“It won’t be a stylish marriage,

For, I can’t afford a carriage

But, you will look so beautiful

on a bicycle meant for two.”

Bicycle used to be a popular mode of transport — of course, among those who could afford to buy or hire one. It was used by college and university professors and even high government officials.

Lahore was already a big city when it expanded horizontally outside the defunct city walls. Yet, the distances were manageable on a bicycle. This two-wheel vehicle helped reduce commuting time. The brands included Hercules, Raleigh, Philips, Humber, Rudge, Norman and BSA, all imported from England.

The bicycles came in black or green. Their handles and wheel rims were sparkling chrome. The Brooks’ bicycle came equipped with large, shock-absorbing springs and a genuine leather seat which ensured a comfortable ride.

Considering occasional theft, all bicycles were secured by lock and chain. Typically, a serial number was inscribed on the bicycle’s frame. It helped the local police recover those stolen. There were written instructions displayed in all police stations that once in a week the SHO ought to go hunting for stolen bicycles. Still, in every police station, there was a junkyard of abandoned frames of bicycles whose owners were never found.

All bicycles had to have a headlight and a red backlight which were powered by a dynamo; others had a kerosene lamp. It was a serious offence to ride without a light; and so was ‘doubling’ or pillion riding. Anyone riding with me would alight before the traffic constable could spot them and jump back on it after exiting the danger zone.

A manual bell, an air pump and a basket were considered luxurious accessories. Considering the hot summers, all cyclists donned a ‘sola-pith’ hat. Some proud fathers installed smallish saddles for their children.

Lahore may not be a city of seven hills, like Rome or Istanbul, but its topography has many mildly rising and descending slopes. Between the Neela Gumbad and the Napier Road there’s a mild slope. The Queen’s Road has it too. On many roads, you don’t have to peddle at all. While the elderly would often get down, navigating the curves and slopes, the young would use their bodyweight to increase pressure on the paddles.

Government College (now University), Lahore, has been built over a hillock. Dr Nazir Ahmad, the legendary principal of GC, was often spotted riding a green Raleigh, with his leather bag barely secured by the carrier. As he would approach the plateau, it appeared that he might lose the equilibrium. But we never dared to offer a push from behind.

Bicycles were also popular with the girls and women commuting to their respective schools, colleges and offices. My teacher, Prof Anna Molka Ahmad, once tried it and continued to paddle even though her dopatta had been blown away. She eventually gave up when — as she she said in a live interview on the nascent PTV — the “husband of the cow” appeared.

‘Lady bicycles’ which had no front bar are no longer manufactured locally. Some smuggled Russian models can be had from Quetta at affordable prices. These may be used by the elderly whose legs are no longer flexible enough. Mullah Latif, with his large collection of old and new bicycles, had got some for the ladies which could be hired for two annas for an hour. Ladies working at the nearby north-western Railway headquarters were his regular customers. Latif would have them wait under the tree whilst his staff hurried to hand over the bicycles.

Neela Gumbad, which stood at the centre of educational institutes, law courts and various government offices, was the biggest bicycle market in the region. Royal Bicycle Mart, managed by one Altaf Hussain, was the leading shop at the time which also dealt in repair and overhaul services.

Racing bicycle was a hobby reserved for the affluent. Naqi of Lighthouse was an acclaimed champion bicycle racer. He participated in the Olympics and won a medal in Tokyo. These sports cycles, which weighed very little, had no mudguards but boasted an air pump and a water bottle that was attached to their lower frame. They cost a fortune.

In many countries, tours and contests are held. Once I had the chance to witness Tour de Europa, passing through Rome, while all auto and pedestrian movement was closed and the spectators were impatiently waiting for the rally. On our own we ventured as far as Chhanga Manga and Balloki, or the Hiran Minar. My brother, Imtiaz, with his green-and-white, Japanese-made Orion sports, had planned a road trip (on bicycles) to Abbottabad with his friends while their matriculation results were awaited. Each of them went to their respective fathers for permission which obviously was not granted. My father, however, encouraged them all. The other boys departed leaving behind a chit. They were lucky enough to be hosted by various uncles in the cities en route.

I too once ventured up to Taxila. Downhill it was all automatic and pleasant, but peddling the vechile uphill was very strenuous and my floating ribs involuntarily started tickling the cage.

The surviving elders often remembered how a bicycle rickshaw once plied on Lahore’s streets. It could accommodate two passengers on its back seat. This ‘inhuman’ mode of transport was later banned, and mercifully so.

Another service provided on bicycles was delivery of lunch packed in wooden boxes that carried tiffins. The advertisement said that it was healthy to eat home cooked food.

Bicycling has now become a very dangerous activity in Lahore and other big cities. The motorised traffic seems to have no respect for those pedaling around. In some countries, there are dedicated lanes for cyclists — marked out with two circles. Anyone found violating the zoning is given a fine ticket. These activities are encouraged because they are healthy and contribute to lessening the air and noise pollution levels.

A retired maali (gardener), Punnu, at Mian Ahmed Din organic park in Iqbal Town, once gave me his Sohrab sports cycle for free. He only wanted to get his eye surgery done. I obliged. I started using it in the mornings. One day, while I was negotiating a curve, a speeding car nearly trampled me. All I remember was an advertisement of ‘Islamic’ banking whose slogan was: Kya aap ki gari sood se paak hai? I wanted to ask the makers, Kya aap ki qistain halal hain?

Of late, a dedicated lane has been added for cyclists in the Lawrence Gardens, but getting there through the motley traffic remains a challenge.

(This dispatch is dedicated to Altaf Hussain, the bicycle dealer)

The writer is a painter, a founding member of Lahore Conservation Society and Punjab Artists Association, and a former director of NCA Art Gallery. He can be reached at ajazart@brain.net.pk