everything
Let’s imagine just 5% of urban commuters in Bangladesh switch to bicycles.
- If 50,000 people bike instead of taking rickshaws or buses…
- Traffic reduces by 8-10% in rush hours.
- Air quality in Bangladesh improves instantly.
- Fuel imports reduce, saving crores yearly.
- Healthcare costs drop, as cycling keeps people active.
In contrast — building one flyover costs hundreds of crores, and eventually floods with more cars anyway.
But painting lanes, installing bollards, providing bike racks? Cheap. Fast. Permanent.
What Needs to Change?
- Policy — Cities must legally recognize bicycles as vehicles with rights.
Right now, cyclists are treated as obstacles.
- Infrastructure — Not just fancy cycle parks in posh areas. We need practical lanes connecting:
- Residential zones → Commercial hubs
- Schools → Universities
- Factory belts → Worker housing
- Corporate Involvement — Companies can offer:
- “Bike-to-work bonuses” instead of fuel allowance.
- Locker rooms and showers instead of parking basements.
- Cycle loan programs for employees.
- Media Representation — Cycling must be shown as cool, modern, respectable, not just “poor man’s transport”.
- Community Culture — Group rides, weekend events, “Ride for Air”, “Sisters on Saddles”, “Office to Office Relay Commutes” — movements that normalize bicycles.
The Biggest Barrier Isn’t Roads — It’s Mindset
Many people still think:
“Cycle? That’s for delivery boys.”
“I’ll ride when I’m richer and can afford a better one.”
“Women shouldn’t cycle.”
But the truth is:
Cycling is not a symbol of poverty. It is a symbol of efficiency. Strength. Freedom. Discipline. Urban intelligence.
In Europe, CEOs bike to work. In Japan, office ladies in suits ride city bikes. In China, bike lanes move millions per hour. In the Netherlands, cabinet ministers bike to parliament.
Bangladesh doesn’t lack roads. It lacks recognition of cycling as dignity.
The Call to Action
So here’s the question:
Who will be the first generation of Cycling Patriots of Bangladesh?
Not freedom fighters of 1971 — but freedom riders of 2025 and beyond.
The ones who say:
“I don’t ride out of shame — I ride out of strength.”
Conclusion — A Revolution on Pedals
The future of cycling in Bangladesh is not waiting in government files.
It’s already happening in the hearts and legs of thousands.
Every time Farhan climbs a hill,
Every time Shakil delivers safely through traffic,
Every time Nusrat pedals past doubters,
Every time Abdul Hakim refuses to give up on his old steel frame…
The revolution advances.
Not loud. Not violent.
But steady. Tire by tire, day by day.
The Final Manifesto: A Declaration of Two-Wheeled Freedom in Bangladesh
We are the ones who do not wait for freedom —
We earn it with every pedal stroke.
আমরা যারা স্বাধীনতা প্যারাশুটে নামার অপেক্ষা করি না —
We are not traffic victims —
We are traffic survivors.
আমরা রাস্তায় বাধা না, আমরা অধিকারী।
We do not ride because we are weak.
We ride because we are strong.
আমরা সাইকেল চালাই লজ্জার জন্য নয় — শক্তির জন্য।
We Believe:
- A bicycle is not just transport — it is resistance.
- Not just metal and rubber — it is discipline, dignity, and direction.
- Not a slow option — but the smartest option.
In a country drowning in traffic,
We choose movement.
In a world choking on fumes,
We choose breath.
In a society trapped in judgment,
We choose freedom.
We Are:
- The office warrior climbing Khulshi hills at dawn.
- The delivery soldier slicing through port traffic with biryani on his back.
- The student racing the sunset home to avoid load-shedding.
- The fearless sister riding past doubters with her chin held high.
- The old veteran pedalling quietly, teaching persistence without words.
We Demand:
✅ Roads where cyclists are respected, not ignored.
✅ Lanes that protect, not just decorate.
✅ Schools and offices with racks, not excuses.
✅ A nation that says “Cycle চালানো মানে দরিদ্রতা না — Responsibility.”
We Pledge:
We will ride with courage.
We will ride with discipline.
We will ride with kindness to those who walk or ride beside us.
We will be visible. We will be vocal. We will be the change that no policy dared to imagine.
This Is Our Oath, Our Claim, And Our Revolution:
আমরা বাংলাদেশি।
We ride not for luxury — but for liberty.
We ride not for speed — but for spirit.
We ride not because we have to — but because we choose to.
From Dhaka to Chattogram, from Sylhet to Khulna — the revolution will not come on four wheels.
It will arrive quietly — on two.
Pedal by pedal.
মানুষ থেকে মানসিকতা বদলাবে।
এটাই আমাদের স্বাধীনতা ২.০.
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