My friend Andy and I had a choice. We were at the reception of Silverlake Camp in Dalsland, Western Sweden, about to indulge in a spot of mountain-biking, and could opt for either a 10km, 20km or 30km route. The routes were inked out with marker pen on three laminated maps, over which we brooded intently, our eyebrows furrowed in the grave manner customary to men trying to pretend they have the foggiest idea about what they’re looking at. Christer, our contact at the camp, smiled patiently behind the desk.
I took a chance and pointed at the middle map, the one I perceived to have the shortest route, 10km. “This one looks pretty straightforward… Andy?”