Raquel flew into Lima for a two week spell of vacationing with me in Peru, before returning to Ecuador.
Messing around in the sand dudes of Huacachina, nearby Ica.
Exploring the beaches around Paracas with a scooter.
Playa Roja, near Paracas.
After hanging out for a week, Raquel decided that flying back to Ecuador didn’t appeal. Could she not instead pick up a bicycle and tag along with me for the foreseeable future?
Honestly, my first reaction was panic.
I’ve never seen her do anything more than 20km on an unloaded bicycle. We only went out for a couple of rides during the year and a bit that we lived together in Quito, and she never expressed much interest in coming with me whenever I made an occasional weekend bikepacking trip.
This could wind up being a tremendous waste of time and money.
That’s not how you are supposed to feel when your partner offers to share such an important part of your life with you. Having someone to experience the adventure with, and cosy up to in the tent after a long day on the bike is the dream.
I guess it’s not an accident that I left Quito alone: Barring some sort of horrible accident, or World War 3 breaking out, I knew that I would make it to Argentina solo. It would just be a matter of time and effort.
I’m very comfortable with my own company, and I love the complete independence of solo travel. These last few months have probably been the most peaceful of my life.
Raquel sharing the road with me would bring a completely unknown quantity: What will happen when she is exhausted, it’s baking hot, we are stuck fixing our third puncture of the day, no more food, and our only possible resupply is on the other side of a mountain pass?
Will this change the manner of the adventure beyond recognition (catching buses or hitchhiking whenever it becomes challenging), perhaps going so slowly that we miss the weather window for patagonia, or even cause the abandonment of the entire expedition if she can’t cope?
In the USA I had skipped the more adventurous dirt sections, opting instead for the well-maintained Pacific Coast Highway. In Baja I stuck to the highway, missing out on the legendary Baja Divide bikepacking route. On the Mexican mainland I had continued to ride upon paved roads, instead of the Trans-Mexico off road route.
But there was a chance to do something different this time. The Peru Divide.
From the moment that I had crossed the border into Peru, and unexpectedly received the prerequisite six months visa (something very much coveted by the overlander crowd), it suddenly all became possible.
This is not a route for the casual attempt; It involves significant elevation gain on unpaved roads, with 50 odd passes above 5000m in elevation. It would certainly push me to my physical limit, and demand some serious mental grit.
I had decided that I would not let the opportunity pass me by this time, and so, with a mixture of fear and excitement, I had spent my time in Peru progressively preparing my kit for this undertaking. I fitted a significantly lower drivechain in Jaén, faffed around with my luggage to get more weight over the front wheel, shipped fatter tyres over from Europe, at not inconsiderable cost, and planned to send a big lump of my equipment home with Raquel, or ahead to Cusco, to lighten the bike for my attempt.
This was it, I was ready. I could finally cut my teeth in the knar like the other nutters…
I would be a total bastard to take Raquel on the Peru Divide for her first ever bike tour.
What is more important?
How many times have I wished to have a partner to come along with me on my adventures?
Why do our brains have such a talent in seeing the cloud, rather than the silver lining?
We cut our two week vacation short. No point continuing up to Cusco now if we were going to pass through on the bikes later anyway. It also turned out that the entirety of Peru was on vacation for two weeks, so the whole Machu Picchu area would be heaving with people.
We visited Nazca and Arequipa, before taking a long bus journey all the way back to Lima.
Arequipa is an absolutely gorgeous colonial town.
The monastery in Arequipa.
I don’t know how to feel about Lima. It feels like every bog standard city I’ve ever been to. I struggle to feel any emotion at all here to be honest. I guess it must be the weather? Due to a temperature inversion It’s pretty much cloudy every day of the year, but only gets about 20mm of rain in the whole year. None of the streets have gutters or drains.
Blue sky!!
I guess the most interesting thing about Lima are the abrupt appearances of ruined ancient structures (Huacas) in the middle of the city.
This enormous temple of Pucllana was built from mud bricks by the pre-inca ‘Lima’ civilisation.
Apparently this unusual, vertical arrangement of the mud bricks served as a primitive, but effective earthquake protection for the structure.
Back in Lima my job was to take Raquel from a completely civilian setup, jeans and t-shirt, to being fully kitted out for a pan-continental expedition.
It was a very busy week. Uber made a decent lump of cash off the operation.
We caught the bus up to Huaraz to continue the process for another week.
We had incredible luck in finding an almost brand new chromoly steel touring bike in the city; The previous owner had used it a grand total of 5 times, before deciding that he wanted an e-bike instead.
It was a perfect fit for Raquel, and came fitted with an excellent, modern 1 by 12 drive chain (absolutely ideal for Perú), along with a decent rear rack.
My only two gripes with the bike are that it comes with a fancy hydraulic disk brake system, which is unparalleled in the braking force that it can deliver, but a pain in the arse to service when you are in the middle of nowhere.
My other complaint is that it has 650b wheels (27.5 inch), which actually does seem to be ideal for Raquel in terms of geometry and sizing, but it’s an uncommon wheel size in this part of the world, making it much more difficult to find a new set of tyres locally. 700c or 29 inch would have been my preference.
But these are only niggles, and I’ve dealt with far more glaring issues with my own bike over the last few months.
We finally found the source of my persistent punctures on the rear wheel: The wire bead was kinked and kept nipping the inner tube, probably a result of me storing it coiled up on my rear rack as a spare. I’m only going to be packing folding tyres from now on…
Jesús in ‘Enchulame La Bike’ got the bead straightened out, and was able to get the tyre on evenly, something that neither myself, nor the staff at ‘El Ciclista’ in Jaén had managed. Apparently It needed a generous application of soap and a lot of brute force.
I asked to have tubeless sealant put into the tubes of both of our bikes, hoping that this might buy a month or two of puncture free bliss.
Jesús has quite a reputation amongst cyclists in Huaraz, so I decided to entrust him with the drama with my rear hub bearings (my parts had long since arrived from the UK). I had hoped to carry out the job myself, but now my days were filled with setting up Raquel’s new steed, and I knew that Jesús would do a better job anyway.
Meanwhile, Raquel’s bike was getting a lot of attention in the hostel. Several different cyclists came up to me while I was bolting bits on, specifically to ask me about it.
My philosophy is if it’s stupid, but it works, it’s not stupid. As a result, my bike is accessorised with gorilla tape, bits of inner tube, with bottle cages attached by hose clamps. By comparison, Raquel wanted to at least pay lip service to aesthetics.
David, one of the staff at El Tambo, helping me get Raquel’s new ‘pizza rack’ bolted on the front.
Out for our first test run. Making new friends along the way.
Trying my best to find a balance between hard work and well-earned nibbles. Probably the best Ceviche of my life, sold from a cart by the side of the road.
Raquel had been incredibly patient. She had been subjected to two solid weeks of mansplaining; sleeping bags, merino socks, bike geometry for touring, the merits of padded lycra shorts, pedaling cadence, correct nutrition for endurance and recovery, and a hundred other things.
We were both mentally exhausted. Shopping can be fun, but not when it’s an everyday obligation, when it requires a constant in-depth analysis of the merits of one product over its competitors, knowing that we’ll be stuck with whatever choices we make, and at the same time we just really wanted to get it all over with and hit the road.
We eventually set off from Huaraz with real fanfare.
I’d spent a good month based in El Tambo Hostel while carrying out my hiking adventures (see my last two blog entries), and more recently Raquel and I had found ourselves in very good company with several other travellers.
Goodbye El Tambo!
Alejandro, a beautiful human being. Such a positive character who lifts up everyone else around him. He’s currently working on his third book describing his years vagabonding all over South America.
A few last minute errands were run around town, and we eventually got moving around 11am in the morning, it was already blazing hot.
We chugged our way steadily uphill in solid traffic.
Raquel wanted me to stay in front, so I spent a lot of time doing shoulder checks to keep an eye on her, swerving around a bit trying to get used to the feeling of a loaded bike again.
It had been well over a month since I had last turned the pedals. It felt like starting a completely new trip.
After an hour and a bit we called a halt at a gas station with a couple of plastic picnic tables outside. We bought a huge bottle of coca cola, which washed down several Nutella laden sandwiches.
Raquel poured out several cups of water for the resident dog population. Most people treat dogs like trash in this part of the world. She told me that it was unlikely that anyone had bothered to put down water for them all day.
We plugged on, eventually completing the 26 kilometres to Recuay.
Raquel had gotten quiet in the last hour, and opted to walk the remaining kilometer or so to our hostel.
We splashed out on a big dinner of chicharrón (beautifully crispy pork belly) for her, and cuy frito (fried guinea pig) for me.
She reckoned that we got badly ripped off with the price of the meal, due to me being a gringo.
As much as I love Perú, I have noticed that the people really do try to gouge me whenever possible, especially with things like taxi rides and hostels. From their perspective it’s ‘oh look, here comes my meal ticket at last, let’s milk this gringo as much as we can!’ From my perspective it’s every. single. time. I dread it. I just want to relax and be a chill guy with these people, but instead I have to twist and turn, lament the fact that I have to clothe and feed my fictitious 8 children, guilt trip them for trying to ‘rob’ visitors to their country, to even approach the price that a Peruvian would pay. You literally have a sign outside your hostel which states 30 soles per night, why are you fighting so hard for 60? It really wears me down.
Raquel proposed to carry out negotiations for things like meals and hostels from now on, since her native Spanish might help keep the price down.
I would wait on the street, out of sight, until she returned with a negotiated price, then I could stroll in with a big grin and pay like a local.
Over the next few days we plugged on, steadily climbing.
Ice cream stop waiting for traffic to pass through. Roadworks would hold up traffic for a good hour at times, leading to huge queues.
Our first campsite.
The unfortunate reality of road riding. These buggers would often overtake each other, while passing us at the same time.
We met a couple of cyclists heading the other way.
Raquel really cracked on. Of course it was hard on her legs, and her neck and shoulders were stiff and painful. Lots of stretching was needed, but she isn’t a complainer. Conversations went along the lines of “well, I hurt all over, but let’s get on with it!” I would typically ask her “out of 10, how knackered do you feel?” And when that number got to 7 we would find a spot to spend the night.
Raquel had gone from essentially zero regular exercise, to cycling all day, every day, in the mountains, with a loaded bike. It’s a bit like when your mate invites you to go for a run on new year’s day, after weeks of debauchery over the Christmas holidays. Just pure unadulterated misery.
I have a ton of respect for her grit!
In a perfect world, for Raquel’s first bike trip we would be cruising down the Danube, pottering around the Netherlands, or Normandy. There would be a heavy emphasis on ice cream stops and pub lunches to offset the physical labour. Nice and cosy French municipal campgrounds, with hot showers, and cafés selling fresh croissants.
Pampas. Nothing but spikey grass for miles and miles.
We arrived in Conococha in time for my 33rd birthday. A third of a century… bollocks.
The place was basically one long service station for passing truckers. Food options were pretty limited, and it was so cold that the beer didn’t even need to be kept in the fridge.
Our hostel shower wasn’t exactly hot, so much as it wasn’t cold either. It’s a lottery here in Perú.
The highlight of our stay was that the bed came with an electric blanket, which we promptly cranked up to the maximum and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening hunkered down, making the most of the fuzzy cable television.
We were really feeling the altitude at this point; Raquel struggled to sleep due to having difficulties with breathing easily; She kept catching herself hyperventilating, her heart pounding. It feels a bit like when you’ve been swimming underwater for a while, and your lungs begin to scream at you that you’ve forgotten to breathe. The disconcerting thing in this situation is that you are indeed still breathing all the time.
The next step was to ride over the mountains to the La Union. In order to do this we had to go over the Abra Yanashalla pass, 4684m. Raquel only had four days of physical training on the bike since being sedentary, so this was going to get tough.
The first day took us over a moderate climb, before a long a twisty descent into a valley.
This was Raquel’s first taste of riding switchbacked mountain roads.
We made camp at the lowest point, and tried to figure out our plan of attack for making it over the pass.
It would involve 1161m of climbing. So far we had never made more than 500m of elevation gain in a given day. Raquel was keen to try it in a single attempt, but I decided to lay in supplies for a two day run, just in case.
The other option, lurking in the back of my mind, was to hitch a ride up the hill once she reached the point of failure. Personally, I am very opposed to the idea of skipping a ride, unless the bike is broken, I need to get to a hospital, or a visa is about to run out. I’ve seen several cyclists claim to ‘ride’ down South America, but in reality they take bus rides at least as often as they actually pedal their way.
I guess I worry that if we start using internal combustion, it will be a slippery slope towards using it whenever we have a bad day.
The next morning Raquel seemed pretty deflated. She hadn’t slept too well the night before; the zips on the tent were failing, so the inner tent had been wide open on my side all night, allowing a steady current of cold air to waft in.
My MSR Whisperlite Stove turned out to be all gummed up, so I grabbed last night’s tuna can and poured some of our hand sanitizer into it, making a rudimentary alcohol stove to boil water for our morning caffeine.
I had a go at repairing the tent zip. No joy.
I’d gotten new runners put on all the zips in Huaraz, but apparently this had only been a temporary fix. The zips themselves were worn out.
I successfully cleaned the crud out of the fuel lines of the Whisperlite, and used it to make Raquel a hot chocolate, to try and bring a bit of hot, sugary enthusiasm to the day.
Then I noticed that my rear tyre was flat, and covered with gummed-up tubeless sealant.
Not again…
I didn’t shout or swear, I just started chuckling to myself. Probably a bit unnerving for Rak.
Got the tyre off. The inner tube had punctured in exactly the same spot that it had perhaps a good 10 or 15 times so far in Peru. On the inside of the rim.
The tubeless sealant didn’t seal…
Jesús in Huaraz had reckoned that the tyre was the culprit, so I pulled it off and inspected the bead.
There appeared to be an exposed section of wire bead where the rubber had been worn away. This corresponded exactly with a section of the inner tube that appeared to be abraded at the site of the puncture.
I patched up the tube, doing my best to not squirt out anymore tubeless sealant in the process, and popped on one of my new Surly XT fat tyres.
I reinflated, and went to help Raquel break the tent down.
After a moment she asked me if my bike was supposed to make ‘that noise’. The tube was dumping air once again.
More uncanny chuckling on my part.
I popped the tyre off again, and sure enough, it had failed in exactly the same spot. Maybe my puncture repair was a bad job?
Popped a new tube in and inflated. Seconds later it went again.
Exactly the same spot.
Right. We aren’t going anywhere on two wheels today.
Having eliminated tyre and tube, the only possible culprits could be the spokes, rim, or rim tape.
There was no sign of any spokes poking through on the inside. The rim appeared to be absolutely perfect, Jesús had said as much in Huaraz. The rim tape seemed fine.
Can you see anything wrong here? I can’t…
As you can imagine, I’ve spent an awful lot of time on the internet trying to resolve this persistent problem. My findings have not been encouraging; people describing being driven to the verge of madness by persistent punctures on the rim side, with no visible fault.
One common suggestion was that tyre levers were the culprit. Apparently you should only use them as the last resort when putting on and taking off tyres, and only plastic ones at that.
I’ve always used tyre levers, and since they are sold from a box on the counter of virtually every bike shop I’ve ever walked into, I had assumed that this was standard practice.
Maybe I messed up my rim with a tyre lever in the process of taking the tyre off?
Who knows. Anyway, I’m done.
Time to catch a ride.
After my reservations about Raquel potentially holding me back on this adventure, it had turned out that the real problem was Chris-shaped.
We could head back to Huaraz, or push on to Huánuco. Those were the only nearby options with decent bike shops.
We really didn’t feel like being stuck in Huaraz again, having spent a good ten days there, so Huánuco it would be!
Getting to La Union.
Waiting for the colectivo in Pachapaqui.
Our ride to Huánuco.