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tarmac, yet some riders pushed hard. Two enduro bikes tore past me down a downhill stretch, and disaster struck almost immediately. One went over the edge into the forest below. I stopped, peered through pine trunks, and saw the rider crawling back up, lucky with nothing worse than a cut cheek. Nature’ s indifference had a brutal efficiency— and a way of keeping us humble. The trails were merciless: muddy ruts uphill and downhill, black moorland peat, loose stones on bends, wet grassy plains. If you stopped mid-climb, the bike wouldn’ t start again; if you paused on a downhill, you risked sliding into a tree. Solitude alternated with bursts of camaraderie, riding alongside others through open fields or scrambling over stony tracks. Gorazde, one of the UN“ safe areas” during the 1990s war, revealed lingering scars, yet also life persisting under the shadow of history. The Serb flag marked the tarmac in some areas, but Muslims still lived quietly in these towns— small acts of resilience in the face of legacy.
Montenegro’ s high moors offered wind-swept, lonely stretches. Snowdrifts blocked tracks, forcing detours or cautious progress. Riders quickly realised fuel was
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