Lahoris and lockdowns are like two magnets held the wrong way around; they repel. So, when the seriousness of the pandemic finally caught on with the dwellers of Punjab’s provincial capital, their instinct to socialise was at stake. It must be somewhere around this time that the Lahoris racked their brains to explore options that could provide a sort of an escape from the confines of their homes. Bicycling was one of these.

Soon the people, especially the young, were seen whizzing around the city in the evening. Someone who knew someone who had a distant friend in some cycling group may have cracked it. And why not. Cycling on roads we could never have imagined earlier to be empty or relatively safe, was exhilarating. Into the bargain was the social-distancing (safety) aspect as well as exercise. People were tired of being under ‘house arrest’; they wanted to get around barricades and stay fit at a time when all the gyms and parks had been closed.

To be fair, cycling really is a breath of fresh air. The usually convenience-obsessed, laidback Lahoris seem to have taken a rather quick lesson in adapting to a sustainable energy based lifestyle. It feels like the silver lining to the pandemic.

Instagram archives would testify to the fact that hordes of local “lycra warriors” (as they are popularly dubbed in America and beyond) are pedalling all around the city on imported bikes with a hefty starting price tag of Rs 185,000. So, is it an elitist trend? Hafsa Nadeem, a project manager at Firdous Textiles, who identifies herself as “someone immune to social pressures,” says that she flips from one Instagram story to another noticing the Mark Cavendish-style cycling militants being the latest group of people “exposing our slavery to elitism”.

“I see people gather at one another’s houses, loading into one car with their bicycles attached to [bike] racks and guards in tow. Servants with water bottles are also present, of course. So much for social distancing and environmental concern,” she tells TNS.

“It escalates further, as they are wearing makeup and jump the red lights. Disappointed once again, but not surprised. We make a mockery of everything, don’t we?” she says, with a grin.

Nadeem has a point. The Tour de DHA Phase 5, a popular cycling group in Lahore, and Model Town’s very own Covid Cycle Gang in full-scale protection gear, followed by a daala with armed guards, are an amusing sight for sure. But is it really about safety? “For urban biking, all you need is a helmet,” says Ali Rehan Ahmed, who’s been cycling with the Road Riders Lahore for the past five years now. “Other than that, all equipment is useless for entry-level bikers. Personally, I wouldn’t trust someone with a go-pro on the helmet and a convoy of guards talking about safety.”

Ahmed, who has biked from Islamabad to Lahore on G T Road, opines that a biker simply has to be conscious of traffic rules to avoid injury.

o cut the militant bikers some slack, historically, cycling has not been a middle-class sport. But with the rise of online sale and purchase of cycles and Neela Gumbad being within reach, could there be cheaper biking options?

Yousuf Nazar, the owner of a cycle store in Lahore, says that bike sales went up “ten times since the lockdown, as compared to the two-and-a-half years that we have been operating in the city.”

Advocate Ahmed Rafay Alam quotes Mark Twain to emphasise that cycling is not about the brands you have, it is about having fun: “It is impossible to be melancholy while cycling”.

He insists that there’s a good supply of used, branded bikes which can be bought at the same price as the Chinese ones.

Interestingly, most of Nazar’s customers are amateurs who purchase the best professional equipment. “I really wanted to bike and feel the sense of freedom I last felt as a teenager,” says Naheen Khar. “But I understood that it was more of a fad. So I rented a bike at Rs 3,500 per week instead of buying one.”

The option to rent does seem to be much more viable considering how so many privileged individuals act true to the stereotype. “I used to cycle in my teens,” says Akbar Khan. “I returned to it because of my friends. One of them bought me a nice, imported bicycle which was delivered to my house during the lockdown. If all my friends go, then I will accompany them but I won’t take it up as a hobby.”

Muhammad Ali, 35, is one person who managed to do so. Taking back to the pedal after almost two decades, Ali decided to pass on asserting social-media ‘coolness’: “Initially, there was peer pressure, but I came across the daala gang in DHA and thought it was funny. I ended up buying a used Giant hybrid bike, with a pre-installed Shimano groupset for Rs 32,000. I’m pretty satisfied. Hopefully, it will last me a while,” he says.

But defying cultural conditioning isn’t easy for everyone. “I splashed out on a Specialized [bike] to get with the whole Instagram shebang,” says Zeeshan Khan. “A part of me didn’t want to, but I did it out of pressure. One person I know sold their carbon-fibre bike after a week.”

In Pakistan, anything, even a sport as diverse as cycling, can be looked at in a class context. But while we may be able to live with stringent attitudes prevailing in fashion and food industries, does elitism prevent cycling culture from becoming a sport of the masses?

Ahmed Rafay Alam, a prominent environment lawyer who famously managed the cycling group called Critical Mass Lahore, until a few years ago, says he used to ride a Sohrab which cost him between Rs 8,000 and Rs 10,000. Recently, he bought a second-hand racing cycle for Rs 20,000. “It’s a fantastic bike, with efficient machinery that doesn’t break the wallet,” he says of Sohrab. “I don’t believe in spending large amounts of money on carbon-fibre bikes. Lycra-wearing idiots are just that — lycra-wearing idiots! Even a helmet isn’t mandatory if you’re not cycling at 40 kilometres an hour.

“Fortunately, cycling is not under threat from these people,” Alam adds. “And the improvement in the types of bikes you can get in Lahore is fantastic, as it means there’s a large market for the sale of bicycles. But it does create an us-versus-them scenario which is unfortunate.

“Something we realised when we started Critical Mass some 10 or 12 years ago, was that the people we were resonating with were doing it for recreational purposes and not commuting. I’ve seen people cycling with Land Cruisers behind them. You can ignore them as far as I am concerned. Still, even if one of them was to turn around and say they wanted a bike-friendly city, it would be worth a thousand other cyclists saying the same thing, unfortunately.”

Alam looks at using a bicycle as a form of exercising his right to mobility, not necessarily needed to be promoted as a hobby. He quotes Mark Twain to emphasise that cycling is not about the brands you have, it is about having fun: “It is impossible to be melancholy while cycling.” He goes on, “You don’t need a Cannondale. You just need a bike with the wind in your face. That’s all you need.”

Fifty-six years old Javed Iqbal, who works as a guard for a gated community, would testify to the fact: “I’ve been riding my Sohrab forever. I got it in my youth. The tyres [of the bicycle] have been repaired and changed many times over, but its body [frame] is the same I used to ride in my village as a boy.”