The first time my family and I went hunting in the mud in early April, I rolled it like they did on a salon's patriot model. We never took it off. I had to drive sideways through fierce mud, the mud was flying just horror on the roof on the hood, but I was driving 5 km/h, but I was driving! The mud had frozen in the morning so we could drive as if on dry ground, but when we returned, everything had melted and it was hell. rowing along the threshold in the muck is like standing on the tall threshold of a patriot. I climbed up a snowy crust like I was on chains, rowed in the white celen like I was in my element, and generally had a blast until the second winter started and dragged on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on till it was pure hell. same as if I were riding on the rims of a car. I've gotten to the point where every 24,000 miles requires new tires, and I need those tires badly before winter sets in. For the second year in a row in mild mud, it slides and lathers like a freeway on wheels, so I don't think this amounts to much.
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