THE SPARK IN DHAKA
Dhaka was not designed for mortals.
It is a living, breathing beast — a fire-breathing rickshaw-dragon whose lungs wheeze with diesel, whose veins pulse with traffic jams, and whose heartbeat syncs perfectly with the monotonous “peep-peep-honk” of ancient microbuses held together with prayer and duct tape.
On an average weekday morning, Dhaka commuters undergo three emotional phases:
- Phase One — Hope.
“Today I will leave early. Today traffic will be light.”
- Phase Two — Denial.
“It’s just a small jam. It’ll clear up soon.”
- Phase Three — Existential Surrender.
“Life is meaningless. Perhaps I shall live forever near this signal.”
It was on such a morning that Tanim, a 28-year-old Gulshan corporate zombie (job title: Assistant Territory Strategic Synergy Coordinator Level 2), sat trapped inside his Uber, moving at the speed of dried glue.
He glanced out the window.
And there he went.
A cyclist.
Threading through traffic like a knife through hot jilapi.
No gears. No Lycra. No mercy.
His bicycle: Single Speed. Matte black. Minimalist. A silent assassin.
He passed 47 cars in 11 seconds, maybe 12.
Tanim blinked.
What sorcery is this?
Somewhere inside him, a switch flipped.
Something ancient. Something primal.
The rage of a man tired of clutch-pumping.
He muttered aloud, shocking both driver and self:
“Bhai… amio bicycle chalabo.”
(Brother… I too shall ride.)
He exited the Uber right there, in the middle of Pragati Sarani, dodged two CNGs and a rogue fruit cart, and walked the rest of the way to work — not because it was practical… but because legends must start somewhere.
Meanwhile, Across the City…
There were others.
- Nusaiba, a Mirpur architecture student, riding a bright pink fixed gear with gold chainring and zero brakes (“If I die, I die with dignity”).
- Babul, a delivery man from Jatrabari, rolling on a rusted single-speed Atlas older than the Shahbag fountain itself (“This bike is heirloom. I will pass it to my grandson. Or die on it.”).
- Farhaan, a Banani rich kid with carbon wheels worth more than a small apartment in Savar, riding fixed gear because suffering is a luxury.
- Masud, the rickshaw puller who secretly rides faster than all of them when he borrows his cousin’s broken BMX at night.
They did not know each other.
They did not need to.
But fate — and Facebook — was about to change everything.
THE CREED OF THE FIXIE CLAN
While most Dhaka residents debated fuel prices and bus strikes, a secret war brewed beneath the chaos — not of swords or guns, but of hubs.
Specifically: Fixed Gear vs Single Speed.
Deep in the Alleyways of Mohammadpur…
A group assembled at 11:47 PM near a shuttered tea stall. No banner. No announcement. Just a silent code: one red taillight pointed upward — the signal of The Clan.
They called themselves:
“The Unfreewheelers.”
(If the wheel spins, so must the legs.)
They were Dhaka’s Fixed Gear cult. Riders who believed that coasting was cowardice and that braking was for weaklings and accountants.
Their leader?
Nusaiba Haque, “No-Brakes”.
Age 21.
Pink fixie. Golden chain. Track straps so tight you either ride or die.
She stood upon a discarded City Bank ATM receipt pile like a war general and addressed her followers:
“Brothers. Sisters. Those who identify as cranksets… Hear me.
We are one with rhythm. Our legs are the law.
Freewheelers mock us. They coast downhill like fallen angels of laziness.
They believe momentum is a gift.
WE EARN IT.”
Dozens of fixie riders nodded intensely, some too vigorously, accidentally rolling backward into rickshaws.
She raised her hand.
“Tomorrow, at dawn — Hatirjheel Bridge — we prove that Fixed is Fate.”
Cheers erupted. A man fainted from leg cramps.
THE SINGLE SPEED REBELLION
Meanwhile… in Shyamoli, at a quiet cha-er dokan (tea stall) behind a laundry store…
Another gathering was underway.
These were the Freewheelers, also known as:
“The Coasting Collective.”
(Why pedal when gravity loves you?)
Led by Babul Mia, “Atlas Warrior”, possessor of a bicycle so heavy it was rumored to be forged from leftover Padma Bridge steel.
He cleared his throat.
“Friends. Brothers. Occasional uncles.
These Fixie bois think constant pedaling makes them superior.
They boast of ‘connection to the drivetrain’.
But let me ask —connection to what?
Arthritis? Knee surgery?”
Wild applause. Someone shouted, “Freewheel and chill!”
Babul slammed his paan on the table.
“If Fate forced man to pedal forever, He would not have invented coasting.”
A single-speed rider wept quietly into his milk tea.
“Tomorrow — Hatirjheel Bridge.
We ride.
And we coast… with PRIDE.”**
THE WARPATH TO HATIRJHEEL
Dawn.
Mist rising from the lake.
Fishermen confused.
Joggers terrified.
And from two opposite sides of the bridge…
- On one end — whirring like bees on methamphetamine — The Fixies.
- On the other — creaking like ancient ships — The Single Speeds.
Pedals tensed. Eyes locked.
And then—
A rickshaw puller rang his bell. Once.
DDRRRINNNNGGG.
THE WAR BEGAN.
HUBS CLASH, CHAOS UNLEASHED
The rickshaw bell echoed like a divine gong of war.
BANG! Like arrows loosed from ancient bows, both legions launched forward. Hatirjheel’s calm morning was shattered by the clash of ideals, pedals, and excessive ego.
The Fixed Gear Charge
Nusaiba Haque, “No-Brakes” led from the front, thighs moving like hydraulic pistons, her pink fixie slicing through morning fog like a neon scythe.
“CONSTANT CADENCE!” she roared.
“IF YOU EVER STOP PEDALING — STOP LIVING!”
Her squad obeyed with terrifying devotion. Their legs were not limbs anymore — they were rotating prophecies.
A bus driver witnessing the stampede muttered, “Ei gula ki Tour de France naki Tour de Dhaka?”
The Single Speed Counterstrike
From the opposite end, Babul “Atlas Warrior” Mia stood on his pedals, gliding with the elegance of a man who refuses unnecessary exertion.
“COAST WITH DIGNITY!” he bellowed.
“LET THEM SWEAT! WE SHALL ROLL TO VICTORY!”
His army of gleaming freewheels responded in kind — silently descending into battle like proud refrigerators on wheels.
When Pedals Collide
At the bridge’s midpoint, chaos unfolded.
- A fixie rider attempted a standing skid-stop to intimidate — only to spin into the lake like a Beyblade.
- A single-speed uncle freewheeled past him, shouting, “COAST, BABY!”
- Someone tried to pedal backwards in confusion and moonwalked into a CNG.
A confused dog joined the battle without picking a side. It bit only those who wore reflective vests.
Diplomatic Bicycle Intervention
Just as things were spiraling into pure insanity…
A third sound rumbled in the distance.
Not the high-pitched whir of fixies.
Not the gentle click of freewheels.
But the deep, thundering CHONK of knobby tires.
All turned to see…
Enters The Mountain Bikers of Mirpur
Like war elephants descending from the hills, they rolled in — full suspension, dual disc brakes, hydration packs filled with Pocari Sweat.
Their leader, clad in GoPro and righteousness, growled:
“ENOUGH.
While you argue about hubs…
We climb stairs.”
Silence.
Even Nusaiba stopped pedaling for one second (and instantly regretted it).
The Great Bicycle Peace Accord (Signed on a Tea Stall Table)
There, on the sacred concrete of Hatirjheel Bridge — amid shattered ego, loose spokes, and misplaced water bottles — the warring factions stood, panting and humbled.
- The Fixies, legs still twitching involuntarily.
- The Single Speeders, calmly sipping 7-Taka mineral water like they always expected diplomacy.
- The Mountain Bike Clan, leaning sleepily on their shock absorbers like retired mercenaries.
A silent agreement passed between them: No one was winning.
And worse — the real enemy wasn’t across the bridge.
It was around them.
- The bus drivers who refused to slow down.
- The rickshaws that cut in from nowhere.
- The drainage covers that devoured front wheels like hungry crocodiles.
- The politicians who promised cycle lanes but built footbridges sponsored by biscuit companies.
The Fixie leader, Nusaiba “No-Brakes,” finally unclipped her straps, kneeling dramatically on the asphalt.
“I… cannot skid-stop my way into justice alone.”
Babul Mia “Atlas Warrior” placed a gentle hand on her shoulder — mostly because he was too tired to bend properly.
“And I cannot coast my way to freedom without allies.”
The Mountain Bike General, solemn as a Dhaka Metro librarian, extended his gloved hand.
**“Brothers. Sisters. Gearless and geared.
Let us unite.
Not as Fixie.
Not as Freewheel.
Not as Full Suspension.
But as one unstoppable force…
The People’s Pedal Army.”**
The Treaty of Tong Stand
They marched — not to a conference hall, but to the nearest tea stall, because all diplomacy in Bangladesh must be negotiated over:
- Cha (strong).
- Biscuit (slightly stale).
- One mysterious boiled egg no one ordered.
The tea-stall owner, confused but fascinated, wiped a ketchup smudge off a discarded plastic table and declared:
“This is now your negotiating platform.
But if you break it, you buy it.”
Using a soggy tissue paper and a borrowed pen, they drafted the first-ever cycling alliance charter:
The Great Bicycle Peace Accord
- No rider shall mock another’s drivetrain.
- All bicycles — geared or gearless — are valid, as long as they carry their rider forward.
- We will no longer war over hubs — instead, we will war against potholes.
- Every Friday, we meet for group rides — speed negotiable.
- If a cyclist falls, regardless of tribe, we lift them and their cycle together.
- Cha is mandatory. Helmet optional (but recommended).
Everyone nodded in solemn approval.
The tea-stall owner stamped it with oily shingara grease, thus making it official.
The Rise of the People’s Pedal Army
With the Accord signed and sealed in glorious shingara grease, the newly united People’s Pedal Army needed one final weapon.
Not steel. Not speed. Branding.
The Propaganda Division Assembles
A whiteboard (stolen from a coaching center) was dragged to the tea stall. A marker (borrowed from a traffic police officer who didn’t notice) was uncapped with reverence.
The army sat in council:
- Nusaiba “No-Brakes” handled Aggressive Slogans.
- Babul “Atlas Warrior” managed Motivational Uncle Punchlines.
- The Mountain Bike General took charge of Graphic Design, because he “once downloaded Canva.”
Together, they brainstormed like their chains depended on it.
The Viral Wave Begins
Within hours, posters began appearing across the city:
- Glued to electric poles in Farmgate.
- Taped over political banners in Mirpur.
- Spray-painted onto a flyover pillar in Chattogram, replacing a fading “B+ Loves R.”
A Facebook page emerged: “People’s Pedal Army – Bangladesh Division.”
- Profile Picture: A clenched fist gripping a handlebar.
- Cover Photo: Hatirjheel at sunrise with the caption “Revolution Will Be Chain-Driven.”
- First Post: A chaotic group selfie at the tea stall. Half the faces were blocked by helmets. It still got 7K shares in six hours.
The Comment Sections Spoke
Rafiul Islam: “I HAVE NO BIKE BUT I WILL RUN WITH YOU.”
Jhorna Akter: “Is it okay if my cycle has a basket and a bell with cartoon frog? Asking seriously.”
Mahmudul Hasan (verified doctor): “Cycling reduces cholesterol. I support this message.”
Anonymous Bus Driver: “I will honk less, maybe.”
1 angry commenter: “Eta ki India theke copy?”
The First Call to Arms
A post was scheduled.
Bold. Dramatic. Center-aligned in bright red text.
FRIDAY. DAWN. RAMNA PARK GATE.
ALL RIDERS. ANY BIKE. ANY CONDITION.
WE ROLL AS ONE.
Caption: “Bring money for food. Helmet mandatory, Gloves optional, Ego forbidden.”
The Midnight Tuning Session (Preparing for the Big Ride)
The rally was set.
Friday. Dawn. Ramna Park.
But true cyclists know — a revolution doesn’t start with speeches.
It starts with WD-40 and inappropriate zip ties.
The Sacred Workshop of Preparation
An abandoned parking lot in Kawran Bazar became the unofficial headquarters. There, under flickering streetlights and the faint aroma of biryani steam escaping from nearby restaurants, bicycles of every species gathered for midnight surgery.
- Fixies were being polished like royal swords, chains glistening in coconut oil stolen from someone’s haircare routine.
- Single Speeds got casual tuning — usually just a solid kick to the crank and a “Hmmm, now it’s fine.”
- Mountain Bikes were having their suspensions jumped on by friends yelling, “Dekho, aar norse kina!”
- One heroic Soul appeared with a rusted Chinese ladies’ cycle with a flower basket, declaring:
“Revolution does not discriminate.”
He was immediately promoted to Chief of Aesthetics.
The Rituals of Readiness
The preparation was half engineering, half circus:
- Someone inflated tires using a mosquito coil case turned pump adapter.
- A kid held up his bike asking, “Vai, chain ta jore jore noise kortese — eta ki bhalo?”
Mechanic replied, “Eta holo painkiller-er sound. Matro 1 din e maaf kore daw.”
- A fixie rider customized his bike with a sticker that said ‘মা দেখে না, পুলিশ দেখতে পাবে?’
- A single speed uncle replaced his bell with a duck that squeaks loudly when squeezed. It became the official battle horn.
The Oath of Tools
Before dispersing for the night, The People’s Pedal Army formed a circle, placing their tools in the center:
- One Allen key.
- One tire lever.
- One emergency tube.
- One bottle of Saline Water labeled “ENGINE OIL.”
They raised their right hands (and one person raised a spanner instead).
“Repeat after me,” said Nusaiba.
“We do not fear potholes.”
“We do not fear honking.”.
“We fear only… bicycle thieves.”
They nodded in collective trauma.
The Night Before Dawn
One by one, the riders rolled home through silent streets.
Some fast.
Some slow.
Some stopping to buy peanuts.
Dhaka slept.
But the ground trembled with anticipation.
For tomorrow…
Not just wheels.
Spirits would turn.
The First Dawn Ride (Where Legends Are Born and Chains Are Broken)
At 5:12 AM, when Dhaka usually belongs only to muezzins and street sweepers, the city witnessed something… unfamiliar.
No sirens. No honking. No brawling over CNG queues.
Instead—
The sound of pedals.
Hundreds of them.
The Gathering at Ramna Park Gate
Mist curled above the lake like nature’s own smoke machine. Birds paused mid-song to stare in disbelief.
From all directions they came:
- Fixies humming like electric bees.
- Single Speeds rattling like heroic typewriters.
- MTBs thundering like mini-earthquakes.
- A kid on a BMX with LED lights under his frame.
- One uncle on a ladies’ cycle wearing a Punjabi and crocs.
They formed lines as if pulled by magnetic destiny.
Even more unbelievable—
Nobody fought.
The Rollout
At 5:30, Chief Mediator Babul “Atlas Warrior” Mia raised his right hand (and accidentally threw his water bottle).
“PEOPLE’S PEDAL ARMY!” he thundered.
“WE RIDE!”
They pushed off as one.
Down Minto Road.
Across Shilpakala.
Past blank-faced policemen who didn’t even bother to stop them because:
“Let them go. Ei gula politics kortese na. Ei gula oxygen choriya ditese.”
Moments of Glory & Disaster
As they cut through Shahbagh and entered the wide stretch by the National Museum, heroes were forged.
Some in greatness.
Some in embarrassment.
- A fixie rider attempted a track stand at a signal — balanced for 5 seconds — and fell into a flower pot. Crowd cheered “SHAHBAGH LEGEND!”
- A freewheel uncle coasted past everyone downhill, arms wide like Titanic, shouting, “Ei hoilo gravity-er izzat!”
- A mountain biker bunny-hopped a pothole, accidentally inspiring a street dog to join the ride.
Soon they were a hundred cyclists and one confused dog.
The Turning Point — The Broken Chain
At the turn towards Dhaka University, tragedy struck.
One chain snapped.
A young rider skidded to the side, clutching his lifeless link like a fallen comrade.
He sighed, defeated.
But suddenly—
Three riders stopped beside him.
- A fixie girl offering her extra master link.
- A single-speed uncle holding out his chain tool like a sacred relic.
- A mountain biker kneeling like a field surgeon.
Together, they resurrected the chain.
The boy looked up, teary-eyed.
“Why help me? I don’t even know you.”
Babul Mia smiled.
“Because in traffic, you are alone.
But in cycling… you are never alone.”
The Ride Becomes a Movement
As the sun rose orange over Dhaka University’s gates, the People’s Pedal Army rode through like a living banner of defiance.
Students cheered.
Rickshaw pullers saluted.
One tea-seller shouted:
“Bondhura! Eid-e biryani free!”
No one believed him, but spirits soared anyway.
When the City Finally Looked Up (The Message to Bangladesh)
They rode through Dhaka like a whispered prophecy — silent yet undeniable.
A hundred cyclists gliding through morning light.
No sirens. No slogans. No megaphones.
Just presence.
And that’s what made people finally look up.
Eyes Widen. Conversations Spark. Questions Begin.
From sidewalks to balconies, from tea stalls to bus windows — people stared.
Not with annoyance.
With confusion first.
Then curiosity.
Then, slowly…
Hope.
“These aren’t VIPs.
These aren’t protesters.
These aren’t athletes.
These are… people like us.
But moving differently.”
The Real Message Was Never Spoken — It Was Shown
They didn’t block roads.
They didn’t chant slogans.
They didn’t demand change.
They became change.
Every pedal stroke whispered into the city’s ear:
“Traffic is not inevitable.”
“Pollution is not destiny.”
“You don’t need permission to move freely.”
Reactions Across the City
- A bus driver, normally allergic to patience, slowed down respectfully.
- A kid on a balcony watched, then turned inside and yelled,
“Maaaa! Amar jonno ekta cycle keno nai? Aami strugglin!”
- A garment worker, waiting for her staff bus, whispered to her friend,
“One day, we will ride too.”
The Collective Realization
For the first time in years, the city saw motion without suffering.
Speed without noise.
Movement without violence.
It was not a protest.
It was a mirror.
And Dhaka — for a moment — saw what it could be.
Then Came the Call
That evening, the People’s Pedal Army page posted just three words:
“WHO’S NEXT FRIDAY?”
In 12 hours — 3,000 comments.
“Sylhet branch forming.”
“Chattogram ready.”
“Rajshahi out here doing wheelies already.”
“Gazipur rolling deep.”
“Comilla says try stopping us.”
“Barishal bringing boats too because why not.”
Final Line
They didn’t solve traffic that day.
They didn’t change law that day.
They didn’t build cycle lanes that day.
But they did something far greater.
They cracked the city’s belief that it must suffer to move.
The Hub Within (Where the True Revolution Lives)
Long after the dawn ride ended, long after the last chai cup clinked at the tea stall headquarters, long after the posters faded from street poles and the Facebook notifications slowed to a trickle…
Something remained.
Not in the streets.
Not on the bicycles.
But in the riders.
The Moment It Truly Changed
Change does not always roar.
Sometimes… it rolls softly.
In the quiet of a late afternoon traffic jam, a bus passenger looked out her window — saw a lone cyclist slip between cars with the grace of certainty — and thought:
“Maybe… I could do that.”
In Gazipur, a garment worker saved for three months and finally bought a secondhand Chinese bicycle with faded stickers and wobbly pedals — and smiled like owning a spaceship.
In Rajshahi, a student chose to ride instead of rickshaw — not because he had to, but because he wanted to feel free.
In Chattogram, a fisherman strapped nets to his cycle and rode to the docks — faster, lighter, prouder.
In Dhaka, an office worker arrived early — sweat on his forehead, joy in his lungs — and his coworkers asked:
“Traffic nai?”
He grinned.
“I don’t believe in traffic anymore.”
The Real Revolution Was Never About Wheels
It was never about fixed gear vs single speed.
It was never about hub ratios, tire widths, or how many times you skid-stopped in front of confused policemen.
It wasn’t even about saving the Earth or solving traffic.
It was about remembering something we forgot.
That movement is a right.
That freedom is not bought with horsepower — it is earned with heart power.
That you don’t need permission to live lightly, joyfully, defiantly.
The Hub Within
Every bicycle has a hub.
It spins endlessly — not because it is pushed…
…but because it believes in rotation.
That is what this movement truly gave Bangladesh.
Not cycle lanes.
Not viral fame.
Not even unity.
It gave us a hub inside our chest — a spinning core of agency that says:
“I am not stuck.
I can move.
I deserve to move.
And I will move.”
And so, whether on a 50,000 taka imported fixie…
Or a 3,000 taka scrap-yard miracle…
Or even just in the mind…
The People’s Pedal Army lives on.
Not just on roads.
But in every heartbeat that refuses to rust.
ENG
