Bicycle Dreams

I saw this well-kept bicycle at Namar Bazar in Nijhum Dwip earlier this year. It brought back many memories.

I got my first bicycle when I was eight years old, living in Sylhet. Being too short for my feet to reach the pedals, I quickly learned to ride by inserting by leg through the frame and foregoing the comfort of the saddle. But my range was restricted inside our sprawling home. Real freedom came a year later when I was taller and could sit properly on the saddle. We moved to a new house in a newly developed neighbourhood of mostly empty space and narrow paved roads. I could ride freely, like the wind.

Since those days I have felt a special attraction for bicycles. On short notice, without the hassle of petrols, drivers or paperwork, the clumsy looking device became my engine of freedom. There is something inherently gratifying about going fast on my own power, without help from fossil fuels. Then there is the feeling of the wind on my face.

In my teenage years my uncle helped me procure a Russian bicycle with its own “dynamo” for the headlight. I rode this bicycle on Dhaka roads, which, being empty, afforded me speed. However, I did so without my father's approval and a friend, who once saw me speeding on the road from his second floor flat, chided me strongly about my unsafe ways.

As an adult I took up bicycling in California. I was so hooked that I went to a bicycle store and bought two bicycles simultaneously. One was a racer, a Lemond Tourmalet, built lean, tight, and lightweight like a sports car. I went fast but the rider's bent posture was uncomfortable. The other was a divinely pleasurable Schwinn cruiser with a soft, padded saddle.

Returning to live in Bangladesh several years ago, I brought my bicycles with me and quickly realised why mountain biking is so wonderful in Bangladesh. That's because there are no mountains here.

As anyone who has climbed mountains on bicycles will attest, going uphill on a bicycle is painful. Somehow all the pleasure and advantages of riding a bicycle turn against you. Your lungs burn, your thighs scream, and your entire body rebels against this preposterous proposition. I had this experience some years ago when I encountered the Cardamom Mountains in Cambodia while riding my bicycle from Bangkok to Angkor Wat.

Never again. Give me the delta plains of Bangladesh any day.

In fact there is no end to beautiful bicycle rides in Bangladesh. The trick is to avoid the main roads and bicycle on the smaller pathways. One can go to any village and start riding through the walking trails. Tea gardens also offer bucolic experiences as one can ride for miles through their paths, crossing several plantations. The haors in winter offer endless open areas for bicycling through.

For a number of reasons, these days I have fallen out of bicycling. But every time I see a bicycle that is treasured by its owner, my heart misses a beat.

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