Tracking, Bolivia

Road, rather, surface conditions through Southern Bolivia led to shameful progress through the scarcely oxygenated desert. Thankfully, the scenery was compelling enough to occasionally distract me from realizing my misery. As always, I have chosen to inflict this sort of torture on myself, so however dramatic my accounts may appear, I´m secretly enjoying it. A closet masochist in pitiful disguise.

Of the dozen tracks that fanned out from the sand-socked nucleus amid the field of flowering lifelessness, each one proved to be worse than the last. Employing flawless scientific method, I rigorously tested each one, measuring their quality on an explicit scale of profanities per hour; but, by the tenth procedure, I was hoarse, rendering the experiment a failure.

From what observations I was able to collect, I noticed that the bumps habitually repeated with sinusoidal frequency into perpetuity. No amount of cursing could alter their mathematically precise spacing, which, for the scholar, equalled a wavelength slighly shorter than that of a bicycle´s wheelbase. Such a discrepancy, while going unnoticed by the few speeding Jeeps that actively floated over them, made for a jostling ride, resembling the coin-fed mechanical pony at the edge of the grocery store parking lot that wouldn´t relent long enough for the toddler to dismount, explaining his wavering wails.

When the fiendish corrugation finally subdued, the replacement surface came as no great relief. Instead of agitating my organs with a solar-powered whacker-packer, the substitute sucked my slick tires into its slimy slophole like a hungry, hungry hippo. If, by some miracle, I was able to actually mount my bicycle in the intended ergonomic fashion and pedal through a brief section of microscopic monsters, I would - inevitably- be speared from my weakening steed by the sharp lance of my medieval opponent. With little more momentum than would be required to overtake a speedbump, I would lethargically crash into piles of devilish aggregate like a lazy participant in gravity´s cruel game. If, by chance, I would encounter a dip in the terrain that increased my velocity to that of a trot, I would encounter a hidden stockpile in Satan´s sandbox and flop like a wet fish atop an overcooked construction of pasta noodles, contorting in unthinkable dimensions under the weight of a week´s worth of provisions.

As soon as I reached the conclusion to my hypothesis that cycling Southern Bolivia will tax my bones like the IRS, I was relieved to find a sweet dessert after a gut-wrenching main course. On my last night in Bolivia, possibly as some semblance of an apology, I encountered a steaming pool of sulphrous-free, exhausted-appendage soup, simmering on the edge of an otherwordly expanse. Long before the sun rose, while the sliver moon cupped the last remaining darkness, I nursed my pistons back into working order while the flamingos scoffed at my euphoric groans. Again, I wouldn´t be doing this if I didn´t think it was enjoyable. Secretly.