I’d looked at the pedal rickshaws since arriving in Chandigarh and wondered how they coped in the traffic ecosystem. Now it was time to find out for myself. It was frightening but fun, the scariest moment being when we were hooted by a bus trying to overtake us on a roundabout. And hooted. And got closer. And hooted louder. And got even closer. Every muscle around my midriff tightened in a way that hasn’t happened since I last went to the gym.

Things were more relaxed on the special bike paths, although my driver was trying to compensate for his lack of power on the road by attempting some rare overtaking. He did it without success due to the wide loud of another rickshaw that wasn’t in the mood to race.

The seats were like the back-less sofas preferred in trendy hotels, minus the trendy part. As soon as I sat down I thought I was going to slip off, but after trying a few awkward positions I settled on a laid-back lounging style often featured by models in men’s magazines. Finally, I was sort of comfortable. There wasn’t much to hold on to, which didn’t help in moments of fear, so it was lean back and (try to) enjoy the ride.

I felt like an olden day character in a buggy, only my fan was missing. The riding was hard work. There were no gears and only two speeds: sitting down and, when extra power was needed, standing up.

Just because there are lane markings on Indian roads doesn’t mean they are followed – in either direction. So auto-rickshaws putt-putted within centimetres of the carriage and the cars got pretty close too. But it wasn’t until the bus-up-my-behind that I started to think I was being too adventurous. My cyclist was unperturbed and swung off the roundabout like he was a Tour de France rider dodging a traffic island. He parked by the side of the road and I was safe.