At least I had my camera gear. Now to get a bike to ride. Wayo came through for Jim and I at the last minute and we were off to the Andes and some simple riding. With Pablo at the helm of our maroon shuttle machine that pumped out a fine 80’s vintage, mixed with a cd you can probably get at the airport - Peruvian flutes - our tour started!

Up.

We were about to discover shuttling. Not tailgating your bike and doing a 100 km-an-hour run up Seymour… but shuttling. Going from sea level to 3250 meters. Going from sea level to 3250 meters in a maroon bus on a single lane dirty (as Wayo would say) road. Up a single lane dirty road with loose rock, gravel, potholes, goats, sheep, and the occasional on-coming bus. All these things I have just said plus one more thing - the single lane has no guardrail. The single land is really single lane. The single lane cuts a zigzag scratch up some of the most insanely large mountain ranges I’ve seen. There were times when I trusted Pablo more than my mother. My life was completely in his hands. There were times on our 3-hour shuttle up where I couldn’t see the dirt of the road under the bus. Only down. Straight down for at least 1000 meters. I glanced around the bus. Others were intently listening to their music machines to somehow preoccupy their minds. We were in a bumpy helicopter with a bunch of bikes strapped to the roof flying very, very close to the sickening side of the Andes. No room for crying over lost baggage.

We headed to a village called Santo Domingo de los Olleros. Population – handful. Farmers and goat herders. I’m sure they were excited to see the latest Santa Cruz models. With altitude now an issue and the realization I was about to embark on a ride of massive proportion sans gear… my heart beat faster. Jim was set up with a V-10 and I was given a Bullit for the ride. Both in good condition. I watched as the group suited up in full armour... My heart beating faster. Our ride was supposed to take 4 hours! Downhill for 4 hours. Beating faster.

Wayo set off down the trail. A goat herder’s path strewn with big fist-sized rock to thread through. It took a bit to get used to the bike and of course the altitude was doing a fine number on me, but with the distractions of the ridiculously stunning Andes stretching out in all directions fading out into what seemed like infinity, even the crusty corners of my brain were flushed out.

The trail flowed down the ridges of weather-rounded spines dropping away thousands of metres on either side into separate valleys. We followed these ridges covered with low desert vegetation at eye dripping speeds, stopping only to relieve brake finger fatigue and to high 5 each other in excitement. The spines were intersected with steep sections of switchbacks, which would then connect to another spine and another tight gripped run. The soil was like raw brown sugar. Coming into corners and navigating steeps was a new challenge with the sprinkling of sand. There never seemed to be solid traction, which made my armourless body cringe at the thought of going down. And of course there was the ever-present thought of just careening off the trail altogether and rag-dolling to the valley floor. I set my concentration levels on maximum to push such thoughts away and concentrated on the tight switchbacks and fast flowing spines. A whole new sense of the word “skinny” was put into play. A path strewn with rocks, sand and boulders sliced into side of a mountain by hundreds of years of sheep herding.

All seemed to be going well. Until… Bud’s mechanical. An accidentally broken front brake lever with about a 750 meters of down to go. We slowed the pace. Stopped and let his brake cool. And his nerves! And picked our way down. We were all glad to be seeing the vast valley floor finally coming to meet us.

We dropped into an old riverbed that had to be a kilometre across and started to pick lines along the perpetually dry bed. Sand carved and left by some trickles from the past rainy season created the ultimate wind-down playground for us. With a combo of sometimes 10 meter deep water cuts to boulders with windswept sand piled on their sides making little launching pads to skate park-like bowls… we rode. Down the riverbed for 35 kilometres to the waiting Pablo and darkness.

We survived possible plunges to certain death, thinning oxygen, broken brakes, boulder strewn trails, ugly headwinds, all to confirm what we had all come to Peru for… the grandness of riding in the incredible Andes.

I was looking forward to my own bike and new underwear!

Please Continental - come through for me!