Dawn in Lahore
The first sound of the morning was the low hum of a generator somewhere below my window, a reminder that Lahore never really sleeps—it only pauses to inhale. I opened my eyes to the faint glow of a sky not yet blue, the air already thick with heat that promised another day of humidity. The city’s breath seeped through every crack: the faint hiss of gas stoves being lit for breakfast, the faraway call of a fruit seller pushing his cart through narrow lanes, the echo of an early azaan dissolving into the rumble of traffic awakening.
I swung my legs off the bed, feeling that familiar mixture of weariness and anticipation. Downstairs, in the parking basement, Frankie waited—silent, steadfast, and slightly dusty from the still air of the night. Her metal reflected the weak light of a single fluorescent tube that flickered in the corner like a heartbeat.
Packing, as always, was a small battle between caution and fatigue. Even though Frankie had slept safely in the garage, I had carried every piece of luggage inside the night before. Now, before the city had even shaken off its dreams, I was hauling the same weight back down again—bags, helmets, camera gear, tools—each clinking softly as it met the concrete floor. Sweat rolled down my back before sunrise.
When everything was strapped in place, I smiled into the camera lens mounted on the handlebar.
“Good morning Internet! It’s six-oh-five in the morning here in Lahore, Pakistan. Time to head north—to Islamabad.”
Through the Smog and the Trucks
Lahore at dawn is a paradox—half asleep, half in motion. The air shimmered faintly with dust; the horizon was hidden behind a dense grey veil. I caught the smell: smoke, faintly bitter, the residue of burnt fields beyond the city.
By the time I reached the outer ring road, the sun was trying to push through, a pale orange disc behind the haze. The road widened ahead—six lanes stretching toward the horizon. This was the artery that connected Lahore to Islamabad, both ancient and modern, built over the bones of the Grand Trunk Road, the route of emperors and merchants.
Traffic thickened: convoys of trucks painted like moving mosaics, buses plastered with film-star faces, Suzuki vans packed with families. Frankie and I found our own tempo, gliding between lanes. A truck overtook me on the left, stacked high with plastic chairs—pink, green, and sky blue flashing against the dull morning. Another followed, its sides painted with a tiger leaping through clouds, Urdu couplets curling around the image like vines.
The Roadside Breakfast
A few kilometres out, hunger announced itself. I spotted a small dhaba—tin roof, three wooden benches, steam curling up from kettles—and pulled over.
The owner looked up from his stove, a broad smile under his grey moustache.
“Tea?” he called.
A minute later, he set a glass in front of me, half-filled with golden chai, thick and sweet. The first sip burned pleasantly down my throat. Then came an omelette, its centre studded with green chillies that glowed like emeralds.
“Too much spice?” he laughed.
“A little,” I admitted.
When I tried to pay, he waved his hand. “No money. Guest.”
Moments like these disarm you. On the road, kindness appears unannounced and humbles you more than hardship ever can. I left a few notes tucked under the saucer when he turned away and rolled back onto the road feeling lighter than before.
Across the Plains of Punjab
The land began to rise. The altimeter crept upward: 300, 350, 400 metres. The air cooled just enough for me to feel it through my jacket. Trees grew taller; the soil deepened in colour. Trucks struggled on the inclines, their engines groaning like restless animals. I passed them one by one, feeling Frankie’s engine settle into a smooth, steady rhythm.
At a checkpoint near Gujrat, a policeman asked, “Where are you going?”
“Islamabad.”
“Alone?”
I nodded. He smiled. “Be careful. The road is good, but trucks are careless. Welcome to our north.”
Beyond Jhelum the plains widened again. Villages slipped by—flat-roofed houses, children waving from doorsteps, goats wandering across lanes. The world here moved slowly, unhurried by clocks.
Into the Capital
By early afternoon, the highway began to weave between low hills. The air lost its heaviness; a faint scent of pine replaced the thick smell of dust. The first signs for Islamabad appeared. The traffic grew tidy, the chaos receding behind me.
I rolled through a final toll booth and entered the city. Tree-lined avenues stretched ahead, wide and clean. The mountains loomed close, dark-green folds at the edge of vision. Islamabad felt unlike any other place I had been in Pakistan—restrained, composed, designed. It was as if someone had taken a city and decided it should also be a garden.
My Airbnb lay in a quiet neighbourhood of flowering shrubs and white walls. The host greeted me at the gate.
“You must be Noraly,” he said. “Welcome. You’ve had a long ride.”
The room opened onto a garden filled with birds. I unpacked, showered, and sat outside with tea. The evening deepened, the first stars appearing above the Margalla Hills.
Three hundred and fifteen kilometres of heat, dust, kindness, and shifting landscapes had delivered me here. Frankie rested under the porch, ticking softly as she cooled. Tomorrow I would explore this green, deliberate capital; tonight I listened to crickets and the gentle hum of the city settling into darkness.
A City That Breathes Green
Morning arrived softly, pale light filtering through curtains and birdsong rising with it. For the first time in many days I woke without urgency. Islamabad breathed differently—wide avenues shaded by banyans, hedges trimmed with purpose, the Margalla Hills standing guard at the edge.
After tea I stepped outside. Frankie waited, her metal cool and clean. I started her engine; the rumble echoed softly through the quiet street. Children on their way to school paused to wave.
The city unfolded in order and calm. Traffic lights obeyed, lanes respected, gardens blooming at every roundabout. Yet beneath that order pulsed the familiar heart of Pakistan—vendors roasting corn, the smell of masala from unseen kitchens, the chatter of shopkeepers arranging their wares.
Breakfast in the Capital
By eight, hunger guided me again. I found a small restaurant claiming to serve the best halwa puri in town. Inside, pans hissed and laughter bounced off tiled walls.
“One halwa puri, please.”
“One person? Two puri, chana, halwa.”
“Yes, perfect.”
Two golden puris, a bowl of spicy chickpeas, and sweet cardamom-scented halwa arrived—a trio of warmth and balance. Around me families chatted, students joked, cups clinked.
The waiter grinned. “You are traveller?”
“Yes. I ride motorcycle.”
“Then you must try paye—mutton feet!”
I smiled. “Maybe not this morning.”
Outside, the air shimmered with heat but the day felt generous.
The Flower of Unity
Signs pointed to the Pakistan Monument, and curiosity drew me uphill. The structure rose like a blooming stone flower, its four vast petals curving skyward. Each represented a province; smaller petals nestled between symbolised Gilgit-Baltistan and Azad Kashmir. The carvings told the nation’s story—poets, landmarks, independence.
Standing beneath it, I felt that my own path echoed its design: from Sindh’s heat through Punjab’s plains, now standing at the threshold of the mountains.
A family approached. “You travel alone?”
“Yes, from the south.”
“It is good,” the father said. “People will see our country through your eyes.”
Faisal Mosque and the Edge of Faith
From the ridge I followed the road toward the white geometry that pierced the skyline—the Faisal Mosque. Up close it looked like a spacecraft anchored at the base of the hills, its four spires pointing skyward. Funded by King Faisal of Saudi Arabia in 1976, its design echoed a Bedouin tent—minimalist yet monumental.
I parked at the edge of the marble courtyard. The mosque could hold three hundred thousand worshippers across its grounds, seventy-five thousand inside. I sat quietly, the wind carrying fragments of prayer while the hills stood behind like guardians. The architecture felt both futuristic and ancient, a bridge between desert simplicity and mountain stillness.
The Margalla Hills
By mid-afternoon I followed a narrow road into the Margalla Hills National Park. Within minutes the city’s order dissolved into forest. The air cooled, the light softened, and monkeys watched from railings. A fallen tree blocked half the path; I eased Frankie around it carefully.
At a viewpoint the world opened wide—Islamabad below, a quilt of green and grey fading into haze. The air smelled of pine and rain. Down in the valley, rice terraces shimmered, farmers knee-deep in water.
Children appeared from the trees, laughing. One offered me a mango. I bit into it—the juice running down my fingers, sweeter than anything from the plains.
Night in the Garden
The descent came with violet light over the hills. Back at the Airbnb, the garden glowed under the first lamps. I cleaned Frankie’s windscreen, checked the oil, tightened panniers.
The host brought tea. “Tomorrow you go further north?”
“Yes. Toward the mountains.”
“Then may the road be kind.”
I sat on the veranda as night settled, the air cool, the stars sharp. I thought of Lahore—the smoke, the generosity of strangers—and of the road that had carried me here. Travel compresses distance but expands understanding; every kilometre becomes a paragraph in a story written by motion.
Tomorrow the true ascent would begin. But tonight, in this quiet garden at the foot of the Margalla Hills, I felt at peace. Frankie rested in the shadows, her silhouette silver under the porch light. I finished my tea and whispered goodnight to the road. The adventure was only beginning, yet the first chapter had found its closing line.
Exploring Islamabad – The Heart of a Planned Capital at the Foot of the Hills
Morning returned with the kind of quiet clarity that only a capital city at the edge of wilderness can offer. The sky stretched wide and unblemished, the light already sharp by the time I drew the curtain aside. A faint breeze carried the smell of dew from the garden below. For a while, I just stood by the window watching a pair of bulbuls dive through the hibiscus shrubs. The hum of the city was soft, almost hesitant—as though Islamabad itself took its time waking.
After the long ride from Lahore, my body ached in ways that felt familiar but welcome. The exhaustion was gentle now, almost pleasant, the kind that reminds you that the distance behind you is real. I made myself a cup of instant coffee, leaned against the doorframe, and breathed in the thin, clean air.
Outside, the street was immaculate. There were no tangled wires overhead, no shouting vendors, no smoke. Even the stray dogs seemed calmer here, stretching lazily in patches of sunlight. Islamabad was not the chaotic, colourful Pakistan I had grown used to—it was a deliberate version, a city built out of symmetry and intention. And yet, beneath that order, I could still sense the same generosity that had followed me from the south: the warmth of the tea vendor, the smile of a passerby, the soft curiosity of strangers.
I started Frankie, her engine purring easily in the cooler air. The map on my phone glowed faintly in the morning light as I turned onto the main avenue. Trees formed a corridor of green; the asphalt looked as though it had been polished overnight. A cyclist waved as I passed, his basket full of oranges from the Sunday market.
The city felt new—because it was. Islamabad had been conceived barely six decades ago when the government decided to move the capital from Karachi to a location more central, more serene, and strategically closer to the northern frontiers. The master plan was drawn by the Greek architect Constantinos Doxiadis, who envisioned a city that would blend modern design with the timelessness of its natural surroundings. Riding through it now, I could see that dream still alive in its geometry: sectors arranged like honeycombs, each self-contained with markets, parks, and mosques, all gently sloping toward the green wall of the Margalla Hills.
Every turn seemed to reveal another embassy, another manicured park, another glimpse of the mountains. Islamabad was perhaps the only capital I had ever seen that seemed to breathe in sync with the landscape around it.
Breakfast in the City of Order and Shade
I followed the road toward the Blue Area—the business spine of the city—where cafés and breakfast spots were already filling up. The air smelled of cardamom, ghee, and frying dough. A young man waved me toward an open table outside his small restaurant.
“You look tired,” he said with a grin. “Halwa puri?”
The answer was obvious. Within minutes, a tray arrived bearing two perfectly round puris, puffed and golden, a bowl of chickpeas glistening with red spice, and a portion of semolina halwa that shone like molten amber. The combination was both comforting and dangerous; it made you forget every kilometre you’d travelled and every plan you’d made for the day.
The owner hovered nearby, curious about the motorcycle parked by the curb. “Where are you from?”
“From the south,” I said. “Rode up from Karachi through Lahore yesterday.”
He laughed softly. “You will find this city slow after Lahore. Too clean, too quiet.”
He was right. Islamabad didn’t shout; it whispered. The noise here was birdsong and distant construction, not horns and vendors. I finished my meal with sweet tea, thanked him, and returned to the road feeling recharged and strangely unhurried.
At the Pakistan Monument – Symbol of Unity and Vision
The sun was climbing higher by the time I reached the ridge that overlooked the city. The Pakistan Monument stood at its peak, its four massive petals unfurling against the blue sky. From below they looked smooth and monolithic; up close, they revealed an intricate skin of carvings and mosaics that told the story of a nation—its poets, its architecture, its battles for independence.
Families milled about, children running along the base, their laughter echoing off the marble. A guide explained to a group of students that the four main petals represented the provinces of Punjab, Sindh, Balochistan, and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, while the smaller petals nestled between them symbolized Gilgit-Baltistan and Azad Kashmir. Together they enclosed a small empty space at the centre—symbolic, he said, of collective purpose and national unity.
Standing there, I felt a strange harmony between symbol and place. The monument’s design mirrored the very layout of the city beneath it: disciplined, measured, and aspirational. Islamabad had been built to embody a modern identity, but here at the monument that identity stretched further back, touching the memory of the entire subcontinent.
The view from the ridge was spectacular. The city spread like a tapestry—patches of green separated by neat lines of grey, the long boulevard slicing straight toward the faint outline of the mosque in the distance. And beyond it, the mountains waited, their folds glimmering in the midday haze.
A family stopped to chat; the father wanted a photo with the bike. His daughter handed me a bottle of cold water with a shy smile. “For your journey,” she said. Small gestures, yet they stitched the fabric of the day tighter.
Faisal Mosque – Where Modern Faith Meets the Mountains
Descending from the ridge, I followed signs that pointed northward toward the shining spires of the Faisal Mosque. Even from afar, it dominated the skyline: white triangles rising sharply against the dark green backdrop of the hills.
Approaching it felt almost cinematic. The road curved upward slightly, lined with palm trees, and then the view opened into a vast expanse of marble. The mosque appeared suspended between heaven and earth—a tent of stone held down by four slender minarets that pierced the sky.
Commissioned in 1976 and funded by King Faisal of Saudi Arabia, the mosque had been designed by the Turkish architect Vedat Dalokay. He rejected domes and arches in favour of simplicity and symbolism, taking inspiration from the desert tents of nomads. The result was both bold and serene, a structure that seemed to embody both the austerity of faith and the elegance of mathematics.
I parked Frankie at the edge of the courtyard. The air shimmered with heat rising from the marble tiles. Inside, the soft murmur of prayer echoed, a low rhythm that carried even to the outer steps. I wasn’t dressed appropriately to enter, so I sat on a low wall under the shade of a pillar and simply watched.
People came and went—families, students, tourists, pilgrims. The mosque was as much a gathering place as it was a sanctuary. Behind it, the Margalla Hills stood tall, as though protecting this heart of the city. For a moment, I felt the strange alignment of geometry and geography, of human aspiration meeting the eternal calm of nature.
A man with a gentle voice approached and asked where I was from. When I told him I was travelling across Pakistan by motorcycle, he smiled. “Then you are learning what we mean when we say every road leads to faith. Some to prayer, some to gratitude.”
His words stayed with me as I walked back to Frankie. Gratitude seemed to be the silent language of this country—spoken not with words but with gestures, tea, smiles, and unexpected kindness.
Into the Margalla Hills – The City Gives Way to Wilderness
By early afternoon the sun softened into gold, and the air began to cool. I followed a narrow road that led into the Margalla Hills National Park, the forested spine that forms the first ripple of the great Himalayan foothills. Within minutes, the polished order of Islamabad disappeared behind me, replaced by wilderness.
The climb was gentle at first, the asphalt twisting between trees that arched overhead. Dappled light flickered across Frankie’s tank. The smell of pine replaced the scent of petrol. Occasionally, a troop of monkeys appeared on the guardrails, their eyes curious, their movements quick as thought. Vendors sold roasted corn on the cob, the smoke from their charcoal fires blending with the mountain breeze.
The further I went, the narrower the road became, curling around blind bends, each one revealing a new vista of valleys and ridges. At one curve, a fallen tree lay half across the tarmac, its trunk dark with recent rain. I slowed, steering Frankie carefully around it. Beyond the bend, the city reappeared far below, a shimmering patchwork under the fading light.
I stopped at a viewpoint where the land dropped away in a wide green sweep. From here, Islamabad looked almost unreal—too orderly, too composed, as though someone had placed it there carefully between the mountains and the plain. The air tasted clean, sharp, alive. Down in the valley, I could see rice fields reflecting the sun like mirrors, farmers moving slowly through ankle-deep water.
Children emerged from a nearby path, laughing and barefoot. They ran toward the bike, asking questions about the stickers on the panniers. I handed them a few candies from my pocket, and one of them, the smallest, offered me a mango from his basket. It was warm from the sun, its skin freckled gold. I bit into it; the juice ran down my fingers, sweet beyond words.
Moments like this made travel feel like a form of prayer—simple, wordless, and complete.
Evening at the Edge of the City – Reflections in a Garden
The descent took longer than I expected. The road twisted endlessly downward, the light changing with every turn. By the time I reached the outskirts of the city again, the first lamps were flickering on. The air carried the faint scent of rain, though no clouds were visible yet.
Back at the Airbnb, the host was watering the garden. He waved and called out, “How were the hills?”
“Beautiful,” I said. “They remind me why I ride.”
He smiled knowingly. “Tomorrow, you go further?”
“Yes. To the mountains.”
“Then may you find the road kind.”
I cleaned Frankie’s windscreen, checked the oil, and tightened the panniers once more. The rituals of maintenance always soothed me. Machines, I’d learned, reward attention; a few minutes of care, and they respond like living creatures.
The night settled slowly. I sat in the garden with a cup of tea, watching moths drift around the light. The hum of the city was distant, softened by the trees. From far away came the faint rhythm of drums—perhaps a wedding celebration somewhere in the neighbourhood. The stars above were sharp, undimmed by pollution, scattered like salt across black silk.
It struck me how each city along my journey had its own tempo. Karachi had been an ocean wave, restless and endless. Lahore had been a drumbeat, fiery and loud. Islamabad, in contrast, was a held breath—a pause between plains and peaks, between noise and silence.
The Threshold of the North – Anticipation Before the Climb
By dawn, the first birds had begun their chorus again. I packed slowly, savouring the stillness. The garden glowed with dew, and a cool breeze moved through the leaves.
The host came to say goodbye, pressing a small packet of dates into my hand. “For strength,” he said simply.
I strapped the luggage, checked the fuel, and stood for a moment before starting the engine. The sun broke over the hills in a burst of light, painting everything gold—the street, the garden, the chrome of Frankie’s mirrors.
Ahead lay the mountains: Abbottabad, the Kaghan Valley, the legendary Karakoram Highway, and the unending conversation between road and sky. Islamabad was the last gentle heartbeat before the climb into that vast, wild geography.
As I rode out of the city, the skyline receded behind me. The white spires of the mosque caught the sun one last time, glinting like beacons. The avenue widened, then narrowed, then finally gave way to open country.
The air grew cooler with every kilometre. I shifted gears and smiled inside my helmet. The north was calling, and Frankie responded with a low, eager hum.
The journey that had begun in the heat and chaos of Lahore had brought me here—to the threshold of something greater, a road that would lead through mountains older than memory, along rivers that carved their own hymns in stone.
I did not know where the next turn would take me, but I knew I would keep following it, as every traveller does—not for the destination, but for the endless unfolding of the world itself.
Epilogue – The Gateway Remembered
That evening, somewhere along the foothills, I looked back one last time. The valley of Islamabad lay behind me, wrapped in twilight. From this height, it seemed impossibly small, a scattering of lights at the base of the great dark mountains.
In that moment, I understood why travellers often speak of gateways. Some cities mark beginnings; others mark transitions. Islamabad was both. It stood between two worlds—the cultivated and the wild, the measured and the untamed—and in doing so, it embodied the spirit of the road itself: balance, movement, and renewal.
The wind rose, carrying the scent of rain. I tightened my grip on the handlebars, leaned forward, and let Frankie run free into the widening curve of the night.
The journey north had begun.
