Bicyclandes

26 September 2009

2009-09-21T16:37:00.000-07:00

Paso Rio Mayer, Argentina

2009-07-14T03:05:00.001-07:00

The conspirators against my southerly progress included rain, wind, snow, mud, ice, and rivers; but on my side were a handful of good folks that pulled me from my self-induced wreckage and escorted me through the inherently ferocious elements of a Patagonian winter. In the end, Paso Rio Mayer turned out to be a bite that I wasn´t able to chew. In fact, I´m still gnawing on the piece I tore off, at the moment in San Julián, Argentina, considering a northerly course on something with more than two wheels. More on that in a moment. Right now, I´m still digesting the sequence of experiences that explains why I´m looking at the Atlantic Ocean and not the Andes.

All is well, relatively, considering I still have all my fingers and toes. But I fear that when I go to the hospital, they´ll nip a chunk off my left foot. That, actually, is a remnant from the snowstorm last month in Los Alerces, but once skin freezes, it´s considered lost. Embarrassingly, the afflicted area is no bigger than a quarter, hasn´t been debilitating in any way, and won´t get me any dates at the bowling alley. But it´ll be a souvenir, nonetheless.

Crossing glacial rivers without shoes or pants probably didn´t help matters, but there I was, high on adventure and blinded by the beauty of late afternoon sun on the frontier of Argentina thinking I was invincible. Clearly mistaken (as I would soon learn) but understandably disillusioned when recalling the immaculate conditions of late. The humiliating account, diluted for purposes of censorship and brevity, follows accordingly.

Thoughtlessly chasing the seductive curves of the Carreterra Austral to its termination, I encountered the bitter reality of wintertime navigation in southern Chile: the roadless border-crossing that passes through Lago O'Higgins and over the mountains to El Chalten, Argentina on ferry boats and horse trails was closed due to infrequent activity and avalanches. This route is heavily trafficked by trekkers and cyclists in the summertime, but in the off-season it's highly improbable, verging on impossible. Undeterred, I put on my blinders and charged ahead like a senseless beast of burden. Improbability has yet to dictate my route, so why should it now? Hindsight would refute.

Approaching the end of the road, I pieced together the bits of beta I had collected along the way and formulated a narrowly convincing scenario: 1. the alternative border post at Paso Rio Mayer is open all year, but the sheep bridge that previously allowed pedestrian crossing collapsed a month ago, 2. there is no vehicular bridge, 3. consequently, fording is the only option, but it sounded challenging after hearing the story of a brave motorcyclist whose machine washed up fifty kilometers downstream after it was swept from underneath him, 4. storms were expected for Monday, so I was pressed to make it before bad weather hit, 5. a British cyclist that passed through Rio Mayer last July was kind enough to forward his vague, anecdotal account, but it did little but convince me that it was doable. From this, I somehow concluded that forging ahead was a good idea. Again, disillusioned to a blissful degree.

Outside the Chilean office, I listened to the officer that explained the shallowest route through the broad wash as he gestured with loose fingers that clutched a waning cigarette. He indicated a zig-zagging route that included no fewer than five crossings separated by swamps and stones. The Argentinian office, he explained, was on the northern edge of the notch carved out of the horizon, twenty-some kilometers away. He unconvincingly suggested that there would be some tire tracks as I approached, but since nearly all the traffic that frequents the border has hooves or paws, I shouldn't count on it.

Before I wheeled my bike down the bank, he told me I was the first gringo he´d ever encountered at this station (strange, considering the previous info about the Brit), and that should I fail, I was welcome to crash at the Chilean office. Nice offer, but not exactly a confidence booster.

Edging up to the first river, I carefully plotted a route through the whitest rapids (an indicator of the shallowest section). Boots off, socks tucked, pants rolled, bags closed, I eased into the water with methodical care. At first contact, the green, glacial flow bit at my feet, but after a few strides in knee-deep current, it neither bit nor gnawed. It didn't feel at all, actually. On the opposite shore, I robed and strode mere meters until reaching the next aquatic obstacle. Again, I de-booted, un-socked, and re-rolled. Moments after the initial nibble, all became wonderfully numb.

The next few crossings were made with like diligence, but midway through the last visible vein, the current became no less than ¨swift¨ and rushed no lower than my ¨package.¨ Thirty meters of water, flowing on the brink of a phase change, separated me from apparent refuge, but it might as well have been 12,000 kilometers judging by the urgency of the moment. If there had been a crux on this adventure, this would have been it.

Slipping never entered my mind because had it, I would have. And after succumbing to the flow, recuperation would have been unlikely. So, what had to be done was, and I marvel at what drove me in that moment. Synergy drawn from the surroundings injected me with unthinkable strength, propelling me above daunting odds. Left hand on the cockpit and right arm wrestling the saddle, I surfed the loaded bike on its impermeable panniers until miraculously reaching the opposite shore. Frozen feet postholing through a hypothermic bath barely gaining traction on the slippery stones beneath somehow carried me diagonally across. Refuge, at last? Not quite.

Still unable to curb my adrenaline, I shakily dried myself and dressed again, unfathomably gazing across the trackless expanse that laid behind me. Clothed, I almost mustered a jubilant shriek at having emerged, but my release was retarded by a faint whistle. Holding my breath and damming potential volume with curiosity, I tuned in to find its producer. There, twenty meters upstream floundered a pair of dogs on a diagonal trajectory in the wake of a confident horse ridden by a weathered warrior - whistling.

As he approached, I could see we were equally surprised to see each other, but after explaining how I managed to arrive at where I was, props weighed in my favor. To impress a cowboy of his stature takes either great courage or stupidity (often confused), and judging by the reaction on the narrow exposure of his grizzly face, I had gained his respect. The greeting he extended looked more like a paw than a hand, and the rest of his figure similarly exhibited more bestial traits than manly ones. His heart, thankfully, was unmistakably human. From there, he motioned toward a tree grove at the edge of the clearing where I would find a trail that would lead to the Argentinian office. Supposedly. Off he trotted and onward I hobbled.

As I approached the indicated grove, it got dark, the road disappeared, and it started snowing. I wasn´t able to pedal due to worn chainrings that no longer maintained the crisp butte profile that they´re supposed to have, but instead, eroded to look like carnivorous teeth, ready to devour any attempted pedal stroke. The mud deepened to impossible depths and the cold began seeping through my armor of adrenaline. Cows stood motionless with their backs to the wind, un-phased by my directional inquiries. Sheep were just that, ready to follow me toward shelter. Little did they know, I knew nothing of our whereabouts.

Trudging through sludge for what seemed like an eternity took me through expansive pastures and leafless forests. Every so often, I would reach a fence and follow it until finding a gate where I rediscovered the trail. I would follow it until the darkness consumed it and proceeded to aimfully wander eastward until reaching another fence. Trail appeared, trail disappeared. Snow fell, wind blew. Anxiety ensued.

Sound like a world of shit? It was. But among the shitheap was a bunker of border officials tending a crossing that didn´t have a road. Curious, eh?

Once I saw the glow of their firelight, I could breathe again, but it wasn´t until five days later that I could move. Clarification: my body was able but the terrain was impassable. The snow had piled high overnight and continued to fall for the following few days, trapping me indefinitely. This time, it wasn´t my comfort that relied on the kindness of strangers as has been the case in the past - it was my life. If this sounds like a traumatic experience, I should clarify again; transformative, I would say, and invigorating.

Still three-hundred kilometers from substantial population, I was by no means saved. Never have I been closer to experimenting with the Spot 911 and recooperating my World Nomads insurance plan with a thrilling helicopter ride, but thankfully, it didn´t come to that. Instead, my shitheap was unloaded on another group of kind folks. Ranchers, with whom I helped herd sheep across another snowy river (this time with a bridge) happened to be heading for Gobernador Gregores, Argentina within a few days time. Seeing my desperation, they offered to take me there. But not before shoveling our way through more than a meter of snow in minus fifteen degrees. Without windchill. In the dark.

As I recount this, I sigh with relief at having emerged intact, but as I said before, my salvation had nothing to do with my own devices. Rather, responsibility lies in the open arms of people who care, enormously, for others whom they have no obligation to. Lying awake during one of the many sleepless nights after the experience, I decided that continuing southward would only complicate matters, most likely resulting in another helpless episode that would depend on pinning another set of wings on unbeknownst angels. Thus, I´ve decided to give up the Patagonian ghost-chase and turn my horse north.

Since Surely has been limping for over a month now, we´ll jump on a bus and limit the frustration to ticket vendors and sore tailbones for the forty-hour bus ride to Buenos Aires. I´m not certain where or when we´ll ship out, but I´ve dropped the idea on my brother (currently in Mendoza), thinking there´ll be a chance to meet in the capital before he heads back. There, I´ll confirm my pilgrimage homeward (which I still consider to be Rapid City, South Dakota), at the beginning of August. This year.

Waves, Chile

2009-06-02T17:13:00.000-07:00

Open palms lurched beyond the dashes of slowly passing cars, excitedly toggling back and forth in response to my subtle head nods that have rarely received recognition. Had it not been for the broken, foggy windshields that protected the aged old trucks from the bone-deep windchill, my face would have been smothered with waves. They would have been surprised to find a handful of face fluids, but considering their enthusiasm, it wouldn´t have mattered. The eagerness with which people greeted gave me a sense of belonging like never before. We were mutually pleased to see each other.

Rarely did interactions last longer than the moments experienced in passing, but even in these fleeting meetings, connections were made. Occasionaly, one party stopped with an expressed interest in questioning the other and familiarity was achieved at once. Commonalities far outweighed differences given the amount of discouraging criteria we´ve endured to be in the same place at the same time. Navigating a sparsely serviced road with weak winter sunlight in below-freezing temperatures seemed to deter most folks. Because of this, our few numbers automatically placed us in a nuclear group where each participant played a significant role in the operation of the whole. My role in this relationship is slightly parasitic, but I´m a grateful wretch.

Carreterra Austral, Chile

2009-06-02T09:55:00.000-07:00

Tales of the Carreterra Austral have been whispered around handfuls of campfires, reverently spoken by those who have ridden it, mesmerizingly listened to by those who haven´t. Until last week, I´ve been unaffected by its mystique, but now, after six consecutive days of flawless blue skies, blinding white mountains, and tantalizingly smooth gravel, I have realized its appeal. At the next campfire, I´ll be among the muses that pontificate its glory.

Huasos, buried under furry chaps, fuzzy jackets, and funny berets, trot. Chimneys, slightly cocked on rusty roofs, smoke. Trees, clinging to reddenning leaves, rustle. Frost, garnishing foliage in sun-deprived basins, chills. Mist, risen from liquids, wisps. Horses, thought to have lept off embossed belt buckles, graze. Pigs, mistaken for hovering Zepplins, wallow. Bulls, tired of munching, stare. Duck, duck. Goose.

Plowed, Argentina

2009-05-25T16:06:00.000-07:00

When the snowplow broke down, so did I. Its vice was a fallen tree. Mine was laughter. The hilarity of trying to cycle, fully loaded, on a road buried under shin-deep snow caused me to forget desperation and buckle with chuckles. Had I considered the situation from a survivalist´s point of view rather than a humorist´s, I might have panicked. Soaked to the bone, body and gear alike from days of grinding through pounding rain threatened to sieze me in a gauntlet of hypothermia, trenchfoot, or frostbite, but the novelty of the situation kept me warm with laughs. For awhile.

Soon, the survivalist in me kicked in. Laughing wasn´t going to build a roof over my head, and camping was out of the question, given the compounded cold induced by the treacherous pattern of a hovering phase change. But with nothing open in the off-season, where was I supposed to find shelter in the middle of a national park? Neither I nor the snowplower knew, so I did the only thing I could think of: frantically run through the snow, pushing my bike in the frozen tire track until I found something. Adrenaline was on red alert.

Earlier that morning, as the tent grew a lighter shade of gray, I had no indication that the rain had turned to snow overnight because the beachside spot I had chosen was comfortably tucked underneath a giant coihue tree that filtered the solidifying precipitation, sending it splashing onto my tent. So, when I finally managed to peel myself from inside the cool, damp confines, I was surprised to find a bleached beach. Just as things were packed, the snowplow went by, so for the first few kilometers, I was able to warm myself by spinning a few hundred revolutions. But then, the damned thing ran into a tree and my wheels became a burden.

Fresh footsteps leading through a gate left slightly ajar was my ticket to salvation. There, knee deep in galoshes, hunkered by the fire under six sweaters was Miguel. Astonished to see anyone out and about, much less on a bicycle, he sprung into action, seeing my convulsive shivers. There, tucked in a clearing, deep in the forest stood a huge dining room used by the flocks of campers in the summer. He threw the doors open, cranked on the heaters, pulled a picnic table in front of one, and sat me down. There I thawed myself and my regiment. For two days.

At what point will I reach my capacity for adventure? Each thrilling episode is somehow outdone by the next, feeding itself in a self-stoking cycle. As of yet, no challenge has been too great to overcome, but when that event presents itself, what then? Every time I demand the most of myself, I emerge feeling recharged to the degree a drug addict could identify with. Is this a healthy exploration of limits or am I in need of therapy?

Aquatic Bodies, Argentina

2009-05-09T06:40:00.000-07:00

Airbound aggregate that normally limited visibility in the early morning was too cold to show. In its absence, unobstructed clarity prevailed. Alpenglow faintly warmed the frozen landscape until the sun finally broke over the sweeping horizon, illuminating fragile, crystalline edges on everything, giving them a holy aura usually reserved for saints or tabernacles. I nearly fell prostrate at the sight of a seemingly burning bush. Actually, I thought more about making toast than worshipping.

Still liquid, the lakes hovered on the brink of freezing. These aquatic bodies glowed cerulean in the acutely angular light - sparkling irises of pristine composition backdropped by brilliant white summits and vibrant fall foliage. In between the imperceptible gusts that softly rustled the canopy, the scene became doubly magnificent in the undisturbed surfaces.

Well below zero, the red tones radiated by ancient oaks warmed the atmosphere to a bearable degree. So, fully threaded with every stitch I had, I braved the added cold of windchill and saddled up, stopping often to shake the blood back into my digits. The araucarias gave me courage, seeing their massive appendages flexing upward in masculine exhibition of strength, despite the cold. Expressions of awe were retarded by frozen face muscles, but if one could have read lips in slow motion through a snotstache, mine would have said ¨wow.¨

For good reason, this region has gained celebrity status in nature´s gossip. Softly banked corners dive in and out of thickets, often exploding into panoramas of muted colors. Purple mountains dusted in streaks of snow plummet through dense forests into huge bodies of water, and, contrary to its namesake, there are far more than Seven Lakes.

This time of year, the days feel like they're continually beginning or ending. It's hard to tell when it's actually arrived because at that point, it's already leaving. Anticipation grows as the clouds congregate, knowing that with a fraction more saturation, the particles would gain critical mass, but haste evaded me in favor of an idleness encouraged by the awesome consistency.Urgency in the air, countered by stillness of mind, balanced well.

Pucón, Chile

2009-05-09T06:39:00.000-07:00

Upon reentering the Andes from the smog-clogged valley, white, conical incongruencies in the horizon perforated the division of heaven and earth; at times, when the light was just right, the two united. In between these divine synapses, ancient arboreals draped over the undulating terrain like a tattered tarp. Water collected in the depressions, trimmed with black-sand beaches around which only the occassional flock of birds perched. Somewhere under the tarp (the green part), among the hundreds of cabins tossed like dice across the forest floor, was a weighted pair that won me a fortune.

Pull came from an encounter years ago on the opposite side of the Pacific at the outset of a different trip; not surprisingly, the bicycle served as the catalyst (the magic in these machines is undeniable). Contact was reestablished on occidental shores at which point I learned the nomadic Chilean family had returned to their roots after eighteen years spent scattered across all seven continents. There, tucked under giant evergreens, they opened their doors to a road-weary, spirit-dreary pedal-pusher. Actually, they gave me my own doors.

Respite came in plentiful portions, served up with heaping garnishes of love. Breakfast huddled around a stovetop toaster, percolated coffee, and dinner simmering in cast iron on the crackling fire provided the material medicine, aided by the waning wine rack that grew leaner with each evening we spent captivated in converstaion. A Polarity session immediately reacquainted my body with itself after having destroyed it with poor nutrition and overexertion on the superhighway. My mind realigned as well after a few days ambling around the mighty Volcan Villarrica on an unloaded rig. Two-wheelers regained presence.

If magnetism hadn´t teamed up with gravity, we would have flown. Good company, both humane and tectonic, reconstituted my vitals with positive energy, propelling me into a heightened awareness that had been obscured for quite some time. The potential I felt was exceeded only by what molten substance bubbled beneath the white, conical nozzles. Until the next time planets align along dual, radiating axes, which, if experience dictates frequency, won´t be far off.

Superhighway, Chile

2009-04-30T13:30:00.000-07:00

Freeway camping, as a matter of fact, is exactly as miserable as it sounds. Speaking of sounds, there's no lack of them when only a stone's throw from Chile's main arterial. If breathing diesel fumes and dodging careening blow-outs by day isn´t torturous enough, the drone of four-lane traffic continues throughout the night. Impenetrable fencing on either side of the highway forbids one to seek silence in acoustically dampened clearings, so as a result, screaming rubber on striated concrete tuned with loosely tied straps fluttering like reeds on unpracticed instruments lull one into an anxious half-sleep filled with chase-scene dreams until the faint glow of morning blows one's cover. Forget optimism, even my grandmother couldn´t spin this one favorably.

For a week, I practiced this routine with growing frustration. Excruciating decibel levels left a residual ringing in my ears, so whenever there was a fleeting break in traffic, silence went unvisited. Instead, the ensemble of invisible tuning forks on the upper registers vibrated hard and loud against my skull. Inside my skull. Headwinds also contributed to the inescapable noise and aggravation, not helped by the swirling vortex created by passing eighteen-wheelers hauling truckloads of ass. Horns, too.

The worst part of superhighway cycling isn't the burning throat or aching vertebrae; rather, it's the insignificance of the bicycle, like bringing an eyedropper to a waterfight. No matter how fervently I pedaled, I was inevitably doused by roaring engines with their immense capacities for making noise and pollution. There was absolutely no sense of belonging. There was so many people, probably hundreds per second, but I felt a lonliness like never before. At the occasional service station where I would fill my water bottles and sit in a chair, conversations with motorists never went beyond a simple greeting. They could probably see the emptiness I felt and didn't want to jump in. I don't blame them. Prone to the drone of the cacophonic cauldron.

Sidedish, Chile

2009-04-30T12:54:00.000-07:00

Fruit salad filled the ditches after an overloaded produce truck smashed into an overpass at screaming velocity, sending vitaminal schrapnel hurling through the air like a SaladShooter from Tool Time. Fresh piles of purée lined the roadside, tempting my waning health with pre-chewed provisions that smelled like the Sun-Maid Lady. Vegetarian roadkill, for a change.

After the juices settled, workers piled the damaged consumables, shattered crates, and contorted steel into a compost heap that, I hope, didn´t include the body of the driver. Or me, for that matter, because had I not stopped to take a leak at the last overpass, I could have been mashed into the mix and thrown into the cornucopia as a protein supplement to whichever scavenger came scraping along after the incident. Thankfully, the roostertail of fruit juices on the back of my shirt was the only mark I carried away from this horrendous, admittedly hilarious accident.

Bienvenidos, Chile

2009-04-15T08:41:00.000-07:00

Thankfully, the switchbacks went downhill for me. All 70 of them. I felt sorry for the two Germans pushing their bikes uphill, but I couldn't slow my momentum enough to express my sympathy. Tears flying horizontally from my temples, I gave them a heartfelt salute. But they probably only heard the "yee" part, faintly catching the Dopplerizing "haw" over the screaming friction of speeding tires.

Headwinds and traffic made the incline toward the border gruesome, but once on the road to see Jesus, the wind died and traffic slowed. It was Easter, coincidentally, and since Someone had just woken up for the 1985th time, blessings were plentiful. Favorable weather, the result of a tumultuous microclimate or a miraculous resurrection, is always welcome. From the Redentor, the route wound down 40 tight gravel turns leading to the 30 asphalt hairpins that crippled the Germans. One can imagine the hoots and hollers.

Once windward, only a few hundred kilometers separated me from Santiago. Most of those passed through the sprawling suburban fabric of Chile´s capital, gradually densifying into the vertically stacked glass piles that disappeared into the thick, brown smog that hovered over the city like Pigpen from Peanuts. Blankets could be seen dragging in the gutters. Charlie was depressed upon seeing this, but handfulls of kind people favorably offset any ill feelings induced by the polluted basin, recharging my batteries for the gruesomely trafficked superhighway to the south.

Harvest, Argentina

2009-04-05T13:56:00.000-07:00

Dew droplets bulged meniscusly on the impeccably manicured grounds, reflecting the molten colors of an Andean sunrise like a lava lamp spilled across green shag carpet. Wispily stroked clouds and Falling poplars filled the middle hues of the color spectrum, prepping the vineyard with kaleidoscopic calisthenics for the pending pluck-fest. Droplets glowing, leaves yellowing, sky bluing, berries bursting: harvest loomed.

Coincidentally, our arrival at Casa Altamira fell on the eve of this year´s harvest. Not that we should be suprised at this fortune, given the nature of my first encounter with our hosts.

Years ago, while pedaling through the Rocky Mountains, I met a few folks roaming around in a Westfalia Volkswagen. Through conversation that only happens around campfires, I learned that the wine we drank that night came from one of their vineyards in Mendoza. Without the slightest knowledge of the present adventure, we exchanged contacts that would eventually lead to Casa Altamira. Once again, an open mind and an able body has led to an irreplaceable experience.

Anxiety grew on the first morning of scheduled picking when the truckload of laborers failed to show. The worry was that we´d miss the time slot in which the grapes must be plucked from their vines before they begin to shrivel and rot. This time of year, temperatures plummet at night, cooling the grapes into a bitter, acidic balance with the sun-sweetened juices that simmer inside by day. Too long on the vine and the balance would be upset. Nerves were rightly wrought when no one showed.

As we discovered, yesterday´s holiday marking the defeat in the Falkland Islands War left the crew haggard; spirits often accompany lamentations. When duty called, the truckdriver did his best to rally the troops, but an untimely (but not unprovoked) breakdown stalled the process until the following day; accidents often accompany hangovers.

Early the next morning, a heavily compensated crew came earlier than expected. By the time we arrived on scene, pickers were hustling through the narrow rows, hoisting forty kilos of raw crop with one hand, violently waving pruning scissors in the other. Sixty workers competed for a finite yield that paid quantitatively, economically explaining their hasty habits. Soren and I conjured our latent farming genes and helped a few lagging laborers, but our efficiency paled in comparison. In less than three hours, they plucked 1,300 baskets equaling 72 bins of 300 kilos each. Forget calculations, that´s a hellofalot of grapes. And that was only a fraction of the malbec.

Later, stained hands cupped last year´s yield as the sun balanced on the jagged horizon moments before disappearing, casting warm tones on the vineyard in an amber bath of therapeutic quality. Like the grapes, we felt ripened to a perfect balance. Pick us anytime, we´re ready.

Flash/Crack, Argentina

2009-04-04T15:37:00.001-07:00

Vibrant colors, glowing in shades warmer than normal, drew me into a beautifully carved canyon at the end of a sweaty day. Slivers of shade soothed my salty skin as the sun projected a declining azimuth that embossed every nook and cranny into enhanced dimensional proportions. The few trees that found nourishment in the hot, dry sand exploded with greenery in sharp contrast with the red backdrop. Bones cooled while dinner simmered.

The intensely glowing, thinly trimmed fingernail from the previous night projected a new moon, and since the present setting showed no signs of habitation, the stars would be blinding. With that in mind, the tent took the night off. Bag in the sand, I slept with my glasses on. The stars twinkled rhythmically.

After a few hours of gazing, my periphery picked up some activity in sharp, blinding bursts of washed, white light. Clouds began bumping into one another, discharging their agitation in frequent blasts (flash/crack). I held onto the last visible strip of stars as the eye hovered directly above me, but soon, the cycloptic storm lost its vision and closed in with blind fury. Delirium prevented me from taking protective measures against the impending storm because logic detracted the chance of rain in such arid terrain. Nature proved itself, once again, as an unpredictable, viable force, worthy to be reckoned with.

Light rain began to fall, easily shed by my sleeping bag, but as the drops grew globular and cold, I began to feel seepage inside my cocoon. Like an anxious caterpillar halfway through metamorphasis, I poked my head outside to survey the situation. Spooked by what I saw, I burst from my wrap prematurely, naked and wingless. Small, muddy rivers had formed around me, growing more voluminous with each compounded drop shed from the mountains above. The island on which my stuff sat was slowly washing away, as was my bike, leaning on the rapidly eroding bank. Hindsight mocked my ignorance with bellowslike laughs (flash/crack), illuminating the brutal truth of camping in a dried-up riverbed in the middle of the desert. Flash flood, idiot.

Splashing knee-deep through the thick, bubbling river, I heaved my bike halfway up a solid embankment. Too low and I'd be washed away. Too high and I'd be lit up (flash/crack). Hurriedly wading back to the island, I rescued my marooned sleeping gear, totally soaked and useless, of course. A quick scan of the basin through wet, foggy glasses convinced me that I had gathered everything. Back at the bank, I had to find shelter. The coat of adrenaline that had dampened my shivers withered in the pouring rain as I crouched, fetally, next to some spiny bushes.

Scrambling through cold, muddy gear-stew, I tore out my tent and carefully assembled the tent poles with one eye on the sky (flash/crack). Hilariously pitched on an uncomfortable slope, I nestled into the sticky, crackling embrace of an emergency blanket. From inside, as the river lapped at the vestibule, I laughed, humbly acknowledging my error, gratefully realizing my fortune at having escaped the vomitous discharge of an overwatered landscape.

Roadside Distractions, Argentina

2009-03-20T06:15:00.000-07:00

Civil engineers designed Route 150 with a single pen-stroke and a t-square. A total absence of features in the landscape of La Rioja allowed them to complete the scheme one-handed in a matter of minutes. From there, the contractor piled rocks, packed asphalt, and painted lines. After it dried, cyclists came and grew bored.

In such absence, the sight of something anomalous is captivating, no matter the circumstance. So, when from underneath the shade of a low-slung tent an eagerly gesturing woman in a slinky skirt emerged bearing a sweating bottle of water, I swerved, braked, and circled back, failing to check for oncoming traffic. Thankfully, motorists stalled for the siesta, so my maneuver went unchecked. But underneath the luring shade lurked another disaster waiting to happen.

At once, I was seated on a cool, hide-stretched chair and served a glistening glass of water. Usual conversation commenced, harmlessly, until she asked for my hands. Then, as if on cue, a crippled midget and two more women, scantily clad, emerged from a tent within the tent. Minutes later, palms showing signs of luck and love, more women, gangs of them, each in brilliantly colored, sparkling, strapless tops, approached. I had been lured into the realm of gypsies, fooled by their seductive trickery and tanned cleavage.

Sorcerous rituals requiring pocket change and foreign money produced a Brazilian nut and a small clove of garlic, mysteriously inserted into my pocket. When she insisted that someone named Maria in my family demanded that I cross the miniature crusafix that graced my precious leather book, I got spooked and tried to wiggle out of their slippery grasp. The unfavorable ratio of feminine juices to celibate cyclist unsettled me. Forgetting my stealth, I awkwardly stood up and made my escape, shaking gropes like a greasy runningback, fleeing like a cowardous calvaryman. Next time, sweat beads, whether on waterbottles or painted eyebrows, will be a clear indication of trickery.

Omens, Argentina

2009-03-13T15:45:00.000-07:00

Water droplets fell in annoyingly infrequent intervals with infallible accuracy onto my eyelids that struggled to remain glued together in early-morning delerium. Heat from the sixth level of Hell ushered me through clutters of cacti the day before, so when the beginnings of a terrible storm reared its ghastly head in the late afternoon, I welcomed the heavenly extinguisher. The next morning, I cursed precipitation.

Retrospectively, I should have invested slightly more energy in pitching my tent while eyeing the storming schmoo, because the pool of water that collected directly above my head defied gear physics and breeched the impermeable skin. In a dreary attempt to dodge the aquatic globlets, I rolled over, expelling a frustrated groan at the tiresome trickle. Moments later, concurring with the unpredictable dispensation of dribbling liquid alarm clocks, the droplets fell into my ear. Understood, I awoke.

Slightly off-balance due to the inequilibreum of my auditory orifices, I scrambled through my food stuffs mumbling ¨fee, fi, fo, fum,¨ knowing that the blood of an Englishman surely wouldn´t do. Instead, drugs were on my mind, the sort that when pulverized and mixed with boiling water, initiate an artificial awareness that salvages mornings for millions of commuters around the world. Black gold be found, I staggered to the outlet that´s conveniently stocked in municipial campgrounds. Rather than fussing with the minute mechanics of a stove that requires honed motor skills, I resorted to the electric water heater common with most maté-gobbling Argentinians.

Cup in hand, prongs posed to release potential power, I inserted the plug. ZAP! 220 volts of agitated electrons went bolting through my system. Coils smoking, cup tumbling, I found the jolt I needed. Awake indeed.

With my wits about me, I realized the error. Metal mug, filled with water, through which an electric current passes. Any elementary electrician could have foreseen the resulting surge I felt pulse through my body, but with only a fraction of neurons firing, I fell victim to the painful results of learning by doing.

Later, still feeling a slight tingle in the point of conduction, I became excited at the prospect of improving my luck, seeing a bountiful crop of cactus fruit. Sifting through the overgrown barbwire, I plucked a plump speciman, still cool from the shade of a poplar grove. The thorny lobes were easily dodged, but what I didn´t expect were the microscopic spines that covered the fruit itself. The slivers dug into the crevices between my fingers and remained there for the remainder of the day. No matter how desperately I scoured my palms, scores of thorns evaded my extraction attempts. Even my tongue managed to get stuck, perhaps while licking the corner of my mouth that, apparently, had also been afflicted.

Omens have never held much water in my pool of thought. If they did, my plans would have led me into a comfortable living room long ago, where nothing but the glare from a window behind the blaring television could harm me. No, I interpret experiences with debateable logic, not interpretable mysticism. This way, I´m able to cruise through a series of seemingly dooming encounters with the knowledge that, at a certain point, circumstances will improve, just as sure as an uphill will eventually cease, opening the floodgates for a thrilling descent.

Salta, Argentina

2009-03-13T15:17:00.000-07:00

Lean wrists dangled from noon on loose steering wheels that sloppily maneuvered forgotten models of European origin. Passengers hung halfway out windows with bare feet perched on the dashes next to piles of useful gadgets yet to be used for their intended purpose. Velocities never reached more than a pedestrian´s pace, leaving one to wonder why vehicles were used in the first place. It was Sunday, after all. Rest was of the utmost order.

The imperceptibly declining slope on which I coasted allowed me to engage in the slow-motion spectacles with like lethargy. Sitting semi-side-saddle on the toptube, I felt no compulsion to pedal. Moment elongation, atmospheric preservation.

Creatures that don´t normally fly found traction on the abnormally chewy air, gaining additional leverage from the charcoal smoke wafting from barbeques on the verge of readiness. Grasshoppers surfed on the strummed bars of a thoughtless string session emerging from the shade of a woven canopy next to the condiments and beverages. Less than fifty percent of all skin present was covered in clothing, exposed portions glistening with effortless sweat.

People went about their Sunday way as if there was no war, no poverty, no concern - not arrogantly or ignorantly, but self-indulgently aware. Their response to my presence was equally characterized by an unexpected understanding, like I was supposed to be doing whatever it was I was or am doing. It came as a fresh sense of belonging after the alienating gawks of most folks further north.

Belonging amplified with the unseasonable warmth felt at the Casa de Ciclistas in Salta. Unannounced, ungroomed, and unaccompanied, I washed up on the curb like a beached whale out a sea of refuse. Hesitantly, I inquired about temporary lodg - when I was interrupted by the creaking gate and ushered into the embrace of the Marín family. There, I had the fleeting feeling of familiarity for the few days I spent. More than any jaw-dropping panorama, the kindness of people astounds me.

Paso Sico, Chile

2009-03-03T09:39:00.000-08:00

Sand, wind, and washboards wittled my will into a fragile twig that nearly snapped under the laterally battering currents of an unending ascent. Curiously, an iron-mongering enterprise found speculation in the impossibly inhabited terrain, salvaging my spirit from a reeking pile of emotional wreckage. The countercontextually vibrant gang of miners recognized, and at once, rectified my desperation by escorting my frail figure into a converted shipping container equipped with a stack of soiled mattresses. A presidential suite in my eyes.

Within minutes, I was thrown into a hot shower, pointed to a toilet, had my cholesterol measured, and seated at a smorgasboard. Food, of culinary notariety, filled my energy-oriface until my eyelids sunk into my sunburned cheeks. Shuffling to my allocated cage, I managed to scoff at the falling snow, knowing I´d be well sheltered. For now.

Early the next morning, I was bombarded by another eager-to-please man-mole. Apparently, the brotherhood values food over sleep, concurring with my long-held belief that nourishment happens during waking hours. Once again, hoovering measured in astronomical proportions as I shoveled loaves of warm bread into my shrunken stomach. Mixed with vats of tea, leavening commenced and bloating proceeded.

When sufficiently decompressed, I gathered Surely from the stable and saddled my surly steed. With a handful of firm shakes and a clapping of slaps on the back, I proceeded into the meagerly endowed, massively apportioned landscape. The few remaining kilometers of Chilean trail led me to the onslaught of Argentinian roads, maintained under the philosophy that evasion leads to disappearance. Not the case.

Metronomic blows from the carnal inclinations of an ill-kept highway drove my mind into a negative spiral long after my body failed to feel the beating. At that point, I delved into nihlistic transcendentalism. The cult committee, consisting of me and my waning spirit, coined the mantra ¨I am not here. That is not there.¨ to be repeated indefinitely in a rhymic, monotonous, utterance. This practice successfully distracted me from the abusive terrain but didn´t come without consequences. Thirst, numbness, and hunger dawned on me as soon as I snapped out of my trance. Perhaps an opinionated awareness clan would be a healthier option.

Wits barely about me, I approached the final (supposed) ascent, but as I struggled along the increasingly steep grade, I was apprehended by the concerned deaccelleration of a petrol-truck driver. Normally, I get no more than an aggressive air horn from these fellows, but this time, there seemed to be something that couldn´t be translated into shrill, shattering frequencies.

Peering down at my ill-equipped entourage, he suggested I take refuge in the little town that, evidently, I bypassed while blinking. Snow was rapidly accumulating ahead, and judging by the baldness of my exhausted tires, he didn´t think I´d make it. He mentioned something about dying. Convinced, I postponed.

As I wheeled around the village, which took no more than a few revolutions of a twenty-eight-inch wheel, I encountered what appeared to be a sunbeam materializing in the steaming molecules that emanated from the kitchen of a bright blue building. When I inquired about room and board, she hurriedly affirmed, but in doing so, I reminded myself that I had exhausted my stash in San Pedro de Atacama during the heat of Carnaval. The only machine capable of refueling my tank was equally as empty, hence my premature departure, penniless.

Desperately sifting through my documents to prove my incapacity, I found a hidden five-dollar bill, drunkenly inscribed with ¨Tonight, we ride! Coltan ´08¨ on the back. Days before leaving home, I was given this note during a heated ten-pin session in the smokey ambiance of Meadowood Lanes under the instruction that I was to do something special with it and deliver the resulting story. After seven months of unknowingly toting this ticket, it saved me from starvation. While it wasn´t quite enough to get me a warm bed, it bought me plenty of delicious cuisine. Once again, waking nourishment prevailed, enough to fuel my battered bones across the last (confirmed) pass of the treacherous international passage.

Tracking, Bolivia

2009-02-22T09:13:00.000-08:00

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.

Rock, Bolivia

2009-02-22T07:49:00.000-08:00

What I thought would be a city of stones turned out to be a metropolis of rocks. As the sole feature in the broadening landscape of Bolivia´s central altiplano, I was immediately drawn to the presence of something, due largely to the recent lack of everything. A series of sandstone towers perched on the horizon in picket formation lured me into the metamorphic fortress like a tired knight in search of solace. In true, red-white-and-blue fashion, I staked my claim on the fringe, holing up in a quaint little suburb with ample breathing room and an infertile lawn that separated me from any potential of intrahuman contact, also requiring me to travel for hours to obtain supplies while inhibiting the potential for appropriate transportation in the sprawling expanse of soulless abodes. Density be damned, I wanted my own backyard.

Stationed at the acoustical center of a sandy amphitheater, the improvisational itch came over me like an easily contractable rash which resulted in equally spasmatic side-effects. With an empty potato pan in hand and a Hohner harmonica on my lips, I proceeded to awe the bystanding stones with a savagely enthusiastic soundscape, brought on by a socially stagnant stint through days of torrential terrain.

Performances such as these are usually reserved for a select audience, one that exhibits the apathetic characteristics necessitated by an amateur performer such as myself. The more inanimate and unresponsive the better, hence the spontaneous outbreak of expression among geologic giants that carelessly echoed my every attempt at rhythm and melody. After obliging the roaring demand for multiple encores, I crept backstage and wallowed in my stardom. I interpreted Surely´s silence as complimentary and the rustle of my sleeping bag as constructive criticism.

The wind I expended during my rambunctious prancing must have created some kind of butterfly effect within the labyrinthian landscape because as soon as the sun went down, an atmospheric torment arose. From inside my precariously sand-staked tent, I imagined erosion to be happening at an alarming rate. But come morning, after having only drifted a few paces from my original pitch, I found the stoic façades of my faithful fans imperceptibly altered. Erosion apparently proceeded according to protocal. The bit of grit between the gaps in my teeth will remind me of my breakthrough debut and serve as a token rose from the crowd that unwantingly observed my attempt at rock.

Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia

2009-02-13T06:54:00.000-08:00

Seven cans of meat paste, two kilos of pasta, three packages of crackers, one kilo of oatmeal, and thirty-six liters of water crowded the flanks of our industrial porters. Soren, I admit, carried the bulk of it. Within the narrow strip of sand-infested quinoa farms that separated the two salares, we ransacked the only sizeable village of its entire sotck of cold consumables. If the Salar de Coipasa was a formidably empty section, the Salar de Uyuni would be an inter-planetary mission.

From the shore of Uyuni, fifty kilometers separated us from our destination that day: an isolated island overrun with cacti, liquified by the light-bending mirage that swept over the salt surface. Compass in hand, I confirmed our bearings with the pictographic map that beautifully, if inaccurately, depicted Southwestern Bolivia with shaded earth tones and precision cross-hatching. The landmarks were evidently an afterthought. With a familiar rush of uninhibited planar freedom, we launched into the void that would consume our reality for the following few days.

For four hours, we veered back and forth on our sloppily-plotted route, comforted by the impossibility of losing our way with a singular landmark on the horizon. As before, Soren would cruise ahead - 5, 10, or 20 kilometers - and I would plug along in solitude. When engulfed in such strange terrain, one gets the urge to glorify diversions that, in other places, might seem childish or mundane. To illustrate this, I stashed my bike and took to spinning dizzying circles - for ten minutes. The horizon maintained perfect consistency as I twirled like a lunatic, and at one point - eight minutes in - I had the sensation of being on a giant, horseless merry-go-round. It was the white platform that was spinning, not me.

Games aside, I carried on, finding Soren crouched beneath a customized umbrella. In the middle of the flats, shade is as uncommon as sugar, but thankfully, Soren had crafted a rickety device to soothe our singed skin. When moving, the breeze was enough to cool my bones, but as soon as I stopped, the radiation assaulted me from every direction with 360 degrees of relentless ultraviolet exposure. Lunchtime came, but, according to tradition, we had to do the Meat Paste Dance before we indulged in our pureed pork-beef. Games commenced.

The ¨Island That Never Got Any Closer¨ finally did. For the first time in fifty kilometers, we experienced an elevation gain, but not more than ten meters to our elected campsite. To our great fortune, a neatly stacked pile of aged cactus beckoned us to burn it. That night, we slept in an aura of campfire aroma, dreaming of off-white garnishes.

From the saddle in which we slept, we watched the sun rise directly over our next destination. For a moment, before the sleep flaked from my eyes, I thought we were looking down on a blanket of clouds, through which only a few mountaintops punctured the fluffy sheet. In past experiences when I have, indeed, experienced that nebular phenomenon, I have wanted to run out onto the untainted plane and slide along the white condensation. This time, I could satisfy that fantasy.

Approaching the ¨Island That Attracts Tourists,¨ I met a familiar specimen clad in grungy garb, perched atop two wheels. This guy had been cycling for 20 months from Alaska, en route to Ushuaia, and had just crossed the 30,000 kilometer mark. There were volumes of such accounts enshrined on the island, bursting the spines of four, tattered accounting books. For the remainder of the day, I pored over the interesting anecdotes of past cyclists, hikers, and pilots that have made the pilgrimage. That night, I crept over to the other side of the island and camped beside another blazing cacti-fire.

The next day, our route bore no recognizable landmarks, so we navigated solely by the magnetic pull of our compass needles. Once again, the emptiness consumed me and I took to experimentation. To begin with, I craned my neck upward and dove into the deep, blue sky. For thirty minutes I rode like this, not once glancing at the terrain I passed over. Next, I perched myself high on my saddle and rode without hands. Big deal - although I did so for twenty minutes - often closing my eyes for ten seconds at a time. These activities, among others, can be realized in such desolation.

Approaching the opposite shore of Uyuni, the Jeep traffic became dense, relatively speaking. Twice in one hour I saw the distorted silhouette of a beetle-like trajectory, far in the distance. As we approached the Salt Hotel, their frequency increased, and I began to witness the peculiar activities of salt-bound tourists from a closer, recognizable vantage.

Depth perception ceases to operate in a world of blue and white, much to the advantage of the surrealist photographer. As I passed a pair of parked Jeeps, I witnessed the process by which a Japanese schoolgirl, from behind the lens, will be eaten by an unconcerned cannibal, slowly spooning mouthfulls of innocent flesh. Elsewhere, a frying pan full of unsuspecting gringos was simmering on an imperceptible flame. Soren and I constructed similarly fantastic photo ops, given the few props we had.

With red dirt in sight, we rolled through the last remaining kilometers of salt-pack with grateful, gritty smiles. Over the past five days, we had traversed over 250 kilometers of untainted sodium chloride. Once ashore, I relished in the fecundity of familiar turf, but relented the fact that now I would be bound to previously tread tracks. Everything after cycling the salares will seem normal, no matter how diverse the vistas. Nothing compares to nothingness because everything is usually something.

Salar de Coipasa, Bolivia

2009-02-13T05:17:00.000-08:00

If one could have observed our progress from above as we entered the salt flat, our tracks would have spelled ¨stupified¨ in jumbled cursive script. Once on the white plain, all navigatory indications disappeared in the stark, spaceless expanse, allowing us to assume an unhindered, undirected, unbelievable course through the magnificently desolate plain. Since the past 5,000 kilometers have been directed by either animalian, pedestrian, or vehicular traffic, we took liberties with the ditchless, trackless, dustless, shadowless, topographicless, anythingcomprehendableless environment at hand. Circuitous routes abounded.

Our first experiment in the featureless landscape involved blind-riding in one-minute intervals. Eyes closed, pedaling at a consistent rate, I pursued what I thought was a direct route, but upon opening my eyes, the horizon that had been seared into my retinas a minute earlier had disappeared. Panic arose as I hurriedly scanned my surroundings to find something recognizable because the panorama that lay before me had completely transformed from the time that I began the experiment. Geology must have been operating at an astounding rate to have transformed an entire horizon. I collected myself within moments of opening my eyes, but the initial shock left me thinking that I had been transported to a frozen lake in northern Minnesota. Pinching a fingerful of the surface I stood on confirmed my whereabouts. Salt, not snow.

Throughout the day, I had to remind myself of its composition, because everything in my experience led me to believe it was frozen. When a section of salt creaked under my tires, I cringed at the thought of breaking through, mistaking the glistening crystals, yet again, for a different chemical compound. Lunchtime reassured me when we seasoned our ground bologna with the very ground we sat upon. Flavor was in no shortage that day.

The afternoon wore on, our giddiness subsided, and thoughts moved toward finding a campsite. Suitably flat spots surrounded us, but Soren and I agreed to meet in another 10 kilometers to find a perfectly empty panorama to pitch our tents. He motored off into the distance and was soon out of sight, leaving me alone.

Emptiness.

Nearly an hour later, I saw a black spot hovering above the layer of reflected heat. I figured that no one else would be strolling the salt flat at this hour, and within fifteen minutes of first spotting the blob, I confirmed the Soren-sighting. We threw open our tents and attempted to drive the stakes, but, as expected, the surface was as comparably hard as concrete. As the sun went down, a storm brewed to the north, striking the white surface with frequent bolts that kept us anxiously awaiting an electrified night. Thankfully, we had enough gear to keep our parachutes grounded and enough faith to fend off the tempest.

Early the next morning, after crumpling my salt-caked gear into their respective stuff-sacks, I resumed the bearing from the day before and pedaled toward the slightly darker divergence in the duotone horizon. As the surface became increasingly wet, I felt a surge of vertigo brought on by the bottomless mirror created by a thin layer of standing water. For over an hour, I freed myself from gravity´s pull and proceeded to pilot my pedal-powered plane through absolute absence.

Once grounded, my heart sunk as I saw how destructive the outing had been for Surely. I couldn´t think of an eviler deed done unto a steel machine, but I apologized, promising to compensate with an oil massage and a new paintjob once we reached more familiar terrain. Until then, confounding experiences would dilute my sympathy for corrosive acts of machinistic cruelty.

Despoblado, Bolivia

2009-02-12T06:24:00.000-08:00

From underneath their ill-fitting bowler hats, precariously affixed to their flowing black braids, the Aymara women bubbled with chuckles, almost losing their silly caps while teetering on their miniature stools. Evidently, I provoked their laughter after explaining my plans for the following week: to cycle 500 kilometers through sand and salt. Judging by their reaction, this wasn´t common, much less intelligent. But nevertheless, I kept my ambition through the humiliating encounter and loaded Surely with as many provisions as could be hoarded in the decrepit village. As I wheeled out of town, I glanced over my shoulder to see the glint of gold-rimmed teeth still glaring with hilarity. They waved, kindly acknowledging my departure, or, more likely, in anticipation of my demise.

Starting out, the washboards were so rhythmically consistent that I wished I had cogs instead of wheels. After hours of jostling my joints on the pitifully-kempt road, I resorted to a singletrack that I had spotted earlier, far off in the open plains. Following the narrow ribbon of compact dirt through thoroughly chewn prairie brought a grin back onto my crusted complexion. The llamas didn´t respond to my hoots and hollers, but the shepherds found it entertaining to watch someone on the fast track to desolation - or delusion.

Pink flamingos pranced across the reflective surface of a serene, saline deposit. Their tracks disrupted the mirror image of Sajama, looming leagues away under the cloud-stippled sky. Llamas and alpacas intermingled with their characteristically domesticable demeanor while nearby, a herd of vicuñas sauntered by, flaunting their freedom. This populace, unlike the others, didn´t laugh at me.

Hours later, the wind became so strong that I could have peed on Chile had it not been for the swirling vortex created by my body-shield that sent it instead, spraying into my face. Through the gusts, I think I heard Chile giggling. Next time, I´ll reconsider such vile acts and respectfully soil the adjacent ditch. Once again, I humbly mounted and labored along under the mocking observation of wiser beings. Thankfully, the gales coincided with my direction and swept me along the arid plains until another aid came rumbling from behind.

Soren and I had split that morning, calculating a route through this forgotten country, hoping to encounter one another along the way. As evening approached, we found each other, despite our caked, camouflaged apparati. That night, we holed up next to a cool spring - an anomalie of extraterrestrial significance. For the next few days, we would leapfrog our way through dust devils and sand traps as we approached the otherwordly expanse of the world´s largest salt flats. Soon, the laughers would be silenced by sweet, if salty, success.

Freed, Peru

2009-01-29T10:01:00.001-08:00

After a few kilometers of deliberation, wondering whether I heard a legitimate voice of adventure or a complacent voice of reason blowing on the breeze, I came to a skidding halt on the rocky shores of a glimmering blue expanse, rid myself of all protective layers, and dove into the chilling depths. As soon as my breath returned, I roared with excitement, choked by the buoyancy of my stomach escaping through my throat. With that, I left Peru with no regrets.

As experiences accumulate in Bolivia, I´m sure to encounter plenty of acts worthy of regret, that is, if I believed in such feelings. But instead, I prefer to act impulsively and accept whatever consequences result - in this case - shriveled, breathless, and ecstatic.

Tethered, Peru

2009-01-28T12:17:00.000-08:00

The half-sheared ewe ran passionately toward the end of her tether only to be flipped hooves-over-head each time without fail. Her nose drove into the rocky soil each time the leash sprang taught, yet moments later, after gathering her senses and sneezing from the mild concussion, she bounded in the opposite direction, meeting the other end of the tether with the same, sorry results. Sadly, her young lamb studiously observed its mother´s valiant escape efforts and, consequently, mimicked her determination with its own dashing attempts at freedom. Of course, the rope and stake held. Its face was similarly squashed.

Crouched on the side of the road, I confusedly watched this spectacle unfold until finally, the tanned, crippled old woman carrying a bushel of weeds on her back came to chastise her incompetent stock, growing more incompetent with each leap. Once relocated to a less stressful, more padded patch of pasture, I began to reflect.

Like these sheep, I feel a certain desire to spring forth from the confines imposed by one tether or another. I don´t blame them for blindly storming certain defeat with reckless ambition because however deep the stake or strong the rope, there´s always the potential that, with enough determination, the tether might snap, leaving an unobstructed course on which we can bleat triumphantly.

For the time being, my tethers are limited to trivial guages of cotton thread, the likes of which are effortlessly snapped with no more than a slight pedal stroke. Others, including the majority of folks I encounter on this adventure, are bound by industrial-strength chains. Yet, even with such magnificent burdens, they run, headlong, to the end of their tether, each time coming up with dusty noses. Through delusional sneezes, they fervently pursue the other end with amplified intensity, only to be driven into the rocky soil, time and time again.

My insides sink to unfathomable depths as I watch this struggle from atop a comfortable, leather saddle. My sentiments are lightened only by a profound respect for incomprehensible determination. The greatness that I witness reduces me to nothing more than the dust on their noses. As the road winds on, I hope to be broken each time I see courageous people striving for betterment, one impossibly desperate leap at a time.

Punchao, Peru

2009-01-19T14:43:00.001-08:00

A particularly gripping facet of the Inca religion appears each morning with the rising sun. Instead of worshipping an object or effigy, the Incas paid tribute to a moment. The immateriality of their belief was unprecedented. The focus of their devotion wasn´t reduced to the imperfection and inaccuracy of interpretations like so many contemporary practices. It remained pure. Punchao, as they called it, signified the moment at which the first rays of sunlight broke from beyond the serrated horizon of the dangerously steep valleys and bathed the slopes in sharp, green contrasts. At that point, they observed an untainted clarity, worthy of reverence.

In order to preserve this moment of divinity, they fashioned an object, the design of which made possible the preservation of a fleeting moment. The center consisted of an enclosed chalice which contained the dough composed of the ash of past Incas´ hearts. Surrounding this relic were hundreds of pendants, dangling like leaves from a tree. When placed in the sun, it is said that the reflected brilliance produced by these medallions obscured the object itself in a splash of glaring sunlight. In this way, their worship was diverted from materiality, driven toward an intangible glow that signified ultimate divinity.

These days, the ceremonial sunrise still evokes a sense of godliness in the Sacred Valley. No matter how stifling the Conquest was, Punchao still reigns the terrain surrounding Cuzco. Nearing the end of the canyon, where the setting becomes too steep for vehicular traffic, the remains of the greatest Inca establishment perches high atop an infathomably challenging site.

Long before the sun rose, we squinted through the diffused moonlight on the winding trail to Machu Picchu. As the sky brightened, we entered the sacred grounds, still hours before the first direct rays. Nearing the base of Wayna Picchu, the sun burst from beyond the confines of the rugged horizon with as much strength and clarity as when the ruins were inhabited. At that point, at that place, the divinity of Punchao become clear. The warm embrace of the early morning sun comforted us like a thick alpaca blanket. The sharp shadows painted the ruins in deep shades of gray. Where the light struck directly, the stones practically glowed with life.

As the morning matured, the light flattened and Punchao receded until its next scheduled appearance forever thereafter. Later, the charactistic mist descended upon the ruins and shrouded the complex in mystery. We wandered the site with wonderment until the rain came and cleansed the constructions of the intruding tourists. Awe remained with us for the entire afternoon, seizing our attempts at description and interpretation.

Like Punchao, Machu Picchu supercedes materialization. To assign depictive descriptions to such an auspicious site reduces it to unavoidable imperfection when in fact, the ruins, when bathed in the glow of god, come closer to perfection than anywhere else.

Familiar Faces, Peru

2009-01-07T08:08:00.000-08:00

Familiarity rarely occurs when refusing to stand still. While I spin my wheels in search of newness, the terrain remains fresh - crisp and ephemeral like a fragile morning frost. Eventually, the crystalline coating melts and the environment exhales, a point at which the features relax and certain details are revealed. Rarely am I stagnant for long enough to experience this depth, but recently, the pace has slowed, thanks to the arrival of familiar faces.

Shortly before Christmas, I was joined in Cuzco by Soren, a reunion packed with enthusiasm and excitement after our brief separation. We celebrated with as much tradition as we could recreate with our meager means, and in the end, we managed an impressing feast. Only the Charlie Brown tree reflected our economic depravity. The gifts piled nearly as high as the tree, even if they were stolen from each other, wrapped, and regifted as if they were new.

Nearing the New Year, another familiar face joined the festivities. From off the plane poured the finest imports from Italy including Tuscan wine, elegant cheese, homemade biscotti, and fresh pasta. Leading them all was Elisa, the finest import of all. Her generosity was directly reflected in the luggage she carried, toting nothing more than the bare essentials in a tight rucksack. In her other hand, she transported - illegally - a giant suitcase full of gifts from her mother country. Thankfully, she claimed none of her contraband at customs, and we dined like royalty on New Year´s Eve.

Weeks later, yet another pair of familiar faces came pouring off the plane, looking unusually radiant given the region they came from. Days before leaving, temperatures read well below zero in the Midwest, but my dad and uncle brought with them a warmth that melted all shreds of homesickness. The whimsical nature of my family and friends led to a festive few weeks filled with familiarity.

Each time I venture out, I´m awed at how expansive this planet is, but each time, I´m invariably reminded that, at the same time, it can be strikingly small. Circumstances like these are consoling, to know that however removed I might feel, there´s always a shred of familiarity. After all, we´re made from the same recipe, some more similar than others. Needless to say, it was a great pleasure to see these faces, full of energy and inspiration.

Cuzco, Peru

2008-12-29T15:39:00.000-08:00

Faint whispers of Inca processions still ooze from between the minute creases that lock the stone ashlars in place. Neither conquest nor earthquake could shake the stolid foundations of such diligent builders. Perching on top with blatantly dominant intentions are the colonial institutions that successfully manipulated the indigenous culture into complacent puppets. This combination creates a perplexing architectural dichotomy, materializing the shameful cultural tragedy that coincided with the Conquest.

Despite it´s brutish past, Cuzco now manages it´s many facets responsibly and beautifully, creating a quaint community of diversity. While contemplating it, as always, through reckless delineation in embellished proportions, I´m continually impressed by the narrow sliver of sky that these narrow streets afford. For hours at a time, I wander with my neck craned upward, stumbling on the inconsistent street surface, bumping into the occasional llama.

Each street outdoes the last by contorting perspective into a bent reality where geometry is crumpled into a far more intricate complexity. The labyrinth of slotted streets winds incomprehensibly through a topographic maze where the illusive cheese is always beyond reach.

Nowhere are there parallel lines and seldom are there straight planes. Everything bubbles and ripples like a pot of water on the brink of boiling. At times, the pot boils over with as much force as a geyser, scalding everyone within proximity. These are the moments of ultimate intrigue, those unique to the orchestrated mess of this city. Cuzco is captivating, physically and mentally. The riddle will never be solved, but the process of discovery is worth the pursuit.

Fugitive, Peru

2008-12-22T17:54:00.000-08:00

The kind women at the tourist office casually informed me that I could expect a five dollar fine for every day that I overstay my visa. Come January, they said with a smile, it could increase. With this, I gagged, calculating an eighty dollar tab already, a sum that would consume well over a week´s budget. The one dollar quote that I heard from other tourists was a dirty rumor that kept me thinking I could handle a few extra days in Peru. Not the case, according to the oracles at the information bank.

As soon as the blood returned to my face, I made arrangements to minimize my fine by jumping onto the first bus headed for the border with hopes of weaseling my way out of it by some stroke of luck or bribery. Hastily, nervously, I pocketed my passport and what little American money I had been hoarding and boarded a night bus for Bolivia to legitimize the remainder of my stay.

Sleep eluded me that night, but by the time the sun broke over the moutains that surrounded Lago Titicaca, I was alert enough to craft a story worthy of remorse. With an exhausted explanation of how tiresome this trip has been, complete with anecdotes that would surely impress a hardened Peruvian, I pleaded my case to the unresponsive countenance of the border official. I claimed that the pace I´ve been cycling has made it impossible to cross this country in ninety days, and when my alotted time expired in early December, I was far from any means to rectify my illegality. He humored my rambling, but in the end, disgustedly reminded me that I had broken the law and would have to pay, just like every other gringo that enjoys himself, extensively, in Peru.

Thankfully, his inaccurate longhand addition saved me a few dollars. When he passed his calculations to the accountant, I was surprised to hear his demand - only twenty-eight dollars. With this, I sighed. The first twenty dollar bill I offered him was rejected with confidence that the bank wouldn´t accept a note that had pen markings on it. Nothing more than a scribble, but to him, it might as well have been toilet paper. Thankfully, I had another, but this, too, he snuffed with an arrogant air. Never have I seen a cleaner bill in the United States, but according to his money-grubbing experience, the bank wouldn´t take it because it had a square of Scotch tape on the edge.

At this, my patience reached it´s breaking point. I raised my voice, turning more than a few heads, and demonstrated their authenticity by peeling off the scrap of tape and giving myself a paper cut with their crisp edges. For the first time, I egotistically played my ¨American card,¨ claiming to have extensive knowledge on the currency and demanded that he take the bills to the bank. It pained me to act so obtusely, but in that situation, nothing less would have worked.

It worked. After waiting for a few cooling moments in the immigration office, the handler returned with change. The first official stamped my passport, clearing me of my infringement whilethe second official relieved me of my last American money. When I told him I´ll be back mometarily after I get stamped in the Bolivian office, he said I´ll have to wait twenty-four hours - or pay him twenty dollars. Forget it. I could handle a night in Copacabana.

After an unburdened evening on the shores of Lago Titicaca, I returned to the Peruvian immigration office twenty-five hours after leaving it. The same official from the day before greeted me with surprising affection, asking me how long I planned on staying this time. With a brief explanation that accounted for only a few more weeks beyond the holiday season, he responded with a skeptical grin, saying that he would save me some trouble by giving me six months - just in case. The pain in my ass after twenty-six hours on a bus will remind me to obey the rules next time. Thankfully, I won´t have to confront this situation again for another 183 days.

Ruta Dura, Peru

2008-12-19T15:17:00.000-08:00

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.

Ayacucho, Peru

2008-12-10T15:24:00.000-08:00

Among the scattering of cacti and yucca in the hostile hinterland of the Andes is a softer sort of growth, one with extravagent colors and luscious textures. Just as my fibers fired their last round on a four-day fight from Huancavelica, the oasis of Ayacucho appeared in the fertile basin below. The 30 km descent on pristine asphalt led me to believe that this was a mirage, but nearing the city center, the habitual honking of Peruvian drivers dissolved my aparition and grounded me in the realities of South America. Preparing to release a satisfactory sigh at having reached substantial civilization again, I choked on the exhaust of a passing truck. I coughed instead.

In Ayacucho, the mixture of indian, colonial, and contemporary culture fluidly waltzes along the narrow streets and bursts onto the vast plazas. The 34 colonial churches appear at intervals along the cobbled alleys, each within view of at least two others. Evidently, the Spaniards anticipated an Inca rebellion and summoned a surplus of divine presence to aid their cause. Nowadays, one finds buisinessmen worshipping next to Quechua women, one fiddling with his mobile phone and the other twirling a rod of wool, each passively absorbing the sermon spoken from in front of the extravagantly kitschy altar.

Festivals in the Central Andes are in no shortage, and Ayacucho, in the heart of the hills, is no exception. In fact, they boast over 400 parties a year, each maintaining a unique character that dates back hundreds of years. This year, they´ve added an additional event to the already overflowing calendar - the International Guitar Festival - which I happened to find in it´s third and final night. Their layering and timing took some time to comprehend, but once I gained a slight understanding, I sat with wide eyes, openly gaping at their dexterity. By the third performer, I could share in the unbridled excitement of the old woman sitting next to me, bouncing in her seat with the first lick of each tune, whispering her affection to no one in particular. I remained stunned, despite the elbows thrust into my side at each concluding chord.

When my attention wasn´t darting from block to block leading me in untraceable circles around the city, I took some time to recooperate and prepare for the upcoming stretch. From what I hear, it´s a beast. When my claws are sharp enough to defend myself, I´ll confront the animal with as much gusto as I´ve got left.

Collage, Peru

2008-12-07T13:07:00.001-08:00

Along the route that links the few cities strung along the Central Andes, changes in scenery are as frequent as potholes. Despite the lack of the latest technology, the landscape in this remote region is transmitted via the highest quality RGB monitor. Freshly planted, plucked, or plowed potato patches contrasted with those awaiting their fate on my plate in an undulating mosaic of cultivated earth. This quilt of complementary colors gained additional vibrance from the bright blue sky, although in the early afternoon, reception was obscured by a thick static that left me soaking wet.

As the altitude increased, the quilted RGB liquified into an insoluable mixture of chaotic composition. The same pallatte used in the gridded agriculture transformed into the swirling abstraction of a surrealist´s brush. At 5,059 meters, the composition reached it´s height, as did Surely and her passenger. Nowhere else in South America can wheeled vehicles travel this high, rendering it as a milestone of sorts. Celebrations were limited to an Inca war-cry and a solitary square-dance because the B on the RGB scale was growing darker, sounding off a war-cry of it´s own.

A nervous descent through an atmospheric mosh-pit brought with it a stable sky that allowed my blood to resume flow in my knuckles. During a brief but intense break in the clouds, a curious smell rose on the steam of the thawing earth. From my deductions, either Peru got its smell from potatoes or potatoes got their smell from Peru, because the odor emitting from the thawing landscape smelled exactly as such. This reminded me of the hunger that had been lingering, but with no satiating options in sight, I chewed on my cheek.

People residing in this desolate stretch emit a similar radiance as the brilliant landscape. Instead of shouting an alienating comment at my passing - which is customary among most highlanders - the people of this region seem to have a genuine interest in why a gringo would ride a bike and eat avocados when most others ride busses and chomp on chickens. Whenever I slow down enough to exchange more than a two-syllable greeting, I´m swarmed with an onslaught of questions from everyone within earshot.

The old men usually ask how long my tires last while the younger generation is more concerned with how I manage to eat if I don´t have enough money to travel by car. No matter how hard I try to convince them that this is a choice, they still demand to know where I find food. This reminded me of the hunger that had been lingering, and with a produce cart in sight, I indulged in the bounty of a beautiful landscape.

Altiplano, Peru

2008-12-07T07:13:00.000-08:00

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.

Camino Inca, Peru

2008-11-27T09:00:00.000-08:00

The Incas were a hearty breed. They had spleens the size of watermelons and blood as red as Satan´s cape. They inhabited a landscape of improbable subsistence, and did so with glimmering exuberance with the vast quantities of precious metals they routinely bathed in. Without a written language, the arch, or the wheel, they managed to prosper in virtual isolation from the rest of the world. Then, the lowlanders arrived.

The conquistadores bravely marched through an inhospitable landscape, savagely drooling at the prospect of what Peru held. Sadly, they destroyed much of what they came upon, but what little remains is to be marvelled. Remnants of the masterfully engineered Incan bridges, roads, and temples scatter the route that currently traces the backbone of the Andes en route to Cuzco.

If Pizarro and his contingent could scour this terrain with 30 kilos of chainmail and weapons, the least I can do is follow in their footsteps with immense technological improvements carrying 30 kilos of survival gear and drawing paper. Fortunately, I´ve learned to have slightly more honorable intentions in the five-hundred years that separates us. Other than that, we´re one in the same: restless explorers that ignore the odds in pursuit of unknown treasure. What unites us is our common interest in Cuzco, but what separates us is hundreds of kilos of gold, of which I´ll fail to find. Hopefully, there will be rewards of a different sort in store.

Pastoruri, Peru

2008-11-21T16:17:00.000-08:00

Earlier this week, we breeched the borders of Huaraz. Shortly after, we came crawling back. Along the way, we had a revelation, one that will affect the remaining eight months of our South American stint.

After nearly a month of growing accustomed to pedestrianism it´s a wonder we didn´t need training wheels, but as the gears slowly churned and the road grew sufficiently textured, the hesitation in Soren´s demeanor openly revealed itself. Between laborious breaths, he matter-of-factly expressed his distaste for this masochistic mode, mentioning a possible shift to a motorized unit. This realization came after a day-and-a-half of tormented riding in which nothing seemed to feel right for him - physically, mentally, spiritually, or philosophically.

Schematically posed, we squatted on the side of the road at 4,500 meters under an icy shower and talked it through, piece by piece, considering all possibilities and alternatives. After nearly an hour of spilling what guts we had left, we came to the conclusion that we would blaze separate trails - him with the aid of a motor and me with the aid of a fresh pair of tires. But expeditions end at breakfast, not at the heels of a glacier. So, back in Huaraz, we toasted to each other´s well-being, vowing to spend Christmas together in Cuzco, along with an unforeseeable amount of roadside encounters as the Andes unfold before us. With that, we split, but not before crunching on a bowl of cereal.

Back on the road, I cycled with explosive eagerness, but after the immediate novelty wore off, I caught myself looking longingly behind me in search of the companions that would no longer appear. With a deep and lonely sigh, I reluctantly kept on, believing that my appetite for adventure would return as the kilometers accumulate. Just as my comfort began to establish itself, it was rocked by a gunshot from behind me which simultaneously brought me to a lurching halt. After checking my vitals and inspecting my steed, I found that my tire had blown itself off the rim, obliterating the tube in the process. Not to be deterred, I performed the necessary operations and carried on - through rain, hail, and lightning - until I reached the control post for Huasarán where I shacked up while the storm blew over. While I dipped and sipped the tea and biscuits which I coddled with great affection, I was jolted into attentiveness by another gunshot. Without provocation, the tire blew - again. This time, I figured these weren´t isolated events, so I resigned to return to Huaraz the next day to gather a pair of functioning tires - again.

Thankfully, my crippled rig and I were warmly welcomed with ample reinforcemets that would facilitate my next dispatch. Soren graciously designated Will as an organ donor, the parts of which were accepted by Surely and her doctor in a time of desperate need. After an urgent operation, the transplants have been successfully installed and the patient is recovering at a startling rate. As soon as she whinnies with her characteristic vibrato, we´ll be on the road - again.

Huayhuash, Peru

2008-11-13T06:19:00.000-08:00

Cordillera Huayhuash is a notably brutal range. Skeptics should consult Joe Simpson from ¨Touching the Void.¨ As we loaded the bus for the final leg that would bring us into the circuit, the ticket-hawker looked at us quizzically and asked, ¨Where´s your guide?¨ Shrugging our shoulders, she proceeded with, ¨Well then, where will you get your donkey?¨ Shaking our heads, she followed up with a final concern, ¨Um, and the rest of your bags and boxes?¨ Her look of surprise both worried and encouraged us, meaning we were either brave or ignorant. Apparently, three scrawny gringos in tennis shoes carrying bicycle bags during the rainy season rarely undertake the Huayhuash trek without substantial support. Here we were, once again defying our reputation.

Fresh milk, barely cooled, filled our cups on the first morning. Slinging our rucksacks over our shoulders, we parted ways with the shepherd that hosted us and wandered the faint trail that led us along the lateral moraines. The mineral-enriched aggregate that eroded during geologic yoga mixed with the snowmelt, refridgerating in gelatinous pools of Blue Raspberry Jello. As the week wore on, the frequency of such desserts would minimize, and the Bill Cosby treats were replaced by less succulent, more bittersweet derivatives, endorsed by such personalities as the Tazmanian Devil.

Early the next morning, the palpable aroma of blood hung in the frigid air as steam rose from the throat of a freshly slaughtered sheep. Only a few drops of blood breeched the bucket´s rim, much to the disappointment of the dutifully waiting dogs. Pagan tendencies would have led us to conclude that this sacrifice would appease the mountain gods, but a coincidental sign counteracted whatever blood was spilt in our favor. Thirteen condors, each with a wingspan of three meters, hovered high above, some swooping down to inspect the event and whisk away our fortune. Later, we would damn these condors for snatching our good luck.

Following the index finger of the shepherd, we scrambled between the tightly binding canyon walls toward a void in the skyline. As the basin became increasingly steep and narrow, the donkey droppings disappeared, rendering the terrain impassable for four-legged porters. But as bipedals, we carried on, precariously edging our way along a thawing slope of snow and schist. Nearing the top, our fear reached new heights with each crumbling step, amplified by the bounce of my bike bags against the fifty-degree slope. We trembled while recollecting the route from the saddle, realizing now that the shepherds had been pointing elsewhere, toward a faint trail to the south, two-hundred meters below us. The dread of descending instantly dissolved when we discovered that the east-facing slope had sufficiently dried to allow a kilometer of scree-sliding. ¨Yeehaw!¨ was heard resounding in the valley below.

Early the next afternoon, the clouds collected in pulsating piles of indigo. Soon, hailstones began hopping around the thin vegetative layer like mummified grasshoppers summoned by the coded claps of thunder. With each chant, thousands of critters were resurrected with spunk. From our vantage against the only sizeable stone in sight, we watched the dance of the dead, shivering with reverence. Looking toward the pass, we witnessed an act of defiance, perpetrated by a hundred-meter waterfall that refused to comply with gravity. The water that plunged over the canyon rim was sent spraying upward with lawless fury, eventually landing on the valley floor, far from its intended target; but the event was calculated, nonetheless, for it extinguished a small brush fire that had grown with the swirling winds and static discharges. Choas resolved.

The next morning, a navigational error led us into a dangerously hot trap. So hot was the trap that we actually jumped in. It was dangerous because we didn´t want to get out. After an endorphinic hour, we flopped out of the hot springs and clothed ourselves for the 5,000 meter pass that awaited. That night, I´d feverishly ache for that bath. With the top in sight, we were forced to sprint past the cairns and deny our triumph, propelled by a morbid fear of what chased us. Indigo has never been so intimidating. Safely on the leeward side of the slope, we cowered under a boulder and coddled a cup of soup as we waited for a clearing. The swirling snow and the resulting snot that dripped from my nose made for fine garnishes.

The limits that I continually seek were viewed from a frighteningly close proximity that day. Never do I expect to reach those limits because that would incur irrevocable results, but the closer I come, the livlier I feel. I felt alive that day, but as a result, I was left feeling dead. The feverish sleep that ensued caused me to writhe in the sweat-soaked confines of an emergency blanket while my dreams breeched all conventions, venturing into utter surreality. For some inexplicable reason, I felt as if I were subject to the microscopic explosions that happen inside the mechanisms of a pinball machine. With each paddle flop, I was jolted awake, only to be knocked out again by the drumroll of the thumper-bumpers. While the primary ball was held captive, I became the glittering reflection that coated the extra ball. When the high scores flowed across the marquee, I shivered in concert with the flashing bulbs. Thankfully, I ran out of tokens by morning. With wide-eyed anticipation, the sun eventually thawed the ice that had collected on the inside of the tent, and I was ready to stagger on through severe nutritional debt.

We spent the remaining days on the trail in blissful ignorance of our haggard condition. By our sixth day, our tastebuds were numb to rice, beans, and raisins, and our stomachs had long since shrunk to the point of satisfaction by a single cup of this monotonous concoction. Nearing the end of the circuit, we returned to find the shepherd with whom we spent the first night preparing a delectable dinner of trout and potatoes, just as he had promised over a week ago. On our last morning, we were awake in time to enjoy hot milk which sufficiently energized us for the tenth pass that led back to the motorized world. Eight days of inadequacy desaturated our senses to the point of an awareness rarely witnessed in our pampered lives. We were able to appreciate the cycle of the sun as it incubated an infant storm, and later, gratefully acknowledge the technology that went into our plastic ponchos.

The jarring descent into Llamac strummed our tendons like stringed instruments, but instead of producing a symphony that the surroundings suggested, it provoked a sound that resembled the donkeys that we refused to take. We paid, sorely, for our independence. Shoelessly shuffling into the bus station, I thought I noticed a slightly upturned lip on the ticket-hawker from the first day. From beyond my rosy nose and through my crusted stubble, I smiled back.

On the return trip to Huaraz, a handfull of factors led to another bout with imbalance. In hindsight, I think it was the slightly out-of-tune radio station that sent me spiraling into another inescapable game of pinball. Silence, the most evasive state of South America, required nearly a week of solitude to restore itself, and was instantaneously disrupted by Sonia´s shrieking Spanish songs. In the end, Huayhuash refused to be humiliated by my insistence on independence, gently leaving its mark, reminding me which of us is immoveable. I humbly bow.

Huaraz, Peru

2008-10-26T14:14:00.000-07:00

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.

The Lone Road, Peru

2008-10-20T07:51:00.000-07:00

Various circumstances have led to each of us blazing a solitary trail. The road that I pursued led back into the Cordillera Blanca on a seldomly trafficked route that approached a pass that flirted with 5,000 meters. As I rounded and early corner on the mud-caked track lined with sub-alpine vegetation, the glacier that hung at the end of the valley growled with ferocity compared to the complacent bull that stared dumbly at my passing. There appeared to be more life in the crevasses than in the livestock. Movements of such masses of ice and rock are perceived on a macro-scale, sculpting intricate valleys with such patience that they give the illusion of sedation. Cattle, on the other hand, are as empty as their eyes appear.

The climb wore on and the precipitation changed states a few times, disproving the Dutch theory that sneezing three times forecasts good weather. Squinting through splattered sunglasses at an ascending gradient of gray to white, I could imagine the peaks to be as tall as I wanted them to be. Topography be damned, I prefered fantasy. Later, when the stacked switchbacks alternated directions to and from the clouded vista, the cloudcover dissipated, momentarily revealing the cirque in its entirity. Surprises like these are fully appreciated at a pedaled pace. Topography be hallowed, I worshipped these peaks.

As the sun descended, the clouds cast a deceptively warm light onto the frozen landscape. While the light faded, a surge of a different sort grew. Thunder clapped from a great distance, and as it bounced off the canyon walls that drained the cirque, it sounded like canon warfare. The ricocheting rumbles instigated a rockslide that added to the chorus of chaos, and the avalanche gained a variety of aggregate as it tumbled down the precipice. When the last reverberations had been silenced by the growing density of fog, the full-moon revealed another phenomenon. From the northern knife edge came pouring a bank of clouds that resembled the diffusion of dry-ice over a dance-floor. The bank of clouds soon descended upon the cirque, enveloping everything in a churning, white broth.

Before this series of spectacles began, I had discovered a deserted shack tucked next to an eerily blue lake that collected the runoff from a niche in the cirque. Wrapping myself in layers of synthetics, I watched, partially numb, from the bouldered porch. The next morning, from between the cracks of the metal storm-shutters, I could see slivers of daylight reflected off my breath. It took courage to peel myself from the straw-strewn floor within the thick walls of dry-stacked stones, but as I did, my grogginess dissolved with the blinding light of a freshly painted landscape. White was the color of choice, excess was the idea. Snow-days are rare occasions to lounge around, and I couldn´t have asked for a more inspiring setting to cancel my activities. As soon as the stove cooled from one batch of tea, I fired up another, repeating the process more times than was necessary. Stillness prevailed.

The following day presented a similar dilemma, but when calculating my dwindling food cache, consecutive snow-days didn´t compute. The frozen road to Punta Olímpica was glazed with vapor as it sublimated under the morning sun, but as I pedaled the last remaining switchbacks, the track disappeared under a blanket of snow. If keeping my balance at 4,900 meters wasn´t difficult enough, the snow made it next to impossible. So, with moronic humility, I pushed my way through the slice in the rock, postholing through drifts toward the perfectly framed Huascarán, glowing with pride at being the biggest of them all. I, too, beamed with a bit of pride at having maximized the lone road around the Cordillera Blanca.

Cordillera Blanca, Peru

2008-10-20T07:01:00.000-07:00

Chasms carved out of the western edge of the Cordillera Blanca offer an array of access routes for wheel-bound travelers into Peru´s monumental range of world-renowned peaks. Continuing our five-day, five-thousand-meter climb, we wiggled our way between Huasarán, Peru´s highest, and Huandoy, where we found the famously blue lakes of Llanganuco. After weeks of overnight confinement in semi-rectangular accommodations, we were finally back in our synthetic sacks. That night, our sleep was toxic.

Coinciding with our re-immersion into the Andes was our desire for solitude. Two months of sharing everything from toothbrushes to tire levers has inevitably brought us closer together, but at times, as with everything, change can be invigorating. Conveniently, our contemplative stints came in the Cordillera Blanca, a place saturated with restorative energy. The mountains scheduled their first private meeting with Soren, so he opted to bivouac at Llanganuco for a few more days and discover what the white giants had in store. After a few gear exhanges and a slap on the back, the group was severed in two.

Sven and I carried on, leisurely pedaling beside cerulean lakes until we spotted a cattle-groomed field amid a splattering of glacial erratics. Since Sven had ignored the screaming pain receptors in his patella since climbing from sea-level, he tended our camp like a lame bouncer, scrutinizing the most persistent cows from defacating on our temporary home. I trekked onward, without wheels, heeding my own appointment with the mountains. After hours of adrenaline-induced hiking that insufficiently oxygenated my brain, I doubted the reality of what I found, thinking it hallucinatory. The Cordillera Blanca had apparently suffered a mild flesh wound that bled streams of ice-cold, neon-blue blood. This sacrement appeared to glow compared to its desaturated surroundings. The gray tones of the glaciers had miraculously birthed a blue that tasted just as the color should, that is, if colors tasted.

Later that night, under a full-moon, we saw the upcoming pass glimmer with a jagged path of headlights that clued at the steepness of the slope. The next morning, as we hovered over a pot of steaming oats, we wagered on how many switchbacks were in store for the day. At number 18, my guess had already been exceeded; at number 32, Sven´s had passed; and at number 35, we stood woozily at the coattails of 5,000 meters, proudly atop the Puertochuelo.

After cooking a hasty batch of avocado spaghetti, we tightened our jaws for the long descent into Yanama where we spent a disrupted night camped next to a pigsty. Sven woke with the pains from the pass screaming in his knee, which led him into wisely deciding to trace our path by bus, back to a place more prone to recooperation than a slop bucket. The characteristic magnetism of an uncharted road pulled me onward, into another chasm that pierced the Cordillera Blanca, this time on the east side. Solitude, on all fronts, led us each to unique experiences, something we could hoard all to ourselves.

Mountainbound, Peru

2008-10-09T15:18:00.000-07:00

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.

Trujillo, Peru

2008-10-03T19:28:00.000-07:00

Trujillo itself offers nothing in general but everything in particular. The strange cravings we´ve accumulated over the past few months have been satisfied by a handful of hosts in a variety of settings. Lucho, first and foremost, has provided us with a semblance of home. Disbelievers will be convinced of the existence of altruism after staying at the Casa de Ciclistas, but as products of our respective societies, something inside of us was uncomfortable with receiving something for nothing. After a few days of pampering, we got the urge to upset his non-reciprocal policy with an installation on the rooftop terrace that would serve as an enduring gift for the Casa de Ciclistas.

Later that evening, the downstairs came alive, not with paint, but with music. The Dutch bassist teamed up with a Nepalese guitarist and a Peruvian drummer to create the ¨Most Diverse and the Best Bicycle Band in the World,¨ or so it seemed. Guest artists included two Dakotan percussionists and a Seattleite harpist. The record contract is still pending.

Peeling ourselves out of bed the next morning, we hobbled over to Café Alemán where our resident German chef prepared his usual recipe for rejuvinating our post-party aches: Bernd´s Bicycle Burger. Without a doubt, this magical recipe was the key to our recovery, as well as one of the magnets that kept us in Trujillo. Each time we stuffed ourselves and made to hobble onward, he grudgingly calculated a bill, which he then square rooted. If it was within his means, he would have gladly sponsored our visits, but knowing the reality of the situation, we cubed his requests in a game of mathematical jousting.

The days at the Casa de Ciclistas slowly accumulated as the wealth of compelling events carried on. On our last day, as we often projected, Trujillo celebrated its annual festival with an internationally themed parade. As vertically endowed gringos, we enjoyed unobstructed views from the back row, watching tractor-drawn floats flaunt beauty queens from Latin America and stilted clowns dance with costumed tamales as the various marching bands kept time. Our culture-meters peaked in Trujillo, given the authenticity of our interactions and the hospitality of our hosts.

Casa de Ciclistas, Peru

2008-10-01T10:40:00.000-07:00

His reputation preceeds him by thousands of kilometers. His talents resurrect lame machinery. His home welcomes the smelliest of guests. His friends concoct delectable pizza. His enthusiasm peaks after midnight under neon light. His archives record decades of gripping adventures. His trophy case overflows onto the workbench. And yet his fame is only matched by his humilty.

Over twenty years ago, Lucho began welcoming two-wheeled travelers into his home, repairing neglected bicycles, extending his knowledge of local delights, and sharing his passion for cycling with vagabonds from around the world. Since then, he has hosted 1031 cyclists, making us his prime priority. Every aspect of his life is oriented on the promotion of cycling, whether it be the racing circuit in South America or the touring community around the world. His library of bicycles strewn around the house indicate the depth of his love, including one aged mountain bike with a car-seat mounted on the back. His two-year old copilot´s name, not surprisingly, is Lance.

Above the door hangs a banner announcing the ¨Casa de Ciclistas,¨ but with Lucho´s notoriety, no sign is needed. Strangers pointed the way before we had the thought to ask, figuring that gringos on loaded bicycles were headed for Lucho´s haven. Under the banner is a mural depicting two cyclists, one slick, the other grimy, carrying the globe over their heads. Between them, ¨Amistad.¨ The moment we met Lucho, we understood this life-long commitment that sought to brighten the journeys of weary cyclists. We arrived after a recooperative beach-stint in Huanchaco, planning on spending an afternoon looking at maps and tinkering with our broken bikes, but after feeling the warmth with which we were welcomed, it was impossible to continue along the cold road that lie ahead.

The days hanging around the Casa de Ciclistas have accumulated with little awareness of the passing time. Nights are spent racing around the city in reckless fashion, Lucho leading with a heavy pedal stroke. The sprint usually ends at a pizza joint where we´re received with familiarity, along with bottomless wine carafes and divinity pizzas. After dinner, we wander purposefully into a dimly lit, mirrored nightclub where all the female employees seem to have forgotten their clothing. Later, as we bed down, we have every intention of cycling onward the next day, but come morning, we find plenty of reasons to stay. So until the reasons run out, we´ll enjoy the fruits of our pilgrimage to the Casa de Ciclistas.

La Costa, Peru

2008-09-23T19:36:00.000-07:00

In a moment of consentual oxygen-lust, we modified our exclusively Andean route to include the salty sea-air of the South Pacific. The neglected mountain roads had tested our stamina and taxed our machines to the point of needing serious repairs, both bodily and mechanically. Fortunately, the nearest city with any chance of having the necessary tools happened to be along sandy shores, or so we thought. By now, the jostles induced by nearly 1000 km of dry washboards and fist-sized stones had broken three steel braze-ons and irritated countless muscles. A break of a different sort was in order.

With visions of Endless Summer, we descended from the Andean heights with blind ambition; or perhaps it was the headwind stirring the arid earth and the poorly maintained engines spewing black exhaust that blinded us. Either way, we plugged on - heads down, teeth clenched, eyes squinted. After two days of desperately clinging to our rolling jackhammers, we came rattling onto the beach, high on oxygen after losing 4000 meters. For the first time since leaving Miami and Amsterdam, we felt the density of the cool, coastal air, clearly reflected in our uninterrupted sleep that night. Sadly, our overnight comas ended before dawn due to a nasty rumor we had heard about the upcoming stretch.

Apparently, the route approaching Trujillo is laden with ladrones known to target touring cyclists. Bias aside, I think they´ve chosen their victims wisely. No one could be more vulnerable and valuable than disproportioned cyclists carrying their worldly possessions on a easily-approachable vehicle. Their action tactics sound efficient as well, merely veering their moto-taxis into the shoulder and ramming the cyclists with their three-wheeled weapons. While the spandex-clad victims are down for the count, the ladrones gather whatever goods appear valuable and casually motor down the Panamericana, loot in hand. Thankfully, we heard about these events before we had to experience them, and in preparation for this potential thievery, we equipped ourselves with defenses.

The infamously sketchy section from Pacasmayo to Trujillo stretches for 110 km through an empty expanse of overcast sandscape. Waking at 5 am, we planned to knock-off this chunk before noon, hoping to avoid the sun, wind, and robbers. In addition to our calculated schedule, we also mounted 22-inch machetes in bayonet fashion, hoping to appear militant in our half-ninja, half-cycling costumes. For the first few hours, we were fortunate enough to have the company of a Peruvian kung-fu coach on a motorcycle, someone who had schooled us in the philosophy of defense the night before, but when duty called him back to Pacasmayo, we were alone with our combined 56 inces of weaponry. The intimidation measures must have worked because we cruised through the danger zone in a 20 kmph paceline, adrenaline pulsing and senses alert.

After eight days of averaging over 80 km in exhaustive conditions, we trudged into Trujillo, battered from the compounding ailments. Coincidentally, we arrived at 2000 km, yet another occasion for celebration. Rest, relaxation, and rehabilitation are on the agenda until we´re drawn back into the mountains, which - given our history - won´t be long.

Abras, Peru

2008-09-20T16:56:00.000-07:00

In the Andes, immense changes happen throughout the day. Somehow, the elements that went into creating other mountain ranges have collided in overabundant proportions here to create an environment that humiliates our experience with spiteful surprises.

Weatherwise, we´re used to seeing three or four seasons in a single day, as was the case leaving Leymebamba. The sun baked the west-facing slope as we climbed out of town, but before lunch, we had ridden under a blanket of clouds that cooled our water-bottles to a refreshing temperature again. Later, after tuna-and-crackers, the blanket of clouds enveloped us with whiteness and wetness. For 30 km, we climbed with no indication of the supposed Abra Barro Negro at 3760 meters, but after evading the whipping winds in an abandonded building, we found ourselves shifting into the second and third ring, hardly recognizing the feeling. Around the fourth corner, the clouds were whisked away by a broom bigger than we could imagine and the landscape revealed itself. It was as if we spent the morning looking through a foggy pair of binoculars, suddenly taken away. The relatively treeless expanse appeared muscular in its striations, the contours of which we traced like bobsleds on the thrilling descent. For 60 km, we hooted and hollered our way down the winding gravel track, feeling like kids opening presents on Christmas morning. Darkness descended upon us as we rolled into town, but the whites of our bulging eyes and the bug-pasted gleam of our cackling smiles provided ample light to find accommodations.

Terrainwise, we hesitate to make predictions, because around each hairpin lies something unexpected. As we crawled out of our bug-oven on the banks of the Rio Marañon, the sun crept over the canyon walls, cooking the urine-soaked streets of the disgusting transit-town that clung to the bridge like a leech. In full daylight, we realized the filth we had overlooked in our euphoric state from the night before. With furrowed noses, we pedaled over the bridge and into a deserted landscape, incapable of cultivation. The heat persisted until we reached a partial plateau that began to show signs of life, but the steadily climbing track kept its course, toward a veritable wall at the end of the valley. As we got closer, we saw that the wall had a scar that stitched its way to the top with six switchbacks, stretching from one end of the valley to the other. With gritted teeth, we continued onward and upward. After 6 hours of consistent climbing with 45 km of zig-zags behind us, we flung ourselves onto the cool grass at the Abra Sin Nombre at 3600 meters, goofily recounting the day and its hellish scheme against us. The track leisurely led us into Celendín where we treated ourselves to real beds and fake pizza.

Moderation has no place in the Andes. Everything is taken to its extreme, the result of which leaves lasting impressions. In addition to accumulating some memorable experiences, we´re also left with sore smiling muscles, aching saddle sores, and swollen bug bites, each to a degree we´ve never felt before.

Kuelap, Peru

2008-09-16T16:08:00.000-07:00

On the third day, we rose. Our bedridden bodies were finally mobile beyond the bed-to-bathroom route that we had worn into the concrete floor at the hospedaje. Luckily, the first 16 km of the day was on a smooth, switchbacking asphalt that wound its way back to the bottom of the valley where the route continued upstream. When time came to pedal, the legs that propelled my bicycle felt like a pair of disfunctional pistons. I would have returned them if I still had the receipt. A few dreary hours later, we found ourselves at the base of the acclaimed rival of Machu Picchu, soon to be asserted by our resident architect and geologist.

The ruins of Kuelap sit atop a rock outcrop that hovers 1200 meters above Tingo, the town where we began the day. In our relentless pursuit of the road less traveled, we opted to walk the 15 km trail rather than hitch the 37 km road, a decision that retained our independence but drained our energy. Four hours and three packages of animal crackers later, we armed ourselves for the raid on the long-deserted fort. After reviewing our battle strategy, we donned our ninja gear and stormed the ruins with carnivorous hunger, breeching the tight perimeter of the mighty Kuelap with grace and fluidity. In other words, we crawled our way into the ticket office, paid 7 soles, and hobbled up the retrofitted steel stairs. But we still felt like warriors in our ninja gear.

We wandered the fortress for the entire afternoon, forgetting our hunger and thirst as we gawked at our relative solitude; the ghosts of the Chachapoyans were the only other occupants. As the light faded, so did the aparitions, and our supposed rest-day came to an exhausting but impressing end.

Sierra Norte, Peru

2008-09-12T07:34:00.000-07:00

Since entering the northern highlands, we´ve been able to quantitatively measure Peruvian generosity in kilograms. Our methods are far from scientific, but the amount of bananas we´re given acts as a relatively accurate scale. No matter how impoverished a village may seem, the people give with an openness rarely seen in affluent neighborhoods, exhibiting another paradoxical relationship that refreshes our perception of people as people, no less. If only our stomachs could handle the generosity as well as our hearts.

We found one such experience on a shortcut through a few small villages along a beaten dirt track that bypassed a sizeable city. Cruising through the seemingly deserted streets, we caught a glimpse of an immaculately manicured soccer field that drew us in for lunch. Before long, we were brought watermelons and oranges from the groundscrew, and then, with sufficiently full tanks, we were challenged to a barefoot match, gringos versus Peruanos. Gringos humbly triumphed. After this anti-siesta, we were escorted out of town through a maze of stone roads that led to a giant river with no bridge in sight. Thankfully, the boatmen were working full-time and came to the rescue.

A week earlier, while riding the dirt track that connected Ecuador with Peru, we saw faint traces of what looked to be German tire tread. Hours of uphill at 4 kmph allowed plenty of time to study the nuances of the tread pattern. Our suspicions were confirmed at the border when we talked some folks that had indeed seen two German cyclists the day before. Shortly after the bicycle-boat ride, with a cyclo-magnetic impulse, we stumbled into the very hotel of the rumored German cyclists. Since then, we´ve joined forces and riden through the growing landscape of the northern highlands, but not without our fair share of roadblocks.

Symbolism aside, a literal roadblock closed our route for all but two-hours-a-day, which led us to take a side-trip to Gocta, home of the third largest waterfall in the world. The amphitheater created by the landscape made the falls sound like a pulsating jet-engine from 6 km away. The near-freezing temperature wasn´t enough to deter us from diving into the strangely orange-colored water, an act that rejuvinated us by a few years, as the locals said that after a swim in the falls you´re back to being twenty years old again. Not much savings for us. Later that night, our second roadblock came, this time on a plate of rice, potatoes, and eggs, served with love by a family that lived near the soccer field in the center of town where we made our campsite. Too bad that their kindness didn´t offset the nastiness hidden within the food.

In order to make the two-hour window of passage through the construction zone, we had to ready our rigs before sunrise, but the reprecussions from the night before made preparations miserably difficult. Conditions worsened throughout the day, unaided by the mid-afternoon hold-up on the side of a dusty road while the construction crew detonated explosives. The point came at which we were in need of medical amenities, so after hours of negotiating, we piled into a miniature white truck that took us to Chachapoyas where we found the necessary accommodations. All the gory symptoms of wretched stomach viruses accompanied us for the following few days, leaving us as feeble as unrefridgerated Jello. The bright side of things is that we had the means to dig ourselves out of that trench, a fortune that can´t be ignored, even when assuming the fetal position for 36 hours. The road to recovery is underway with a diet of oral rehydration solutions, and depending on the solidity of our stool, we´ll continue making a trail of ten German tire treads.

The Rural Route, Ecuador

2008-09-06T18:33:00.000-07:00

The expectations we shared about this stage of the route revealed our shortcomings in cartography. What appeared to be a smooth descent along a meandering river into Peru turned out to be a rugged track that circuitously wove its way through fly-infested forest at an insurmountable grade. Apparently, none of us scrutinized the various map keys that indicated a footpath, if any, across the border. But, in characteristic fashion, we pursued it with confidence, ignorance, and obstinance, and ultimately, we managed to tread the non-existent track with gritted teeth, the result of which has left us in Peru with sore jaws.

As Vilcabamba receded behind us, the terrain opened up into a rural landscape that grew in every direction. The expanse flourished, as did our spirits, because for the first time, I felt what I had anticipated Ecuador would be like, finding it in the most unlikely quadrant of the map. The road that led us southward deteriorated incrementally until we found ourselves alone, on a one-lane dirt road that appeared to be the only visible intrusion on Parque Nacional Podocarpus. Finally, the isolation that we craved was all around us.

The remoteness remained for the following few days, as did the decrepit track. Clouds accompanied us for most of the mornings, leaving our gear soggy, smelly, and heavy for the day´s ride, but come afternoon, the blaring sun reminded us that we were near the equator. Other reminders confirmed that we were the ones that were beaten, not the track. Fourteen-percent grades on loose rock with mud that seized our tires ingrained the last few kilometers as being arduous, but authentic. On our last night in Ecuador, we found ourselves camped near a ramshackle sugar cane distillery, tended by a handfull of young military personel who provided the finest liqour to accompany our extravagent rice concoction, the result of which was easily shaken off by the second-breakfast they served us the next morning.

After nearly a week of wondering where and when Peru would be, we came upon a sleepy border crossing at the bottom of another harrowing descent. After a ceremonial stamping process, we were through: 1000 kilometers, 20 days, 1 country. Since then, our bags and bellies have been full of bananas, given with gusto by Peruvian villagers with little to spare. The hospitality we´ve seen has almost mended the cramps, bites, and bruises we suffered by taking the rural route, and yet, there won´t be a shred of regret heard through our whining and scratching.

Vilcabamba, Ecuador

2008-08-31T08:20:00.000-07:00

Key pieces of gear have been left along the route in a Hansel-and-Gretel-trail of expensive, electronic, sentimental, or mechanical bread, but the items that we´ve managed to retain now hold significant importance in our daily routine. Take, for example, the tube of toothpaste named Melissa. She cleanses our sardine-laden palettes before crawling into the tent at 8:00 and freshens our morning breath at 7:00 after an exhausting eleven-hour sleep. But if Melissa is unavailable at hygiene hour, there´s a red salt-paste that substitutes quite well. After cleaning-up to a bearable degree, we wiggle into our respective nylon enclosures, at which point the Dutch oven turns on, bearing no relation to our Dutch companion. The remnants of our pasture-camping incident can be sensed immediately upon entering, soon to be overpowered by the fumes emitted by our stench-incubating sleeping bags. If the weather outside requires our shoes to be inside, mine serve as the topnote to this active concoction.

Kickstands have also become a hallowed item, conjuring memories of our first ten-speeds that we found standing proudly at the foot of our beds at Christmas-time. Jockeying our massive rigs into position along a busy street with gusting winds can be difficult without the aid of a third point of contact. Soren wisely anticipated this before leaving home, an act which I dutifully, humbly, thankfully followed. The topic never came up in pre-trip conversations with Sven, but since then, we have talked about it daily. The quest for equipping Sven´s bike was delayed due to an unfavorable result in a rock-paper-scissors game in which I won priviledges to the one kickstand we found in Cuenca, after I had broken mine the night before. Not to be defeated, Sven found another one the next day and for the first time, we were all displaying our bicycles, hands-free, with a cocked front wheel. But not for long. Later that night as we were setting up camp on an overgrown side-road, Soren deployed his kickstand and snapped it off, and again, we were like an untrained troop of misaligned soldiers. But not for long. The next town we came to had industrial-strength, Japanese-made, steel kickstands. Yes, steel kickstands, not to be destroyed by a careless kick. Now, our bikes stand as proud as the off-brands displayed in the toy aisle at department stores. If only they were equally as shiny.

Panamericana, Ecuador

2008-08-26T09:19:00.001-07:00

On the map, the Panamericana wiggles its way south in a uniform orange line that shows little indication of the density of traffic. The congestion we experienced out of Quito is rendered the same as the desolation seen on the upper elevations near Alausi, giving little insight into how enjoyable each section might be. As we get deeper into the mountains and further from population centers, the orange-line riding becomes better, just as the road quality gets worse. This trend will undoubtedly continue as we make our way across the Peruvian border at it's most remote post, trading the thick orange for thin white and dotted red.

A similarly odd relationship occurs when getting progressively rural, one that involves the openness of people and the meanness of dogs. We've found that as pueblos become further spaced, the people are increasingly kind, just as the dogs become increasingly mean. Conversations with village people remain simple, hindered by our Spanish ability and their native Quichuan tongue, but we're managing to communicate the necessities by shaking empty water bottles and smiling. We're inevitably led to the outdoor faucet which dispenses the sweetest, purest water without the waste of plastic bottles. The dogs, on the other hand, will guard their alotted property with raised hair and snarling teeth, but as soon as we raise our fists with the rocks from our pockets, they cower like kittens.

The few camps that we've made in between city stops have offered the utmost privacy in stunning settings, never more than a stone's throw from the Panamericana. Breakfasts, lunches, and dinners from our own kitchen has given us relief from the chicken-foot stew that's served at most diners, but the bakeries that punctuate the rows of buildings along the highway never go unnoticed. Somehow, the flaky croissants can't be replaced by the flour, water, and salt bread that we've tried cooking. Now in Cuenca, we're preparing for another remote stretch by eating our fill of heavy foods not capable of being transported under pedal power. The gridded old-town has been full of quait corners, magnificent cathedrals, and unremarkable museums, but the magnetic pull of the Panamericana is pulling us southward, yet again.

Guasuntos, Ecuador

2008-08-25T17:01:00.000-07:00

The dogs on the Panamericana have an uncanny ability to sense vulnerable cyclists. Leaving Riobamba, we were immediately confronted with a pack of muts, minding their own mundane business until the three of us rolled by, at which point their interests perked and the hot pursuit was on. I sped by first, narrowly avoiding a nip at 40 kmph, as did Sven, but Soren wound up trampeling the mangy animal at full speed, sending it shrieking into the opposite ditch. After truing the wheel and wiping off the gutter stench, we were back on track, only to experience similar episodes further down the road. Since rabies vaccinnations are at a shortage right now, we're taking every precaution to avoid contact with these creatures, equipped with rocks in our pockets and Billy at our side.

The countryside of the Panamericana has been surprisingly refreshing, lined with a cultivated grid of greenery superimposed on the steep embankments. Midway through our leisurely ride, we me a couple of Ecuadorian cyclists equipped with substandard mountain bikes, shoulder bags, and tent poles. They had been riding the same route as we were, but with a mere fraction of the gear. After sharing a few roadside delicacies, they tipped us off to a festival happening in Guasuntos, a tiny town just beyond our projected destination. Pushing onward, we found exactly what we had been told, a town of no more than 100 people, populated with 500 festival seekers, now including 3 gringos. The hospitality we experienced upon arrival was impressive as the Presidente of the organization sought food, shelter, and drinks for us within minutes of sitting down. Before we knew it, we had beds laid out in the church, shots of warm candella in our bellies, and dozens of people offering their assistance for whatever our hearts desired.

Well into the night, we found our bicycling buddies from earlier that day, scarfing ice cream on the street after having just arrived. Later, we witnessed a pageant of primetime proportions staged in the main square of Guasuntos, as the townspeople unfalteringly conjured their festive enthusiasm for yet another night of their two-week festival. Live music, barrio queens, food, and drink tantalized our senses, keeping us occupied for well beyond what we had expected.

An unfortunate incident occured that night within the holy walls where our gear was stored, one that left Soren without his camera. Discovering this the following morning, we sought whatever measures could be expected from a sleepy village. The Padre did his part in investigating and the Presidente asked the police chief to file a formal report. With hope, we'll be compensated for the material thing, but in no way can the immaterial things be replaced. Despite the expensive misfortune of the night before, we maintained our good faith in the people of Guasuntos who continued to offer their resources for however long we chose to stay. We hung around for another day, playing soccer, dancing salsa, and throwing dice, but the Panamericana called us before we could witness the bullfight that was to happen the next day. Without overextending our stay, we were able to see genuine Ecuadorian hospitality and experience a rarely witnessed, remarkably grand festival that fueled our quest for days to follow.

Chimborazo, Ecuador

2008-08-19T10:47:00.000-07:00

The route we planned for the next volcanic adventure was actually on the map, a paved road that circumnavigated the base of Chimborazo. We greeted the new day in vagabondic fashion, fixing coffee in the park and wrenching on the rigs before setting out on what the Ecuadorian estimation might take us "tres horas, no mas." As before, we respectfully heeded this advice and strategically planned for at least double that amount, taking into account the remnants of the party that happened inside Sven´s stomach, the heat that radiated off the asphalt, and the depleting oxygen levels. After four hours of climbing and a few siestas that included an Ecuadorian soccer game, viewed from the nosebleed section, we arrived at what would be home for the night, for us as well as the dozens of sheep, llamas, donkeys, cows, horses, and dogs. The campsite was fertile, which is to say, laden with dung, but with what little energy we had left, it was it. Chimborazo commanded the end of the cultivated valley, granting us another picturesque setting to round out another day of escaping urbanity. The party from Sven´s stomach moved to mine as we unwisely climbed over 1000 meters in a day. Every sign of altitude sickness overcame me as I deleriously faded into a restless sleep, interrupted by falty plumbing and delusional dreams. Soren and Sven enjoyed a full body massage before dozing off as Chimborazo whispered sweet-nothings that shook the very ground they lay upon. Even if the clouds obscured the summit, we were reminded of our proximity by the trembling earth.

The next morning offered little indication of where we were, donning a blanket not of the green patchwork from the day before, but of white, stark white. The rain that accompanied the brightening horizon turned to snow that kept us tentbound for most of the morning. Soren heroically cooked a monstrous breakfast of quinoa, raisins, and walnuts, the excess of which is still with us. As the clouds lightened and the snow melted, we packed up our shit-caked gear and pedaled into the clouds. Unsure of where we were and hesitant about where we needed to go, the day passed in complete obscurity. At 4300 meters, our minds were operating at a proportionately slow rate, to the point that we forgot our most prized piece of gear, the stove, at a rest stop in an abandoned building. The terrain was equally obscure with no indication of the 6300 meter volcano that rose just beyond our visibility, which remained at 20 meters, varying slightly with the alpine winds that whisked the clouds away for a time.

Approaching the far side of Chimborazo, the clouds lifted and we got a fleeting glimpse of the monster we had just rallied around. At our highpoint, we managed to get as far from the center of the earth as we´ve ever been, taking into account the bulge of the earth at the equator. Logging 75 kmph, we flew back into the clouds and coasted the remaining 50 km into Riobamba where we´re now indulging in oxygen-saturated sleep, punctuated by the early-morning karaoke beats downstairs.

The backwards "s" that we´ve mapped from Quito may not have been the most efficient, comfortable, or convenient route, but it has provided us with literal and figurative highs and lows that would have otherwise been levelized on the direct route down the Panamericana. Traveling by self-propelled means has allowed us to seek these extremities and customize our experience of moving through Ecuador, which up to this point has been inspiringly genuine.

Cotopaxi, Ecuador

2008-08-15T08:55:00.000-07:00

Wiggling our way out of Quito consumed most of the morning as we gagged and dodged our way through traffic and canines to reach the Panamericana. From there, we sailed into Machachi where we encountered the first trip-defining crossroads; take a right on the Panamericana to reach the main entrance of Parque Nacional Cotopaxi; take a left and follow the "mostly cobbled" track through the north entrance. In our characteristically non-conformist decisions, we went with the latter, going on marginally understood directions from an onlooking Ecuadorian and an aged sign perched high above the main square.

"Mostly cobbled" proved correct, but no mention was made of the grade in our copied pages of the traveler´s bible. We soon found that we "went the wrong way," according to a cycling guide that led tours down the same route. Yes, "down" the same route. Without luggage. But like most advice that we´ve been receiving, we respectfully heeded his word and lethargically proceeded, upward, with luggage. The strenuous pitch and the jostling surface subsided after hours of climbing in the granny gear, changing into a delightfully smooth dirt road that wound through the tundra at the base of the volcano. We were then able to shift down, but only one cog. As bewitching hour approached, which comes early in an equatorial sun path, we came upon a spring-fed valley, framed by the few hearty pines that could endure such elevations, seasonally occupied by the livestock, temporarily occupied by our feigning bodies. Cotopaxi gleamed in the fading light of our first day, treating us to an panorama unfathomably different than what we expected starting in the fume-laden heart of Ecuador.

Waking to a cloud-covered landscape, we pedaled on with only the base of Cotopaxi to guide us. Reaching the saddle between the famed volcano and its younger, feebler cousin, we relished in the descent ahead. Eager as kids on their first ride without training wheels, we forged ahead with nervous braking and intermittant pedaling. At points, the volcanic ash that had been churned up from the jeeps and busses that crawled up from the main entrance became deep enough to make us wish we had training wheels again. We fishtailed our way back to the Panamericana and bore through the raging traffic that we gladly left behind in Machachi, pace-lining into Ambato with our tanks reading "E."

Quito, Ecuador

2008-08-10T09:01:00.000-07:00

The mark of Simon Bolivar is evident in many South American countries this time of year, not excluding Ecuador. Ninety-nine years ago, his liberation efforts succeeded in establishing Ecuador´s independence, celebrated on August 10 in grand fashion. Coincidentally, Sven also celebrates his independence, from the womb, on August 10. Either occasion provides ample reason to take to the streets, along with the thousands of Ecuadorians.

Old Town transformed from a churning automobile-exhaust soup into a cascading stream of dark-haired aggregate as the narrow streets became hallways between plazas. Each open space large enough to hold a handful of people became a stage for festivities ranging from tuba-tossing Latin beats to nightmare-inspired interpretive dance. As soon as one event was inaudible in transit along the cobbled streets, another beat was heard resounding off the Spanish-colonial façades. Fireworks punctuated the evening at intelligible intervals, shot from the surrounding hilltops with no regard for the early morning hours, but no complaints were heard, as all who were in earshot were eagerly participating in populating Old Town to well-beyond capacity.
Despite the seemingly prime setting for thievery or other debaucherous activity, everything went off with brilliant success, proving the unaccountability of second-hand stories that claim danger lurks on every street-corner. Until we find that nastiness, we´ll continue believing that people are people and we´re all inherently good. Ignorant? Idealist? Maybe, but better than being skeptical.

Lisse (City), The Netherlands

2008-08-06T15:03:00.000-07:00

Meanwhile..., at the other end of this rock, things are coming together. Things are packed, things are done, at least that's the idea. My bed is screaming for me and tomorrow I'll dive in a 17h trip through New York and Houston to finally rendez-vouz in Quito with the two hillibilly bros from South Dakota. About 2800 meters higher than my current wereabouts which is probably around the -6m. An altitude I will say farewell for quite some time. From there on the route will be interacting with our physical and amusement conditions. Maybe three days there, beter no days here, maybe skip this rabid dog-haunted town or crash for a while at a mojito-infested mountain village, who knows? Mighty Miyata sleeps in a cardboard box tonight and Will Surely be my 3rd amigo on this trip which is about to unfold..

Rapid City, SD

2008-08-02T08:42:00.000-07:00

Heaps of inadequately sized cardboard boxes clutter the garage floor. Surely and Will wait patiently as we hastily throw together the last remaining gear items and prepare to wrap them in a cozy packaging for the long journey that awaits. Before the bicycling begins, we're scheduled to bounce around on all forms of carbon-emitting transport before eliminating our emissions altogether, save for a few fumes from the campstove.

As a consequence of budget travel, we're first required to drive to Denver before flying to Tampa Bay, a flight that's sure to incur additional luggage expenses. The transportation priorities of this country become perfectly clear (if they aren't already) when we each get slapped with a hundred dollar fee, not for added weight, but for the contraptions that lie inside our slender cardboard boxes. If our powers of persuasion are turned on at 5:00 am, we'll hopefully slide through under the assumption that we're traveling musicians carting around sound equipment, hoping they won't ask the name of our band. If so, we'll be prepared with "We Surely Will," but unable to perform due to a strained vocal chord.

Touching down in Tampa, we'll spend the evening with our cousin before hopping a train to Miami where we'll crash-in on another friend. The complexities of our departure will be well worth the time spent with good people, but considering these detours, I question the retention of our budget. The final leg from Miami will be the last of our exhaustive arrival sequence in Quito, where the formal adventure begins. From there, improvisation will reign, and we'll assume a reverential role to spontaneity. With the framework established, there will be ample room to be swept by whatever currents capture our senses. What is known will provide the circumstance to discover all that is unknown in a self-propelled journey involving bicycles and Andes, a simple equation solved only by experimentation.