On a whim, clutching the handlebars, eyes fixing the horizon, huffing and puffing like a steam roller, you steer left out of a well-known dirt path. The boggy haze barely lets you see where you are going, as the wheels turn around, at first without any grip. Then you get a feel for it, and you steer through this field, probably the first human being ever to cross this mosquito-infested frog haven.
You feel like a tractor, as a thick muddy sludge hits the mudguard. The bike shakes, leans from left to right, but it doesn’t stop going. The new fat tires ached to try them out, and you couldn’t help it, you had to go out into this hellhole and see if you got your money’s worth.
Just when you thought you’re going to regret it, the bike sped up. The tires reached a thicker mud, frog croaks stopped, and you plunged out of the boggy terrain, like a mud rocket, putting on a fireworks display of dirt, muddy water and dead bugs.
As you continued to accelerate, the tires started showing their prowess in handling the changes in terrain. From grass to dirt to mud to puddles, back to grass, the tire tread cutting through, like a hot knife through butter. And when you finally hit the brakes, and look back, you can almost discern two words written in the trail left behind in that god forsaken field - “victory” and “joy”.
You lift up your helmet and make a U-turn, ready to write some more.
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