A story told through multiple cyclists across Bangladesh — sweating, struggling, laughing, fighting traffic and fate — all united by two wheels and a stubborn refusal to surrender to gridlock.

 

Dhaka at 8:45 AM – A Symphony of Suffering

Dhaka doesn’t wake up — it explodes into existence every morning.

Engines cough to life like asthmatic dragons. Horns scream without reason. Rickshaw bells jingle like desperate prayers trapped beneath a sky of tangled wires. A bus leans diagonally into traffic like it’s about to fall over, yet somehow keeps going, groaning like an exhausted mammoth. CNGs zigzag like insects on caffeine. Pedestrians squeeze between bumpers like toothpaste in slow motion.

And above all this chaos is heat. The kind that doesn’t just sit on your skin — it climbs into your bones and whispers,

“You’re not going anywhere anytime soon.”

Inside a silver Toyota Car somewhere in Uttara, Farhana slumps against her seatbelt. She’s been parked — not driving, parked — for 53 minutes without moving more than half a kilometre. Her iced coffee has become warm milk. The FM radio host is cracking the same jokes again because the station playlist reset. The Uber next to her has three passengers who have opened their food containers and started having breakfast three lanes deep in traffic. A bus conductor outside is standing still — leaning against his own bus — yawning like he’s on vacation.

And then it happens.

Whooooosh.

A blur of red and black cuts past her window.

A bicycle. A real, actual bicycle. Tall girl, backpack bouncing, scarf flying behind her like a flag of rebellion. Sunglasses on. Zero hesitation. Zero apology.

She slices between the cars like she owns the road.

No rusted chain sound. No messy pedalling. Just glide.

Farhana blinks once.

“…Wait. People… still do that?”

The cyclist disappears ahead — probably already at work, maybe even ordering her first cup of tea while Farhana is still breathing exhaust.

It hits her:

“I am paying lakhs of taka to be trapped like a prisoner in my own car…
And that woman just outsmarted the entire city with a bicycle worth less than my bumper repair.”

Somewhere else in the city — on Airport Road, on Chattogram Port access lanes, the same scene is playing out again and again.

People locked in traffic, staring out their windows like characters in a dystopian film…

…Watching slim silhouettes on bicycles cutting through gridlock like knives through hot bakorkhani (paratha mixed in sugar syrup).

Some glare in annoyance.

Some laugh in disbelief.

A few mutter, “Pagol naki?” (Is she mad?)

But deep, deep down — in a place they don’t admit exists — one dangerous thought grows:

“What if I could do that too?”

And that is where every revolution begins.

Not with protests. Not with slogans.

But with envy.
With curiosity.
With one frustrated commuter whispering,

“Maybe I don’t have to live like this.”

From Car Window to Handlebar Rebellion

That night, Farhana couldn’t sleep.

Not because of stress, not because of work —
but because of that cyclist.

Her car was still vibrating in her mind. The horns, the sweating, the hours lost calculating “if I leave 10 minutes earlier, maybe…” — lies she told herself every day.

Meanwhile, that woman had probably reached home, showered, eaten, scrolled through memes, and slept peacefully — while Farhana was still in traffic.

The injustice of it ate her alive.

The Google Search That Started a War

At 2:13 AM, Farhana opened her phone and typed:

“Is it possible to commute in Dhaka… by bicycle?”

Google answered with chaos.

• Blogs by foreign expats biking around Banani like they were in Copenhagen.

• YouTube vloggers showing off Dhaka Cycle Lane near Hatirjheel (which is mostly used for couples taking selfies).

• An article titled “Cycling in Dhaka: Brave or Suicidal?”

She scrolled. She thought. She stared at her ceiling fan.

What if I tried? Just once… just to see…

First Step: A Secret Pact with Herself

The next evening, she lied to her family.

“I’m going to Aarong.”

Instead, she went to a small bicycle shop in Mirpur-2. Dusty, cramped, full of steel frames hanging like sleeping bats. A teenager behind the counter looked up.

“Apu, ladies cycle niben?”
(“Sister, you want a ladies’ cycle?”)

She hesitated.

“No. Not the shopping one.
I want… the one that can fly past cars.”

The boy grinned.

He knew exactly what she meant.

The First Ride – Terror and Euphoria

The next morning at 7:10 AM, when the city was still yawning awake, Farhana put on loose sportswear, wrapped her scarf tight, strapped on a helmet that still had the price tag attached — and rolled her new cycle out of the apartment gate.

The security guard nearly dropped his tea.

“Apa… cycle chalan?”
(“Madam… you ride cycle?”)

She didn’t respond.

She was too busy hearing her own heartbeat rattle inside her chest.

She put one foot on the pedal. Wobbled. Nearly fell.

For a second, she considered turning back.

Her brain screamed:

“What if someone laughs? What if I fall? What if a bus crushes me like a cockroach?”

But then — like a voice from deep inside — she heard:

“What if… you win?”

She pushed forward.

Dhaka Reacts

As she entered the main road, everyone stared.

• A rickshaw puller slowed down beside her, smiling like he’d spotted a celebrity.

• A delivery boy shouted “Boss level!”

• A microbus driver rolled down the window and said,

  “Madam, respect. But careful, amra pagol er motoh gari chalai.”
  (“Madam, respect. But be careful, we drive like maniacs.”)

She smiled.

The Moment Everything Changed

She reached Mohakhali flyover entrance — where traffic usually collapses like a dying elephant.

Cars frozen. Buses roaring but going nowhere.

The same scene as yesterday. But this time—

She didn’t stop.

She glided between the cars, like a ghost slipping through walls.

The wind hit her face.

Her scarf fluttered behind like a banner of rebellion.

And suddenly — she wasn’t sweating in traffic anymore.

She was flying.

At 8:03 AM, she reached Motijheel.

Forty-four minutes.

Forty-four minutes.

Yesterday it took three hours and twelve minutes.

She parked her bicycle beside a tea stall. The tea-seller raised his eyebrow.

“Apa… gari koi?”
(“Sister… where’s your car?”)

She smiled, breathless.

“Ei tar moto gari nai.”
(“There is no car like this one.”)

She didn’t just reach earlier.

She reached transformed.

And by lunchtime, half of her office had already heard:

“Farhana apa, office-e cycle e ashe!”
(“Farhana comes to office… by bicycle!”)

Some laughed. Some stared in disbelief.

But at least three people whispered silently to themselves:

“Could I… also?”

Racing Through Steel, Salt, and Chaos

If Dhaka is a battlefield, Chattogram is a warship in perpetual collision.

Here, the air tastes like salt and diesel, the skyline is a jagged wall of shipping cranes, and every road seems designed for trucks, not humans.

Which is why Sohel, age 19, rides like someone who expects to die every day — but refuses to.

The Boy with No Time to Be Scared

Sohel lives in a cramped tin-shed room near Firingee Bazar with five other delivery boys. They sleep in shifts, like factory machines. By 6 AM, he’s already strapped 40 plastic food packets to the back of his bicycle with rope and a holy amount of determination.

He doesn’t ride the bicycle.

He attacks the road.

His route is madness incarnate — weaving between:

• Container trucks 20 times his size, roaring like dragons,

• Oil tankers spilling rainbow puddles onto the asphalt,

• Rickshaws tipping sideways from overload,

• Bus drivers who treat lanes as folklore,

• Roads that suddenly vanish into craters the size of bathtubs.

Most people would ride cautiously.

Sohel? He leans forward like an anime protagonist and yells:

“Shoren nahole chapa khaben!” (“Move or you will be crushed!”)

His Bicycle – Not a Vehicle, but a Sword

It’s not fancy. Not imported. Not carbon fibre.

Just a rusted Hero Ranger, painted blue once upon a time, now half-silver from wear.

Brakes? Relative concept.

Bell? Long dead.

Seat cushion? Replaced with folded newspaper.

But to Sohel, it’s not a cycle.

“Eta amar ruji-ruti. Amar ponchash hazar-takar gari.”
(“This is my bread and butter. My fifty-thousand taka car.”)

The Incident at Agrabad Turn

One morning, a massive trailer truck, stacked high with steel rods, swung too wide at Agrabad and almost flattened him.

Most people would freeze.

Sohel banged his fist on the truck’s side panel and shouted:

“Truck chalaite ascho naki jahaz?!”
(“You driving a truck or a ship?!”)

The truck driver laughed, rolled down his window, and shouted back:

“Tor matha thik nai! Eibhabe Cycle chalachosh!”
(“You’re insane! Riding like that on a bicycle!”)

Sohel grinned.

“Bissash koro, bhai. Cycle chara ami jibon e deri kori na.”
(“Believe me, brother. With a bicycle, I am never late.”)

Midday Fatigue, Midnight Strength

He delivers to banks, fish warehouses, Customs offices, dockside tea stalls, dodging sweat, stray dogs, inspectors, and occasional drunk sailors.

There are days he collapses into bed, clothes still wet from rain + sweat + sea breeze + who knows what else.

But when his friends ask,

“Tui klanto hoye jaish na?”
(“Don’t you get tired?”)

He replies,

“Cycle cholai klanti ase na. Jail theke mukto manusher energy ase.”
(“Cycling doesn’t bring fatigue. It brings the energy of a man freed from prison.”)

The One Dream

One day, he wants to save enough money to buy a better cycle — maybe even a geared one.

But when asked what he would choose between a motorcycle and a bicycle, he doesn’t even blink:

“Motorcycle e petrol proyojon. Cycle e sudhu ichchha shokti.”
(“A motorcycle needs fuel. A bicycle needs only willpower.”)

He may not write poems.

But his every ride is one.

Not with words.

But with speed, sweat, and defiance.

The Factory Rider – Cycling Not for Passion, but Survival

Some people start cycling to get fit.
Some, to beat traffic.
But Mr. Rahman, age 45, started cycling because he had no other choice.

The Day Petrol Betrayed Him

For 15 years, Mr. Rahman rode a worn-out Chinese motorcycle to his supervisor job at a garment factory in Gazipur. It rattled like an empty tin can, leaked oil like a crying buffalo — but it worked.

Until the day petrol price reached high.

That day, his wallet didn’t bend — it broke.

He stood at the pump, calculating the month’s cost in silence.

The pump boy stared.

Finally, Mr. Rahman muttered,

“Ei petrol amar bacchar dudh er taka khay felbe.”
(“This petrol will drink my child’s milk.”)

He turned around.

He never filled petrol again.

Enter: The Forgotten Bicycle

At the back of his house, under a pile of rusted metal, lay an old Phoenix bicycle — his father’s.

He dragged it out. Washed it with Dettol water like it was diseased. Tightened nuts, oiled chains with leftover cooking oil. No helmet. No gloves. No lycra. Just lungi, sandals, and sheer determination.

His wife watched nervously.

“Eirokom bhabe cholte parba?” (“Can you even ride like this?”)

He smiled slowly, like an old soldier remembering war.

“Ami cycle chalaite janber age thekei pari. Cycle amar astro.”
(“I could ride a bicycle before I could ride any machine. It is not transport. It is my weapon.”)

The First Ride – Pride Meets Pain

His commute: 11 kilometers of trucks, factory buses, potholes, and dust storms.

Within 10 minutes, he was sweating like monsoon rain, panting like a steam engine.

His thighs burned. His lungs begged. His sandals slipped on the pedals.

He almost gave up.

But then a fellow cyclist — a young factory worker carrying a backpack twice his size — passed him casually and said:

“Bhai, lungi e baje lagleo, jor dia pedal den!”
(“Brother, even if the lungi flaps, keep pushing!”)

They both laughed.

And just like that — shame turned into solidarity.

New Routine, New Identity

Weeks passed. His body adapted like an old machine rebuilt.

• His belly shrank.

• His sleep improved.

• His mind grew sharper.

At the factory gate, co-workers teased,

“Rahman bhai, cycle e ashi apni akhon healthy lagchen!”
(“Rahman bhai, ever since you started cycling, you look younger!”)

He pretended not to care.

But at night, brushing his teeth, he’d look at the mirror and whisper,

“Amar boyosh komse naki?”
(“Have I actually aged backwards?”)

The Day His Son Noticed

One evening, his 8-year-old son ran to him shouting,

“Abba! Amio cycle chalano sikhte chai!”
(“Dad! I want to learn cycling too!”)

Mr. Rahman froze.

Not because of the request.

But because he realized:

This wasn’t just about saving petrol money anymore.
This was about rewriting dignity — one pedal at a time.

Mr. Rahman doesn’t ride fast like Sohel.
He doesn’t ride rebelliously like Farhana.

He rides steady. Silent. Relentless.

Like a man who knows:

“Some days, bicycles are not exercise.
They are resistance.”

Pedalling Against Traffic, Tradition, and Every Staring Eye

If cycling in Dhaka is an act of bravery, then cycling as a Bangladeshi woman is an act of rebellion.

And Sadia, 22, never planned to be a rebel — but the road made her one.

The Day She Snapped

She used to take a rideshare service from Dhanmondi to her university in Mohammadpur — twelve minutes without traffic, forty-five minutes minimum with traffic.

But that wasn’t even the main problem.

The real problem was the stares.

Through the rear-view mirror. Through side glances. Through uncomfortable silences.

One morning, stuck behind a garbage truck, inhaling fumes that tasted like chemical curry, the rideshare driver casually asked:

“Apa, boyfriend ache naki?”
(“Sister, do you have a boyfriend?”)

She stared straight ahead.

Didn’t respond.

He pushed again.

“Kotha bollei to kisu hoyna.”
(“Just talking won’t hurt.”)

That was the moment she broke.

That same evening, she went to her younger brother’s bicycle, dusted it off, adjusted the seat — and rode around the alley like a woman possessed.

Her mother yelled from the window:

“Meye manush hoye rastay cycle chalash ken? Lokjon ki bolbe?”
(“How can a girl ride on the street? What will people say?”)

Sadia didn’t stop.

She just yelled back:

“Tara kichu bole boluk. Ami chalbo.”
(“Let them say what they want. I will ride.”)

First Day on the Main Road

The next morning, 7:30 AM, she took a deep breath — and rolled her bicycle out of the gate.

Helmet on. Backpack tight. Scarf secured.

She turned onto Dhanmondi Road 27.

Instant silence.

Not on the road — the road was chaos as usual — but in the minds of everyone who saw her.

A woman. Alone. On a bicycle. In traffic.

• One rickshaw puller smiled proudly.

• One biker slowed down to stare — she glared back until he sped away.

• A tea stall guy muttered, “Respect.”

But there were also whispers.

• “Dekho dekho, meye cycle chalaitese!”
  (“Look, look, a girl is cycling!”)

• “Ato independent hoye gelo eto tara tari!”
  (“These girls are becoming too independent!”)

She heard it all.

She felt it all.

And she pedaled harder.

Traffic Test of Fire

At Jhigatola turn, a bus nearly clipped her while trying to overtake recklessly.

She slammed the brakes. The driver leaned out of the window and yelled:

“Erokom speed e ashle lagbei to!”
(“If you ride like that, of course you’ll get hit!”)

Her blood boiled.

She yelled back without hesitation:

“Ami thik speed e ashi. Tumi thik kori chalo!”
(“I’m riding at the right speed. You drive properly!”)

The passengers inside cheered.
The bus driver fell silent and drove away.

The Unexpected Sisterhood

At a traffic light, another cycle rolled up beside her.

A girl. Around the same age. Dressed casually. Earphones in. Confident smile.

She nodded at Sadia.

“Prothom bar?” (“First time?”)

Sadia exhaled in relief.

“Haan. Jor kore choltese.” (“Yes. Going with force.”)

The girl grinned.

“Tension nai. Dhaka e amra kom, but ekjon onnor jonno onek.”
(“Don’t worry. We women cyclists are few here — but each one gives courage to many others.”)

The light turned green.

They rode together.

No words.

Just unity in motion.

Sadia didn’t become a cyclist to make a statement.

But every pedal she takes is one.

Not against cars.

Not even against traffic.

But against the idea that freedom has a gender.

The Man Who Watched Cycling Die — and Now Fights to Resurrect It

If Dhaka’s cycling scene were a film, Iqbal would be the grizzled veteran — the one who’s seen the glory days and the downfall, standing quietly in the corner until the young heroes stumble across him.

He’s 52 years old, former post office courier from Old Dhaka, now running a tiny cycle repair shop near Azimpur graveyard.

His shop is barely more than a tin shed, with chains hanging like necklaces and wheels leaning like tired soldiers. The air smells of old grease, cheap cigarettes, and nostalgia.

Once, The Streets Belonged to Him

He wasn’t always an old mechanic tucked behind broken rims.

Once, he was the king of speed.

“Amader shomoy Dhaka te gari kom chhilo. Cycle chhara kichu chhilo na.”
(“In our time, there weren’t many cars in Dhaka. There was nothing but bicycles.”)

He used to deliver letters across Dhaka — from Postogola to Farmgate, from Lalbagh to Tejgaon — all by pedal.

No GPS. No lanes. No Lycra.
Just raw intuition, lung power, and legs carved by necessity.

“Ami din e 40 kilometer chalaitam. Tokhon keu bole nai je cycling fitness er jonno bhalo. Oita chhilo jeeboner jonno bhalo.”
(“I used to ride 40 km a day. Back then no one said cycling was good for fitness — it was good for survival.”)

And Then, the Machines Came

He watched as cars multiplied like parasites.

Then came motorbikes — buzzing like mosquitoes, arrogant like kings.

Rickshaws were tolerated.

Bicycles?

Vanished.

People started laughing at couriers.

At cycle riders.

At him.

“Takhon cycle chalaile lokjon bolto — ‘beshi gorib naki vai?’”
(“When I cycled, people would say — ‘Brother, are you that poor?’”)

The comments stung more than rusted chains.

But Then One Day…

While adjusting a loose crank, he saw three teenagers with helmets and GoPros roll up to his shop.

They were fixie riders — sharp frames, bold colours, talking about cadence and aerodynamics like they were NASA engineers.

“Bhai, single speed aro kom maintenance. Derailleur lagbe na.”
(“Brother, single-speed needs less maintenance. No derailleur.”)

Iqbal stared at them.

He didn’t understand the English words — fixie, cadence, gear ratio — but he understood something sacred:

They were reviving his world.

The Mentor Was Born

Now, every evening, young riders gather at his shop.

They come with rusted frames scavenged from fb market groups, asking:

“Chacha, eta theke ki cycle banano jabe?”
(“Uncle, can this become a bike?”)

And Iqbal, eyes twinkling like a proud grandfather, replies:

“Everything can become a bike — if you really want it to.”

He teaches them not only how to fix cycles — but how to respect them.

• How to listen to a bearing the way a doctor hears a heartbeat.

• How to align brakes with patience instead of anger.

• How to tighten a chain not too hard, not too soft — like tuning a sitar string.

And when new riders doubt themselves, he gives them the same line every time:

“Shorir thakle gari lage na. Mon thakle rastar o dorkar nai.”
(“If your body is strong, you don’t need a car. If your spirit is strong, even roads don’t matter.”)

Iqbal doesn’t ride much anymore.

His knees creak when he pedals.

But when he sees someone fly past his shop, wind in hair, chain rattling in rhythm—

He whispers under his breath:

“Ja. Tui amader shobar jonno pedal kortesis.”
(“Go. You’re pedalling for all of us.”)

Different Roads. One Destination.

They don’t know each other.

They’ve never shared a cup of tea.

They don’t ride the same roads.

Yet every morning at 8 AM, Rahim in Dhaka, Sohel in Chattogram, Mr. Rahman in Gazipur, Sadia in Dhanmondi, and Iqbal in Old Dhaka are linked—not by proximity, but by rhythm.

The rhythm of pedals turning in defiance.

Same Country. Same Struggle. One Unspoken Brotherhood.

• Rahim wipes the sweat off his forehead as a bus honks behind him—he doesn’t move.

• Sohel climbs a Chattogram overpass, steam rising off his neck, but he grins as he overtakes a CNG.

• Mr. Rahman in Gazipur whispers “Bismillah” before merging into highway chaos.

• Sadia breathes deeply near Dhanmondi Lake, resetting her mind before office.

• Iqbal stands outside his shop, sipping tea, watching the sunrise reflect off a passing bike.

None of them know that in that moment, somewhere else in Bangladesh, another rider is fighting the same battle.

They are not alone.

A Silent Revolution Begins — Not with Slogans, But with Spins

There’s no political banner.

No NGO campaign.

No leader.

Just two wheels, a will, and a country that forgot how powerful bicycles once were.

But something is shifting.

• When Rahim reaches office earlier than his co-workers stuck in traffic — someone notices.

• When Sadia posts her cycling commute on Instagram, three other girls DM her asking, “Is it safe?”

• When a teacher sees Sohel with his helmet, he asks if he can borrow the cycle for a day.

• When Mr. Rahman fixes his tie after a 12km ride, a colleague jokes — “Ami o chesta korbo ektu.”

• When Iqbal builds another bike from scrap, a kid from the neighbourhood stays to watch.

And slowly…

• One becomes two.

• Two becomes five.

• Five becomes a community.

They Will Meet — One Day

They don’t know it yet, but fate is aligning their spokes.

Soon…

• A group ride will be organized on Facebook.

• A journalist will publish a story titled “Bangladesh on Pedals.”

• A corporate office in Gulshan will install its first bike rack.

• A girl in Sylhet will start cycling to college after seeing Sadia online.

• A courier company will hire cycle riders again—just like the old days.

One day, maybe all five will be in the same rally.
Standing side by side, unaware they’ve been riding toward each other all along.

Their names may never be spoken in the same sentence…

But history will remember them as The First Wave.

The Day the Nation Noticed — But for the Wrong Reason

For months, the movement had been silent.

No banners.

No speeches.

No official recognition.

Just quiet defiance, one pedal stroke at a time.

But every revolution eventually collides with reality.

And in Bangladesh, reality accelerates at 90 km/h with a cracked windshield and no side mirror.

The Incident

One Thursday morning, Rahim — the same man who conquered traffic with calm — was cycling past Banani flyover, keeping to the side as always. He heard the honk.

He shifted slightly.

The bus driver didn’t.

The mirror clipped his handlebar.

Gravity claimed him.

He slid across hot asphalt.

No dramatic slow-motion — just a blunt thud and a blurry sky.

Drivers stared.

Some muttered, “He shouldn’t have been on the road.”

Nobody stopped.

Except one motorbike rider who pulled over — not to help, but to record a video.

Minutes later, that video hit Facebook.

Caption:

“Why cyclists shouldn’t be allowed on main roads.”

Hundreds of comments followed.

• “He deserved it.”

• “Cycling is for parks, not highways.”

• “Attention seekers on two wheels.”

Rahim recovered with minor injuries.

But something else broke that day — trust.

Across the Country, Others Were Hit Too — Not Just Physically

Sohel in Chattogram had his cycle stolen — right outside a tea stall.
Mr. Rahman in Gazipur was refused entry into his own office because “cycling is not professional.”
Sadia was followed by two bikers for over 10 minutes — laughing, circling her like prey.
Iqbal’s shop was fined for “blocking the sidewalk with broken frames.”

Different cities.
Different incidents.
Same message:

“You don’t belong here.”

It Wasn’t Just Danger. It Was Dismissal.

Cyclists didn’t fear pain.

They feared being treated as a joke.

In Bangladesh, a car is seen as success. A bike is seen as failure.

And yet… they kept riding.

Because walking away wasn’t an option anymore.

Something Changed That Week

The video of Rahim didn’t just spark mockery — it sparked anger.

Not loud anger.
Not protest anger.

A quieter kind — the kind that simmers, unspoken, on group chats and message threads.

Cyclists across Dhaka, Chattogram, Gazipur, Sylhet, Rajshahi…

…found each other in the comments.

Someone wrote:

“If we don’t speak up, they’ll erase us from the roads.”

Someone else replied:

“Then let’s be impossible to ignore.”

And so, without realizing it — the first real wave of unity began.

They Did Not Plan to Meet — But They Met Anyway

No one sent invitations.

No megaphones. No sponsors. No government permission.

Just a Facebook event post titled:

“Ride for Respect — Saturday Morning. Hatirjheel. 7:00 AM. No speeches. Just wheels.”

Nobody knew who started it.

Some thought it was a cycling club.

Some thought it was an NGO.

Some thought it was a prank.

But that Saturday morning, something extraordinary happened.

The Gathering

At first, only five riders.

Then fifteen.

Then fifty.

Within an hour, more than two hundred bicycles lined up along the waterside of Hatirjheel — everything from rusty postal bikes to neon fixies, from schoolgirl cycles with baskets to delivery men’s steel frames weighted with cargo straps.

They didn’t match.

They didn’t know each other.

But they nodded like soldiers who shared a silent code.

Not friends. Not activists.

Something deeper.

And Then — The Familiar Faces Among Strangers

• Rahim, still bandaged, stood silently beside his blue single-speed.

• Sadia, in her bright windbreaker, wiped dust from her mirror.

• Mr. Rahman, in formal shoes, loosened his tie.

• Sohel, fresh off a train from Chattogram, rolled in late but with a grin.

• Iqbal — not riding, but standing with a small toolbox, “just in case someone needs tuning.”

They didn’t introduce themselves.

They didn’t exchange names.

They didn’t need to.

The Moment Before the Ride

The sun was rising.

The city was still groggy.

And then — without a whistle, without a leader —

They Pedaled.

A wave of spinning spokes moved through the empty road — not as competitors, but as one living organism.

Rickshaw pullers stared.

Car drivers honked — not in anger, but in confusion.

Passer-by’s stopped mid-stride with phones up.

Something was happening.

A hundred bicycles gliding like a moving prayer.

No Chants. No Banners. Just Presence.

This was not a protest.

It was proof.

Proof that cyclists exist.

Proof that the roads are not owned by engines alone.

Proof that Bangladesh had not forgotten how to move with dignity.

And for the first time ever—

Drivers slowed down.

Not out of fear of law.

But out of respect.

When the ride ended, no one gave a speech.

A few clapped softly.

Most just smiled — awkwardly, proudly.

Some exchanged numbers.

Some didn’t.

And then — just like that — they dispersed.

Back into buses of chaos.

Back into the alleys.

Back into solitude.

But something had been established:

They were no longer individuals.
They were a movement.

A Letter From the Saddle

This is not a speech.

This is not a demand.

This is a reminder.

Dear Bangladesh,

We are not here to block your roads.

We are not here to slow your progress.

We are progress.

We are not rebels.
We are not troublemakers.
We are not foolish daredevils risking our lives for thrill.

We are your workers, your students, your teachers, your mothers, your fathers, your dreamers, your survivors.

We are the ones who wake up before dawn
And reach before the traffic wakes up.

We are the ones who burn calories instead of fuel,
Who take pressure off your buses,
Who leave a smaller footprint on your already exhausted earth.

We are not asking for special treatment.

We are asking for basic recognition.

Give us one lane.
We will share it with pedestrians.
We will share it with rickshaws.
We will share it with anyone who moves with honesty.

Give us one rack to lock our bicycles.
We will bring ten more riders tomorrow.
We will reduce ten cars from your jammed highways.

Teach your children that cycling is not a sign of poverty.
Teach them that it is a sign of strength.
Teach them that legs are as powerful as engines — when used with purpose.

We are not trying to replace your cars.

We are trying to remind you that freedom does not always come with a key — sometimes it comes with a chain and two pedals.

Bangladesh, don’t wait for Europe to tell you that cycling is modern.

You invented resilience.

You invented efficiency.

You invented moving forward — even when the world said it was impossible.

Let us move forward again. Together.

Not by horsepower.

By human power.

—

Sincerely,
The Cyclists You’ve Seen but Never Noticed.
We’re not asking for permission anymore.
We’re already on the road.

IF THE BICYCLE COULD SPEAK

The Untold Voice of Two Wheels

If a bicycle could speak,
It would not shout.
It would not argue.
It would simply whisper:

“I was here before your cars.
I will remain long after your cars are gone.”

The Whisper of Simplicity

“I am not made of status.
I am made of steel, chain, and patience.

I do not demand petrol from your earth.
I only ask for bread from your rider.

I do not cough smoke into your children’s lungs.
I only teach them balance.”

The Whisper of Memory

“Your fathers once rode me to school.
Your mothers once carried water with me.
Your freedom fighters once pedaled me through villages,
Carrying messages when radios were silent.

And yet — somewhere along the way —
You began to believe I was shameful.
That only the poor should ride me.
That I belonged in alleys, not highways.”

The Whisper of Pain

“I have seen my riders fall —
Pushed aside by buses,
Mocked by strangers,
Forgotten by policy.

And yet — every morning —
I am still there,
Waiting by the gate,
Asking nothing but a push of a foot
And a little courage.”

The Whisper of Promise

“If you choose me,
I will carry you farther than you think.

I will give you time —
Not in speed, but in freedom.

I will give you health —
Not in medicine, but in motion.

I will give you dignity —
Not in wealth, but in balance.”

The Final Whisper

“I am not just transport.
I am resistance.
I am renewal.
I am revolution — disguised in simplicity.

If you listen closely,
You’ll hear me in every spinning spoke:

Bangladesh, your future does not run on engines.
It rides on pedals.”