We are following a line which began at the Arctic Ocean. The line has been in my head for many years. It stretches all the way to the tip of Argentina. It has come alive for me as I have pedaled down it. Now it is real. I can see now there are many ways to draw this line with a bicycle. And I see us tracing our own line as we go, improvising, figuring it out day by day. Spoon, who has spent all his life in search of lines on skis, said to me once, many months ago, "I've always wondered when I'd find the ultimate line. I guess this is it."
Leaving Lima, one thing was for sure. It was time to go to the mountains. The pieces of the puzzle had been stacking up for weeks, lying out in front of us asking to be linked together. First there was the experience in the lifeless desert of northern Peru, slugging across the desolate land into the wind, sucking up the long, lonely stretches day after day. It took focus and determination. I wouldn't trade our time in the desert for anything. But it made me want something different. We needed a change. Chile would present a lot more of the same terrain and conditions. Duncan and Spoon felt the same way. The idea of many more weeks of desert was not inviting. But the idea of traversing some of the most spectacular mountains in the world was starting to sound better.
I always assumed we would ride the coast of Chile. Our line was coastal. It made sense. That's what we planned. We were always concerned with choosing the quickest, most efficient line. It was the nature of the mission in the interest of doing all the miles in 8 or 9 months. People always talked about the Bariloche route from Chile to Argentina way down south as being the easiest, most convenient way to cross the Andes by bicycle. We all looked forward to experiencing Chile and riding that pass. That was the line we saw looking at the maps for years while we planned. Two years ago I flew from Lima to Cuzco and watched the dry foothills grow into green giants through the window of a big plane. I thought about how difficult it would be to bike it. I wondered if the roads were even rideable. It inrigued me, but I ruled it out for this trip in my mind. "Too hard and too much time," I thought. I scouted some of our route on the Peru coast. I saw the desert. That was our route to Chile.
But as we accumulated more and more maps, elevation charts and guidebooks, asked advice, and analyzed carefully each and every consideration, our line began to pop out at us. We love the freedom of being in complete control of our route. We're the bosses, and if we screw up, we screw up together. We stewed over all the information we had. We talked about it for hours. We wanted to make the right decision. "We get our ass kicked either way," Duncan said. "Desert with wind and bland scenery, or ridiculous climbing. It's choosing between two evils, but the mountains sound better right now. It would be cool to see both sides of Peru. We've seen the desert. Let's go see the mountains."
It all became clear. Of course we had to cross the heart of the Andes, right through its gut, to see the amazing culture and breathtaking views, to explore the lands and ruins of the interesting ancient people, to breathe the cool, thin air as we pedaled into the clouds. Looking at a map of the continent, I finally saw the line we were meant to ride. It went from Lima to Cuzco, south to Puno and Lake Titicaca atop the altiplano, into Bolivia to La Paz, and south to Argentina, descending out of the giants. Nearly six months and 11,000 miles in...we had been training for the Andes the whole time! It was meant to be. It was a challlenge we were ready to take on. A mechanic at one of the bike shops in Miraflores, Lima, showed us his maps and charts and drew the line through the sierra with his finger. Then he traced the Chile coast line. "Here...we say...bikers which choose coast are chickens," he said in his broken English, smiling. We returned to the shop two days later, and he immediately asked us which way we were going. "Nasca to Abancay to Cusco," we told him. "Ahhh...the most difficult!" He was excited to hear that we had chosen to take on the mountains. "Wow! You are crazy men," he said, laughing. "Que bueno! Suerte, mis amigos."
We prepared for our last stretch before the big turnoff. We had a few more days through the desert on our way to Nasca. One of our stops was Pisco, the city hit hard by an earthquake back in August. We arrived there late in the day after a lot of miles. The town was up and running, but through a big mess. It seemed like there had been a big initial response to the disaster, but not many continued efforts. It was sad to see how levelled the place was. Even the huge church in the centro area had collapsed in the middle, leaving only the two main pillars. There was a big tent set up between them and we watched people pray under the makeshift church on the evening we arrived. The streets were filled with piles of rubble, and families lived in tents where their homes used to be. We biked around for a little while, exploring, thinking about how hard it must be for these people to live through such a tragedy.
We volunteered our time the next day to help a woman build a shelter where her kitchen used to be. A local guy we met told us he knew someone who could use some help, so we decided to take a day off from pedaling for it. In the morning, she pointed at a pile of bamboo full of rusty nails, a shovel, and some old tools, and showed us a ten by ten spot that needed to be levelled. At the end of the day, she had a new place to make some food. We had made the woman's life a little easier. We felt like we´d done something to help. But there was so much more work to be done. It was overwhelming. But we biked away knowing we tried to do something, even if it seemed small. Now it was time to turn our attention back the mountains awaiting us to the east.
Two days later, we arrived at the junction of the notorious road to Cusco. A sign showed the city was 660 kilometers away. We stoppd at it, threw a sticker up on it, and snapped a couple pics. We were all nervous. But we felt ready, and anxious to see how hard it would really be. The elevation charts showed an elevation gain of over 11,000 feet in 50 miles. The approach out of Nasca was a mellow gradual uphill through the desert. But after 15k, the climb began. Big sweeping switchbacks wound through the dry, sandy, rocky foothills. The sun beat on us and made us sweat hard. Trucks passed us and we followed the road by watching them fade off into the distance through the hills. "Is that the blue one that passed me fifteen minutes ago, way up there on that ridge? No way! How could the road get up and over there?" But it would. Maybe an hour later I would recognize the spot. Still climbing. "Okay, look for a new goal around a new turn, that's all." Duncan and I pedaled together for a lot of it, revelling in our bad-ass decision to do it. Our new word was "bolster." "We just bolstered our line," he said. "The judges can't believe how we bolstered and they're flashing tensd right now. "Don't get me too fired up right now," I said. "I need to keep it mellow so I make it."
Patience. The mountains require special patience. On that first day we finished our day, 7 am to 6 pm, 7 1/2 hours spinning time, 46 miles, with an average of only 6 mph---a new A2A record for sure. We had gotten what we asked for. In Colombia, the Andes took us by surprise. But we were prepared for this, so it wasn't so bad. We rode accordingly, conserving energy and breath, focusing on short term goals and not our arrival in Cusco or Argentina.
We found a campsite overlooking an immense valley as it began to get dark and cool off. Changing into our warm clothes and setting up tents, we watched the sun set. Oranges and reds lit up the clouds. It was a great moment. We were silent as we took it all in. We felt so far from everything, so peaceful alone up in the bare mountains. There was no one for fifty miles in either direction, and very little traffic. We were over 12,000 feet, near the pass at 4330 meters. It was cold. My hands were going numb. We cooked dinner and crawled into our sleeping bags at 8 pm, waiting for the sun to return and warm things up so we could ride to the top.
In the morning we summitted after another two or three hours of big, slow, leg-burning, arcing switchbacks. Near the top, we saw herds of vicuña, alpaca, and big furry, llamas---the only life in sight. The land flattened out and great wide expanses of the dry, brown altiplano opened up before us. Icy ponds of water reflected the sun and the road stetched on in front of us for miles rolling across the high plains. It was like another planet. I started to feel a slight headache deep in the back of my skull as I cranked on my pedals, so I slowed down my pace. When we finally stopped for a lunch snack, I layed down in the dirt next to my bike just off the pavement. I felt weak. I didn't feel like moving, talking, or eating. My breathing was slow and deliberate. The air was thin and I could feel it. I closed my eyes and did nothing for fifteen minutes. Then I pretended I had an appetite, forced down some tuna and mayonnaise on bread and some fruit, and we began the descent.
The air warmed as we dropped thousands of feet very quickly. The road was rough and dangerous. I was trying to control my speed a lot with my brakes. We took one more short break in a grassy area. A stream of clear water gurgled through some big rocks below us. We threw rocks into it and wondered how much of the elvation we gained we would keep losing as we dropped farther into the valley.
A few more k down the road, one of my worst fears finally came true. I was between Spoon and Duncan. We were coming up on a turn. I remember hearing, click, click, and, boom! Like a gunshot. I had just enough time to realize my front tire had blown up. My handlebars turned to the left as the rim hit the road. I went over the bars, curled up for a tuck and roll. I hit the pavement at about 25 mph I think. I slid off to the right, my bike and trailer continued sliding straight. My shoulder and helmet had hit first. The rest of my right side had touched down after that for the slide. When I came to a stop, I layed in one spot, wondering if anything was broken, wondering how bad I was messed up. My helmet hit the ground pretty hard. But I hadn't loss consciousness and I knew that was a good sign.
I heard Duncan. "Jake. Are you all right? He said it calmly. "Yeah, I think I'm good," I said, without moving. He was dragging my bike out of the road. I started to move my shoulder and neck slowly, and eventually stood up. I had some scrapes and roadrash on my ankle and knee, hip, and shoulder. My jacket was torn up near the shoulder. The three layers there saved my skin. I couldn't believe it. Everything seemed pretty good. Spoon had come back up the hill a bit and was examining my bike. The sidewall in the tire had blown out, exposing the tube. The high pressure tube hit the brake pad and exploded. The rim skidded on the road and I lost control. That's what happened. It happpened fast, but I understood it. Spoon was trying to bend the edges of the rim back in to shape with a leatherman, at least good enough so it would hold a new tire on. I was using an old but unused tire we found in Lima---the only tire that was the right size for our wheels in the whole city. We had purchased four of them. We never thought they were so suspect as to cause such an incident. Duncan was right behind me when it happened. He watched the whole thing. He couldn't believe how long I slid for, but said he knew I was all right because of the way I hit. So I had that going for me, which was nice.
I was so lucky to be able to ride away from it. I was shaken up and beat up, but happy we were not forced to hail down any help. The wheel was rolling with a new tire. Spoon volunteered to put it on his bike and ride the 40 k to Puquio---the next big town where we might be able to find a new wheel. My altitude headache had been bolstered by the crash, and I had no appeteite even though we hadn't eaten a great meal in more than a day. It was not fun to ride, but I knew I had no choice and I wanted to get to the next town to figure out a plan and maybe find a bed to rest in.
In a small town a few k later, we stopped and I felt tired and hungry. I told the guys I wanted to eat. We parked the bikes out front and went into what seemed to be a small restaurant. I ate some lomo slatado and drank an Inca Kola. I was feeling a little better. After the meal, I returned to my bike. My camera and Ipod had been lifted out of my handlebar bag. They were together and easy to get at. I always take them with me. Never leave it. But I'd forgotten them in my haste to get a meal and rest my beat up mind and body. I couldn't believe it. I sat on the ground and put my head on my knee. Everything was blowing up in my face at once, just as I was beginning the biggest challenge of my life across the mountains. Was this a sign? Was someone trying to tell me to give up? I was down in the dumps. I didn't even want to ride to the next town. The negatives were stacking up against me. The guys felt bad for me, but there was nothing they could do to help. They just told me to get on my bike and ride. I didn't want to. I said 11,000 miles was enough. I'd done my best. "I'm catching the next bus to the closest airport," I said. I was flipping out. Then after a few minutes I sat on my seat and started pedaling. There was really nothing else to do. I knew that. But I was so mad at myself for letting my guard down. And I was so mad and deep in thought about the crash. I was unlucky to have crashed, but lucky to have ridden away from it. If it had happened at a higher speed or in a different place, the results might have not been so favorable. And the camera and I-pod were just material things. It wasn't the end of the world. I pedalled slowly, my mind working so hard and jumping back and forth to so many different ideas, rationalizations, thoughts. One minute it seemed pointless to push on, the next I was fired up to finish the trip regardless of any stumbling blocks. That was the test of this whole thing after all. Before long we were in Puquio. We found a hospedaje and checked in, and I layed in a bed, looking at the ceiling, trying to understand it all, trying to relocate my fire.
We made some quick decisions in the next couple hours. There was no new 700 wheel in Puquio. The best option was to put Spoon on a bus back to Nasca, 155 k backwards on the road we had just ridden. Spoon left with the wheel and Duncan and I found some dinner. It all happened so fast just like everything always does for us. Two little girls sang us traditional Peruvian songs while we ate. Two barefoot young boys came into the restaurant off the sidewalk out of the cold. We let them finish the food on our plates. They scarfed it up. They were so hungry. It was hard to watch. Puquio is a poor town in the mountains. The streets are beat up, and the town is rough, but there is so much culture alive in it.
The next afternoon found us at EL Rueda up on the hill. There was a dance competiton that occurred only once a year in the bullfighting ring. It drew a huge crowd. Teams of dancers, male and female, dressed up in bright-colored traditional garb speckled the dusty stage. Colors flew every which way as they moved in unison, setting up pyramids and scenes, tossing around props and releasing doves into the air. Traditional drum and flute music played behind them and the crowd went wild at the climaxes, oohing and ahhing their efforts. They whipped off routine after routine in the sun, stirring up a dust cloud. It was an amzing experience. I was so happy to be there, so happy to have ridden my bike into the beautiful mountains to be a part of it all.
The weekend in Puquio revived me. But my experience of dropping so low taught me once agian how difficult this all is and how important it is to stay focused through anything. It took two days for Spoon to find a new wheel and return, and then we were ready to continue our push to Cusco. We hoped to do it in five days. I write this from Cusco. We made it. The road went over 13,000 feet three more times on the way here, and dropped into huge valleys twice more. I never thought I could ride my bike up hills like these. I am proud of the team for making it here, for fighting the climbs for hours on end and doing whatever it takes to meet our goals. We are determined to trace the line we chose. We go from the cold, brutal highlands to the warm, cozy river valleys, traversing the mighty landscapes. One of the river valleys we followed for nearly 150 k, cruising gradual downhill right next to the river, through epic cnayons, huge rock faces stretching up into the sky. Some of the views don't even seem real. It is so big. Sometimes we see the clouds above us and an hour later we are in them. One night we came up short on a summit east of Abancay and had to set up camp in the cold rain at a very high elevation. We had been climbing for five hours and could still see the city we started in, its lights glowing as the night fell across the land. We cooked dinner under a tarp tied up over the bikes and crawled into our damp bags and tents in the rain to wait for morning, when we would finish the climb in the foggy, damp cold air, fully bundled up in everything we own. Two hours later we were in a sunny, grassy valley, resting in the shadows of the huge peaks, wearing shorts and jerseys feeling hot. It's amazing to experience these climate changes on a bike.
We have been acclimating to the high elevations and getting accustomed to endless climbs. From here in Cusco at over 11,000 feet, we stay pretty high as we cruise south along the altiplano. It seems the worst of it is over. Bolivia and Argentina are in our sights. The mission continues until one day we hit a sign that says, "Welcome to Ushuaia." Then it will all be over. Sometimes I wonder about that day while I pedal. Other times I forget about it. I cannot know the end of the line until I see it. Until then I'll enjoy my time on the epic line, watching it come alive with each sunrise and sunset.
