PRG Night Ride to the Off-Road Museum — Desert Storm, Badges and a Chicken Museum

Every motorcycle club eventually hits the same wall: the group chat goes quiet, someone says 'where haven't we been yet?' and the answer comes back — the Off-Road Museum. Not because anyone is passionate about vintage 4x4s. Because PRG members are addicted to the riding itself; the destination is a formality. So a night ride it was, with everyone posing at the gas station meeting point like they'd just wrapped shooting Fast & Furious — Pink Edition.

New Badges, Old Rituals

This ride had inductions. My office colleague Abdul Hadi joined his first PRG ride, beaming like he'd been admitted into some elite secret society. Badges were made for the newcomers — joining PRG is like a married man attending a wedding and getting married off again on the spot. Then came Captain Mirza's safety briefing: everyone gathered around listening with the intensity of a team about to summit K2, while internally one guy wondered where dinner would come from and another thought, Mirza sahab's voice is lovely, but what exactly is he trying to say?

We rolled through Dubai's gorgeous night roads in PRG's famous stagger formation — in which, I can confirm, absolutely nothing was staggered — and arrived at Desert Storm like a groom entering a wedding hall. Lights, noise, motorcycles, buggies, a full desert carnival.

The Slope, Mr. Pakistan and Jozita

Then someone announced: brother, small slope ahead, everyone please ride up. The slope was so narrow that if a man and a woman passed through it together, a nikah would become obligatory — as they say about the old lanes of Lahore. I nudged Manchalee up it in front of the whole crowd, terrified of dropping her and being publicly disgraced. Made it. Barely. Dignity intact, blood pressure not.

The evening's entertainment hopes rested on Abdul Mateen — our new member, Mr. Pakistan, built like protein shakes beg him for mercy — and Doctor Daddy, our resident bodybuilder with three or four Spartan races under his belt. We tried very hard to arrange a wrestling match. Both men sized each other up and wisely declined. Our hopes drowned quietly in the dunes.

The real headline was Jozita — PRG's first female member. Personal trainer, bodybuilder, and a cancer survivor who has recovered fully, mashallah. Looking at her you'd never guess the battles she's fought; next to her, the six-foot young guys looked like chicks.

With planning this brilliant, we arrived at the Off-Road Museum exactly when it was closed. So we took photos with the giant jeep outside as if we'd spent four years building it ourselves.

The Great Escape That Wasn't

Doctor Daddy and I hatched a plan to sneak off for proper food. Captain Mirza read our faces, ran a special Pakistani CIA-style investigation, extracted a full confession and cancelled our breakaway program: you'll eat where we all eat. The hungry nation reached Akhtar Alawal Restaurant — late, typical Pakistani style — where the mutton was finished and only broiler chicken remained. We'd come for the Off-Road Museum and ended up at the Chicken Museum. I polished off half a chicken while the Doctor glared at me for snitching.

A ride full of laughter, zero drama and a lot of stinginess. If night rides are your thing, the PRG night run up Jebel Jais is the bigger sibling of this one — and if you're hunting for a club of your own, start with the UAE motorcycle clubs guide.

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