Someone told me the other day (hopefully at least slightly in jest) that everything I’ve ever written for Singletrack has followed a certain formula. That being: “Got up really early, rode for 1,000 miles, pooed my pants, fell asleep face-first in a bag of chips.” Or something like that.
My first reaction was that while I have, from time to time, written about the often grim, cacky underbelly of riding mountain bikes, I can’t remember scraping that particular barrel as often as this shouty, rent-a-gob individual had so publicly asserted.
But, on reflection, there’s probably some truth in the claim that my words have often descended into vivid descriptions of unpalatable themes involving poo, wee, open sores, nerve damage and vomit. The last Big Bicycle Adventure I was involved with featured all of those things. In fact, almost all those things arrived at the same time and thus ended that particular ride.
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