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peak. Jase knew I was hurting but had the humour to laugh heartily at my predicament. He helped me up, pointed to the back of his bike, and said,“ get on!”.
“ Fuck me!”, I exclaimed, reluctantly climbing aboard, nothing to hold on to except for the riders waist, and a hope that I wouldn’ t come off the back.
We passed through plantations, over rivers where the bridge was“ invisible”, and through pockets of forest where the birdsong gave way to our engine notes echoing off limestone walls. A wheezing breathe I discovered was myself, gasping for the last vestiges of cool air.
And at days end? We ' d retreat back to Momi for a cold beer to wash down the dirt and the many laughs of the days exploits. In the Fijian forests there was no signal, no social media, no screen time. Just sore muscles and the smell of adrenalin
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