It was not the ride up the hill of what turned out to be quick-sand-like mud (unsurprisingly, Karla had to push half the way). It was not the kilometre of walking her heavily mud-encrusted bike over a further mud-encrusted shoulder while cars hurtled past on Fermor. It was not trying to keep herself and her bike from tumbling off the little goat path to find the entrance to the obviously unused bridge sidewalk. It was not the fact that the rear derailleur was so full of mud, her crank couldn't make a full rotation without the chain being stretched to the max and freezing up. It was not resting the Moose in curbside puddles of filthy, frigid water to try to get the mud off, soaking her mitts and chilling her feet in the process. It was not fouling her travel coffee mug scooping filthy road water to pour over her chain. It was not the next 10 or more minutes with her bike upside-down on the sidewalk, trying to get enough mud off the chain that it would fit on the ...
a smattering of brain droppings from a self-styled writer