After the massive off road adventure that was scouting by motorbike in Madagascar, it was time to get back on the gentle, lightweight mountain bike. I wheeled it out to pleased to be back on a steed that required instinctive handling and had no throttle. After a mission to replace the back tire valve, the Tall Boy was ready to hit the trails. Bliss, the helmet felt like a feather. Four of us set out for a coffee ride up the spruit and I was pleasantly surprised to have not lost too much fitness in two weeks away. Several Vida coffees later, we dragged ourselves away for the downhill return journey and the legs were still feeling good despite the severe bruising that colured my shins yellow and mauve. The last section of the ride is along Witkoppen road and as we slowed for a robot, my handlebars hooked a rubbish bin and I was unceremoniously dumped onto my hands. Ow, ow ow! Instant bruising appeared on my wrists and when my mates had stopped laughing, we picked up the bike, inspected my wrists and decided we'd better head for home before the adrenalin wore off. Acid doesn't even begin describe my attitude. I'd survived motorbiking in worse conditions and received plenty of bruises and I was tired of hurting. What's more, I coldn't put my left wrist on the handlebars. So it was a one handed ride back to Sean's car where Derek and Doug fussed over my bike and me. I'll admit there were a few tears by now. Both wrists hurt abominably but the left was worse. Icing and a few hours rest didn't ease it so it was off to Olivedale Clinic. Then it wasn't just my wrist hurting but my wallet. The end result was a heavily splinted wrist which fortunately wasn't broken but was damn sore. maybe there's a message there somewhere, but I'm damned if I know what.