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pace; I chose solitude, following my own rhythm. Somewhere in the Republika Srpska, a narrow tarmac crossing was blocked by a man and his two enormous dogs. Tension thickened as more riders piled up behind us. Negotiation revealed an alternative path, a small bypass around his property. In moments like this, the adventure wasn’ t just in the terrain but in navigating the small human dramas the landscape produced.
By late afternoon, fatigue had set in. My headlight cowling rattled violently; four screws had loosened, two gone completely. Darkness was creeping across the forest tracks. I stopped, coiled some para-cord, and did my best, hoping the bike would survive. Fortune arrived in the form of a small group of English riders on nimble 450s. They lent tools, a spare bolt, and, more importantly, patience. Together, we managed to secure the bike enough to carry on. Twelve and a half hours after leaving, I rolled into the Jahorina bivouac as the last rider, greeted by cheers from Joe and Brad. Exhaustion was complete, but so was the sense of accomplishment.
The second day offered fourteen hours of relentless riding. Rain slickened tracks made our soft knobbly tyres a gamble on wet
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