And we’re off.
One by one, the cyclists leave the protective rest area where the bus is parked. Now it’s time to merge with traffic while watching the cliffs. I am not concerned about this, being that it’s still a paved road.
There are two or three car lengths between each rider. Obviously, distance here is the best margin for error. People use this time to test the brakes—as expected, they are very strong, and minimal force is needed to use them properly. Unfortunately, I use the front brake at the second check on sand, and like a kicked football I go end over end over the handlebars and kiss the dirt. It’s painful, but my padded suit and the gloves certainly prevent worse. On the other hand, there’s no doubt it’s embarrassing, being the first rider of the herd to take a splash.
Time for redemption.
After the third or fourth stop, the riders have a choice: to ride the next 15k or so uphill (the only uphill stretch) or ride the bus. Most people lift their bikes up to the top of the bus, where they are safely parked—they clearly want no part of any uphill bikeride, and I proceed to ride uphill with eight or nine riders. The ride quickly becomes a race. The tour guide quickly shows the rest of the pack what is what. Being that he rides it every day, we are aware nobody will catch him. When I arrive at the top of the hill, I comfortably beat the rest of the group, most of them far younger than I am. Take that, kiddos. Nice. It does pay off to stay in shape.
Once the rest of the riders are assembled, it is time for the longer dirt part, the original death road. In other words: showtime.
The more we descend, the hotter it gets, needless to say. By the tenth stop, I am wearing shorts and a t-shirt. On the way there, there is a breathtaking scenery, although you need to ‘sneak’ peaks at these: that, or wait for the next check stop. There are incredible curves that you really need to watch besides the cliffs. That, or land in a ditch, or worse. There are gorgeous waterfalls and stream crossings we need to ride through.
Admittedly, the cliffs are like curbs to us. We know they are there, but as long as we keep our eyes on the road, there is very little chance we will go over one of them.
We are finally a few miles short of Coroico. Disaster strikes. A rider from the other group plows into a car—he is all right, but the bike is totaled, which pisses the tour organizers off who had warned him to ride, well, a little less reckless. We don’t catch the end of the episode. We eventually arrive in Coroico, all triumphant, all riders alive and well. The cold beer I sip feels absolutely heavenly. A group leaves to try out the zip lines that shuttle interested passengers over the valley. Although I am basically interested, I want rest and a cold beer far more.
We head back to La Paz on the bus, and the three hours of sitting on it will be what will hurt me the next morning. Most riders will complain about their hands—understandably from gripping the handlebars so tight—but I will have the ‘one night in prison syndrome’ thanks to the bus and nothing but the bus.
This was a fantastic trip and an absolute must for anybody visiting Bolivia. Being that my time now is limited here, there is more to come, although I claim that the most important mission is accomplished.
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