Welcome to BSME2E
It had been years since the FnF Riders of Chittagong rolled together in the early morning light, a pack of cyclists sharing roads, stories, laughter, and the kind of camaraderie that only miles and sweat can weave together. And today, after such a long pause, the wheels turned once again.
My morning began a little differently than most rides. Instead of the usual light, quick snack, I indulged myself. Four slices of medium pizza—gooey cheese stretching across bites, loaded with sausages and nuggets—followed by a warm cup of coffee stirred gently with honey. It wasn’t the textbook cyclist’s breakfast, but it was a reminder that today wasn’t just about performance; it was about being part of something I had once cherished deeply.
At around 6:10 am, I swung a leg over my bike and pushed off from Hamzarbagh, the cool air brushing against my face as the city slowly stretched awake. By the time I reached Red Chilli at 6:25 am, riders were already gathering, bikes leaning against walls, helmets clipped, shoes clicking against the pavement, and conversations flowing.
What struck me immediately was how much had changed, and yet how much was still the same. Some faces were familiar—etched in my memory from rides long ago—while others were completely new. There were fresh, eager riders whose jerseys still looked crisp, whose tires still carried the shine of recent purchase. And then, to everyone’s excitement, two female riders joined us today, a sign that the group was evolving and welcoming more diversity into its fold.
Before the ride could begin, the group gathered in a semi-circle. There was a long discussion about rules—safety first, respecting traffic, waiting for slower riders, and making sure no one was left behind. The presence of new riders meant patience, guidance, and responsibility were all the more important. As the group admin spoke, someone mentioned me. They reminded everyone that I wasn’t just another rider—I was the oldest FnF rider still present, part of the group since 2014. The younger riders looked at me with curiosity, some with respect, others with quiet amazement. I smiled, not out of pride, but out of gratitude. Time had passed, but I was still here, pedalling.
At 7:00 am sharp, the ride officially began.
We rolled out from Red Chilli, heading towards New Market, Kotowali, and then towards the New Bridge. The streets were alive with the usual Friday morning scenes—shops slowly opening shutters, rickshaw pullers stretching after long nights, and vendors arranging fresh fruits and vegetables. The buzz of life around us mixed with the rhythmic whirl of chains and the hum of tires on asphalt.
But just after Kotowali, the sky shifted. Dark clouds gathered as if to test us. Within minutes, rain poured down, heavy and unforgiving. For ten, maybe fifteen minutes, we were drenched—water splashing up from the road, droplets streaming down helmets and glasses. Some riders pulled over briefly, but most of us pushed on, wheels slicing through puddles. My jersey clung to me, and the air turned cool against my skin. And strangely enough, I felt alive. It wasn’t discomfort—it was a reminder that rides like these are raw, unpredictable, and real.
When the rain finally stopped, the world looked freshly washed. Trees glistened, roads shimmered, and the air smelled of wet earth. But the roads were slick, and safety mattered. The group naturally slowed to a very moderate pace—10 to 12 km/hr—keeping close, moving carefully. This slow roll wasn’t about endurance or speed; it was about togetherness. Riders chatted side by side, laughter echoing off the walls of narrow streets, newcomers asking about old rides and veterans sharing stories.
By the time we crossed New Bridge (Karnaphuli Bridge), the group’s energy needed a small boost. We pulled over at Moizzarteck for breakfast. Plates of parathas, eggs, and tea were ordered, but my morning had already been heavy with pizza and coffee. I kept it light—a single large banana and a small 125ml pack of litchi juice. Sometimes simplicity tastes better than a feast, especially when the road is calling.
The breakfast stop was more than food. It was laughter, teasing, sharing stories of old crashes, near misses, and impossible climbs. It was the sound of 30-odd riders bonded by two wheels, living in the moment.
From there, we continued at a steadier clip, picking up speed to around 15–20 km/hr. The air had warmed, the wet patches drying up, and our legs loosened into rhythm. Instead of the main gate, which often stays closed, we took a shortcut into KEPZ.
Inside, the mood shifted to exploration. The roads inside were smoother, quieter, lined with greenery. We took photos—lots of them. Bikes leaned against trees, riders posed together, some raising helmets in the air like trophies. I was asked many times about my history with the group. “You’ve been here since 2014?” one rider asked with wide eyes. “That’s over a decade.” The admin chuckled, adding, “He’s our living archive. He remembers the rides we don’t.”
We sat, relaxed, and let the morning drift by until around 9:50 am. For a moment, it felt like no time had passed at all—that the group was still in its golden years, and we were simply continuing what had never ended.
By 10:00 am, it was time to head back. We regrouped, clipped in, and followed the lead rider until we crossed New Bridge again. After that, the pack slowly dissolved into smaller streams—each rider heading towards their own home, their own Friday responsibilities.
For me, Hamzarbagh was calling. And since it was Friday, I had no time to dawdle. I shifted gears in my head, tightened my grip, and began pushing harder. The pace picked up to 25–30 km/hr on average, my legs spinning steady and strong, the city blurring past me. It was a personal time trial to close the day.
At exactly 11:05 am, I rolled into home, sweat cooling on my skin, lungs full of air, heart full of satisfaction.
The ride, for me, measured a total of 42.53 km. But numbers only told a fraction of the story.
Today wasn’t about speed, calories, or PRs on Strava. It was about reunion. About remembering that the spirit of cycling isn’t just in watts or cadence—it’s in community, laughter, and rain-soaked jerseys. It’s in being called “the oldest rider” and feeling proud that I’ve still got the legs to keep up.
The FnF Riders had returned, even if just for today. And as I sat at home later, sipping another quiet cup of coffee, I knew that years from now, I would remember not the pizza, nor the rain, nor the exact route—but the feeling of belonging once again to something bigger than myself, something that had begun in 2014 and still rolled forward with every spin of the wheels.
