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scarce; small bikes siphoned from larger tanks. I managed to beg three litres from a farm and paired up with Dutch riders, navigating an alternative route around the mountains to reach Kolasin, a ski resort town, well after dark. Once again, we were the last to arrive. The day left my hands numb, fingers barely coordinating, a reminder that endurance was as mental as it was physical.
Section 2 closed with Albania, a surprising contrast. I had braced for a low level of development, but the roads were modern, cars sensible, and infrastructure far ahead of Bosnia. Velipoja, our bivouac by the sea, was a sprawling, modern hotel complex, quiet except for our convoy. Riding here offered moments to breathe, to reset, even as fatigue lingered in every muscle and tendon.
By the time we reached
Macedonia, I felt a strange rhythm settling into the ride. Some days were pure survival; others offered glimpses of beauty that reminded you why you were here at all. Wednesday, 17th May, dawned with a sense of quiet optimism. My body was rested, my mind alert, and for the first time, I felt capable rather than just reactive. We left Velipoja in a long, stretched-out convoy, the group trailing over a mile along
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