Spokes of Surrender: Cycling, Nature & the Divine

There’s something intrinsically vulnerable about being on a bike. Maybe it’s the way the wind caresses your face or how the rhythmic movement of your legs mimics the pumping of your heart as you navigate roads, hills and the not so occasional pothole in London. Beyond the physical, cycling carves out stillness in motion, a space to reflect, to notice and to remember.

For many of us, that stillness is a moment to simply breathe. For me, it becomes something deeper and I never quite know when I open the door of vulnerability on a ride. It’s definitely after I press record on Strava, after I whisper Bismillah and with certainty, after I feel at one with my bike. The sounds of traffic fade, my phone screen darkens, and the only conversation is with my own thoughts. It’s then that Allah’s signs are heightened around me, dispersed throughout London, and I remember the words of the Quran:

“Indeed, in the creation of the heavens and the Earth and the alternation of the night and the day are signs for those of understanding.”(Surah Al ‘Imran, 3:190)

Feeling vulnerable to nature and Allah’s signs is as familiar as a pair of well-used cycling gloves. One of my first routes to work used to be along the canal as the sun rays slowly scattered across the water and I caught glimpses of canal boat owners popping on the kettle. I felt so small yet so intricately protected at the same time.

When I am riding, I’m relying on a melody of muscle movements and my judgement to keep me safe against the unknown. This deep reliance starts beyond me, with Allah.

It's that vulnerability that reminds me, I am not in control. No matter how carefully I plan, I am always in need of Allah’s strength, guidance and protection. And yet I try to continue pedalling, learning to place my trust in Allah once I have done everything within my power to be ready for a ride. As Muslims are encouraged in the Qur’an:

“And put your trust in Allah, for Allah is sufficient as the Trustee of affairs.”(Surah Al-Ahzab, 33:3)

Every journey feels like an act of surrender as I ask Allah to keep me safe.

And somewhere along the way, when both of my wheels have cycled through the door of vulnerability, I feel like my ride becomes a form of dhikr. A silent remembering: Subhanallah for the clear skies stretched above me, Alhamdulillah for the energy from my cereal bar, Allahu Akbar for the vastness of creation and the One who sustains it all. On a bike, there’s no hiding from my need for Allah. It shows up in the unexpected headwind, the aching muscles, the moment your heart races a little faster than it should. But in that need, there’s beauty. There’s a softening. A chance to turn inward, and upward.

So, I ride. Sometimes with speed, sometimes with leisure. But always with the hope that in the rhythm of the wheels and the dhikr between breaths, I will find closeness to the One who paved the path ahead.

The wind still brushes my face, my legs still move to the rhythm of my heart, and I carry a quiet knowing that I am vulnerable, but never alone.

I ride in His care. 

Follow Maryam on Instagram @mazza.wazza23.