A Friend with an Engine 

This is the story of a scooter. 

Not because it was special in the way machines are marketed as special, but because of what it quietly became in my life. 

Back in Bangladesh, that scooter became part of how I lived. It steadied me. It created space when my head felt crowded. It gave me back a sense of control, quietly. 

It was a Suzuki Access 125 Fi. The name matters only so the memory stays accurate. Beyond that, it was never about specifications.

By the time I decided to buy a scooter, I already knew which one I wanted.

Two of my bosses owned the same model. I had seen it used every day, without ceremony. No gear shifting. No clutch. No aggression. Just enough power to feel confident, never more than necessary. It looked composed. Practical. Quietly capable.

That balance stayed with me. I wasn’t looking for excitement. I was looking for ease.

Once it became mine, the difference wasn’t dramatic, but it was immediate.

I could leave without planning. No calling anyone. No waiting. No small negotiations. Helmet on, key turned, gone. Sometimes there was a destination. Often there wasn’t. Many times, I rode aimlessly, without any plan at all. Movement itself became the reason.

It gave me a quieter kind of freedom. The kind you only recognize after it’s gone. Freedom to be alone without explanation. Freedom to return home calmer than when you left.

Some weekends, a heaviness would settle in without any specific cause or clear reason. A few kilometers. On those days, I didn’t plan a route. I just left. The same roads, the same turns, the engine doing its quiet work beneath me. By the time I came back, nothing had changed. Except that I could prepare for the next week, again. 

It also gave me a sense of ownership that was practical rather than symbolic. Groceries fit easily. There was space to sit comfortably, to move without feeling boxed in. Daily tasks stopped feeling like obstacles and started feeling manageable. That matters more than people admit.

Over time, it became familiar. I knew how it felt on different roads. When it was running smoothly. When it needed attention. There was no sentimentality in that, just trust.

A friend with an engine.

Buying it also has an interesting story.

That exact model was unavailable in my city. Not delayed. Not limited. Completely out of stock. I searched locally, then beyond. At some point, it stopped being about convenience and became a refusal to compromise.

Eventually, I found a few units in Chattogram – more than 350 kilometers away.

I took a night train, reached there, bought the scooter, handled the paperwork, and sent it back home on a cargo train. I returned shortly after. Roughly twenty-four hours for a purchase that, on paper, could have been replaced by something else.

But I didn’t want something else.

That effort mattered. It made the scooter feel intentional. Earned.

The scooter brought the country roads closer to me. Rivers, I could stop beside without planning. Tea estates where the air felt lighter and time slowed down. Places that existed quietly until I had an easy way to reach them.

We spent time on roads that didn’t lead anywhere important. Long pauses without purpose or pressure. Time passed without needing justification.

Now that I’m in Germany, I miss knowing that if the day felt off, I could ride my scooter and come back steadier. I miss owning something that supported my routine without demanding attention. I miss the quiet reliability of it. 

Some things don’t change your life outright. They just make it easier to live the one you already have.

That Suzuki Access 125 Fi did that for me.