Off-road, we encountered locked gates, and we had to hand our bikes across to another rider,
then climb over ourselves. On one two-metre giant, I clambered onto the narrow
top rail, which was strung with barbed wire, swung my legs across, perched gingerly,
and jumped. There was a disconcerting tug and rrrrrrip as I let go. Yes. Those barbs; my shorts. For the rest of that day, I rode with a fist-sized tear on both
buttocks. But cycling shorts are made of resilient fabric. That night, I sewed
them up, salvaging them, and some dignity, for the ride next morning.
Inspired by Rosehill and Dale. Photo by Bob Miller, of a team-assisted, Flag-on-Iwo-Jima-like crossing of a much shorter fence.
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