Pedaleando

November 23

About a week ago I was visited during dinner by a young-twenties journalist/radio host who was in-charge of promoting the anniversary of Pacaipampa, our district neighbor to the north. She was confirming the reports that some gringo living in Chalaco wanted to participate in the upcoming mountain bike race. I was taken aback by how good looking she was for someone from the sierra, so much so that I couldn’t bring myself to give the cheek-kiss hello, only the safely-distanced hand shake, and kept using the formal “you” in every question. Anyway, she told me that the race was on Sunday, a few days earlier than I expected. We parted ways and I began my training immediately, warming up and stretching in our restaurant while my host bro made lofty but convincing promises to accompany me on his motorcycle for the race, carrying water, snacks, chain lube, his tire pump and enthusiasm.

The next day was the test. I’d been told that if I could bike from Chalaco to Piercas up on the Meseta Andina then the race would be a piece of cake. I had attempted this a couple times before but could only make it a pitiful distance up the merciless inclines before I was holding my knees on the side of the road, trying to recover my breath and cursing my occasional cigarette habit. Now was my last chance to prove that I was healthy enough to do this race. I ate an extra breakfast, packed a lil pouch of trail mix, poured some oral rehydration solution (ORS) into my water bottle, vested myself in spandex biking shorts, kicked the jams and hit the road. I didn’t expect to make it, but the race fervor had taken me over. After a couple hours in the lowest gear I finally reached the ever-expanding plains of the Meseta. I popped it into 2nd and took off cruising down the smooth dirt road, rolling and winding past the occasional horseman or sheep herd, laughing and grinning all the way to Piercas. When I got back to Chalaco I swiftly moved on to my next mission—strictly adhering to my sister Alaina’s training advice. I stopped biking from then until the race, stayed as loose as possible [by breaking into my site-mate Chelsea’s high-ceilinged room to practice yoga while she’s away on vacation], put ORS in every drink, and began eating double-meat and extra rice with my meals.

On Saturday I hopped the bus to Pacaipampa, arriving several hours earlier than the competition. I wandered the streets a little but received some pretty scrutinizing looks and soon became paranoid that everyone thought I was a miner, so I went back to my room in the municipal hotel and relaxed, looking out over the plaza as the sound technician tested the limits of the fifty foot speaker towers for the party that night. Eventually the other bikers showed up and an over-zealous bike race organizer laid out the plan. We were to buddy up in the small hotel, try to get a few hours of sleep, wake up at 3 AM, cram into some pick-up trucks and drive out to Totora, the starting point 60K away. In the freezing pitch dark, sharing a front seat with some random friend of the driver just along for the ride, AC on blast, delirious from dramamine and having barely slept through the booming Cumbia music, I found myself questioning whether this was really happening. A sense of aimlessness and passive introspection drifted in and out as I gazed tiredly at the sierra night sky. I awoke to my head hitting the passenger-side window and slight shades of light outlining the impressive, distant peaks. We crossed over tropical valley floor and steadily climbed the ridge that defines Perú from Ecuador, up to the highest caserío on the very fringe of the district.

The riders de-thawed in morning sun as local folks passed the time commenting on some of the professional bikes from Lima and Cajamarca, comparing them to the rigid fixed-gears from the zona as their kids peeked shyly at the strange gathering. Still focused on my eating regimen, I passed on the traditional breakfast of fried tortillas, cheese and lemongrass tea and instead ate some bread and avocado I’d packed, not minding my impoliteness or having satisfied their preconceptions of foreigners.

The first half of the race was pure downhill, an amazing ride through some absolutely incredible landscapes. In twenty minutes the riders had spread out it was just my bike and I, bumpin along to some tunes. Occasionally I’d pass through a small village of ten or so houses and some campo spectators either yelling “Dale! Dale! Dale!” or just standing their quietly examining the sight. After fording the river at the valley floor I began the slow ascent up the other side. The shady palm trees soon vanished, the road dried to sand, and the midday equatorial sun bore down. A couple of times I shared the climb alongside a few others, but they each fell back and later passed me on the back of pickup trucks. Then I was alone again, about ¾ the way up I’d guessed, with a few sips of water left in what felt like the middle of the desert. I was beat; overheated and dehydrated, back and legs throbbing, chain bone dry and full of dirt, head spinning. I found a small patch of shade off to the side and took five, then resigned to hop on the next passing truck. But looking down the mountain I could see no life, and figured I should at least walk on a bit farther in case nothing came by. A hundred yards ahead a truck did come by, but it was completely full with bikes and their owners, so the driver convinced me to keep going. He stole me some water from a passenger, poured some brake fluid on my chain, and assured me there wasn’t much left until the top, and that from there it was all downhill to Pacaipampa.

I made it into town, dodging tied up mules and kids playing soccer in the street, and pulled up to an empty finish line, fourth place in four hours. Nearly everyone had already gotten back by truck and was lounging in a restaurant with the mayor and other local authorities, drinking Inka Cola and eating ceviche.

And that was it. I almost felt a withdrawal from the race, but knew that it was about time I balanced out. In that short time leading up to it I was all nerves, overly aware of every sore muscle and preoccupied with my health. My Spanish took a concerning dive and I started to involuntarily throw in English fillers, as if the energy required to think about words was reserved for some other body function. I’ve since recovered and am happily back to work. The latrine project encountered a major hurdle the other day that I thought would cancel the whole thing and waste the past year of my life. Just some destructive rumors spread like wildfire by unsatisfied beneficiaries that want to swap the composting latrines for the more socially desirable pour-flush latrines. Luckily the engineers at the municipality and my socio from the health post dominated in the community meeting tonight and everything’s been smoothed out. Day two of construction is tomorrow, Thanksgiving, and I couldn’t ask for more.