The morning air in Riyadh carries a particular quality just after sunrise. There’s a brief window, maybe an hour, when the heat hasn’t yet claimed the day and the city feels almost tranquil.
I’ve been cycling these routes for months now, roughly 150 kilometers per week, and I’ve started to notice something about the relationship between movement and thought. The rhythm of pedaling creates a kind of mental space—margins, if you will—where ideas can breathe.
The Route
My usual path takes me along King Fahd Road before cutting through Al-Olaya district. At this hour, before the city fully wakes, there’s a meditative quality to the empty streets.
The city at dawn is different. Construction cranes stand still against the lightening sky. The occasional early taxi passes. There’s a sense of possibility in these empty margins of the day.
On Movement and Thinking
There’s something about physical movement that seems to unlock different patterns of thought. Not the focused concentration of sitting at a desk, but a more wandering, associative kind of thinking.
It reminds me of what I’ve been reading in Murakami’s memoir—how he structures his life around running and writing, treating them as interconnected practices rather than separate activities.
“Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.” — Haruki Murakami
The parallel is there in cycling too. The physical exertion creates a kind of clarity. Problems that seemed insurmountable at the desk become workable in motion.
The Heat Arrives
By 8 AM, the spell breaks. The heat begins its daily claim on the city. I turn back home, carrying with me the thoughts gathered in those morning margins.
These rides have become more than exercise. They’re a practice of creating space—literal and mental—in a life that can feel over-scheduled, over-connected, over-determined.
The margins matter. Sometimes more than the main text.
References
- Murakami, Haruki. What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. Vintage, 2009.
- Solnit, Rebecca. Wanderlust: A History of Walking. Penguin Books, 2001.