Smooth blacktop is nice, but it changed 24 miles out of town. Before turning off the main highway at Viacha, we stopped at a small gas station/grocery shop to fill our tires, water bottles and packs with food. Our six days worth of provisions included rice, lentils, bread rolls, pasta, vegetables, oatmeal, and cans of tuna. By the time we were ready to leave, a small group had gathered around the bikes. We never liked it but they crowded in close and handled everything on the cycles. In order to keep an eye on the gear, we stacked the bicycles in tandem and left one person standing guard.
Heavily loaded, we pedaled to the edge of town, and headed west. The fat tires on our mountain bikes dropped onto the dirt. From one way of riding to another. New rules and different dangers. A whole new riding technique was required.
Where we hit the gravel, flat land made pedaling easy. That changed when the serpentine road wound upward toward distant peaks shrouded in the clouds. Ruts and large puddles riddled the road bed. At times, we picked our way through a minefield of holes. We forded two small streams the first hour. It was tricky riding. Bryan got stuck in the mud at one river crossing. Doug crashed in some soft sand and stood up looking like a freshly plowed-up mouse.
"That happened so quick I couldn't put my foot out," he said, a bit dazed.
"Good thing I wasn't too close behind you," Bryan added. "I almost ran over you."
"Let's do another hour of riding and call it a day," I said. "What do you say we pitch our tents by a stream?"
"Sounds good to me," Doug said.
We found a knoll near a river, but out of the constant wind that blew softly throughout the day. I set my tent facing the sunset. The clouds were backlit as I watched the drama from between the nylon flaps. There is something peaceful about the end of the day, when the last bird calls out its song and the sky fades into twilight. After eating, I took a sponge bath and slid into my sleeping bag. It's a fact that bicyclists rarely suffer from insomnia. Not so at 12,000 feet. We felt the effects of high altitude sickness called "serouche" by the Bolivians. No matter what time we went to bed or how tired we were, we woke up out of a dead sleep at three every morning, until we became acclimated.
We filtered our water from the stream the next day before cranking up the winding road. Erosion scarred hills drained down to the road. Dark tundra grass covered the earth along a river valley that we followed. No reference points of humanity existed.
Later in the afternoon, after completing a climb, we faced a wide valley with a thunderstorm advancing from the south. In the distance, white summits peeked out of storm clouds, then vanished into gray mist. Darkness swallowed the valley with rain sweeping across the sky. Jagged lightning bolts slashed the air below us. I stopped to wait for my friends.
"That lightning scares the daylights out of me," Bryan said, riding up.
"It doesn't thrill me too much either," I said. "What do you think Doug?"
"It's passing to the east, so we should be all right if we wait a half hour."
"Let's eat while we're waiting," Bryan said.
We munched on sandwiches and watched the storm move away from us with rain falling on the tundra for miles. Soon, it looked safe enough to ride through a gap in the clouds. We coasted into the valley. Three miles later, we pedaled down a muddy, twisting road that led to a wide river. Riding became impossible in the muck, so we got off to walk the bikes. In seconds, clay squeezed up into our fenders and brakes, freezing the wheels. By the time we reached the river, we were dragging our bikes. We spent an hour washing the soggy clay out of our tires, chains and rims.
With each day's ride, the land grew harsher. The road was pitched and rutted. We forded a dozen streams, sometimes getting stuck in the middle. At times, the sand was deep enough to wash over our rims.
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