Ruta Dura, Peru

Reputable sources have qualified the section approaching Cuzco as the most difficult in the Americas. The combination of road surfaces, population density, weather conditions, and vertical gain makes it the veritable summit of cycling South America. Six days of hellish terrain awaited, but with a confidence inflated by previous undertakings of similar ardor, I saddled up with hoots and hollers, soon to be reduced to weeps and whimpers.

After a scorching climb through cacti-clad canyons on the first day out of Ayacucho my spirits were leavened by the hospitality of a rather unsuspecting village whose name happened to translate as ¨He Will Kill.¨ Despite it´s inherent morbidity, the folks that lived there were all but homicidal. Moments after I parked my bike beside the church, they lured me onto the soccer field where I stumbled around with gelatinous legs until I grew accustomed to this new form of movement. The thin strip of amber that bathed the horizon eventually disappeared, but the game went on, well into the darkness. When it transformed into a sort of hide-and-seek, we retired to the candle-lit confines of Gato´s tiny bodega. There, I was introduced to ¨Chanca Kuyuchi,¨ a Quechua saying which translates to ¨Leg Movements.¨ When I asked the significance of this, they said that after a few drinks, you´re bound to be dancing. Sure enough, we jigged with what little strength remained, but before long, I ceased supporting myself and collapsed on the cold floor. Thankfully, Gato was kind enough to humor my exhaustion.

For the next few days, an insufficient intake of foods starting with something other than ¨b¨ contributed to the eventual breakdown of my immune system. As they say, man, as well as cyclists, cannot live on bread alone, but the vacuity of the terrain offered nothing more besides a few rotten bananas. One afternoon, when the road descended from 4,000 meters into a fly-infested dustbowl at 1,800 meters, I smelled a hint of lunch, but in accordance with the thematic menu, it was bunny rabbit. Since I was dreadfully low on protein and aching for something with substance, I pleaded for a plate which was promptly produced and subsequently devoured. When I dug around my pockets for change, I found no more than thirty cents - an insulting offer for such a delicacy. So, I forfeited my coveted can of tuna in exchange - something, in hindsight, I would have much rather eaten.

The following few days climbed back into the bosom, a place with even fewer facilities. At this point, I was ragged. Through my delusions, I contemplated the panorama before me, it´s vastness so great that it appeared flat. With such emptiness between myself and the surroundings, I lost all sense of perspective and felt as if I could reach out and pick the potatoes growing on the steep slope across the canyon. Thankfully, I still maintained a slice of reason that stopped me from throwing myself off the edge in pursuit of starch. As the track rounded the corner, I saw the ridges fade into the distance, struggling to accept the reality that I´d have to climb them. From then on, I lowered my head and fought blindly through the expanse. A day later, Abancay came as a great relief, but after torturing my body for nearly a week, I was feeling feeble. My sole motivation for moving on was the knowledge that I´d find refuge in Cuzco, two days and two passes later.

Midway up the second pass, after climbing for hours on end through a dismal drizzle at a pace demanding the utmost balance, I resorted to a method that Soren, Sven, and I developed in Ecuador. I bitched. Bitching, it should be clarified, doesn´t involve whining, despite the homonymn´s suggestion. Rather, it combines bicycling with hitching in a parasitic relationship with a vehicle moving slow enough to allow for affixation. Fortunately, I was able be the barnacle on a beer truck for the remainder of the climb. There, I encountered instant karmic payback when the wind blew directly in my face, forcing me to pedal downhill to keep my momentum.

The terrain eventually leveled and the atmosphere settled as I neared the naval of the Inca empire. From the ridge above Cuzco, my excitement was uncontainable. I freed my fingers from the brake levers and barrelled downhill at a breakneck speed. Rattling through the cobbled streets that wove through the immaculate Inca ashlar, I came skidding into the plaza with no concern for the trail of rubber, blood, tears, phlegm, and snot that I left behind. Here, I collapsed in a heap of tender flesh with my mouth open, tongue protruding, and eyes squinting - in a grimmacing smile. The satisfaction at having arrived in Cuzco numbed the pain to a blissful state of immobility, one I´ll maintain for quite some time.