IN THE LAND OF THE THUNDER DRAGON
“Woo-hoo!” the young rider hurtling down the mountain in front of me screams. “Welcome to Bhutan’s Whistler!” He is referring, of course, to Canada’s Mecca for mountain biking.
On either side of me, the dense foliage is a blur. The boys in front of me skid and lean into turns, sending up sprays of dry oak leaves and pine needles. My knuckles, under my gloves, are no doubt white. I try to stay with the group, but pretty soon, it’s a futile exercise. The boys are flinging their bikes over fallen logs and branches, catching air where I come to a screeching halt barely surviving a bone-jarring crash. And most painfully for my ego, I’m having to pick up my bike to walk over the obstacles so I can keep riding. I’m navigating—less than gracefully—the second or third of such obstacles when I realise
