Cotswolds

We're happily freewheeling skittish down a rubbly farmtrack on our cyclo-cross bikes when a brace of burly mountainbikes speed past us, I think one of them might have even "hooned" as he overtook. That's enough for the red mist to descend and all of a sudden the game's afoot, we follow our spirits, crank hard three times on the pedals and follow their wheels down the rocky, rutted greasy descent, gently muttering the 'cross bike mantra of "don'tpuncture, don'tpuncture, don'tpuncture, don'tpuncture, don'tpuncture, don'tpuncture, don'tpuncture..." under our breaths all the way down. The look on the mountainbikers faces as we reach the bottom and they look round to see us right on their arses, smiling, to instantly overhaul them on the following climb with cheery, almost gay hello's makes it worth the pinball hanging on.

    Which is why we do it.

    Obviously.