Mountainbound, Peru

As we poured over the endless literature at the Casa de Ciclistas, we found a graph that mapped the route from Trujillo to Cuzco. Apparently, a technologically savvy cyclist felt compelled to share his wealth of data in a painfully detailed manner, a priceless gift for southbound cyclists. The only problem with acquiring this information was now knowing the brutal reality of what´s to come. What we found resembled a electrocardiogram after resuscitatation, showing a flatline until the defibrillator shocked the subject back into rhythm. At that point, the graph indicated convulsions, all the way to Cuzco. If we had measured our heart rates at that point, it may have shown similar spikes.

After nearly two weeks of procrastination, we rode out of Trujillo hesitantly, approaching the climb like poorly behaved children on their way to detention, taking every opportunity for a bathroom break; but as our fate drew nearer, our expectations shifted gears. The dreadful pitches indicated by the Andean heartrate went unnoticed as we slowly churned our way upward. Instead, our attention rested on the immensity of topography that we so humbly occupied. Nothing, save for a few cacti, inhabited this magnificently harsh environment.

After resting for the night in an outbuilding at a remote gas station, we followed the track along the south bank of the river. Up to this point, the road varied between washboard gravel and mediocre asphalt, but according to the station attendant, Sanchez, the road deteriorated from there. How right he was. Fist-size stones buried in patches of sand felt like riding through a sandbox filled with Tonka toys. The tailwind that blew with generosity now stirred the loose dirt into a cloud that hovered at eye level until we emerged from the sandtrap with wrenched facial features. Once we were able to open our eyes, the setting reminded us why we were here. The day grew increasingly rough, as did our emerging ailments, but when the sun set over the gigantic gorge and painted the clouds with shades of eighties funk, the pain withered like eighties music. Another hour of riding under the waxing half-moon brought us straggling into Huallanca, beaten but not defeated.

From Huallanca, the route follows a terribly steep canyon with a precipitously engineered road, evoking fear in those that entrust their lives to ramshackle buses. As usual, we opted for the self-reliant mode. Six switchbacks led us out of town and into the asscrack of the Andes. At one point, the Cañon del Pato, as its called, measures 100 m down, 500 m up, and 10 m across, leaving only a sliver of blue sky above. To provide passage through such narrow confines, the road passes through thirty-seven tunnels in less than 15 km. The visionary that sparked this construction project must have had San Pedro for breakfast because the physical constraints of such a setting would deter even the most optimistic contractors; but thankfully, someone had the hallucinogin-induced plan so that we could satisfy our adrenaline cravings. Emerging from this terrestrial crevasse, we sailed past snow-capped peaks on smooth asphalt with a tailwind sent from an encouraging source which reignited our high-altidude lust.