12. River deep, mountain high

Lots of climbing, AK47 skills, Holy Week, hot springs, high altitude boozing with new friends and a bit of dodgy plumbing.

The title sums up the yo-yoing I’ve been doing on the bike. Valley floor to mountain pass, rinse and repeat. I secretly love it though.

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Leaving Abancay
After the 8 hour pain train in the mountains to reach Abancay, I felt like giving the body an easy day as the knees took some punishment and were bitching at me slightly. Besides, I’d stayed up late the night before getting the latest blog post uploaded for you nice people! I rose at my leisure and then hunted the slow puncture on the tube using the bathroom sink (there were actually 2) and after fitting the tyre back on I proceeded to pump too hard and the tube went BANG! Don’t know my own strength, haha. Fitting another and after a heavy breakfast of ‘Lomo Saltado’ I trundled off just before midday, descending for 10km from Abancay down to the river in the valley. While descending is great, I was thinking to myself ‘I’m going to have to pay for this’. How right I was.

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I was looking for ‘Puente Pachachaca’ (some form of bridge) according to my map and followed a road sign down a dusty track. A family who saw me bouncing down the dirt road had a good laugh at my expense but reassured me I was going the right way. I was doubtful that this was the main road north to the metropolis of Ayacucho as a car wouldn’t fit down it. For some reason I kept going.

Surely not the main road?!

I eventually stumbled across the ancient bridge- reminiscent of the one in Mostar. It was built in 1654 and is absolutely stunning. There were crumbling bollards on either side which confirmed my suspicion that the bridge hadn’t carried traffic in quite some time. I continued anyway as there was a dusty track on the other side which might lead somewhere. Lead somewhere it did, after some hard climbing it spat me out on the new tarmac road up the mountain. I proceeded to get 2 punctures within 30 minutes, bringing the daily total of repairs to 4, a record, woo! I swapped my rear MTB tyre for my remaining Schwalbe as I’ve been getting an awful lot of slow punctures the last while. I hate to admit it, but the Schwalbe felt reassuringly sturdier than the MTB tyre it replaced. Fingers crossed this one will carry me to Colombia at least.

Didn’t expect to find this jewel in the middle of the jungle

Every climb starts somewhere. If I’d known how long this one turned out to be…!

Rocking a Schwalbe on the back again. Fingers crossed this time!

While I was concentrating on fixing the wheel situation, sand flies took advantage and absolutely raped my legs, giving me an itchy keepsake for the next few days.
Climbing until the river valley was well out of view and until I was a sweaty mess, a signpost signalled I should take a left off the tarmac onto a dirt road in order to get to the town of Andahuaylas (my next major waypoint). A truck driver coming down that road disagreed and said I should stick to the tarmac. I went with my gut and the signpost so I hooked a left (on the 2-1 and Lewis).

Late afternoon sun backlighting the roadside hay

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There isn’t much to say about the remainder of the day apart from the fact that the dusty road never failed to reveal an even higher set of curves once you thought you were ‘nearly there’. It reminds me of the concept of ‘levels’ in a videogame; you complete everything you can see and then the road sneaks off to another part of the mountain revealing a new ‘staircase’ of hairpins you couldn’t have even conceived of before (welcome to level 2). By the time you are at level 3 or 4 you can’t see the previous 1 or 2 and you are at a ridiculous height without any reference points as you can neither see the bottom where you came from nor the summit where you are going. It is very disorientating being in ‘the guts’ of a gargantuan climb. The scale of the mountains here is bewildering, not comparable to anything I’ve seen before and hopefully I won’t see anything like them again!

Up…

…and up. Sun sneaking behind the mountains

At this stage my eyes were furiously hunting around for potential camping spots

40km in to the day it started to get dark and I was nowhere near the top or even a town or village. I resigned myself to cracking out the tent for the first time in ages, and started to scope out camping spots. The only trouble was I was on the side of a steep mountain so the only level ground was the road! I settled on a patch of grass just over the lip of one of the hairpin bends. It wasn’t the most level sleep I’ve ever had but at least a truck didn’t overshoot the turn on top of me!

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Climb part II
I woke at first light as you do when sleeping arseways in a tent and poked my head out. I could see clearly the faraway peaks but these started to get enveloped by mist as the sun heated up the mountain dew. I broke out the stove and made porridge and coffee for the first time in ages and was on the bike by 7:30am. I made a little speech to the camera (see below) as I thought I was nearly there but the climb kept going.

The gradient slackened but I was still climbing. By the time the road started to tilt downwards I had done about 60km of climbing from the nice old bridge! Possibly the longest climb of my life so far, not made easier by the unpaved surface. There were some interesting meteorological effects going on- the mist didn’t seem to be burning off and it kept blowing to and fro, obscuring everything then backing off and revealing some cool views. I’m not sure what altitude I was at but I was cycling in the clouds.

High altitude, early morning

‘Cloud forest’

Road to nowhere?

A woman and child in the middle of nowhere were selling popcorn and chocro (corn on the cob + cheese) at the side of the road. I bought a bag of popcorn for 10p and mercifully the dirt track dumped me onto a new tarmac road. With the bumpy descent finished I now had a free hand- I held the bag of popcorn to my mouth like a nosebag and just guzzled away with the other hand steering. Hit the spot!

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Funnily enough the descent didn’t last very long and I was cranking the pedals uphill again, at least this time it was on tarmac. For the first time since Cusco I felt physically right again and with my new iPod in my ears (thanks Gwen) I was able to stay on top of a gear and was enjoying being able to bang out the climb, instead of the climb banging me over the head like a whack-a-mole.

‘The high line’. Looking about 20km back on my tracks

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As night follows day (too quickly in these parts), a tarmac descent followed the climb. I was finally rolling down to Andahuaylas. The road had lots of sweeping bends in series along with a few tight hairpins and it was some of the most fun descending yet, just going as fast as I could without going over the edge of the road! Check out below for another gratuitous vid of overtaking a truck.

Descending into a thick mist. About to envelop the signpost ahead

Road to nowhere #2

Dropping below the thick fog

The usual reaction

Old woman driving a few cattle across a ridge, fast moving mist and clouds behind

I wheeled into town around 3 o’clock and ate some lunch. Looking at the map and garnering the opinions of bystanders, they said it was 1:30-2 hours by car to the next town. By the looks of the terrain it was an uphill too- I wouldn’t make it before dark so took another ‘half day’ of 7 hours pedalling. Tomorrow is another day; and I reckon it will be full of climbing, the mountains aren’t going anywhere!

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Andahuaylas- Chincheros
It is 250km from Andahuaylas to Ayacucho (the next decent town) but looking at the mountainous nature of the road on my map I reckoned it would be a solid 3 day job. The terrain here follows the pattern; mountain pass- valley floor- mountain pass and as such the approach to cycling is ‘discrete’ rather than ‘continuous’ for those familiar with numbers. What I mean is that you can either do 1 pass and get to the next town or try to fit 2 passes into a day. You don’t aim to do 1.5 as it will leave you in the middle of nowhere come nightfall. Thus the natural approach to the 250km was three 80km blocks.

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Leaving town I got into a familiar groove, dropping down for a few kilometres to the valley floor then the road started to climb, and climb. I spent most of the day this way. Being a paved road it was comparatively easy after the dirt road I’d spent the two previous days on.

Cleared for takeoff from Andahuaylas

Up through the mist…

…and down through it

I’m presuming these aren’t in use

There was some funny mist action on top of the mountain again, obscuring the road ahead only to be blown away again. At least it provided something to focus on. After about 50km of climbing I was gifted my reward for the day, the 20km descent to the town of Chincheros. The descents here are great fun, grinning like an idiot flying past people on the roadside who themselves are grinning at the flying luminous two wheeled gringo.Like the grand old duke of York, Chincheros was neither up nor down- it was stuck halfway up the mountain side and its streets were at a silly angle as a result. Like all good Latin towns it had a main plaza where all the world hung out during the evening. In poorer places I guess a lot more of life happens ‘in the street’  as it did in our own country in the past. It would improve the quality of life if all our towns had at least one nice plaza- though I guess weather is a factor. I had the usual ½ chicken and chips and off to bed. Block 1 completed.

The streets of Chincheros 1

The streets of Chincheros 2

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Block 2: Chincheros- Ayacucho
For literary purposes I’d like to, but I wouldn’t say this day started innocuously enough. The scale of the descent from the town of Chincheros was among the biggest I’ve encountered, dropping for nearly the first 30km right down to the river in the valley. As I got lower the mountains on the other side grew to an intimidating size above me. Even if blindfolded you could tell you had dropped serious altitude- the heat, flies and sounds of the jungle would indicate you were in a different zone. Eyes open and you could see the exotic looking plants and roadside vendors hawking sugar cane and mangoes. I’m sorry this is getting repetitive but it was for me too… I thought to myself; I’m going to pay for this descent! Why can’t they just have bridges connecting mountain pass to mountain pass over the valleys?! Ah well, stop daydreaming, get on with it.

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‘Down to The River’. To summarise the day, down on the left hand side, back up on the right…

‘Jungle road’

I crossed the Rubicon and started climbing on the other side. The first engagement was a dead straight road up out of the jungle, no pretension of curves to hide the fact you were going straight up a mountain. On ‘level 2’ I listened to Michael Jackson’s ‘number ones’ album as I danced on the pedals and the road started to snake in hairpins up the mountainside. I had rounded onto another part of the mountain range by lunchtime and the stage was set for the afternoon battle.

hairpin heaven (or hell?) I actually enjoy this for some reason!

Rounding a cliff to the next part of the mountain

Knowing my time was precious, I only had about a 20 minute lunch break and back on it. As I usually do I garnered a few opinions from locals before setting off again. The consensus on the topography ahead was more climbing, then flat, then down. An old guy offered me a lift in his pickup all the way to Ayacucho (98km away at this point!) I thanked him very much but said I couldn’t. Worryingly he said there weren’t any more towns between where we were standing (the town of Ocros) and Ayacucho. My map (which might be a bit outdated) hinted otherwise so I thought I’d just plough on until I had 70/80km under the belt for the day then find a town. That would be ‘block 2’ done. Simple.

The after lunch digestif

Actually not so easy to digest

Shining path? Probably not a P.C. joke here

Cycling on the shoulders of giants. You can see a long way!

As is usual here, the road climbed upwards for a lot longer than I thought it would! On the upper reaches of the mountainside, distraction and sonic pleasure was provided by ‘Plan B’s album ‘The defamation of…’. To me he actually sounds like a 60s soul musician. His album would come back to haunt me later, more of anon. I finally reached the top of the mountain side shortly after 5pm and thought it wouldn’t be long till I find a town or at least descend a bit down the other side. With less than an hour of light left I found out this mountain range had more substance than usual. Instead of a narrow ridge at the top it was more of a wide high plain.

‘High plains drifter’. 4000m+ here

Heading into early evening glare

Sneaky shadow selfie

Llamas outstanding in their field

‘The sun goes down’. Throwing a few interesting shapes on its way

To cut a long story short the lights went out and I ended up cycling across the top of the mountains for nearly two hours in the dark. I later discovered the altitude of the pass is about 4300m. With no sun the temperature dropped from the mid 30s earlier in the day to freezing now. I could see my breath all too well, the water in my bottle went from hot to numbingly icy and a chocolate bar became teeth breakingly hard! Feeling departed my toes and fingers. Contrary to my map (or maybe I was on a different road?) no towns appeared. The moon was as bright as a car’s headlights so I was able to see the road but looking desperately around me into the distant mountains I saw no signs of life at all, no lights, no towns, nothing. They say it’s lonely at the top, they’re right!

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I checked my speedometer and worked out that the city of Ayacucho was 45km away. Everything was still darkness apart from the moon and the odd flash of sheet lightning in the faraway clouds. At this point I decided; ‘fuck it, I can’t camp up here as my gear won’t sustain me for the night in this cold, its Ayacucho or bust!’

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I hadn’t eaten in about 6 hours at this stage and the knees were becoming stiff from the cold but I creaked along until at last the road started to tilt consistently downhill. I spied the bright lights of the city illuminating a valley over 40km away. Thank God, civilisation. I stopped to put on all my warm clothes to survive what would be a freezing descent. All I have to do now is drop 1.5km in the dark.

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Rory Gallagher provided comfort in my hour of need. In fact by the time this night was over I would have played the 30 songs my brother Shane had sent me on dropbox 3 times over. That’s a few hours’ worth of Rory! I picked up speed and relaxed into the rhythm of the descent- there were 3 types of corner to navigate and each was marked with a warning signpost giving the varying degrees of severity; 1) hairpin, 2) right angle, 3) general corner. In the darkness I could only make these out at the last second yet it was still essential, it was at times impossible to see where the black road was pointed so you just had to angle the bike according to the signpost! Essentially like cycling blind. The importance of the signposts was hammered home when my mind started to drift halfway down and I missed one. I vaguely turned the bike into the corner but didn’t know what to expect- it turned out to be a severe hairpin and I overran it onto the other side of the road. Again thank God a car wasn’t coming…

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Concentrate! I paid attention for the remainder of the descent and I could feel the air getting slightly balmier after dropping probably 1km in altitude. Feeling returned to my fingers but not my toes. The first outpost of civilisation I encountered was a petrol station on the outskirts of the city, still 15km away. Two guard dogs obviously smelt me a while off and jumped out and pursued me relentlessly. One of them ran in front of my bike, crisscrossing me to try and make me stop. These were two vicious bastards. I was weak, cold and tired but mustered the energy to keep shouting ‘FUCK OFF’ at them as loud as I could, didn’t want to deal with this now. It was about to get even better.

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As I was hurtling through the darkness roaring my head off I rounded a corner only to be blocked by a police checkpoint. One guy with red illuminous batons pointed and shouted at me to halt, the other guy levelled his AK47 rifle at me and I heard him cock the fucking thing! I had ground to a halt just in front of them and the words ‘holy fock’ shot through my brain, though I was too tired to register what was really happening. The two lads probably didn’t know what was coming at them down the mountain through the darkness. I just blurted out that I was being chased by 2 perro salvajes and made a few wild growling noises. The gun was lowered, everyone had a laugh and nobody got shot which was great.

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I entered the city of Ayacucho at 9pm, exactly 12 hours after setting off that morning. I had covered 150km and later worked out I climbed 2,821 vertical metres. I hope I never have to climb that much with a loaded bike again! It was probably the beefiest day of cycling on the trip so far.

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Early Andean morning over Ayacucho

Aside- Why I ride a bike?
I would not have willingly chosen for the day to unfold like that but when you throw your leg over the bike every morning you know there is a chance you will land yourself in an interesting situation. It’s all rose-tinted after the fact! After recently hanging out with lots of backpackers I’d been pondering the different experience bussing it would give me. As well as being able to see more ‘sights’ I would have predictability and comfort which are nice but I probably wouldn’t have access to desirable experiences like being alone at night on a freezing Andean peak or having an AK pulled on me. As odd as it might sound I’m not even sure I like the act of cycling in and of itself as it can literally be a pain in the ass sometimes (for instance the thought of training seriously for it as a sport doesn’t appeal at all). But what it does do is act as a conduit to some interesting experiences. As someone said, a means to an end rather than an end in itself.

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Ayacucho and the next stage
I arrived into town just in time for Holy Week and as it happens Ayacucho is home to the biggest celebrations in Peru. As such it took quite a while drifting around the town half famished to find accommodation. After sorting a bed for one night I got into a restaurant for a meal just before closing and then limped off to bed with the prospect of having to locate different lodgings in the morning (I needed a day off so wanted to stay a 2nd night). With the stresses of the evening probably playing on my unconscious mind I dreamt I was in Plan B’s album. His album happens to be the narrative of him receiving a 5 year jail term and life in prison. I woke up convinced I’d lost my liberty! As it happened a certain PwC partner appeared in the dream and told me it was OK- he’d been in prison before. Whether this is actually true I don’t know.
Ayacucho has the dubious honour of being home to the ‘Shining Path’ terrorist group, which sprang up there in the 1980s. This is maybe one reason why the cops are so tooled up and on edge. Anyway, the next day I actually didn’t feel too physically wrecked which is strange, apart from some odd rumblings in the pipeworks. Whether this was due to a chill on the mountain or the Lomo Saltado I ate I don’t know. From some online research, the journey from Cusco to Ayacucho, which took me 7 ‘bicycle days’, includes over 10,000 vertical metres of climbing, more than Mt. Everest. Having reached Ayacucho in one piece I feel I have ‘done my bit’ in the Peruvian Andes and it is now time to change the scenery and hit the coast for the first time on the journey. In one way I’d like to be masochistic and keep going as the mountains have been the most beautiful part of this trip and provide a great challenge which I admit I enjoy. On the other hand my bike set up is way too heavy and if I keep going at this rate I worry may strain the knees, having had issues there before. The plan now was to head due west to the coast (across a 200km wide mountain range of course).

Kids seem a bit more interested in the sidelines where the sweeties were being sold!

This may have been the meal that caused me a few pains. But it was so good I thought ‘to hell with it’ and went back and ate it again the next day. (Lomo Saltado)

Band members taking a break from the procession

The candy apple sellers trailing the crowd

the procession

People hung out of their shops as it passed by

The streets were coloured with flowers, spices and paint

The virgen herself

I had a few slight pains in my gut so ended up staying an extra day in Ayacucho despite the crazy price of rooms during Holy Week. I caught a procession on the Wednesday night and on Holy Thursday the tradition is that pelegrinos visit 7 churches in the city (stopping in each long enough for a prayer, maybe a touch of some relics but mainly a lot of socialising and eating of candy apples!). I gave up after 2 churches, the hassle of the crowds getting to me. There were thousands milling around the streets and getting into a church was like trying to squeeze through a crowd at a concert. I heard the haunting strains of ‘Dies Irae‘ emanating from one church which I know one friend would approve of… I have to hand it to Ayacucho, it really is a beautiful old city that is worth a visit, like a mini-Cusco with a lot less gringos.

Ayacucho at night. You can make out the incense wafting up in front of the cathedral

 

From the mountains down to the sea- 3 days along ‘Via Los Liberatores’

Day 1: Ayacucho- Ninabambo
From Ayacucho, nestled deep in the Andes, I reckoned it would be a 3 day traverse across the mountains and down to the sea. This was probably my last stint in the high Andes but they didn’t disappoint! I left Ayacucho at an extremely civilised hour, starting the climb into the surrounding mountains under the midday sun. It was Good Friday and as I could see a re-enactment of the crucifixion climbing onto the local Calvary above the town. I must have gained a lot of altitude as I was descending down into the next valley for what seemed like ages then discovered I was still 3500m up in the air. Being Good Friday I had some trucha frita (fried trout) in a river and road side kitchen.

Ireland or Peru?

Ireland or Peru #2. Famine cottage?

I had seen a sign earlier on promising aguas termales on km 75. Making it to Ninabambo, the baths were there along with 2 roadside diners and a few houses. Oscar, the proprietor of ‘Restaurant Marisol’, agreed to let me sleep on the floor of his establishment (it was pretty empty). He even provided a comfy mattress. It was absolutely Baltic outside along with some wind and rain so there was no way I was camping if I could help it. I got down to the baths just as light was fading. I had them all to myself and the water was a nice 40 degrees I’d say. Really is no better way to end a day on the bike, takes me back to the Onsen of Japan!

Looks a bit institutional and grim but was brilliant!

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Day 2: Ninabambo- Los Libertadores
This turned out to be one of the more memorable days of the trip, though it felt like two days due to the changes in landscape and general length. Funny what happens when you have no expectations.

Old man and the moon

After some pollo seco for brekkie I was pedalling my 8am. It must have happened gradually as I didn’t really notice it but the vegetation on the hills vanished and I kept plodding up what seemed a gentle incline. The craggy barren peaks hinted that I was probably pretty high up, reminiscent of the top of the Santiago-Mendoza crossing. On one uphill drag I saw some figures up ahead draw a rope across the road, attempting to stop traffic (this was in the middle of nowhere). As I drew closer I saw it was some kids trying to hustle money out of passing cars. I gave the ragamuffins some chocolate bars I had. An older one then asked for a monetary propina (‘tip’). I should have told her to piss off but instead told her to take her share of the chocolate. Nothing leaves a worse taste in your mouth than unabashed begging from people who don’t look like they need to. You expect it from someone sitting on the ground with a cap but when what looks like an ordinary passer by sticks his hand out speculatively in your direction it throws you. I’ve had this before in a few places, I’m not sure what it is, maybe just the fact that when regular people in the street are chancing their arm with an impromptu beg you know that things aren’t right.

Snow capped peaks always a sign you’re getting high

These rapscallions’ original hijinks let down by their older sister’s impromptu begging act

Definitely high with no vegetation

Road to the top

Anyway. Arriving at what would be the first of two passes today (Abra Apacheta), a signpost told me I was over 4,700m into the sky! Probably the highest I’ve been on the trip so far, really didn’t notice gaining that much height. I didn’t feel like I was gasping for air at all either.
I spent quite a while descending and was mostly rubbernecking at the outrageous scenery on show. Eyes didn’t have to be fixed on the road as traffic was very light!

scenery on the downgrade…

down the valley…

High altitude settlement- here to serve a nearby mine

Back down to the greenery

Below the peaks again. But not for long!

I had lunch in Rumichaca and bought a wheel of local cheese to spice up my frankfurter sambos. Spying my map I saw there was another pass on the menu after lunch, it didn’t look too far along the road so mustn’t be too bad. Three hours later I was still climbing! The map had name checked this pass (Abra something) but I’d seen no signpost or downhill. I just kept on keeping on. I passed a few little towns not shown on my map and seemed to reach a high plateau with the road still tilting upwards. It was the height of the afternoon but I now passed into an area with snow on the ground and it was absolutely freezing. My breath was visible again and my toes had gone to sleep, fingers fast joining them! I have no idea how high I was but it seemed much more extreme than the first pass of the day.

Getting stuck into the post-lunch climb. You can see the road well below

I underestimated how long this climb was to last for… A recurring theme! It is difficult to comprehend the scale of these bastards though

I hadn’t seen snow since day 2 on Tierra del Fuego. Surely it can’t get any higher?! Brrr

Another bleak ‘high plain’

Mo’ snow. Hard to believe the previous 18 photos were all taken in the same day!

With only 1 hour of daylight left I rolled into the village of ‘Los Libertadores’ on km148 of the ‘Via Los Libertadores’. A ‘Hospedaje’ sign caught my eye so I pulled over. My lodgings for the night were in a little thatched building round the back of a family shop. Despite 5 thick wool blankets I was cold all night. The town sat at just over 4000m in altitude and a few hundred metres before the final downhill- all the way to the coast. Accommodation sorted I strolled around the town in the fading light. A few lads were sitting in a porch chatting and having a drink so I ambled over. They ranged in age from 25-70 but they were a pretty tight group and good craic. They were hammering through naggins of rum and invited me to join in. Their approach to drinking was even more communal to the ‘rounds’ system at home. There were 6 of us but only one plastic cup (6 guys, 1 cup, no jokes please). You pour some of the rum mixture into your cup, swally it and pass it to the next person in an anti- clockwise fashion. The upshot is nobody else can drink while you’re holding the only glass so with the unspoken pressure you drink it quickly and pass it on. After about 2 hours of this and a countless number of naggins I was hammered! 100km of serious climbing in the mountains wasn’t ideal preparation for a heavy session, I still hadn’t eaten either. I became a minor celebrity in the village for the evening and even had a few babies shoved into my arms by their mothers for photographs. The drinking finished up when one of the lad’s wives came over to drag him home! Alberto, who owned the pick-up in the picture, lived 40km downhill in the town of Huaytara. I asked him if it was a good idea him getting behind the wheel as he was steaming. He said ‘yeah no bother’. I wasn’t so sure as he didn’t even have the excuse of it being a straight road- it was a rollercoaster-racetrack down to his town! I stumbled back to the hostel, had the usual chicken foot soup and off to bed, too pissed to read the Kindle.

Top boozers of ‘Los Libertadores’ aged 25-70. (L-R) Saul, Alberto, Yani, Wilson, Juan. Saul about to mix up a new batch…

The light going down on Los Libertadores

The ninas were insistent on getting a few photos taken too. I gave their dad the address of this blog so hopefully he can find this one.

Dancing in the fading light…

… the sunset was spectacular up here

Some backpackers I’ve met had wondered in what sort of places I’d been staying in between the ‘tourist hostels’. This is an example of typical roadhouse accommodation, a few wool blankets, does the job.

My thatched palace from the outside. I’d swear the door was built for a hobbit such was the stooping I had to do!

Day 3: Los Libertadores – Chincha Alta
The last day in the mountains was one big downhill, dropping from 4000m to sea level over the course of 140km. I left earlyish and was descending from the get go, before I knew it I had 40km under my belt and sped past the town of Huaytara. I actually saw Alberto outside his house and we waved- he’d made it down in one piece the night before!

Final 140km descent towards the coast

The smog on the horizon turned out to be airborne sand I think

It was Easter Sunday and a lot of fancy cars were going my way, returning to Lima after ‘Semana Santa’ in Ayacucho. The Peruvian elite really do all flock to the city- a stream of new Toyota, Honda, Bimmer, Jeep SUVs and even a Ford Mustang blew past me. The sound of the Mustang’s howling V8 echoing around the valley was glorious. Ah, the joys of driving!
I bumped into the first cycle tourists I’ve met in nearly 2 months; two Ecuadorian lads cycling to Brazil for the world cup. I bought a few fancy Alfajors in a little town and by lunchtime had 100km done. I could see the northern edge of the desert on my right hand side which explained what I though the smoggy looking air was earlier in the day.

Abandoned petrol station on the edge of the desert

Back to the PanAmericana. Shimmering in the desert heat

The ‘Via Los Liberatores’ came to an end and dumped me back on the ‘Pan-Americana’ for the first time since Chile. I really was a world away from the silence of the mountains I’d left just a few hours earlier. I spent the dying hours of the day bumping along the hard shoulder as massive trucks whooshed past without giving an inch, their vortexes causing the occasional wobble. The day ended in the dirty town of Chincha Alta with a dirty ½ rotisserie chicken and chips washed down by more Inca Kola. I pondered to myself why rotisserie chicken places aren’t a major hit at home?

Final stint to Lima
The two days cycling up the coast to Lima were largely the same, spending the day plodding along the hard shoulder, conscious of the moving walls of death (trucks) coming from behind. Each day started and ended with a great sea mist, reducing visibility to less than 50 metres sometimes and making the views of the sea to my west very hazy. I’d caught a faraway glimpse the evening before, but today I got my first good look at the Pacific for the first time since Chile a few months back. I noticed cars with surfboards tied to the roof heading south from Lima. I rubber necked quite a bit when I could, checking out the type of waves breaking on the beaches to the west. I stayed the night in Chilca, just 60km south of Lima.

Hello Pacific!

Life and death on the Pan Americana. I have to cycle past a lot of this everyday so you should have to see it too

With a return to the PanAmericana, you get an insight to the aspirations of the moneyed locals, billboards clutter the roadside advertising the products del dia. Holiday homes, booze, cars and private security in that order. I saw one billboard offering small plots in the desert sand for $14,000; come on, you could buy a whole house in Leitrim for that these days! The stench of death also returned on a wholesale basis. I’m talking dead dogs. There are millions of stray dogs down on this continent and from what I’ve seen a decent proportion manage to find their way under the wheel of a moving vehicle. You might think it a bit sick to dwell on but it’s been more common a feature of my journey than others I’ve blabbed about so I’ll go on. At this stage I don’t really wretch when I smell it but the stench is unmistakable, you notice it on the wind well before you make the sighting. Drawing up to the poor thing you see a few separated blotches of blood on the road- this is where the dog had been wrapped around the wheel and slammed into the tarmac with each rotation before falling off at its final resting place. Some are melted into the tar, some are balls of matted rotting fur unrecognisable after numerous cycles of rain and sun, some are surprisingly intact and some are an incomplete collection of parts strewn down the road. Life is probably a little cheaper down here but especially so for animals.

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The final day into Lima was undistinguished, bar the final kilometres into the city of 8 million which required a lot of battling with traffic and navigating from a mental snapshot of GoogleMaps to the hostel I’d booked. I made my way to the Milaflores district of the city without much hassle. I’m acutely aware the area isn’t representative of Lima as a whole; South Beach in Miami is where it reminds me of most. Easily the most moneyed and ‘developed’ place I’ve seen on the continent thus far. A lot of people of European extraction, auld ones with a lot of plastic surgery, Porsches in the street, American franchises we don’t even get in Ireland; Dunkin’ Donuts, Gold’s Gym, Brook’s Brothers, a large police and private security presence and streets much cleaner than those of Dublin!

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Of all places to get sick I was lucky it was here. Some form of stomach or gut infection, very acute stabbing pains in the stomach which nearly had me passing out. If I didn’t already lose my appendix I would have guessed it was that! I wandered down to the local private hospital and got 2 stints on a drip and a coterie of pills. Going to relax in this ‘1st world’ encalve for a few extra days so I’m in decent form before getting back in the saddle.

A note on mind and body
Surprisingly enough my body has held together thus far without issue. OK, counting the latest visit in Lima, I’ve had 4 hospital trips but all minor thank God. In the months leading up to the trip I had issues with my back and before that had some recurring problems with my left knee. Touch wood these haven’t reared their heads. I’m usually tapping away doing something, but in the 3 months before I embarked I unintendedly ‘tapered down’ doing zero exercise. This wasn’t ideal preparation but it was as a result of trying to tie up a lot of loose ends before I left the job/Ireland and using my free time to catch up with friends instead of sitting on a bike. Anyway, training could start in Tierra del Fuego!

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Despite some vague intentions, I’ve done no ‘core work’ on this trip to maintain the back and I don’t do any stretching before or after a day on the bike. Somehow I can still touch my toes but I reckon there must be shortening of the muscle fibres in some other planes of motion- i.e. I probably couldn’t run if I tried! After a day of up to 150km over mountains remarkably my legs don’t have the ‘heavy’ feeling they would if I’d done a spin in the Wicklow hills. I wonder if this is due to the less intense nature of pedalling all day long, i.e. probably not accumulating much lactate in the muscles? On the flipside I’m powering a bike that weighs a good 45kg more than my racer so I must be doing more work? An interesting observation for me anyway.
I’d been very curious about how altitude would affect me, especially lugging a massively heavy bike uphill. After about 50 days at over 3500m I was fully acclimatised by the end and had less issue cycling the bike than I did climbing a flight of stairs. I guess this is due to the sport specific nature of ‘fitness’.

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Since I lost my phone (and all my music) way back in Esquel, Argentina, the mental side of things has probably been more challenging than the physical. Especially as I’ve been cycling alone without music, the only stimuli for the last few months have been the landscape and the sounds of nature. But nature can sometimes be quite boring- a straight road and a flat landscape give a similar result to that of a sensory deprivation chamber. Without any external stimuli you look inwards to try and entertain yourself- the mind goes over various trains of thought. In no particular order; career stuff, what will I have for dinner, girls, cars, the location of the trip’s finish line,  and various other scenarios and topics. After a few months of this however you have already mused over most permutations and your mind is producing reruns- going over the same thoughts again. This brings me to the last stage I’ve experienced- just trying to ‘switch off’ while keeping the legs turning. You just try and lapse into ‘zombie’ mode with your brain dulled and hope the hours pass by quickly. It probably isn’t a desirable thing to do, but I guess it’s not meant to be; it is more of a coping mechanism. I’m not sure if the above sounds a bit nuts but it’s what I’ve experienced so far. I wonder have others in similar situations found the ‘zombie phase’ come upon them?
Don’t worry about my sanity, I’ve not got a thousand yard stare yet! Also now that I’ve got an ipod I can just zone out with the aid of music which is a little nicer than trying to turn your brain off.

Rough route since last time:

 

Till next time!
The men of ‘Los Libertadores’ with some gringo