The Weight That Got Lighter | Passion Projects | Education | 57914

A Story About Small Rides, Heavy Minds, and Quiet Victories

It doesn’t begin with Lycra.
It doesn’t begin with carbon wheels, Strava uploads, or an Instagram-ready sunrise photo.

It begins in a small corner of your room.

Where your shoes lie untouched.
Where your bike leans against the wall — not as a trusty companion, but as a silent question.

Will today be the day?

Most days, that question goes unanswered.

Because it’s not fatigue that stops you.

It’s hesitation.

It’s the thought that you’re not “fit enough,” “fast enough,” or “serious enough” to call yourself a cyclist. It’s the quiet shame of knowing your body jiggles when you pedal. It’s the fear of passing someone and hearing them think, What is that person doing here?

But one day — for a reason you can’t explain — you put on your shoes.

Maybe it’s guilt.
Maybe it’s hope.

Maybe it’s neither. Maybe it’s something quieter.

Not even motivation — just permission.

I don’t have to be amazing. I just have to start.

You touch the handlebars and your pulse rises like an alarm. You swing your leg over the saddle like crossing into enemy territory. Everything feels wrong — your breathing too loud, your grip too tight, your self-awareness burning like a spotlight.

You push down on the pedal.

The bike lurches forward.

The world does not cheer. There is no background music. No crowd. Just the echo of your breath and the faint rattle of your chain.

You pedal down the street.
And immediately — you want to go back.

Your knees complain. Your lungs panic. Your brain begins its cruel commentary.

You’re too heavy for this. Too slow. Look at you — you’re barely moving. Don’t embarrass yourself. Go home.

A car drives by. You flinch as if exposed.

You look at your watch.

Only 2 minutes.

God. How is it only 2 minutes?

You want to quit. You almost do.

But there is one thing — one fragile, flickering thought — that keeps you going.

What if this time… I don’t turn back?

So you don’t.

You keep pedalling. Not because it feels good — but because it feels important.

Because for the first time in a long time, you are not avoiding discomfort. You are riding through it.

The road doesn’t get easier. You don’t suddenly become fast. There is no magical transformation. Just a slow, trembling persistence.

One pedal stroke. Then another.

You reach the end of your block. A small loop. Maybe half a kilometer. Maybe less.

You stop.

You stare at your handlebars and your sweat-dripping arms and realize…

I made it. I didn’t quit.

It is not impressive. It is not record-breaking.

But it is sacred.

Because this was not a ride against distance.

It was a ride against doubt.

You don’t become a cyclist after 100 kilometers.

You become one the first time you refuse to give up.

And that loop — that tiny lap around your neighbourhood — becomes the seed of something quiet but unshakeable.

Tomorrow, you ride again.

And the next day.

Not always confidently. Not always willingly. Some days you still argue with yourself before every start. Some days you stop early. Some days you don’t even start at all.

But more often than before, you do.

And gradually, without fanfare, the roads become familiar. The breathing less violent. The mirror less cruel.

You no longer ride to punish your body.

You ride to thank it.

And every time you finish — no matter how short, slow, or sweaty — you feel something lifting.

Not from your muscles.

From your mind.

The real weight.

The one no one else could see.

Poem: The Quiet Victory