Riding with TWO WIVES on New Year's Eve in Dubai

Every New Year's Eve, Dubai splits into two groups: people who booked their fireworks spot in October, and people improvising at 9 PM. We were group two. My solution was bold: take both wives to the fireworks — the real one on the back seat, and Manchalee, my BMW R1250 GSA, underneath us both.

I should say upfront: desi husbands above 50 do not mess with their wives on camera. I dedicated this episode to my club, the Bad Monkeys, in case I needed somewhere to sleep.

Act One: The Negotiation

The kids were visiting from Canada and had their own plans. My wife asked the dangerous question — why aren't WE going anywhere? — and my excuses about Burj Khalifa crowds collapsed quickly. Then inspiration: what better night for Manchalee and her sautan to finally make peace? We could beat the traffic on two wheels, filter past the jams, see the Palm Jumeirah fireworks like royalty.

First obstacle: physics. Two people of our combined dimensions on one motorcycle required Google research and several attempts. My wife claims 5 feet; university-era intelligence says 4 feet 11. Behind me, she disappeared entirely from mirror view.

Act Two: Romance at 80 km/h

Once rolling, I realised the strategic situation: we were both trapped on one bike with an intercom, and everything I said would be recorded for training and quality purposes for the rest of my life. I went for romance anyway: put your hands around me. Thirty years of marriage earns you that line.

The reply came instantly: your stomach is so big, my hands are not enough for it. Brother, what is one supposed to do with romance when the wife is this cruel?

But somewhere on those clean, open roads, between memories of our university motorcycle dates in Lahore — chikoo milkshakes at Hafiz Juice Corner, if you must know — she finally admitted it: the Manchalee ride has its own fun. Romance point earned.

Act Three: The Wrong Turn

At the Palm, the entrance was jammed. First time riding with a pillion on a heavy GSA, I wasn't about to lane-filter. So I made the executive decision that defined the night: instead of right toward Atlantis, we turned left to an empty road for a comfortable distant view. We parked, dismounted, turned around — and found the entire fireworks display hidden behind a wall of new towers. Twenty-five minutes of bridge-watching followed, during which my wife recited a complete, chronologically ordered list of every household chore I'd skipped that year. The smoke from my vape genuinely exceeded the smoke from the visible fireworks.

We rode home before she could remember what the bike cost. Both wives are still with me. I'm calling it a win.

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