Altiplano, Peru

Deep within the Andean fortress exists a topographic anomalie. Flatness. After fighting through months of mountains, I penetrated the last defenses to find a strangely soft underbelly to an otherwise callous creature. At 4,500 meters - high above any reasonably prospective civilization - is an authentic atmosphere unpolluted by weak foreign imports. For this reason, the majority of the population has four legs and the buildings that withstand the winds look more like anthills than refuges.

Among the wooly populace of the altiplano are a wild variety of llamas. At the edge of the plain, atop a slight bulge, appeared two vicuñas. They watched as I laboriously cranked against a barrage of thin air, agitated with electricity. As their ears girated, I could hear them squealing like worn-out rubber-duckies, the intake choked with soapy bathwater. From what I hear, their courage reflects their call, for in the face of danger, they´re known to die of cardiac arrest before ever being attacked. If only they weren´t so timid, I could pet them and know why their wool is illegal.

After crossing the last moat that stood between me and momentary respite, I clawed my way onto the plain, stupified by its expanse, but terrified by its exposure. From beyond the jagged trim brewed a frightening sight, drawing in fierce winds to fuel it´s eventual discharge. At times like these in severe caloric-deprivation, fear serves as a suitable substitute for pedal power, and since a great distance still separated me from shelter and supplies, I expended the last of my adrenaline reserves and charged onward, lance drooping, eyes watering, stomach growling.

Early the next morning, I squinted through the vast expanse and saw Junín, a semi-organized cluster of wind-weathered buildings that resembed the few remaining rice granules on an empty plate. The planets aligned that day for the International Maca Festival, of which I´m convinced I represented the single foreign fraction. The produce they so devoutly worship is worth the reverence - nutritionally speaking. As a starving cyclist, I was resurrected by the warm brew of a yam´s cousin mixed with a dash of quinoa. When my fibers were filled with enough substance to fight through another day of damning headwinds, I resumed my pathetically aerodynamic position and bade farewell to the potato-party.