La Costa, Peru

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.