Being born of necessity meant the trail occasionally lead us out of the jungle and through populated pockets during our descents, enmeshing us in rather than removing us from local culture. We found ourselves in several back-alley rallies, a herd of white people on two wheels stampeding through peaceful mountain villages. Ripping fence-line singletrack through shantytowns, we wove between shacks, dodging goats, boosting off drainpipes, water bars and eroded stairways. We charged down steep, crumbling roads more worthy of rear-squish than portions of the trail had been. The first time a group of locals stood, watching us near a tight corner, I approached cautiously. The reaction was not what I expected.
Exclusive: Riding the Rhythms of Jamaica's High Country
Exclusive: Riding the Rhythms of Jamaica's High Country