La Paz!!

Friends: The Internet was down in Coroico, a charming small town high on a mountain ridge just before the start of "The World's Most Dangerous Road," so I wasn't able to report on the last 200 rugged, unpaved miles before beginning that notorious 39-mile, 11,000-foot climb to over 15,000 feet on a mostly unpaved, one-lane wide road without guardrails that I have been greatly anticipating since even before I arrived in Bolivia. The Inter-American Bank designated it "The World's Most Dangerous Road," as some 26 vehicles a year plunge over its side, one every other week, with a higher mortality rate than any other road in the world. Another road is being constructed to replace it, but the project is stalled awaiting funds. Coroico was a tranquil oasis to catch my breath before my final ordeal. The town is a gathering spot for travelers heading up to or coming down from La Paz and the Altiplano. It is the gateway to the agriculturally rich Yampas and the Amazonian basin.


For a week since I left Trinidad I had been biking from sunup to sundown, even using my alarm clock to awake me before sunrise so I could be on my bike at first light. Every moment of light was critical if I hoped to arrive in Coroico with some time to spare to rest up for the final coup de grace of my Tour de Bolivia. Since my last communication from San Borja, I have been lucky to manage 50 miles a day, as the road turned the roughest yet. The hard-packed dirt of the flat lands gave way to a rock-studded surface as I began climbing through the foothills of the Andes. I began one day with a 13-mile climb on such a rocky road that I was barely able to average four mph. It was followed by an even more treacherous eight-mile descent that took nearly two hours. It was imperative to hold my speed down with all the rocks threatening to incapacitate me and my bike.

When I stopped for lunch a bit after noon, having come 21 miles for the day after a 6:30 a.m. start, I was actually feeling as if I was having a good day even though I've had days on this trip when I've had that many miles by nine a.m. I was excited to see a blender on the counter of the restaurant. I immediately asked for a liquado. The lady knew I had an appetite and asked if I would like one glass or two. When I said three, she filled the blender to the top with several bananas and icy fresh 'pure', as she phrased it, milk. When it was done, I told her not to bother with a glass and drank it straight from the blender. I had downed it all by the time she brought out my lunch of rice and meat and fried bananas. A guy who had joined me at my table was so impressed he asked if I'd like another, almost daring me. It was a ton of calories, but it hadn't come close to filling me. I wanted to be sure, however, my stomach would accept all the solid food of my main course before putting the blender to use again.

Besides the bounty of my banquet and the steady progress I was making, I was cheered by the spectacular beauty of the lush, mountainous terrain little marred by man.  If I had any doubts about what I was doing, they immediately dissolved when the occasional jeep or bus passed and I noticed a white gringo face peering out a window, faces that always looked extra white and constrained and not at all happy about being rocked around suffering the torments of this wicked road. Far better to be part of the scenery, to be living it and breathing it, then being held prisoner in a moving box. The only negative was being bathed by a cloud of dust from each passing vehicle, what few there were, maybe two or three an hour.

I was also happy, as I ate lunch, to have finally reached a gorge of a sort with a river that the road would follow for the next 50 miles to Coroico. I had had to climb over one or two significant mountain ridges each day for the past several days since leaving San Borja. There would still be plenty of climbing to be done, but it didn't appear as if it would be anything sustained. Those 50 miles through the gorge were as stunningly scenic as any I've encountered anywhere in all my travels. The gorge was narrow and the road went from hugging the riverside to hovering 500 feet or more above it. I preferred to be up high, as the sound of the rushing, cataract-strewn river drowned out the sound of approaching vehicles when I was down low on this mostly one-lane wide road. I wanted to take a picture at nearly every bend.

I pushed on again that night until dark, camping in a rare abandoned house along the road. Camping had been less than optimal for three nights straight in the mountainous terrain, as the road is carved into the mountainside leaving vertical terrain to my left and right. But with so little traffic and virtually none after dark, I knew I could set up my tent practically at road's edge and not be too worried. I was able each night to disappear a few feet off the road into the brush, which remarkably was always thorn free.

Teresa had warned me of anti-American sentiment throughout Bolivia and especially in the coca-growing regions. But since most people take me for being German, Dutch, French or even Argentine, physical assault was the least of my worries. Teresa's concerns had me contemplating passing myself off as Canadian, a cowardly ploy I have never resorted to, nor could I here. I admitted to being American several times a day without any repercussions, or at least until I came to the town of Caranai 1,400 miles into my travels. For days I had been looking for someone to sharpen my knife, ever since one of those ten-year old boys who helped me clean the mud off my bike on Easter Sunday had given me a dirty look when he borrowed my Swiss Army knife to skin a grapefruit and could barely slice thorough it. He rubbed his thumb along the blade and shook his head while sneaking a look at me to see if I noticed. Yeah, yeah, I knew it was quite less than sharp. It was pretty humbling to be silently reprimanded by a ten year old. I had woefully dulled it last summer in Sweden when I turned to it in desperation to cut the end off a derailleur cable and had neglected to sharpen it since I don't use it often enough to make it a priority.

As I passed through Caranavi, a town of several thousand at a rare crossroads in the mountains, I noticed a hardware store that advertised knife sharpening. I leaned my bike against a pole and entered the store. An older gentleman was behind the counter with head bowed totaling some figures. After a minute or so he finished and turned his attention to me. He took my knife, worked on it, asked for two Bolivanos and after returning it, asked me where I was from. When I told him, he scoffed at how little the 15 cents he charged me was and launched into a harangue, little of which I understood. When I heard the word "petroleum," I interrupted him to say I didn't own a car, just a bicycle, and gestured out towards the street and my bike. At the site of my overloaded bicycle I was suddenly transformed into a bicyclist and was no longer an American. He was as eager to know about my travels as anyone I had encountered in Bolivia. If he had seen my bike from the start, he probably wouldn't have charged me for the sharpening. He sent me on my way with a shake of the hand. Here was evidence again why I need not fear for my safety. As long as I am a bicyclist people treat with me kindness and favor. My motto could well be "In the Bike I Trust."

The road beyond Caranavi slowly climbed through a tropical gorge with no wide or open spaces for camping. As dark neared I came upon an abandoned house, as if it had been awaiting me. I had seen few houses, occupied or otherwise along this stretch. I politely thanked my always beneficent provider. It left me 37 miles from Coroico. The road at this point was well enough maintained that there were few jutting rocks. If it allowed me to average seven or eight miles per hour I could arrive at Coroico by mid-afternoon, affording me time to indulge in email, rest the legs a bit and have a good feed at my choice of restaurants offering gringo fare before the Big Climb. I just hoped that I hadn't overextended myself the past week and would have enough in my legs for it. Low-lying clouds filling the gorge prevented me from taking picture, but also kept it cool. After an hour the air grew misty. I was hoping the mist was the clouds I was passing through and not rain, but unfortunately, the mist grew into precipitation once again. It was the first rain I had suffered since I was stymied on Easter five days before. This road was more solid than that one, but still it had a few muddy stretches, slowing me considerably. Once again I recalled Robert Altman's favorite joke. "How do you make God laugh?" "Tell him your plans." God had been laughing uproariously at me during all my time in Bolivia.

So much for an early arrival at Coroico. The rain didn't last much more than an hour. It stopped as I was having breakfast--the usual rice, steak and fried banana. It took a couple hours for the road to dry before I could ride with impunity, not worrying about slipping or sinking in. I took full advantage of the many springs along the road to periodically fill a water bottle and spray the accumulated mud off the bike. I arrived at what should have been Coroico at four only to learn that I had to pedal another seven kilometers, all upwards, 1,500 feet worth, as Corico was perched high up on a ridge. I wouldn't have minded so much if it was on the way to La Paz up "The World's Most Dangerous Road," but unfortunately it was off on a side spur that I would have to descend in the morning. These were wasted miles and wasted time and a wasted expenditure of energy. Rather than setting out the first thing the next day with the actual climb, I would have to double back down this rough, rocky road. Ugh.

Corico would have been a most welcome place for some R&R, but since I only had a one-day cushion before my flight back to Chicago, it was out of the question. I found a hotel for $1.50. After my first hot shower since Trinidad I went for a gigantic spaghetti dinner. I planned to let it digest while I was on the Internet, and then have another. But neither of the two Internet cafes in town had a connection, nor expected to. I wandered a bit around the cobble-stoned streets, trying not to be intimidated by the towering mountains all around. I felt like an athlete the day before the Big Game, trying to relax and psych myself up. There were a few jeeps parked here and there, but there was absolutely no one driving about, not even on motorbikes. The quiet was deafening. I bought some tuna and yogurt for tomorrow's ride. The next town was 26 miles up the road. It could take all day to reach it. I stopped in at another restaurant for a hamburger, then returned to the spaghetti restaurant. I ate half a plate more, then put the rest in my Tupperware bowl for the next day. Back at the hotel I cleaned my bike and panniers. They were absolutely saturated with dirt and dust from the past 300 miles. My blue panniers were brown. There was always a residue of dust on the inside of my sunglasses at the end of the day, more than on the outside of the lenses.

Once again I set my alarm for a dawn departure.  After my descent from Coroico and before the road began climbing I came upon a small chapel where one could light a candle and offer a prayer before starting up "The World's Most Dangerous Road." I paused to sprinkle a few drops of oil on my chain, a symbolic gesture as the oil only made it easier for the dirt and dust to adhere. The road rose 210 feet in the first half-mile, a grade of better than eight per cent. It would be a tortuously hard day if it continued at that rate. I wondered how bad it would have to get before that cliff's edge started to look inviting. At any time, I could join Che and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, who after lives of defying convention had met their ends in Bolivia, all gunned down. After that initial steep ramp the road relented, at least for a while. In the first ten miles I gained 2,730 feet--slightly more than a most manageable five per cent grade. I was happy to have maintained a five mph average. It wasn't a breeze by any means, but I was gaining on it. I didn't know which to cheer more, each mile or each 300 feet gained. I knew as the air thinned, it would become more and more demanding. I wasn't ready to start celebrating by any means. It was well I didn't, as the grade grew steeper, then a sign gave the dire warning of a steeper grade ahead. After the sign the road gained 3000 feet in eight miles.

I had been stopping every mile at first for a photo and a bite or two of an energy bar, trying not to overexert myself. Other than a few wrinkles in the road, I could pretty much see the road unraveling on and on in the distance. There were no switchbacks on this climb, just one long slog up the shoulder of one behemoth of a mountain. For miles and miles I could see the road ahead angling up and up and up. There were maybe six or seven vehicles an hour. For the most part the road was barely one-lane wide with just occasional wide spots for passing. I could hear the traffic coming and had ample time to pull over. The rule of the road here is that the uphill traffic hugs the side of the mountain so when passing occurs the downhill driver can look out his window and see how close he is to the cliff's edge. Drivers from England or Australia or any country with left-hand drive would feel right at home, other than having their steering wheel on the wrong side. Only once, as I was eating my leftover spaghetti along the road, did I see a near calamity. I actually leaped to my feet to avoid the impending carnage as a jeep came charging up the road oblivious to a rapidly-descending truck. The jeep swerved towards the side of the mountain as the truck braked to avoid a collision. There had been two or three exceptionally sharp, blind curves with a human traffic signal--a guy with a flag, waving at vehicles to stop or proceed. This blind curve was wide enough that a flag-waver was not deemed necessary.

Biking down this road is a popular adventure with the backpacker set. There are a handful of outfitters in La Paz who offer the trip for $50, more than I spent in my eight days between Trinidad and Corioco. But I didn't get an "I Biked Down the World's Most Dangerous Road" T-shirt for my efforts as do those who fork over the big bucks to make the descent. I passed four different groups ranging from three to nearly a dozen cyclists, each wearing a distinctive reflective company vest so the groups didn't get mixed up, and also, the better to be seen. Each group was led by a guide on a bike and was followed by a van with a sign warning of "cyclistas" ahead. They can make the descent in less than four hours, including a stop for a picnic lunch, and then are driven back to La Paz that day.

I encountered one group on their rest break. I had already climbed fifteen miles and had gained 4,500 feet at that point. As I pulled up to the group, the guide, a young Australian woman came bounding over and exclaimed, "Wow! You're biking up the road with a full kit and you don't even look puffed. Good on ya mate." She wanted to make sure I was aware of the left-hand drive rule of the road. It wasn't much of an issue with the four-wheeled traffic, as I could avoid them easily enough, but it was a concern with the cyclists barreling down the road at me knowing which side of the road to be on. She had the good news that the pavement started in about five miles. According to the map, I thought I had another eleven miles of dirt. She underestimated the distance by a mile, but still it was the closest anyone had come to giving me an accurate distance here in Bolivia.

After having climbed 20.9 miles, at a bit after three o'clock, a little over a week and 350 miles after I had left Trinidad and started on the dirt, I was back on a divinely smooth paved road. I had been in the smallest of my three chain rings at that time. I still had some 19 not-so-easy miles to the summit before I could give my other chain rings some attention, but it was a monumental relief to have survived my perils of unpavement without a single flat or broken spoke or worse. I wanted to bike up to Waterloo, Wisconsin after I returned to Chicago and visit the Trek plant to seek out whoever it was who had welded this frame and give him a great big bear hug of gratitude. I had ridden over 1,000 miles of dirt up the Alaskan highway and other stretches of rough, unpaved roads in Patagonia and the Himalayas, but nothing to compare with this. I am anxious to see how the much reviled road to Timbuktu compares.

I had no delusions of making it to the summit in one day, though Reinhold Messner, the first to climb Everest alpine style and without oxygen, surely would have. And I would have too, if I hadn't had to start the day with that descent from Coroico, setting me back nearly an hour. Doing it in one day would be my challenge next time. I was over halfway there with little more than three hours of daylight remaining. Every mile now would be a bonus mile and would make tomorrow all the easier. By half past four, I was in the thin air of 11,000 feet and wearing down. The road had steepened to eight per cent once again, holding my speed to four miles per hour. Still, I pushed on. I desperately wanted to get to within ten miles of the summit. I knew those last ten miles would be extra-demanding as I approached 15,000 feet again. The paved road was two-lanes wide, but still carved out of the side of the mountain. I had hoped that the terrain would open up.

Finding a spot to pitch my tent was not going to be a snap. I came upon a nice little clearing twelve miles from the summit that was tempting, but with an hour of light left I didn't give in to the temptation. There was another a mile later, but I was determined to push on. I had gained over 8,000 feet on the day putting me within 3,000 feet of the summit. Maybe I could knock off another 1,000 feet. After 31 miles for the day, when I was withing ten miles of the summit, I was at last ready to camp at the next available spot. A little over a mile further I saw an abandoned series of stone buildings 50 feet below the road. The path to them was too steep to push my fully loaded bike down. It took three trips to carry my bike and my gear to my campsite. I was 40 feet under 9,000 gained for the day. The elevation was 13,300 feet, higher than La Paz and higher than I had camped anywhere. I had definitely been plodding, just barely keeping the pedals going, the last few miles, but I was happy for every mile and pedal stroke. I knew I would have one of the greatest sleeps of my life that night.

For the first time in days I was in no rush to get started in the morning. Still, I was on the road by eight, wearing tights and jacket for the first time in a couple of weeks. When I halted yesterday, I was struggling to keep the bike going at 3.5 miles per hour. After a night's rest I was up to 4.5, but after four miles up into even thinner air, it was again a struggle. I was closing in on the summit, but I was back to plodding, just short of staggering. I was happy to come upon a few clusters of llamas, giving me the excuse to stop for some picture-taking. I also had to stop to drink and eat, but only after catching my breath. I was looking forward to the first batch of cyclists coming down the road, knowing some groups tried to start by nine. I was glad to know how far I had to go to the summit, as several bends in the road appeared to be a summit, but I knew enough not to give in to the false hope that they signaled the end of my toil.

I had a smug satisfaction that they couldn't fake me out. But for once, I was faked out to my benefit. I thought I had anywhere from 8.7 to 10.1 miles to the summit, but it came after 6.7 miles and another 1,960 feet since my campsite. All told, the climb amounted to 38.9 miles and 10,920 feet. Any climb I make in the future will seem puny by comparison. There were several memorials at the summit, including the ubiquitous Jesus with arms out-stretched. There were two groups of cyclists testing out their bikes before setting out. No one acknowledged me. And then I had my own, well-deserved, fifteen-mile descent into La Paz. Now I can sleep for a week. Bolivia is mine. Home on Tuesday.

Later, George

San Borja

Friends: I stumble upon an unexpected Internet outlet, half-way through 300 miles of unpaved road, in the town of San Borja, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, at 8:30 in the morning. Now I know why the past 150 miles were unpaved--no one travels on the road. Yesterday, from 7:30 in the morning until 6:30 p.m., only three vehicles passed me in a 75-mile stretch--a Toyota pick-up delivering workers to a field, a dilapidated bus late in the afternoon, and an SUV that was stopped at one of the two houses offering food and drink. The driver of the SUV offered me a ride the last 30 miles to San Borja. Never have I been offered so many rides as here in Bolivia. If the offer had come the day before in the rain, when the road was an unrideable swamp of goo, I would have gladly accepted, but there was no traffic whatsoever on that Easter Sunday when I was in a "do-or-die" situation.

I set out from Trinidad at noon on Saturday, a somewhat iffy decision with the temperature in the 90's, but there was nothing to do in Trinidad except sit in the zocalo and watch the motor bikes zip around the square, then meander over to an Internet cafe to check in on the Final Four. An extended river crossing awaited me a few miles out of Trinidad. I was concerned the ferry might not be operating on Easter, the next day, or at a greatly reduced schedule, so I wanted to get that over with. It was nine miles from Trinidad to the crossing. Once again the ferries were all flat-bottomed wooden boats. Most were only big enough to carry one car. It was a 20-minute trip negotiating a maze of rivers, each several times the width of the Mississippi. They merge to form just one of the many tributaries of the Amazon, hundreds of miles away.

The heat wasn't overly oppressive, so I began pedaling the dirt road. It was deeply rutted, sometimes as much as a foot deep from the softening of the rain and the vehicles digging in to it, but perfectly solid now. One side of the road was usually uneven and cratered, worse than a lunar landscape, and was avoided by all, while what little traffic there was stuck to the side of the road that had been semi-smoothed by previous vehicles. It could be either the left side or the right. What was in the best of times a two-lane wide track carved through the jungle was essentially a one-lane wide road. But that's all it needed to be. Not once in four days did I encounter two vehicles at the same time. Rare was it to see two vehicles in the same hour. The worst stretches were where a herd of cattle had come along after a softening rain and had deeply pocked the entire road with their hoofs before any traffic could come along and smooth it out before it hardened.

I was alternating between four and eight mph with very rare surges of nine. For five seconds or so, I'd get it up to eight mph and would almost exalt, "At last a smooth stretch," but it never lasted very long. But I was moving along, making progress, and since I knew I was in for this for miles and miles, no inner voices were screaming, "How much longer can this last?," as on those unexpected, long hard climbs. Every mile was a mile gained. I knew I had 60 miles to the first town and then it was 90 miles to the next. Even though it was a wretched, God-forsaken road, I found myself whistling for the first time on the trip. My heart was light. I was glad I was out on the bike and not lingering back in Trinidad. I had food and water for better than a day, rations enough unless a storm materialized and I was suddenly stranded.

After an hour, I came to another river that required a crossing--this time in a canoe, for a mere 75 cents, much cheaper than the three dollars for the major crossing. I was slogging along averaging a little more than six mph, not having to overly exert my legs. It was a pace I could maintain for hours. I just had to be ever vigilant to slow for the ruts and the washboard so as not to overly abuse the bike. Broken spokes, a broken axle, breaking the frame itself, were all legitimate concerns. But at least for the first time in a week-and-a-half, there were possible nooks for camping. Even if there hadn't been, there was so little traffic, not even a vehicle an hour, and no doubt absolutely none after dark, I could have just set up my tent anywhere along the road and not had any concern. The prospects of camping once again for the first time in nearly two weeks, contributed to the lightness of my heart. Every five miles or so, a waterhole had been dug off to the side of the road, perhaps for cattle. Any one of them could have hidden me and my tent from the road. But camping at a water hole could be risky, as they could well attract the pumas and jaguars of the region. I had also been warned about slipping into them too unwarily, as they were often home to anacondas and other slithering creatures.

About 5:30 I came upon a small village of a dozen or so thatched houses. The one nearest the road had a small Coke sign. I stopped in, more curious than hungry or thirsty. There were two tables on the porch. I had to call out to arouse the woman of the house. She opened her refrigerator door to show me her stock--just three bottles of soda. As far as food, all she had was a small package of crackers. But she did have a papaya tree with one ripe enough for eating. It was an hour til dark. I could have asked to camp on her property, but the riding was too good to stop, and I wanted that thrill of finding the perfect spot down the road in the waning moments of light. After 15 minutes of taking on fluids from a bottle and with a spoon, I was back on the bike, sorry once again I wasn't in Scandinavia in the season of the midnight sun, where I could continue biking to my heart's content unrestricted by the setting of the sun. After half an hour, I passed up a couple of possible campsites, not caring to quit just yet. Forest and a barbed wire fence lined both sides of the road. When I came upon a gate in the fence I stopped to see what lay beyond it, and if I could open it. It led to an overgrown field full of cow pies, but no cattle. With some straining I could pull the wire loop that secured the gate and I had my campground. I had to clear cow pies from the only area that wasn't overgrown. They were old and crusty and easy to flick away and had no lingering odor. It had been a 36 mile day, leaving me about 24 to the town of San Ignacio. I could be there by noon tomorrow. All was well with the world.

The next day I arrived at San Ignacio an hour earlier than anticipated, as evidently some of those 60 miles from Trinidad were included in the river crossing. I was plodding along just merrily, not at all fearful of flat tires, as there were no stones on the dirt road nor fragments of broken glass. I just had to trust that the bike would hold up and that over 70,000 miles on five continents in the past decade-and-a-half hadn't fatigued its metal to the point of giving out on me. There was a light cloud cover, so the sun wasn't beating on me nor was the temperature heating up. The road remained dirt through the town of San Ignacio. There was a decent restaurant where I had a big pitcher of lemonade and eggs for five Bolivanos (75 cents). And I was able to fill my water bottle. The lady couldn't make change for a ten Bolivano note, so I had to go and buy some crackers from a neighboring store so I could have exact change for her. I had knocked off 19 miles in two-and-a-half hours and was back pedaling at ten a.m. with hopes of 60 miles for the day putting me within 50 miles of San Borja. That would make a good dent in the longest stretch between towns of this trip.

An hour down the road the air grew misty, another gift keeping me cool, but then that mist grew into a drizzle. Still the sky wasn't dark or ominous. It would likely be one of those minor, passing showers that aren't unwelcome at all. But after half an hour, the road was no longer soaking in the moisture and the dirt was beginning to adhere to my tires. A little while later it began clogging my fenders. It didn't matter that it clogged my brakes or derailleurs, as I wasn't using them anyway, but then it began to take an increasing amount of effort to push the pedals. I had to stop and use the handle of my spoon to dig the mud out of the fenders. My front fender had the least clearance and was causing me the most problems. I kept waiting for the rain to quit, knowing it could happen at any time, allowing the sun to quickly dry and harden the road, but after an hour it was looking bleak.

In the two hours since I had left San Ignacio, not a single vehicle had passed me on this Easter Sunday. If the skies truly opened and soaked the road, it could be days before it was drivable. I could be marooned indefinitely. I had seen no ranches or homesteads that might provide refuge along this stretch after San Ignacio. With my water purifier I would have water aplenty. I could ration my food for a couple days, if I were truly stranded. I came upon a stretch of mud that stuck to my wheels like a super adhesive. One revolution of the tires and there was no pushing on, as everything was totally clogged. I was walking the bike at this point, but could only walk the bike one tire revolution before I had to stop and clean the muck from the tires. The bike was too heavy to carry with an extra ten or fifteen pounds of mud in everything, even coating each individual spoke. Those 48 spokes on my rear wheel, twelve more than the usual 36, were now a liability. Even if the bike and gear wasn't too heavy to carry, over 80 pounds, I couldn't have carried it, as it was too slippery to walk without using the bike as a crutch of-a-sort, helping to keep me upright. I finally gave up on unclogging my front fender, and simply removed it.

It took almost an hour to go about a half mile through this muck. It was more strenuous than those 15,000-foot passes. One solution I considered was to set up my tent and wait it out. But I had no idea if just ahead there might be a town or house that would provide shelter. Or maybe, miraculously, the road would harden if the storm hadn't reached that portion of the road. By three I came to a small town along a river spanned by a paved bridge. A car was parked on the bridge, its wheel wells clogged with mud. Its driver was trying to clean the mud from the wheel wells with a crow bar. Beyond the bridge was a soccer field with a shelter alongside. As I pushed the bike to this miracle-of-an-oasis 13 miles after San Ignacio, several young boys approached. They said it would be okay to stay there, and then they hung out with me. I was wet and cold. I put on some dry clothes and then started scraping gobs of mud off the bike. I put my Tupperware bowl out in the rain to collect water. One of the boys left and returned with a bucket of water. That was hardly enough. The older of the boys, maybe a 14-year old, suggested we take the bike to the river. Five of us spent a hour in the rain cleaning the mud off. They told me a woman in town had a store where I could purchase some food. It was after five when I went to her house. She said she could cook me a meal and suggested I set up my tent on her property.

The sky was clear the next morning, but I had no idea how long it would take for the road to be rideable. Surprisingly, I could start at 7:30 without mud adhering to the tires. The road was a bit soft, but I could keep the tires spinning. It was futile asking how far it was to San Borja or if there were any towns along the way. People in these parts didn't calculate distance by kilometers, but rather by time. I was told it was three hours to San Borja when the road was good, four hours when it was bad. What that translated to for a bicycle, no one knew. After ten miles I came to a house along the road that offered meals. I had the usual eggs and fried bananas. That was it for 32 miles. I was hoping for a 50-mile day, but with no place to pause, I began to think I might be able to do more. The road climbed a bit and the surface became harder and smoother. After averaging 7.1 miles per hour over the first couple of hours of the day, I inched my average speed up to 7.5 miles per hour. If I could put in eight hours on the bike, I'd have 60 miles for the day, putting me within twenty miles or so of San Borja. Life was hopeful, and even wonderful.

I could rejoice once again that I wasn't just dreaming of bicycling Bolivia, or thinking of bicycling Bolivia, or talking about bicycling Bolivia, but was actually, in fact, bicycling Bolivia. It had humbled me all too many times, bringing me to my knees and worse, but I hadn't been defeated yet. But it was way too soon to feel triumphant. At three o'clock I came upon the second house of the day offering provisions. The best this lady could offer was rice and friend bananas, plus a giant grapefruit. I was able to refill my water bottles with some murky water that took quite an effort to pump through my filter. I was back on the road with three hours of light remaining, intent on 60 miles for the day. I was joined at this restaurant by three guys in an SUV headed to San Borja. They said it was 30 kilometers away, but also that it was one hour by car. The road was either very bad or they didn't have the distance right. The road improved enough that I occasionally got my speed up to ten mph, but my speed varied so little I did not need to shift gears. I couldn't get too eager, as without notice the road could suddenly turn bumpy or sandy.

I'd had one momentary lapse earlier in the day when my front tire hit the edge of a pool of water and the bike slid out from under me. I dove head first. I instinctively tucked my shoulder landing on my back. If I my shoulder had taken the brunt of the fall I might have snapped a collarbone, a common bicyclist injury. I've had two of them, one as a messenger and one in my pre-messenger years, though not on tour thankfully. I kept gleefully knocking off the miles until I had come 64 for the day and was possibly within an hour of San Borja. Five or six days earlier, I would have had enough moon light to keep biking. Instead, I was curtailed by the setting sun and had a morning, rather than an evening, arrival in San Borja. And here I sit at 9:30 a.m. wrapping up an hour at this unexpected Internet outlet. It would be best if I were biking in the cool of the morning, but the satisfaction of sharing my recent travails will sustain me the rest of the day. It is 30 miles to the next town and then 220 more to La Paz and the completion of my circuit of Bolivia. My flight home is in six days. If the rains hold off, I should make it.

Later, George

Trinidad, Bolivia

Friends: I have made it to Trinidad, a ramshackle city of 80,000, the largest I have been in by far in a week. It is in the heart of Bolivia's Amazonian basin. It has been 15 days since I left La Paz. Other than two rest/recovery days in Cochabamba, all of them have been spent biking. I went over the 1000-mile mark this morning. Less than 400 remain to La Paz. Bolivia has remained unrelentingly demanding. There hasn't been a single day so far when, at some point, I thought I would have been happy to be just about anywhere else in the world. It is quite a contrast to last summer's foray in the Arctic of Scandinavia when every day was a pleasure, and my mind was free to wander in joyous reverie. Here my thought is a prisoner of the task at hand and wondering what new challenges could possibly lay ahead.

All too often I am counting down the miles, happy to be a quarter of the way to some destination, then a third of the way, half and so on. That's not how I like to occupy my thought, but that's how it has been. And there's not all that much to look forward to down the road. Cold drinks are a rumor. Rare is it to find anything other than a tepid soda, and they only come in larger than half-liter sizes. I was hoping the papaya soda would be a quencher, but it is a syrupy goo of indistinguishable flavor. I've been looking forward to Trinidad for days, knowing there would most likely be fresh squeezed orange juice carts in the plaza and ice cream and other delectables. I've downed a couple of liters of OJ already since I arrived here a few hours ago and am ready for more. My meals have mostly been a pile of rice with some potatoes and some sinewy slices of indistinguishable meat and fried bananas. Rare is it to find chicken on the menu, which I'd much prefer, as it requires a lot less chewing than the usual meat. Frijoles and tortillas, the staples of Mexico are unknown here.

There have been days that started out with easy, pleasurable riding, and I thought, at last, an enjoyable, uneventful day of cycling, but it fails to last. Three days ago I was humbled by 70 miles of steep hills and this after three days of virtual flatness. I climbed more vertical feet that day than when I had hours of sustained climbing, according to my altimeter. Hills can be a pleasant diversion, but not in the heat of the tropics and not when they come in waves with each a climb of a mile or more and not when I never know if the next oasis of shade or little store or restaurant is around the next corner or 35 miles down the road. Here in Bolivia it's been miles and miles between supply points.

Yesterday was another day when I thought I had finally broken the Bolivia hex. I had 50 miles by 12:30, when I came upon a small store selling drinks and snacks. I was starving, and needed more food than that. The store was just a hut alongside a house in the middle of nowhere. Very often whoever owns such a store is happy to cook up some eggs or share whatever they might be cooking for the family's next meal. The senora said she had nothing else to offer other than what was in the store. I pleaded that I was very, very hungry and wondered if she might not have at least some rice. She replied,"Un momento," and went back into her house.

When she returned a minute or two later, she beckoned me to follow her into her home. She led me into a room where a cluster of eight or nine men, a work crew of a sort, were seated around two tables and were finishing up their lunch. The foreman was an American, the first English-speaker I had come across in days. I could hardly believe my good fortune--a solid meal and a solid conversation. He offered me a ride to Trinidad, 100 miles away. It was tempting, if only to spend a couple more hours with this fellow and possibly receive an invitation to stay with him, but I declined. I was having a good ride and the remaining 100 miles to Trinidad promised more of the same.

I was 21 miles from my destination for the day. The road had been flat through a river valley, though the river was so engulfed by vegetation, there was no hint of there being a river in the vicinity. I thought the worst the day held for me would be having to curtail my cycling prematurely, several hours before dark, when I wanted to keep riding, but couldn't since camping was too iffy and towns too scarce. I am embarrassed to admit I have stayed in hotels, or what pass for hotels, the last nine days, an absolute travesty. My tent and sleeping bag are howling over their neglect. The expense has been negligible, as they have cost between $1.50 and $3.50. They have been delightfully rustic, sometimes with bucket showers and never with hot water, not that hot water is necessary. Having to stay in hotels has somewhat restricted my mileage, but I've still been able to get in at least 70 miles every day except one. I sleep much better in my tent. Its cooler and quieter. But it's a much appreciated luxury to be able to shower every night. There have been virtually no rivers or bodies of water along the road for bathing the past five days in this far eastern part of Bolivia.

Anyway, yesterday's major headache wasn't being stranded in a non-entity of a town, but rather a hard downpour for my last two hours on the bike. Not a day has passed since I came down from the Altiplano, and just about every day up there too, that I haven't had some rain. Here in the tropics it has always been welcome and, usually very short-lived, seldom lasting even five minutes. One day a downpour suddenly materialized as I was having lunch. I went out and stood in it to cool down. When this monsoon hit yesterday, I assumed it would be another brief drenching, so I didn't bother to stop and put the rain covers on my panniers. That was a big mistake. Rain seeped through dampening most of my gear, and here in the tropics, when things get wet, it is hard to get them dry. The $1.50 hotel I stayed at that night in San Pablo had two beds. I laid all my damp gear on the one I wasn't using, but nothing had dried by the morning. I can only hang so much stuff on my bike to dry as I pedal along, and there is literally no place to stop along the road to hang things on to dry. There is virtually no traffic, so I could lay my gear along the side of the road, as the locals do to dry their rice, but it is too hot for me to sit there in the sun and wait for my things to dry. Yesterday's rain continued for a couple hours after I arrived in San Pablo, confining me to my hotel. No great loss, as there wasn't much to see anyway.

Most of these occasional towns don't amount to much more that a cluster of shacks. San Pablo was the only significant town over a 125-mile stretch, yet it didn't have electricity until after dark and then only for a couple of hours. When I went to the market and asked for a liquado, the woman vendor had to go get her husband to start up their generator to power the blender. He spent more time struggling to get the generator going, repeatedly pulling its cord, than it took for the blender to mix the drink. All that for 15 cents. The husband then sat and talked with me as I drank. Everyone has been inordinately friendly. He, as did many others, wanted to know how much my bicycle cost. That's a common question in third world countries the world over. I always say, "About $100," about one-tenth its cost. One question I'm repeatedly asked here, that I've never been asked elsewhere is, "How much did your plane ticket cost?" I underestimate that too, but not as drastically. I say, "About $500." Everyone thinks I mean to say $5000. When I repeat that it was indeed $500, they are quite pleased to learn that a ticket to the US isn't as bogglingly expensive as they imagined. Although Bolivia's average annual per capital income is $900 a year, the lowest in South America, those who earn more and have the dream of getting to the United States, acknowledge $500 is a price they might be able to afford, though they all admit that getting a visa would be difficult.

I am the first person from the United States most of these people have met. Hardly any of them have heard of Chicago, or even Michael Jordan, though I saw some highlights of him playing for the Washington Wizards on the national news here one night. It was the night I ended up in someone's home in Puerto Banegas, a dirt road town of about 90 people. I had no clue the town would be so inconsequential. I had heard one could occasionally find boats at this town going down river to Trinidad, the major city of Bolivia's Amazon basin. I figured it had to be a fairly significant and thriving port city. The last eight miles to the town were on a dirt road, my headache for that day, as I had less than an hour before dark to get there and I could just barely manage eight miles per hour on the road, worrying all the while it could turn worse at any moment and cut my speed by half.

When I arrived at the town at dusk I passed right through it waiting for it to begin and had to double back and start asking if there was any place to stay. I was directed to an older couple who had an extra room that they occasionally rented out. Dinner and bed came to $2. I was ready for sleep at nine, but the lady of the house stayed up til eleven with the TV blaring just outside my palm frond partition. There were chickens penned up outside my other wall. It made for a very sleepless night, and I paid for it the next day. I was so tired, for the first time I took an hour-and-a-half siesta on the porch of a closed shop, plopping down my sleeping pad on the concrete and curling up like some homeless indigent, until a police officer came along and urged me to me on my way. Ordinarily in such an emergency I can find a spot of shade along the road to put my sleeping mat under, but not here in the jungle.


I may rest a bit tomorrow here in Trinidad before setting out on a dirt road that could be a quagmire if it rains. It is dirt, not gravel, and, if moistened much, can be impassable. Better than 200 miles of it await me, and the bitch of it is, there doesn't promise to be any shade along the road and only a few token towns. This has definitely turned into more of an adventure than I anticipated...just the way I like it. I'm just sorry I have a specific flight to catch, otherwise it would be nice to be able to linger here in Trinidad, not that it has much to offer beyond the Internet and some cold, tasty fluids. At least the bike has held up, only one flat so far, and that on a gravelly stretch when I hit a rock and knew I was in trouble. If the rain holds off, the dirt could be smooth sailing. If not, I'm in for some more anguish.

Touring cyclists are so rare in these parts that several nights ago in the town of Ascunsion de G. as I was pulling into a hotel at dusk, a cameramen and reporter astride a motorcycle awaited me. I gave a several minute interview in Spanish that turned up on the town's local news. No word if CNN picked it up.

Later, George

Montero

Friends: Greetings from Montero, 260 miles down the road from Cochabamba in the lush, lush tropics. It is the end of summer and the rainy season here and the vegetation is thick and out-of-control luxuriant. For miles after I left the mountains, I had no view other than a wall of green to the left and a wall of green to the right. Fortunately, I have been able to find hotels the past two nights, as camping would have been the ultimate challenge of this trip, since I didn't bring along a machete or a platform to elevate myself from the mushy ground. I am now in a region where there are patches of cleared land with grazing cattle and fields of sugar cane and rice and orange groves, some tended by Mennonites, but camping is still very iffy. Asking to camp on someone's property is a possibility, but not a very welcome one, with dogs and chickens and children on the loose.

Last night I had a frantic race with the sun to reach the town of Buena Vista in search of a hotel. It made for a 129-mile day, the last 70 in five hours, right up to dark at 6:40 p.m. I didn't intend it to be such a big mileage day. According to one map I'm using, Buena Vista was just 100 miles down the road from Villa Tunari, where I'd spent the previous night. Now that I was in the flats, that was a most reasonable distance. But I'd been thwarted previously here in Bolivia from my objective by either excessive climbing or bad roads, so I began the day warily. I was humming along at better than fifteen mph with a bit of a tailwind. Some scattered cumulus clouds lessened the heat and shielded my skin from the sun. This was cycling at its best, conditions that made it hard to stop riding, though I knew I needed to pause occasionally to eat and especially drink. I had 60 miles by 12:30 when I stopped for lunch, thinking the worst of the day was behind me, leaving me a leisurely promenade the rest of the day.

But shortly after lunch, a road sign said 80 kilometers to a town that I thought came before Buena Vista. I screeched to a halt and whipped out my map. Yes indeed, the mentioned town was in fact 14 miles before Buena Vista. Instead of 40 miles in the remaining five hours of light, my post lunch ride was going to be 70 miles. It looked like Bolivia might thwart me again. But my week of altitude training and years of messengering sustained me--five hours on the bike in the baking heat with one fifteen minute break for a soda. I was fried when I arrived at Buena Vista. One of the allures of this town was that it was a staging area for forays into a national park, promising gringo amenities, including the Internet. There was an Internet outlet there, but it had been down for a week. The only other gringos in this sleepy town were a German couple who were exhausted from a nine-mile hike and then even more exhausted hearing about my day.

Never have I biked in a country where each day has been so dramatically different from every other day. There are new and unexpected challenges at every turn. I ended up resting two-and-a-half days in Cochabamba, one more than planned, as I was totally exhausted, not only from all the climbing to get there, but I also needed to recover from an attack of a third world intestinal problem that had me spewing from both ends. My innards began rejecting whatever had disagreed with them at about one a.m. the night before my final descent into Cochabamba. I had never vomited on the bike before, but it was preferable to having to suddenly drop trou along the road, especially since the last 35 miles down from the Altiplano were in a fairly hard rain. I was severely tempted to stop at one of the motels I passed starting about fifteen miles from the city center and crawl into bed, but I kept going, assuring myself another hour of misery on the bike in the rain didn't much matter at that point.

When I finally left Cochabamba, I wasn't entirely sure I had recovered my strength and expelled the bug, but I soon discovered I had. I knew I had a climb out of the valley of Cochabamba, but I didn't know how prolonged it would be. After two hours I was more than ready for it to be over. At least my legs weren't rebelling, just my spirit. I knew another great descent awaited me, this one all the way to below 3,000 feet, but I didn't know when it would begin. My target for the day was the town of Villa Tunari, 100 miles away. The climb went on for two more agonizing hours for the most altitude I had gained in one sustained climb of the trip, 3,600 feet, but at least it was all below 13,000 feet.

When I finally began what could be a 10,000-foot, 50-mile descent, I couldn't fully relax and exult as I remembered all too well the several interruptions in my descent from 15,000 feet several days before. After a seven mile plunge the road did turn upwards, but only for three miles and then began what looked like the descent of a lifetime. There were thick ominous clouds ahead. I put on my vest and windbreaker to ward off the cold now that I 'd be no longer exerting myself and plunged in before rain could ruin it. There was a strong updraft so I hardly need to brake, while maintaining a speed of around 40 mph. Every mile or so I'd pass a truck that had passed me on the way up. A dog misjudged my speed as it came tearing at me, and we nearly collided, startling the both of us nearly to death. I was on intense alert for gravel and oil, and after that any more canines. An unlit tunnel half a mile long forced me off my bike as it was unilluminated and pitch black curving through the mountain, providing no guiding light for better than half of it.

After 18 miles in half an hour, with the rain holding off but the clouds lurking just overhead, except for one brief stretch when I was engulfed by them, I had to stop again at a coca checkpoint. There were at least twenty vehicles backed up, but I was waved around them and wasn't asked to stop. I had come from 12,500 feet to 7000 feet, about half of the descent. And then came a 25-mile stretch of dirt, gravel and mud--a devil's brew of muck that was the worst hell I'd ever experienced on the bike.

There had been one half-mile stretch of broken pavement earlier, so I expected to be soon done with this, but it went on and on, and it was raining. There were stretches where the mud was ankle deep. With the brakes squeezed, I was descending at a slower speed than I would have been if I had been ascending. My wrists were wearing out faster that my legs. I couldn't hold the brakes for much longer than two or three minutes before having to stop to rest my wrists. The occasional passing vehicle would spray mud on me from head to toe. I would walk a couple of minutes and then ride for a few. After a couple of hours and not even eight miles, I came to a broken down truck. I asked the driver how much further it was to the pavement. He said ten kilometers. I had about three hours of light left, so I could reach that in less than two hours at my present rate and then hightail it for Villa Tunari. About ten minutes later, I came to a road crew truck stopped along the road. I asked the driver the same question, He stuck up two fingers. I gleefully said, "Solamente dos?" (Only two?) "No veinte." (20K- 12 miles) I was sunk. Now it was time to feel desperation, as I trudged and skidded down this mountain of muck, my great descent ruined. My brake pads were nearly shredded. The spray-like shrapnel from the passing vehicles was caking on me and my gear. This was going to be one horrific night of camping...if I could find a clearing for my tent, something I had yet to notice.

About 15 minutes later at 5:15, with 90 minutes of light left, a truck slowed alongside me. I started to ask the guy in the passenger seat for a third opinion on how much further it was to the pavement. He quickly blurted it was very far, as he hopped out and was grabbing my bike to throw it up onto the back of his truck. I wasn't sure if this was a rescue mission or a kidnapping, as he hadn't even bothered to ask if I'd like a ride. He simply knew that I did, whether or not I knew it. If he had asked I would have hemmed and hawed a bit, as I am absolutely loathe to accept rides. It is an extremely bad habit to fall in to. I had turned down a ride several days before on the Altiplano in a driving, cold rain and the weather had almost immediately improved. But this offer I could not resist. I was in almost as bad of a shape as the road, and it was a disaster. I sat in the back of this open-decked 50-foot long truck with six campesinos. It was 45 minutes before we reached pavement. Ordinarily I would have insisted on getting back on my bike, but I was in no state to make any such requests, having entrusting my fate to these truckers. We reached Villa Tunari half an hour later, just at dark. I had ridden 70 miles of the 100 to my destination, and felt no guilt about being driven the final 30. A shower never felt better. I'm now less than 300 miles from Trinidad on a road that isn't all paved and has long distances between towns. Who knows what lurks and when I will next find the Internet.

Later, George

Cochabamba

Friends: I'm down off the Altiplano, enjoying the extra oxygen in the air of Cochabama, a city of 400,000.  I'm still way up there at 8,600 feet, but the air is the thickest I've been able to breath since I arrived in Bolivia ten days ago. I first became aware that the air had some substance to it when I heard it whistling in my ears at around 11,000 feet as I descended a 15,000 foot pass. The sudden noise made me think a truck was coming up from behind me.  It took me a few seconds to realize what was making the sound.

Though its nice to have a little extra oxygen, I was almost sorry to leave the Altiplano, as I had finally adapted to it. It no longer seemed an altogether inhospitable place. It wasn't until mid-morning of my fourth day of  biking after a week in the country that I discovered my blood had thickened enough to be able to exert myself without feeling faint. It was a great moment to be able to actually ride my bike rather than merely nursing it along, as my oxygen-deprived blood had forced me to do my first three days up there.

I remember the moment well. It came a couple hours after I passed through El Alto, a sprawling shanty-town of 100,000 surrounding the La Paz airport. I had camped on the fringe of the airport the night before after crossing back into Bolivia from Peru. I passed through El Alto during the bustle of the morning rush hour with throngs waiting for buses and congregating around small stands selling coffee and coca tea and breakfast nibbles. It was overcast and cold. It wasn't until noon that the sun emerged from the clouds and the temperature vaulted from barely 40 degrees to nearly 70. The difference between sun and no sun is most dramatic at these elevations.

There was so little oxygen in the air I had to breathe through both my nose and my mouth as I pedaled along. I couldn't eat or drink on the bike unless I were coasting or descending, as I needed my mouth open functioning as a breathing apparatus. Even a momentary lapse to swallow or chew had me gasping. The first time I tried to drink from my water bottle as I biked along I immediately started gagging from the lack of air. It wasn't the most pleasant cycling, but I was on my bike in a faraway place, and that had me smiling. I did manage 198 miles in three days under such conditions, putting me within 240 miles of Cochabamba.

I finally realized I could push hard on the pedals without gasping or feeling faint when a slow-moving road construction vehicle pulled out on the road a little bit ahead of me. Without thinking, I accelerated to chase after it, something I've become conditioned to do in third-world countries, as such vehicles offer the possibility of drafting.  I'd forgotten that I was disabled here in Bolivia and such exertion wasn't possible.  Not this time.  Before I realized it, I had latched on to this giant tractor and was able to cruise along in its slipstream up a gentle climb at 18 mph. I could hardly believe it.  I had finally adapted to the altitude and I could pedal with vigor. The air is so thin at 13,500 feet, I'm not sure how significant a factor drafting is, but I was speeding along faster than I would have otherwise and with less effort.

After we reached the summit, I swung around him and shifted into my big chain ring for the first time on the Altiplano and left him behind. The 52-teeth on my large chain ring were barely adequate. I was actually wishing I had a 54 or 55. I was able to genuinely exert myself, getting my speed up to 25 and then 30 miles per hour.  Up until this moment whenever I had pushed it, after three or four strokes I'd have to let up as I'd feel myself going faint. It ended up being one of my great days on the bike with 117 miles and only the dark stopping me. I've had many days of greater mileage, but never before had I had such a thrilling breakthrough, shedding-the-shackles, kind of day. I could readily understand why racers go to a high-altitude, quarter-mile track when they want to break the hour-record.  The air is truly thinner, providing much less resistance.  I was gliding along with minimal effort.

When I went to sleep that night, I was eager to get back to it the next day. I was 125 miles from Cochabamba, where the Internet and my first shower in five days awaited me. I wasn't sure which I was looking forward to more. Since it was 5,000 feet lower than where I was camping, managing it one day seemed perfectly reasonable. A storm that night, however, prevented me from getting as much sleep as I would have liked. It is the tail end of the rainy season. I've ridden in rain every day except my first. A little after midnight, I awoke to the patter of rain on the tent. I was quickly lulled back to sleep. An hour later though, I awoke to what I hoped I was a false alarm or my imagination--dampness at the foot of my sleeping bag. Unfortunately, it was all too true. The ground was so saturated from all the rain, it was turning into a lake. I ducked out of the the tent and hurriedly dug a trench around it with my Tupperware bowl, but the trench immediately filled and overflowed into the tent.

The only solution was to sit up and bail, soaking the water up with two of my trusty, multi-purpose neckerchiefs, then squeezing them into my equally trusty and versatile Tupperware bowl as I sat slightly elevated on my sleeping pad. The water was gathering so fast, I had to enlist my socks as well. Generally, these rains didn't last more than an hour, but this one was already into its second hour. My sleeping bag was soaking up moisture. I was just barely staying warm with all my clothes on. I thought of Shackleton and his crew in the Antarctic and the cold and wet they endured and was relieved that, even though I was all alone aways from the road, a town was only eight miles away if hypothermia started to threaten.

After a while I noticed some slightly higher ground in the corner of the tent. I moved to it and silently sat, giving up on the bailing. The rain quit about five a.m. I sat hunched in my elevated dry corner with eyes closed, pretending to sleep, until six, when it started getting light and I could get up and get in motion. I didn't feel too tired and knew the pleasure of pedaling the bike would energize me. I knocked off a quick six miles in twenty minutes, riding as effortlessly as yesterday, when I came to the turn to Cochabamba and my anticipated descent off the Altiplano. But instead I was greeted by a gradual climb that went on and on for six hours to over 15,000 feet. It was as disheartening a stretch of riding as I've experienced. For hours I hoped every distant bend in the road would be the summit and I could begin my glorious descent of miles and miles. I took not one iota of consolation that all this climbing was going to make it an even longer descent. Time after time I was crestfallen as the road continued upward and upward. I began fearing to look up when I reached a bend, putting off the bad news that it wasn't the summit nor was it in sight.

My thought drifted to Laurie and how nobly and stoically she suffered in similar conditions several years ago, when she and I biked from Mexico City to Oaxaca through the heart of Mexico's mountain ranges before continuing on to the Pacific over an even higher and steeper mountain range. We had climbs that went on and on.  It was the first time she had biked in mountainous terrain. This was no easy introduction.  We had chosen a route that a book on bicycling Mexico recommended to avoid at all costs. I had done a considerable amount of biking in Mexico, so knew I could handle it and had confidence that Laurie could too.  As a veteran, year-round cyclist in Chicago, I knew her toughness, though I also knew that these extended climbs would test it.  The worst part of the climbs, just as the climb I was presently on, was not knowing how long it lasted.  That too is the worst part of being tortured.  When one knows when it will end, it is much much more endurable.

I hardly had to suffer on the ride with Laurie as she suffered  enough for the both of us.  As we climbed and climbed I tired to keep her mind off the task at hand with stories of my tours over the years as she silently pedaled on.  She later admitted she wasn't paying all that much attention. Rather she was silently counting from one to one hundred in the several languages she knew. I tried her counting trick here in Bolivia to distract myself from my ordeal, but the sub-vocalization actually left me panting.

Laurie wasn't all that happy that I wasn't suffering as much as she was and could remain cheerful and upbeat. She particularly resented that I told her that in time she would come to enjoy and welcome climbs.   I assured her that she would look back on our ride with a great sense of accomplishment, and, in fact, she later said it was the first thing she had ever done that impressed her father.  She said it also gave her a great measure of respect from her Mexican friends back in Chicago who well knew these mountains.   I was proud to be  a witness to her grit and determination to keep going when she really didn't want to.

Many of the stories I told her featured my great friend Siegi, a former national caliber bicycle racer who had ridden the Tour de l'Avenir (the amateur version of the Tour de France) and had finished second in the inaugural Tour of California in the '70s and had won the Memorial Day U.S. classic the Tour of Somerville in the same era. He awaited us in Puerto Escondido, a small fishing village on the Pacific, 250 miles south of Acapulco, where I had spent several winters. During those years Siegi and I made it a tradition to bike from Puerto Escondido over the mountains to Oaxaca each winter. I told Laurie about the first time he and I did it on the very road that she and I would eventually descend to the Pacific. It was a 60-mile climb from the ocean to the summit. Not knowing the time and effort it would take, we were caught by the dark before we reached the summit and were suffering. Even though we had both traveled the road by bus and car several times, we couldn't remember how many more switchbacks remained to the village at the top where we planned to spend the night.

For better than an hour, as one switchback after another was not the last, as we kept hoping, we were becoming more and more disheartened. As we rested, munching the last of our rations in the dark, we were both wondering why we were doing this. We could be back on the beach in paradise watching another sunset with our girlfriends. We kept asked, "Haven't we accomplished enough on the bikes over the years? Why in God's name are we inflicting this upon ourselves? What more do we have to prove, to ourselves or anyone else, after years of racing and touring all over the world?" We vowed never to attempt such a thing again. We finally reached the summit, more in defeat and relief, than with the usual thrill of accomplishment and triumph. The next day we continued on to Oaxaca. That evening, as we sat in the zocalo sipping liquados, one of us said what the other had been thinking,"That was great, we'll have to make this an annual ride." And so we did for several years back before I discovered the joy and the riches to be earned as a bicycle messenger during the winter months.

Laurie, however, found it difficult to accept that eventually one could enjoy and welcome climbing in other than the most minimal of doses. When one can slip into an easy rhythm, it can be a great pleasure, and I was proof positive right there alongside her. I had found that rhythm in Mexico with Laurie, but, unfortunately, not here at this much higher elevation, nearly twice as high. My struggles bordered on agony. My speedometer dipped to 2.5 mph, about the bare minimum I could maintain and keep the bike upright. I wasn't handling this as well as Laurie had, though thinking of her perseverance helped keep me from breaking. A day or two after she confessed to counting as she pedaled, she had the courage to ask, "Do you know at which point I was closest to tears?" I was shocked by this admission, as I never suspected. But that's what being let down, time after time, when you think you have reached a summit, but haven't, will do to you. It is worse than torture, continually being denied after constant anticipation and longing and praying for a summit, not only to be freed from the strain of pedaling, but also the reward of a thrilling descent.

When I finally started my descent at about 1:30 in the afternoon, after 41 miles for the day, all but the first six climbing, I still thought I could knock off the remaining 84 miles to Cochabamba in the remaining six-and-a-half hours of light and get a shower and email and ice cream cone. I flew down five miles to 14,000 feet in no time and then had a door slammed in my face with a five-mile climb back up to 15,000 feet. That wasn't fair at all. I'd had enough climbing for the day. That second climb took close to two hours, including stops to eat and flagellate myself and to finally lay out my soaking gear from the night before to dry, as I had to concede I would be camping again that night. Next came a ten-mile descent to 13,000 feet and then another staggering blow to the solar plexus--a climb to 14,000 feet that was totally uncalled for. What had I done to deserve this? I was finally beginning to feel the effects of four hours of sleep and not a meal all day, as not a one of the restaurants in the shanties along the way were serving. My lone food acquisition for the day were two apples that cost me fifteen cents. I used them as filler for my peanut butter sandwiches, a first.

I polished off the tin of tuna I brought from home for just such an emergency, and another couple of energy bars. I would have loved to have just stopped and slept for a day, but this was stark, barren countryside with no place to disappear behind. I wanted to at least get down to 12,000 feet. Finally, at six p.m., when I reached that last 14,000 foot summit, my final descent to the valley began. But first I had to endure some less than playful stone throwing from several dozen young men who lined the road on both sides and thought they would have some fun with me by rolling stones at me as I passed. They seemed to be bored more than hostile, having ended their shift in a mine and waiting for a bus to take them home. It wasn't the first time I had been stoned, but never in this manner. My previous stonings in Guatemala and Morocco had been by kids, though they were much more aggressive and threatening than these Bolivians, aiming for my head and body and throwing as hard as they could, though not with much accuracy. I didn't feel particularly alarmed by this stoning, as I had been by others, but still I did not welcome it.

After I dropped to just under 11,000 feet, I came upon an elevated mound in an elbow of the road where I could set up my tent for the night. There hadn't been any real camping possibilities along this road dug into the side of the mountain, so I was happy for it. I wouldn't have dreamed of finishing off the 35 miles to Cochabamba in the dark. For the first time I didn't have to rush to set up my tent and wrap my sleeping bag around me to keep warm as I ate my dinner. This was the lowest elevation I had been at in a week. I had a vista of miles and miles to gaze upon as I opened a giant tin of sardines to dine upon. As I ate, I thanked Laurie and Siegi once again for helping me to get through this most trying day. And if you wonder why in the hell I subject myself to such agony, just ask them.

Later, George

Lake Titicaca, Bolivia

Friends: It is with great joy and no small relief that I am able to report from Lake Titicaca in Bolivia. I reached this storied lake and the town of Copacabana after a 98-mile bike ride from the capital city of La Paz. With the majority of the ride at over 13,000 feet, including one pass of over 14,000 feet, in the rain no less, this ranks as a century ride unlike any other. It is the first leg of a 1,500-mile circuit of Bolivia that will eventually take me to the steamy jungles of the Amazon before I climb back up to La Paz on the "World's Most Dangerous Road."

Never before have I been so uneasy and so uncertain before setting out on one of my bicycle adventures, not even that first one back in 1977, coast-to-cost across the US.  I had a severe climb of over 2000 feet out of La Paz immediately awaiting me that had me greatly concerned. I wondered if I was adequately acclimated to this high altitude to be setting out just yet, if my gearing was low enough, if my sun block were strong enough, how dangerous and demanding would be the "World's Most Dangerous Road" that would culminate my Tour de Bolivia and would force me to climb 10,000 feet in less than 40 miles to over 15,000 feet on a mostly one-lane wide dirt road, and what anti-American hostility might await me, particularly in the coca growing regions that US drug agencies had meddled with.

Less than three days before, when I arrived at the La Paz airport at 13,500 feet, I was staggered by the lack of oxygen in the air. Five steps with my 45-pound duffel and I was gasping, on the verge of passing out. Fortunately, my friend Teresa, who I had come to visit, insisted on meeting me at the airport, and wouldn't let me bike to her home. Teresa has plenty of experience adapting visiting friends to the altitude and kept a very close watch on me. She plied me with coca tea and regularly checked the inside of my lips to make sure they weren't turning purple, an indication of a lack of oxygen circulating to the head. If need be, she could rush to a nearby pharmacy for an oxygen tank

La Paz, the world's highest capital, is down from the Altiplano at 12,000 feet in a dramatic steep canyon that is about three miles across at its widest. Teresa lived another 800 feet lower, three miles down the canyon from the town center. That helped my acclimatization, but that was an extra 800 feet I had to climb when I set out on my ride back up to the Altiplano. On the morning of my second day in La Paz I gave my reassembled bike and myself a test ride to see how I was adapting to the thin air. On my brief ten-mile ride I could climb without any light-headedness. Later that afternoon I tried again, this time with Teresa's 18-year old son, a sometimes competitive mountain biker. I was good for twenty miles and then some. We didn't encounter another cyclist. The steep, narrow streets and thin, thin air make any riding a true athletic endeavor--not only putting extreme demands on the heart and legs, but on the bike as well. The typical third-world bike wouldn't hold up long under such stressful conditions. The altimeter on my cyclometer recorded 2,000 feet of climbing in our wanderings of ups and downs, a plenty good workout. I had gotten my heart beating quite significantly, forcing me to pause to catch my breath from time to time, but I had been spared any of those sharp stabs of pain to the brain indicating a shortage of oxygen. It was an encouraging test ride. I was adapting just fine. I felt as if I was ready to leave the next day, but let Teresa persuade me to give it an extra 24 hours.

It had been a strain to ride the steep streets of La Paz without any gear. With 50 pounds of camping equipment, clothes, spare parts, books, food and miscellanea, that strain was going to be something I didn't want to think about. I knew I was in for a struggle and would suffer. The question was, "How much?" When I set out at 6:15 Friday morning in the semi-dark, I at last saw a cyclist in La Paz, a young man on a mountain bike. He, like me, had to stop every ten minutes or so to catch his breath on the steep climb to the city center. I was relieved I could still pedal my overweight bike without the thin air assaulting my head. I wasn't so happy though to have to use my lowest gear from the very start. I have gone many a tour through mountainous terrain, from the Sierra Madres of Mexico to the Himalayas of India and Nepal, without having to use my lowest gear. I always like to keep that in reserve just in case a road should suddenly turn super-steep. But here I was, already in my lowest of lows, and I had over 2,000 feet to climb. Not once though did I regret declining Teresa's offer to drive me up to the Altiplano to start my biking.

For half an hour, I continued to stop every ten minutes or so when my heart started pounding too hard, until I found a better rhythm. I found that by lessening my exertion just a bit, I could maintain my effort for twenty minutes or more. That was a relief. I didn't want to be like my novice bicycling friend who joined me on a bicycle tour of Cuba. He ignored my advice to adequately train for the ride and had to stop every fifteen minutes the first four days of our ride to rest and walk as he adapted his body to being on a bike for hours a day. I also had to resist standing on the pedals for a little extra effort, as it would immediately send my heart to my throat with an accelerated beat wanting out. It was eleven miles and 2,360 feet of climbing to the 13,500 foot Altiplano.

I reached the flats of the high altitude plain two hours and twenty minutes after setting out. My cyclometer told me I had averaged 5.9 miles per hour for the time I spent pedaling. That's a lot of numbers. I prefer not to dwell on such things, but when it comes to the extremes such as this, it's nice to know what effort it required and what I'm capable of for future reference, but also for the sake of others who may wish to attempt this ride themselves. It's always nice to know what you're in for. I had shed three layers of clothes as I climbed. I was down to a t-shirt and shorts when I reached the summit, despite a temperature cold enough that I could see my breath. I was so overheated I could sit and eat several 15-cent empanadas for twenty minutes before I needed to add a shirt, even though everyone around me was bundled in winter gear.

Then I had the joy of a flat road, my first of Bolivia. There was a slight headwind, but I could pedal with minimum effort and propel myself at 10 to 12 mph and rediscover the pleasures of cycling. Off in the distance were 20,000-foot peaks shrouded in snow. The landscape had enough green scruff that there were sporadic clusters of goats and sheep and cattle, each monitored by a shepherd. An occasional unattended llama reminded me this certainly wasn't Kansas. I'd finally cooled down enough after a couple of miles to stop and add an extra layer and a pair of gloves. I couldn't overly exert myself to warm up, as then I would get light-headed, but at least I could keep pedaling with a moderate effort for as long as I wished without tiring. I stopped after a couple of hours for a lunch of chicken, rice, two kinds of potatoes and shredded carrots. The cost--85 cents. The intense sun was getting to me more than the thin air. For the rest of the day I rode for an hour and then took shelter from the sun for an hour. Lunch had so filled me up I needed no more nourishment than a bowl of soup for the rest of my miles. Around six, after 68 miles, I found a place to set up my tent that I couldn't resist, even though I had an hour of daylight left. My goal had been 75 miles for the day, but there hadn't been too many places suitable for camping along the road, so I thought it best to seize this one. Dinner was a fish dinner I had ordered earlier in the day and had packed in my Tupperware bowl.

Just as I was taking down my tent at 6:15 this morning, it started to sprinkle. That wasn't as aggravating as the long climb that awaited me. It wasn't the best way to start the day, but at least it wasn't as extreme as yesterday's, less than a thousand feet. Still it had me huffing. I gave just enough effort to keep the bike upright and in motion, at 3.5 miles per hour, not knowing how much higher I would have to climb. I had to dip into my emergency rations of energy bars for the first time. It was tough going. The lone consolation was the succession of spectacular views of Lake Titicaca and the minimal traffic. Yesterday it was two or three minutes between vehicles, today it was two or three times as long. From the summit I descended to an inlet of the lake that required a ferry to cross. There was more climbing and then another descent.

By the time I began the final descent to Copacabana, the rain had penetrated to my skin, and my hands were frigid. But whenever the sun would momentarily break through, I was quickly warmed. The descent wasn't as great as it could have been in the wet and the cold, but the site of the picturesque town nestled against mountains, highlighted by a couple of stunning, jutting promontories similar to those of Rio de Janeiro, which has a Copacabana of its own, diverted my thought from dwelling too much on my discomfort. The town is on the gringo trail. I encountered my first travelers since arriving in Bolivia. There were restaurants advertising pizza and spaghetti and outfitters offering excursions. It's quite tranquil here and would be an ideal place to hang out for a few days, but I have no time to dally. After I sign off it's back on the bike. I'll follow the shoreline to Peru. I'll be in Peru for about fifty miles then swing back into Bolivia. I'll be happy to descend to more sane elevations, but I have a week or so on the Altiplano ahead of me. That ought to make me super-charged for the weeks to come. Elite, and would-be elite, athletes go out of their way for such training.

Later, George

Tribune Review of India Slide Show

Chicago Tribune

January 17, 2002 Thursday

Courier takes in world sights;
2-wheel treks go beyond city limit

By Jon Anderson, Tribune staff reporter


As someone once said, every place is within walking distance if you have the time. George Christensen, a Chicago bike messenger, feels the same way about bicycles.

Recently, Christensen rode solo across India to Nepal.

"I could have just flown into New Delhi and biked the 750 miles to Katmandu," Christensen told a rapt gathering of the DePaul Geographical Society on Saturday. "But it's always more satisfying to go thousands of miles instead of hundreds. So I started in Bombay."

The adventure, Christensen reported, cost him about $2 a day. ("Well, I did spend $3 a night for a hotel in Calcutta," he noted. "But that was only four days.")

The secret, he said, is near total self-sufficiency on the road.

Using a pointer on a map, backed by 90 minutes of colorful slides, Christensen re-created a three-month journey from Bombay to the beaches of Goa, the slums of Calcutta, the tea plantations of Darjeeling and the heights of Katmandu, which he reached after surmounting 115 kilometers of what he called "the roughest road in all of Asia."

His tales brought more than a few gasps from the Geographic Society, which gathers up to 10 times a year to hear lectures ranging from the role of cinnamon in global exploration to "An Exotic Tour of the Southeast U.S.A." Speakers over the years have included Mayor Richard J. Daley (on Chicago) and Cardinal Francis George (on Rome).

"Many of these people drive in from the suburbs. Some are former students I had 20 or 30 years ago," said the society's moderator, Richard Houk, a DePaul geography professor who founded the group in 1961. It now has 275 members.

There was no shortage of interest from the crowd in the nuances of Christensen's adventures, which have taken him, in a word, everywhere. Through northern Scandinavia, where hazards include tunnels as long as five miles, often arctic-cold and slippery with ice. Through Peru, where Shining Path guerrillas prey on unwary travelers. Across Europe. Across the U.S. And, for 1,000 miles, around the perimeter of Lake Michigan.

"On trips," he reported, "I usually ride 100 miles a day, from dawn to dusk, with two hours' riding, then a break."

Now 50, Christensen used to favor odd jobs that allowed him to take off for his excursions. He has worked as a bike messenger for 13 years. "It keeps me in shape--all the time," he said.

It also keeps him alert to sudden challenges, from hitting black ice to dodging cars running red lights.

"But these are two different ventures," he went on. "When you're a bike messenger, you have to stay totally alert. You can't let your mind wander. When you're off in remote areas, your mind can go anywhere.

"You can reverie. Think of friends, the past. It's rich, a great joy."

In answer to a question, he said he has never been attacked while long-distance riding.

"Off my bicycle, I've been scammed and robbed. On my bicycle, it's peace," he said.

In Colombia, for example, a country often tough on tourists, he found that bicycling is a respected sport, like soccer.

"I was treated wonderfully," he said. "In most countries, a bicycle, for some reason, doesn't attract bad people. And God looks after fools."

Others had specific questions about biking across India.

"What did you do about bathrooms?" one woman asked.

"I went into the fields, like a lot of other people," he said.