Every morning when I wake up, I listen. I don’t mean I check my messages or the weather. I listen to the air, the quiet, the hums and echoes in our living room. If the living room is empty, still, and silent, that means one thing: my opportunity has arrived. That moment of peace tells me it’s time. Time for my escape. Time for my biking routine. My biking retreats are my sanctuary, my escape from the noise and chaos of everyday life. As I pedal through scenic routes, surrounded by nature's beauty, I find solace and clarity in the rhythm of my movements.
I always wait for that clear window—when no one is in the living room, especially not my mum. You see, I live in a house where loud voices are normal and emotional safety is not. Just the presence of my parents can disrupt my sense of peace and focus. So, my biking routine is not just exercise, but a form of self-care and mental escape from the constant tension at home. So when the coast is clear and silence returns to its rightful place, I quietly prepare myself for my morning biking routine. It’s a simple but sacred habit. Something I do for both body and soul.
I usually start at 6:00 in the morning, just when the sun is rising and the world is still deciding how it wants to feel today. I get on my bike, a sturdy 3-wheeler, and start my ride. I never learned how to balance on a 2-wheeler—gyroscopic balance just never made sense to me, no matter how hard I tried. So I stuck with my trike. People may stare sometimes, but I’ve grown used to it. What matters is that it works for me, and it gives me a sense of movement, of freedom, of being in control of something—even if it’s just my morning ride.
In my biking routine, I always bring my small bag, which has my smartphone and my wallet. Second is my umbrella for unexpected weather changes. These essentials help me stay connected and prepared no matter where my ride takes me. The third item is a Philips screwdriver, just in case I need to make any adjustments or repairs to my trike while on the go. It's always better to be safe than sorry when it comes to being prepared for any situation that may arise during my rides.
My biking journey has three phases, and two important stops in between. These stops are not just for rest—they’re tiny landmarks in my daily ritual. The first leg of the ride starts from my home, and I pedal through four villages to reach the first stop. Each village has its character. The first is quiet and sleepy, the second a bit livelier. The third has playful dogs that bark as I pass, and the fourth—my first stop—is where I truly feel I’ve arrived.
In that fourth village, near a school, there’s a community plaza. It's not just a field—it’s a place with life and history. There’s a basketball court where kids sometimes play, a playground that squeaks with every swing, a tennis court that rarely sees action, and a multipurpose hall that hosts everything from town meetings to birthday parties. There’s also a small day-care centre that adds a soft energy to the area. It's a true hub of the community, where people of all ages come together to socialise and enjoy each other's company.
Once I reach the plaza, I pause. That’s my 30-minute break. Not because I’m too tired to go on—but because I need that time to breathe, reflect, and enjoy the morning quiet. I often sit on a bench, listen to music through my headphones, and let the sunlight hit my skin gently as if the universe is hugging me. The plaza is my sanctuary, where I can recharge and find peace amidst the hustle and bustle of the city. It's a simple yet powerful way to start my day on a positive note.
After those thirty minutes, I hop back on my bike and begin the second phase of the ride. This one is a bit tougher. I pass through two more villages, which are filled with small memories—like the church I bike past, where hymns sometimes float in the air if the doors are open. Then there is another school I pass, with its gates already opened to begin the school day. There’s a steep hill in this part, and I’ve stopped trying to pedal up it. I get off and walk my bike instead. It’s slower, yes, but kinder to my knees and my spirit.
Eventually, I reach my second stop: a convenience store. This place means more to me than just a shop. It’s part of my mental map. There’s a parking lot outside with a sign that says you can only stay for 30 minutes. That rule fits perfectly with my break time. I sometimes go inside, especially when I have a bit of money to spend, which is very rarely, for I practise frugality. There’s a small dining area where some folks have their breakfast or snacks. I’ve sat there many times, sipping bottled water or eating bread while watching the staff go about their morning duties.
I’ve grown familiar with the employees. I don’t talk to them much, but I observe. How they handle customers, restock shelves, clean the counters, and carry out their tasks with rhythm. I do this because I’m considering working at a convenience store someday—just temporarily. As a fresh college graduate, I’m under pressure to find work, but the job market isn’t kind. And so, a small, manageable store like this—with only a few people and calm surroundings—seems ideal for someone like me who gets overwhelmed easily.
That’s why I prefer a convenience store over a mini-mart or grocery store. Mini-marts are crowded. Grocery stores are noisy. But this shop, it’s peaceful. It feels like a place where I could breathe and function without losing my mind. The thought of working in a convenience store gives me a sense of relief, knowing that I can handle the environment. Plus, the simplicity of the tasks and the quiet atmosphere are exactly what I need to ease into the workforce.
After another thirty-minute break, I begin the final phase of my biking routine. This last stretch is more of a loop than a straight line. I bike through the same village where the store is located and pass by a community college—not the one I graduated from, but still a reminder of how far I’ve come. Then there’s the town hall, where village officials hold their meetings and post announcements on the bulletin board. I sometimes slow down and glance at what’s new.
Further along, I pass a lottery betting kiosk. I don’t bet often. Maybe once or twice a year, when the jackpot sign catches my eye. The numbers seem like dreams—far away, but fascinating to look at. After passing the betting kiosk, I arrive at the desk supply shop. The store's colourful window displays catch my attention, showcasing an array of pens, notebooks, and other accessories. I sometimes stop there to buy needed items. The shopkeeper always greets me with a smile, and I enjoy browsing through the shelves for unique finds.
Near that shop is a money-changing kiosk in which I can convert my earned banknotes to just one or two larger bills. I rarely use this service, but as I received a large banknote, it's an achievement that I earned another sum of money. The convenience of having the money-changing kiosk nearby is reassuring, especially when I need to quickly exchange currency for larger denominations. I appreciate the proximity of the money-changing kiosk to the shop where I buy my supplies. It adds a level of convenience to my errands and saves me time.
After that, the road curves back to my home village. The final few turns always feel like waking up from a good daydream. The familiarity of the route and the peaceful surroundings make the journey back home a relaxing experience. I return home, my mind clearer, my heart steadier, and my body tired in the best way possible. The familiar sights and sounds of my village welcome me back, bringing a sense of peace and contentment. As I walk through the streets, I can't help but feel grateful for the simple beauty of my surroundings.
One thing that adds flavour to my ride is the music. My headphones are always on, but I use them responsibly. There are certain streets where I can enjoy music with both ears covered—these are areas where traffic is light, mostly residential, with little noise or danger. But when I approach busier roads, especially those lined with shops, I remove one side of the headphones. I need to stay alert. Cars and motorcycles are unpredictable, and I don’t want a beautiful morning to end in an accident.
On days when my mum is away all day—those rare and golden days—I treat myself to an afternoon ride too. This happens from 4:30 to 5:30 PM, when the light begins to dim and the air turns cooler. My afternoon route is shorter, just one stop—and yes, it’s the same convenience store. The streets look different in the afternoon, but the feeling is just as calming. Sometimes I even spot the same staff working a second shift, which makes me think even more about what it might be like to work alongside them someday.
On days when I know the weather will be sunny from morning to afternoon—and if my mum is out for days—I sometimes shorten my morning ride just to an hour, saving another hour for the afternoon. I might begin at 6:30 AM and only visit the store for both morning and afternoon biking. The only difference is that this route is different in that I passed by a resort at the end of a certain village. I passed by that resort and rode a circle in its parking lot due to how lush and well-maintained the landscaping is. It's a peaceful and serene spot that I hope to visit one day for a relaxing getaway. This usually happens during what I call my “retreats.”
“Retreats” are a special time for me. They happen when my mum leaves the house for days—often to spend holidays with her parents in another county. And when that happens, I get something that’s very rare in my life: peace. No shouting. No tension. Just silence, sunshine, and self-care. That’s why I never go with her when she invites me. She doesn’t understand that her absence is a gift I cannot refuse. I don’t go with her—not out of rebellion, but out of necessity.
My last retreat happened during Christmas week last year, and again in the final week of January. Those were the best biking days I’ve had in a long time. The skies were clear. The roads were quiet. And my soul? It could finally breathe. I cherish those moments of retreat and rejuvenation, and I know that I need to prioritise them for my well-being. Taking time for myself allows me to recharge and appreciate the simple joys in life, like a peaceful bike ride under a clear sky.
These biking routines may sound ordinary to others, but to me, they are lifelines. They are how I process my thoughts, how I calm my panic, how I stay fit without going to noisy gyms. They are how I escape from a house that often feels like a war zone, without having to explain anything to anyone. Every pedal, every breath, every turn of the wheel—it’s all part of my therapy. My way of staying sane in a life where so many things feel out of my control.
People talk a lot about healing. They say you need money, therapy sessions, long conversations, or spiritual awakenings. But for me, healing begins with a bike ride. By choosing the quietest roads. By noticing the way a shadow falls across the pavement. I feel the music play in my ears as I pass by gardens, dogs, and sleepy towns. It's in these moments that I find peace and clarity, allowing me to let go of the chaos and find solace in the simple act of moving forward.
I am not fixed. I’m still broken in places that no X-ray could show. But every time I get on that bike, I feel just a little more whole. A little stronger. A little more ready for the life that waits outside my comfort zone. One day, I’ll move out. One day, I’ll earn enough to support myself fully. One day, I’ll find a job that fits both my skills and my limits. But until then, I have this: my trike, my routes, my little stops, and my retreats. And that is enough for now.