The ride from Tjeniste to Sarajavo on hwy M-18 (which I have now unaffectionately dubbed M-80 because it’s scary, and loud, and it can kill you) was terrible.

The road is entirely devoid of services that have been a mainstay in every other part of Bosnia, like food, water or a place to stay.

We were forced off the road by encroaching semis into areas with “beware of landmines” signs. It’s not okay.  Our planned 50 km ride that included two 600 meter climbs had already stretched to 60 km and we thought we just had one last 10 km climb to suffer when we stated, “the next 10km will be the longest of our life.”

We couldn’t have been more right.  There was nothing in the “town” after the climb. When I say the town had nothing, that’s not entirely true.  It did have a convenience store, though we were more hoping for a market or a place to stay.  Settling for bubble water and chips to quell our emotional outbursts, we encountered a belligerently drunk man in army fatigues at the check-out.  In fragmented english he told us we were crazy for riding our bikes and then sped off drunkenly down the windy road ahead.  

However crazy he may have been, he was right.  This is all crazy.  My legs feel like they are made of bruises.  For the past three weeks we have been trying to keep up with our fresh legged friends and their fresh, peppy, can-do attitudes while our bodies, ravaged from overuse sacrifice parts to maintain the whole.  My feet have never looked so gross in all my life, and due to soccer, forest defence, and little regard for personal hygiene, I have had a lifetime of fairly gross feet.  They wake up at 5:00 AM.  We stagger to a state somewhere between confusion and giving up by 7:00 AM.  It’s like running a relay race, but we ran the first three legs and then we have to hold onto the baton with the closer (typically, the fastest one on the team) for the final stretch.  

Today we let go.  They can have the baton.  They can have their fresh kilometer gobbling disregard for physical practicality.  

I’m renting a car.  I’m making sure I take a shit way before I do anything strenuous.  I’m gonna fuck my girlfriend in the morning before I suffocate and contaminate my balls in those god damned bike shorts that make me feel like someone who wears functional clothes.  I’m not a recreationalist!  I’m a quitter.  And this is what I do best.  

It ended up being 30 more kilometers until we found food and a place to stay.

Tomorrow we go to Sarajevo and FUCK OFF.

Sarajevo the best for last.