It was about three thousand feet up in the Sierra mountains north of Reno, California. The spare tubes had been used, there was still a long stretch of single track to ride back to the lodge. That it was arguably some of the best riding ever only added to the pressure to get rolling again.
An innocuous piece of limestone had just nipped into the front tyre as I rolled to a halt under the Douglas trees. It was time for the puncture kit and repair a spare as the rest of the crew looked on slightly pissed that the flow had been lost. There was already haste to the job in hand when Eduardo, a friend who runs Andes Pacifico came to the rescue with what looked like a bullet or something you stick where the sun don’t shine.
