28th September. 3:30 PM. Hamzarbagh.
The sky was dressed in a soft grey shawl — not threatening to rain, but heavy enough to remind me that sunlight wasn’t fully in charge today. A gentle wind moved through the streets like a silent advisor, warning me that the ride ahead would not be entirely effortless.
I stood beside my machine — my single-speed warrior, geared at 48×18, stripped of all luxuries, obedient only to the strength in my legs. No gears to shift blame onto. No suspension to soften life. Just a riser handlebar, a stem bag carrying my phone and pocket money, and the most valuable component in cycling — a determined rider.
I pulled down the zipper of my FnF Riders jersey — the one that proudly declared “Pedal Power” across my chest. Beneath it, small letters whispered “Keep Pedalling, Stay Healthy.” I smiled at those words — they didn’t know how seriously I took them.
I clicked my helmet, took a deep breath, and kicked off.
Leaving Familiar Streets Behind
Hamzarbagh faded behind me as I rolled forward. The traffic was moderate, but unusually calm — as if the city respected my mission today. Trucks groaned lazily, CNGs hummed past, and the occasional bus sighed like an old man too tired to argue.
The wind pushed, but didn’t fight. It wasn’t a headwind battle — more like a quiet resistance, a reminder that every journey worth remembering needs a little friction.
My cadence stayed smooth. My legs found rhythm. My mind emptied.
I wasn’t riding to KEPZ.
I was riding into stillness.
After the Toll Plaza — An Unexpected Pit Stop
As I passed the Toll Plaza, a group of police officers signalled me to slow down. My first thought — “What did I do?” But before I could even unclip my foot, one of them grinned and said:
“Bhai, just one round on your cycle — can we try?”
I laughed. How could I say no?
One after another, they rode my bike, each returning with the same expression — pure surprise.
“Bhai, this has no gear?”
“How is it so smooth?”
“Single speed?! Feels like flying!”
I stood back, arms folded, watching my bike bring joy to strangers. That’s the magic of cycling — it turns grown men into children again.
Then came the real treat.
“Come, tea kheye jaan. Baba Lungi’r Buffalo Chaa.”
Ahh. The legendary one. Not just tea — an experience. Thick, frothy, sweet, powerful — like drinking motivation.
I stood there beside policemen, sipping Buffalo Tea, my cycle resting proudly like a well-earned trophy. We talked about my rides, their duty shifts, and the madness of traffic. For a moment, rank didn’t matter — badges and bicycles, both symbols of duty.
Towards KEPZ — Where the Road Becomes a Teacher
With warmth in my throat and new energy in my legs, I rolled forward.
The road widened. The noise thinned. The sky breathed deeper.
By now, fatigue had started whispering at my calves, but I answered back with steady cadence. No rush. No show-off. Just flow.
And then — KEPZ appeared.
The entrance stood like a guarded gateway to another life. I slowed down, hoping I could sneak in… but of course, security protocols don’t care about cyclists’ dreams.
“Entry restricted, bhai.”
No frustration. No disappointment.
I simply pulled over, parked beside the gate, and took a few photos. Proof not of arrival — but of attempt.
Because sometimes in life, you don’t need to reach inside to say — I was here.
The Return — Where Reflection Begins
I turned back.
The clouds had shifted. The wind had softened. The world felt… quieter.
Halfway through the return journey, I approached Shah Amanat Bridge.
Something in me whispered — Stop.
So I did.
Right in the middle of the bridge, I planted my foot down, leaned against the railing, and let the Karnaphuli breeze wrap around me.
The river beneath — still and timeless.
The sky above — quiet and questioning.
The bike beside me — waiting like a loyal friend.
In that moment, I wasn’t a delivery rider. I wasn’t a cyclist on a casual evening ride. I was just a human being pausing between past and future.
Arrival — But Not the End
By the time I reached Hamzarbagh, evening had settled in.
I parked my cycle, removed my gloves, and walked toward the mosque.
Inside, I stood in prayer — not asking for anything. Just thankful.
Thankful for legs that move.
Thankful for lungs that burn but recover.
Thankful for machines without engines that still outrun sadness.
And Then — The Dream Sparked.
Sitting outside afterward, I looked at my single-speed bike — paint slightly dusty, chain slightly stretched, bar tape slightly worn — and I whispered to it like a rider whispers to a horse:
“What if I turn you into something more?”
What if I swap the riser bar for drop bars?
What if I mount aero bars in the centre — turn you into a time trial missile?
What if one day…
…we ride across the country together?
Not just Hamzarbagh to KEPZ.
No.
Tetulia to Teknaf.
East to West. North to South.
Not for race.
Not for fame.
But to prove that one gear — and one heart — is enough.
I don’t know when that day will come.
But until then…
I will keep pedalling.
I will stay healthy.
I will stay ready.
Because Pedal Power… is not just printed on my jersey.
It’s printed in my soul.
ENG
