Zahrah Nasir Ladies, real ladies that is, only ride sidesaddle, my grandfather boomed out at catching me sitting astride a horse on what was my first and last, as I refused to remount after falling off, formal riding lesson. Not being certain what 'side-saddle was, I was a mere wisp of five years old at the time, I looked around at other riders for inspiration but none, in my line of vision, were using a saddle that had been strapped on sideways In waiting for further illumination, it didnt come, a vision of my grandmother sprung into fill the void: Grandfather hadnt managed to pass his driving test so was limited to a thundering great motorcycle which he adored. This monstrous machine had a rocket shaped sidecar attached in which granny always rode, her head, like grandfathers, neatly encapsulated in a brown leather helmet, both of them resembling creatures from outer space in huge, protective goggles. Not being able to hear each other speak and grandfather being a hopeless navigator, granny wrestled with map coordinates in the relative comfort of the sidecar as they communicated by way of a World War II field telephone By 'side-saddle maybe he meant that I should be riding in some form of horse attached sidecar but I couldnt see one of those either Many years down the line, during the course of which I continued to ride inexpertly astride, other than on one memorable expedition when I rode precariously balanced on top of a bundle of anti-tank missiles for days on end, I still dont see the sense in even attempting to ride sidesaddle although, quite recently I really had no option but to do otherwise, not on a horse I hasten to add but on, of all things, a motorbike minus sidecar. Depended on public transport, getting around in the mountains can often be an extremely trying, often exhausting experience. Taxis being criminally expensive, with even those literally falling apart at the seams demanding a fortune to take me to and from the nearest bazaar which happens to be miles away, I often undertake the strenuous 4 km hike from my home to the main road for the questionable pleasure of playing sardines in the back of the pick-up trucks which serve as buses up here. Having done just this, completed my shopping and other chores and, as usual, ended up carrying more weight than is advisable, I was standing by the side of the road waiting for transport homewards when a knight in shining crash helmet drew to a spluttering stop and offered assistance. Looking at his already laden motorbike with more than a dash of hesitation, I thanked him nicely but refused even though Id known him for years. He insistedI politely refused. He insisted, quite forcibly for perhaps the tenth time and I, being an absolute idiot, finely acquiesced. Thousands of Pakistani ladies ride sidesaddle on motorbikes daily, balancing poise, packages and often children too with practiced ease. They make this popular mode of transport appear as simple as abc; therefore, under the illusion that this must be so, I politely attempted to balance myself likewise, one leg slightly extended for balance as Ive seen the experts do. Three bulging shopping bags, a handbag and an umbrella as it had looked like rain when I first set out, are not as easy to juggle as one may think plus, having just nibbled on oily pakoras; my one handed grip on the rear carrier was tenuous to say the least. Despite the odds, all went well for the first 10 yards at which point the driver revved up speed to slide into the first of countless, death defying bends which lay before us and I almost fell off. Slow down please I requested, gritting my teeth and trying to hang on. Slow down. Im going slowly he yelled revving up some more. Just hang on. Ill have you home in no time. Im not ashamed to admit that I was frightened, absolutely petrified Stop I yelled in sheer desperation. Stop. Ill take the bus. Ill walk home. Stoooooop Determined to do a good deed, he drove on as I fought to retain my seat, my shopping and my sanity. In sheer desperation I almost flung an arm around his skinny waist for safety but...touching an unrelated male in this manner is just not on and, even though I was wearing trousers, I figured that riding astride was equally out of the question. What seemed like hours later, in reality a panic stricken 15 minutes or so, we reached the point where the road petered out to nothing more than a walkable, boulder strewn, potholed track and he finally stopped, only to say Your shopping looks heavy, dont get off yet, I think Ill manage to take you down to your house. Hang on tight. No. No. Its okay. Ill walk. It isnt heavy. Im used to it. Its okay, I gushed as I slid off onto terra firma, legs quivering like jelly. No problem he said. Get back on. No, no, a thousand times no. Thank you so much for the lift but youll damage your motorbike if you try to drive down here. Really, its okay. Ill walk from here. Never has walking been so wonderful and never again will I be as ladylike as my grandfather desired The writer is a Murree-based freelance columnist.