A Solo Odyssey from Muradpur to the Hills and Back
The Oath of the Morning Wind
At 7:00 AM, the sun glimmered over Muradpur, soft as a promise. The city still stretched its limbs, yawning in motor sounds and morning factory sirens. I stood beside The Flash — My Single Speed-Fixed Gear Warrior — reborn with dropbars, dropbar brake levers, a 48t crankset with 170mm cranks arms, and clip-on aero bars.
I had been tuning her for weeks, every bolt tightened with patience, every tape wrap aligned like poetry. This was not just a ride — it was a duel.
The Flash stood silent, shimmering under the rising light, her chain glinting like a drawn sword. My FnF Riders Pro Jersey hugged my chest like a battle uniform, and the padded shorts promised mercy against the road’s cruelty.
In the stem bag, my survival kit: 4 bananas, one phone mounted on top, and in the frame, a 1-liter electrolyte bottle clipped tight.
On my back, a 3-liter hydration pack — my lifeline for the hours ahead.
The plan was madness — to ride from Muradpur to Dim Pahar, descend through Thanchi and Bolipara, loop across Bandarban, trace the rivers past Padua, Godown Bridge, and Kaptai, and return through Modhunaghat Bridge, Quaish, and back to Muradpur — in one single day.
A full circle through sweat, silence, and sky.
And so, with a deep breath, I whispered to the wind —
“Let’s see if I can outpace the mountain today.”
The Flash hummed as my pedals rolled forward.
Muradpur to Patiya: The Awakening of the Ride
The first few kilometers were gentle — Muradpur’s streets were waking, rickshaws lazily crossing intersections, tea stalls puffing steam like morning trains.
The air was light, kind. My legs loosened, rhythm finding itself on the 48×18t gearing.
At Patiya, traffic thickened — trucks and buses roared past, their winds slapping my shoulders. I ducked into the aero bars, slicing the wind with a narrow posture.
The Flash responded instantly — her wheels sang. Every vibration felt like dialogue between road and rider.
Children on their way to school pointed and smiled —
“Bhaiya race kortese!”(“Brother is racing!”)
I smiled too. Maybe I was. Not against them, but against time itself.
Satkania to Lohagara: The Heat of Determination
The sun climbed. By the time I reached Satkania, my jersey was damp, the hydration tube clinging to my lips like a companion. The roadside was alive — trucks stacked with pineapples, shops selling watermelons, small mosques nestled in green.
At Lohagara, I took my first pause.
A banana in hand. Sip of electrolyte.
The Flash leaned against a fence, chain ticking softly, like a heart that refused to rest.
From here, the terrain began to change.
The flat lands tilted, the horizon rising into ridges.
And beyond them — unseen but known — Dim Pahar waited.
The duel was beginning.
Hasherdigi Bazar to Dim Pahar: The Duel Begins
By the time I reached Hasherdigi Bazar, the world had grown quiet. The usual chatter of shops gave way to whispering trees. The asphalt turned coarse, and the road tilted upward like a test of faith.
The Flash growled beneath me, every pedal stroke pulling gravity by the throat.
The 48t crank was merciless — no lower gears, no relief.
But that’s the beauty of single-speed: it teaches surrender and defiance in the same motion.
The slope steepened near Dim Pahar, one of Bangladesh’s highest motorable climbs — a name feared and revered by cyclists.
Each turn revealed another —
Each curve whispered, “Are you sure you can continue?”
And I replied, out loud, gasping through the climb,
“Yes. Because I didn’t come this far to stop talking to the wind.”
My legs screamed.
Sweat dripped into my eyes.
The Flash wobbled slightly, but never faltered.
The aero bars were useless now — it was raw muscle versus mountain.
Halfway up, a villager carrying bamboo paused and stared.
“Bhai, ekka cycling kore ashsen ekhane?” (“Brother you are cycling alone to this route?”)
“Dim Pahar-e jaitesi,” I said, between breaths. (“Going to Dim Pahar”)
He laughed, shaking his head —
“Pagol rider.” (“Mad Rider.”)
Maybe I was. But it was a beautiful madness.
At the summit, clouds brushed my helmet. The silence roared louder than any crowd.
I parked The Flash beside a small rock that marked the edge.
And for a moment, I stood —
Not as a rider, but as a witness to a dream that refused to die.
Downhill to Thanchi and Bolipara: Descent of Freedom
The descent was both gift and danger.
I crouched low on the aero bars, the wind roaring past my ears like applause.
Every turn demanded precision.
The dropbar brake levers were responsive, feathering control with grace.
The Flash danced.
And I — I felt weightless.
Through Thanchi, rivers glimmered like mirrors reflecting the sky.
In Bolipara, the forest breathed mist into the air — cool, damp, and ancient.
I stopped by a tea stall where time seemed to move slower.
The man poured tea without asking, smiled knowingly.
“Cyclist-er jonno cha free.” (“Free tea for Cyclist”)
I thanked him, words lost in gratitude.
The Flash leaned by the bench, her frame covered in dust and pride.
Bandarban to Padua: The Road of Reflection
From Bolipara to Bandarban, the route twisted through valleys — one side cliff, one side cloud.
It felt like riding through memory itself — a trail carved by dreams and monsoon water.
By the time I entered Bandarban town, the streets glowed golden with afternoon light.
I had conquered the mountain.
But the journey wasn’t over —
Every descent carries the echo of the climb.
At Padua, I paused again. Ate my last banana. Sipped the final drops of electrolyte.
The Long Way Home: Godown Bridge to Quaish
Evening settled as I crossed Godown Bridge.
The river shimmered beneath — a ribbon of silver.
By Modhunaghat Bridge, the lights of trucks reflected in the water.
Each kilometre was now a quiet victory — every spin of the crank a whispered thank you.
Quaish arrived in darkness.
The Flash’s chain hummed like a lullaby.
When I finally rolled into Muradpur, it was almost 5 PM.
Ten hours since I’d started.
Ten hours of faith, fatigue, and fulfilment.
The Flash and the Mountain
Dim Pahar stood far behind, yet its spirit rode with me.
It didn’t lose.
I didn’t win.
We simply understood each other — mountain and man, silence and speed.
I leaned The Flash against the wall, unstrapped the hydration bag, and looked at her — tired but shining, like a warrior after battle.
The city lights flickered in the distance.
“We did it,” I whispered.
“We really did.”
And somewhere, far beyond the hills,
the wind carried my words —
back to the mountain
that had made me more human than ever.
ENG
What a vivid story! Loved how you wove in the thrill of riding with descriptive energy — “Flash vs The Mountain” really comes alive. Keep sharing these adventures, they’re deeply inspiring.