Huaraz, Peru

Expeditions hatch at breakfast in Huaraz. The influx of adventurers generates an electric air at eight o´clock in the morning, provoked by the panorama of peaks gazed upon with glazed eyes. As senses awaken with the steaming tea, so do the possibilities of floundering in the flanking faults. Ideas inhabit the narrow space between contours while the gamers assemble around the map, eager for outings that far exceed the expectations conjured over coffee. While our iron horses wait patiently in the stable, we´re able to partake in the pedestrian playground games, leaving the round rubber at rest. First up, Lightning Tag.

One morning, the blinding glare of the glaciated peaks spoke to us in tantalizing tongues, beckoning us to place where its whispers might be heard. The Bakers, a family with altruistic intentions of spreading love osmotically, proposed a potato planting outing that would unsuspectingly include a game of Lightning Tag. Had we known, we may not have signed up.

The rain ceased as the moon rose over the city lights of Huaraz that night, far below us in a half-assembled pile of Legos. The campfire slowly faded on the stone enclosures of the potato patch, sending us into our respective refuges for the night. With clockwork accuracy, the rain began again early the next afternoon, and with it came the featured activity. Sven, Soren, and I successfully dodged the electric jabs under a pile of boulders, but the Bakers weren´t so slippery. David, the father of the family, recalled nothing of the game. Apparently, the lightning knocked him out with one of its tags. Nature never plays nice. Thankfully, he suffered no lasting damages, but we´re still waiting to see what kind of eccentricities he gained from the incident. Early signs indicate a unnatural affection for vernacular plowing. After a quick trip to the nurse´s office, recess ended and we returned to the breakfast table in Huaraz to scheme another, less violent diversion: Hide and Go Seek.

Weeks earlier, Sven suffered a cycle-stopping knee injury that put a halt to our pedaling progression, so with his remaining days in Peru, we had to reorient our activities to include less leg revolutions. During a typically prospective breakfast session, we groggily gathered around our fruit smoothies to formulate a more relaxing reimmersion into the Cordillera Blanca, this time for a game of Hide and Go Seek.

Dylan, Sven, and I loaded onto a bus that took us deep into the mountains where we hid from Soren for days on end. Had Sven not experimented with the varying densities of wax and water boiling on an open fire, we could have hid for weeks, but the fireball from his rudimentary pyrotechnic display revealed our position with explosivity. Come to think of it, we failed to inform Soren of his seeking duty, so we waited at 4,800 meters for nothing, fireball notwithstanding. As we realized this, we ventured back to the road and flagged a bus back to Huaraz, ignorantly victorious. Over the next breakfast, Sven prepared for his return as we began drumming up another outing, later to be categorized as Stuck in the Mud.

With mouths full of fresh bread, Soren and I pored over the Huayhuash map, spitting crumbs at the 150 km of frightfully steep trail that circumnavigated a pocket of 6,ooo meter peaks. Despite the impedimentary season, we forged ahead with restless ambition. Dusting off the remnants of another successfully schemed breakfast, we prepared to make the market trip that would feed us for ten days on the trail, when, from over our shoulders, we overheard the token catcall for other interested parties, a sound much like the sweeping motion of a bristled broom. Jens, fresh off the overnight bus from Lima, glowed with the prospect of spending a week along the hem of Huayhuash´s gargantuan garment. With a few casual examinatory questions that ensured our compatability in uncomfortably close quarters, we sealed the deal. Stuck in the Mud would gain relevance soon.

Expeditions also end at breakfast. After months of cycling with six wheels in sync, we´ve downsized the circus act. Now, all that remains is the Sturlaugson Family Freakshow. Business might suffer without the Flying Dutchman, but with a few transient stand-ins, the show will go on. The antics of our clowny companion will be sorely missed, most painfully in the early morning hours when we´re faced with an incapacity to recreate his famed Dutch pancakes. Breakfast schemes will never be the same.