Quad Biking Chaos in the Dubai Desert — PRG Turns Six

Ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters: welcome to PRG's 6th anniversary ride. Today's ride was so organized, so disciplined, so calm that for a second I thought we had accidentally joined a Dubai Police convoy. Straight lines, indicators on, proper spacing. Who are these decent people? Where is the usual chaos? Apparently 70 bikes together means everyone acts disciplined, because someone's GoPro will catch you and make you PRG-famous for all the wrong reasons.

A Wedding Procession with Exhaust Notes

The story began, as always, at the holy site of all holy sites: the ADNOC Al Khail gas station, where 60 to 70 riders were warming up their engines and cooling down their brains. Captain Mirza gave his usual briefing — the same one nobody listened to in the last video — and this time people pretended to listen, which counts as growth. At the regroup stop before the venue, the scene looked exactly like a Pakistani wedding party arriving at the bride's area: bikes lined up, helmets adjusted like sherwanis, jackets straightened like waistcoats. Then, entry time — we rode into Desert Storm together like a giant baraat, lights everywhere, exhaust noise echoing across the dunes. And yes, the organizers lovingly forced us to climb that tiny little slope again: 70 bikes conquering a bump that even a goat would roll its eyes at. We did it, because PRG never says no to a slope.

The Bullet Time Incident

While everyone queued for wristbands and quad bike tickets, I took out my bullet-time selfie stick, gathered a small group — mostly the Burrito Brothers — and started spinning the stick for a slow-mo cinematic shot. Slow, smooth, cinematic, and then — bam — straight into Dr. Daddy's head.

Bullet time became bullet trauma. Everyone had a good laugh except Dr. Daddy, who suddenly remembered his Wi-Fi password from ten years ago. It definitely jogged his memory.

Combined with me ratting out his secret food plans on the last ride, I am in big trouble. Dr. Daddy, please forgive me.

Mario Kart with Real Sand in Your Mouth

Then the grand activity: sponsored quad biking. Fifty or sixty of us zoomed into the dunes in total darkness — only headlights ahead, sand below, screaming riders behind. Up, down, left, right. It felt like Mario Kart, but with real sand in your mouth. By the end we were coated head to toe; I looked like someone had deep-fried me. We washed up for the ceremony, where the chief guest — the Consul General of Pakistan — handed out certificates, shields and mementos to the most active PRG members. Everyone clapping, cheering; PRG looking like a well-organized, highly cultured club. Please don't tell the Consul General about the selfie stick incident.

Dinner deserves its own paragraph: one long queue, slow movement, no arguments, no second choices. First guy, biryani plate. Second guy, small korma plate. Third guy — chalo, side please. We'd hoped a sponsored dinner meant barbecue and kebabs, but this was the classic one-dish wedding menu: simple, humble, to the point. Credit where due — it was tasty, and PRG never complains when there is free biryani.

Six years of laughs, lights, quad biking, sand showers and celebrity guests. Happy anniversary PRG — ride safe, ride disciplined, and never stand too close to my selfie stick. The same desert venue hosted our Off-Road Museum night ride, and the festive season that followed brought the Christmas boat party. If you're looking for your own riding family, start with the UAE motorcycle clubs guide.

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