Casa de Ciclistas, Peru

His reputation preceeds him by thousands of kilometers. His talents resurrect lame machinery. His home welcomes the smelliest of guests. His friends concoct delectable pizza. His enthusiasm peaks after midnight under neon light. His archives record decades of gripping adventures. His trophy case overflows onto the workbench. And yet his fame is only matched by his humilty.

Over twenty years ago, Lucho began welcoming two-wheeled travelers into his home, repairing neglected bicycles, extending his knowledge of local delights, and sharing his passion for cycling with vagabonds from around the world. Since then, he has hosted 1031 cyclists, making us his prime priority. Every aspect of his life is oriented on the promotion of cycling, whether it be the racing circuit in South America or the touring community around the world. His library of bicycles strewn around the house indicate the depth of his love, including one aged mountain bike with a car-seat mounted on the back. His two-year old copilot´s name, not surprisingly, is Lance.

Above the door hangs a banner announcing the ¨Casa de Ciclistas,¨ but with Lucho´s notoriety, no sign is needed. Strangers pointed the way before we had the thought to ask, figuring that gringos on loaded bicycles were headed for Lucho´s haven. Under the banner is a mural depicting two cyclists, one slick, the other grimy, carrying the globe over their heads. Between them, ¨Amistad.¨ The moment we met Lucho, we understood this life-long commitment that sought to brighten the journeys of weary cyclists. We arrived after a recooperative beach-stint in Huanchaco, planning on spending an afternoon looking at maps and tinkering with our broken bikes, but after feeling the warmth with which we were welcomed, it was impossible to continue along the cold road that lie ahead.

The days hanging around the Casa de Ciclistas have accumulated with little awareness of the passing time. Nights are spent racing around the city in reckless fashion, Lucho leading with a heavy pedal stroke. The sprint usually ends at a pizza joint where we´re received with familiarity, along with bottomless wine carafes and divinity pizzas. After dinner, we wander purposefully into a dimly lit, mirrored nightclub where all the female employees seem to have forgotten their clothing. Later, as we bed down, we have every intention of cycling onward the next day, but come morning, we find plenty of reasons to stay. So until the reasons run out, we´ll enjoy the fruits of our pilgrimage to the Casa de Ciclistas.