The Right Turn On The Canal

I remember moving away from the left side of the road, where the cars were passing me 60-100 km/h, to make a right turn on my mountain bike, going as fast as I possibly could, mustering up the courage to face what could be instant death, constantly looking over my shoulder to find the gaps in the two-lane wide road traffic, in a country where car drivers have no regard or concern for cyclists, and the eventual sweet release of euphoria as I made the turn alive and well

This photo is from 2018 and the layout of the canal road has changed a great deal in the 22 years preceding this moment. Traffic behaviour and speeds have improved a lot nowadays.

I remember stopping on the far left of the canal bridge with sight of Jinnah Hospital, to catch my breath and to tell myself, “never again”.

Preparing for the UK driving test, I am being reminded of all my earliest experiences of wheels on the road.

They all took place in Lahore:

- the first time I cycled out on the roads to get roti from a tandoor nearby (this was when I was 6)

- the first time I skateboarded (I fell flat on my face after a rock on the road made my skateboard stationary instantly)

- the first time I roller-bladed (holding on to a motorbike, that too)

- the first time I rode a motorbike (with Sal’ly sitting right behind me),

- the first time I drove a car (with feet on the pedals of course),

- and the first time I took a right turn on a road along the canal that should have qualified as a highway, on a bicycle.

My stepfather had decided I was old enough to cycle to school because it was too out of the way for him to make the drops in the morning. He preferred the straight route along the canal that took him to Shimla Pahari, the hill roundabout that led to his daughters’ and my sister’s school.

Getting off the canal road towards Kalma Chowk and then getting back on the canal road definitely added some minutes to his trip.

Out of teenage excitement, I even invited the idea. There was the adventure of it, the prestige of using the school parking, and the independence, of course.

What I didn’t anticipate was the 45 minute long journey if I pedalled non-stop, the mortal fear of making that right turn on the canal road, how late I might get from school and the consequences of that, and the number of times my 10 kg book bag would fall off the desi panniers.

It was my first day cycling to school, I was 13 then, and I didn’t have the sensibility needed to make that right turn safely. The stunt I had just pulled off was reckless. It made me want to turn back, go home and never go out again. Exhilarating as it was, it was pretty traumatic.

I remember standing over my bike, and maybe I swayed it from side to side a little too much - because my book bag just fell off. I told myself, “thank God it didn’t fall when I was making that turn!”

I did make it to school right when the bell rang, and I remember the kind school guard, Sufi, offered to let me leave it by the gate while he watches over it, so I can make it to the assembly and come back later to secure it with a lock.

As I stood in the morning assembly line polishing my shoes with the back of my trousers, I realised the turned-up trouser cuff above my right foot was falling out. Apparently it got caught in the protruding pedal nut when I was making that turn on the canal.

As the assembly line moved out to approach our classrooms, there were some PE teachers pulling kids out of their lines for wearing the wrong uniform, typically shoes. Their keen eyes made them pull me out as well for my torn trousers.

I started to explain my situation immediately but was stopped by a hand signal from the teacher. I was screwed. I decided to keep a stiff upper lip and just dealt with the consequences. It was not a big deal anyway.

But it was a big deal. It was such a big deal. Nobody noticed it.

This was not a safe journey for a child of that age to endure. This was unjust and unfair. My mother only allowed it under the guise of “to make him a ‘man’”.

Apparently I was a skinny little sensitive guy who spent too much time with girls. So I had to toughen up.

He first tried to convince my mother to send me to boarding school, ideally one with a military-style regiment. My mother rejected the idea, then started considering it, then she asked me to consider it, and after a while made a defence for me to stay with her when I eventually refused.

Today when I think about it, I can’t imagine an intelligent person like my stepfather hadn’t realised how dangerous cycling on the canal road can be. I am thinking, maybe this was just another one of his attempts to get rid of me.

But instead of feeling unwanted, it made me realise the power of my solidarity with my mother. I was a threat to him. Which meant, I was powerful. Powerful enough to threaten him.

And my independent years had only begun.

I remember lying awake in bed that night, a bit like tonight, as I prepared for the next morning's right turn while cycling to school. Going fast to switch lanes and then making the turn was always going to be dangerous. It was much safer to wait for a substantial gap in the traffic and then make a go for it.

As time went by, I got better at anticipating traffic and gaps, allowing me to merge those two techniques together to just blend in to fast moving traffic, with proper signalling and speed. Some days I wouldn't find the gap while moving so I'd be standing on the side for even ten minutes at a stretch waiting for that substantial gap.

My driving test is on Monday and it is a big deal because it will give me mobility and independence that I have craved through both these lockdowns. Must get the flow of this country's traffic right so I can anticipate correctly.