The ride we took was itself almost as slippery as riding down a waterfall on tyres made of glass Coke bottles. It was rocky too so wheels were moving from side to side faster than they were downhill and it required the snake like hips of Shakira just to keep the bike sort of upright. There were yelps, shrieks and giggles because this trail was a wide awake strobe light nightmare that left us all with sweaty palms and our hearts knocking on our chest like a mallet on a xylophone. A fantastic way to start the trip; it was only lunch time and there was another ride planned, but only after some jerk meat goodness at Scotchie’s Jerk Centre.

Now for those not familiar with Jamaican cooking, let your giggles subside long enough for me to explain that ‘jerk’ refers to a method of cooking in which meat (typically chicken or pork, but can be applied to almost all meats and fishes) is marinated with a mix of aromatic spices which including the Mila Kunis hot Scotch Bonnets and is then smoked over coals for a considerable time to allowing the flavour to infuse into all of the meat. Once cooked the meat looks like it has been cooked in the afterburners of an F–16, but bite into it and the seasoning takes away all preconceptions. It is good enough to eat the bones too. Add to it some plantain (a cooking banana), peas and rice, festival (a savoury donut roll), some ackee (fruit) with saltfish and you have the exact kind of nourishing, delicious meal to recharge any a protein fiend biker. Fortunately for us (especially man–mountain Jamie) this was just the first of many more jerk stop–offs that week.

In the afternoon we were shuttled along the coast back up high above the ocean before unloading the bikes to continue on pedal skywards until we were above the sweet sounding and even sweeter smelling Mango Valley. From there we did a circuit through choking bamboo and juniper woodland to a descent down through open grassland, finishing with an exhilarating skittle through village walkways where kids and dogs chased us with yelps and barks all the way to the fishing bay of Rio Nuevo. It was all very Michael Palin meets the Metal Mulisha to be honest.

The next day, like most that week, started with a mild mind blur and brain rot being washed away by a smoothing bath in the sea. Bikes were loaded and we were off to the top of another remote hilltop before we knew it. The day was to be a simple one; downhill on several luscious lines of ribbony singletrack before ending up at a remote beach with jerk and Appleton’s waiting for us. What followed was simply more sublime than anything I could have imagined. We lapped a narrow thread of deliciously decrepit downhill called John Crow Gulley several times because it was so good and deserved a few more tyre tracks on it just to make sure its excellence was not mistaken. But the afternoon’s trail blew my mind and my gentleman’s region more than anything previously experienced. The guys at SMORBA (mainly Andy and Jonathan) with the help of local mountain man, Grant, have uncovered and fluffed a seraphic trail that combines picture postcard views with fast and untamed rooty rocky greatness. Pressure Drop, as it is known, whisks over grassland and garden patches that hang right over the steep coastline, before falling into sweating dense forest, where roots corrugate the trail and rocks jut forth with enough crooked regularity to keep any rider on their toes. The crowning glory in this trail (which goes into my top five trails so far ridden anywhere) is the fact that the trail abruptly ends in a gravelly turn which points you right at the rolling swell beating upon the uncluttered beach of an immaculate compact cove. There are no beach side bars, no hotels, no hawkers and no rosé tourons. Just Grant and a few other locals tending to a barbecue and a cooler full of cool ones.

Grant doesn’t ride bikes but he loves helping the guys uncover, regenerate and build trails to ride upon. Jamaican’s are some of the most warm hearted people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. They smile openly and they laugh heartily, either at you or with you. They may attempt to hide their good nature at first but that is only because they are trying to make measure of who you are. They are fiercely independent, resourceful and proud, so no man can expect to show them how to do anything even if it is how to ride a bike for the first time! Jamaicans love the mountain bike, even if they may call riders mad men, as it fits with their competitive streak. For Jamaicans there is no riding for fun, only for first place. On many rides I would be greeted by the question of whether I won or not. Unable to grasp the idea that we had travelled half way round the globe just to enjoy a fun frolic, they were convinced we must be racing. Jamaicans love simple sport where there are winners and losers, first place and last place, all defined by the unquestionable outcome of a finish line. On that day, every one of us felt like winners, even if only one of us took the prize in the eyes of the locals.