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Less than 20 kilometers from the border, it started to rain and I slipped on my jacket for the first time in months. Suddenly, an oncoming car peeled to a halt in front of me. Do you speak English? It is very slippery. I waved at the man and thanked him for the warning.
Cycling on, I quickly discovered what the old man had meant. After passing through what must have been the 8th or 9th tunnel of the day, I came across three cyclists two young men and a woman who were standing on the roadside, tending to one another and wiping blood from their arms, backs and faces.
The boys were trying to go as fast as the cars and slipped in the water. We are okay. I looked at the young man the woman was tending to and assumed it was her boyfriend. He had his shirt off and had just put on a fresh new pair of tight black bike shorts. His others lay in a tattered mess on the earth beneath his feat.
He had obviously taken a fall on his left side as his thighs and shoulders were red with blood and black with tar from the roads. The other male rider, who was much taller and skinnier than his bruised and bloody companion had taken a serious hit to the head. I would have liked to have stayed and heard more about their travels and possibly cycled with them for a while, but it seemed as though they wanted to get rid of me. I think they were just embarrassed at having crashed and at having caused such a scene.
So I said goodbye, wished them luck, and quickly made my way to the border. But even with so few people crossing the border, the wait took a good half hour.