Northern Peru.................
3/4/2013 Balsas to a farm house on the only flat land near the road, overlooking Limon in the valley
D39, T5.29, 9, Av7.18, Max 31 Tot 13784 , 3718
Climbing the whole way, perfect temps though cool near the end of the day.
Leaving early, before the heat would be felt, a typical desert type day was experienced, that of a cool morning, though knowing the temperature would rapidly climb.
I knew to, that I would be climbing out of this “hell hole”, probably a bit harsher a description with due respect to the residents.
The river was marvelled at mid way across the bridge, some locals took some photos for me.
The road was gravel of course, but with such fine dust, there were piles of this talcum powder on the outside of every bend.
The temperature did indeed start dropping as I climbed, not radically but just noticeable.
The road just kept climbing with switch backs sometimes only just above each other. As altitude increased, the land became a bit more hospitable.
Stopping at one little tienda, the lady said she had 3 hectares with water and 2 without, water is so important, luckily there is an abundance of it here. Lower down it was dry though up further spring fed water was flowing in roadside drains, having been directed by houses on its journey to the Marañon.
By now, I was stripped down to my boxer shorts, peak hat and tee shirt. In the lowest gear, one revolution moves the bike about 1.5m, based on that, todays ride required 26,000 revolutions of the crank. The freer my upper legs were the better.
The locals never batted an eyelid.
Lunch was had at one bend in the road, chatting with a family. They were shucking corn in their house, a one room affair with beds and all belongings in close quarters.
From here, the road could be seen traversing to the top of the mountain. These traverses were almost running level across the face, it was that steep.
These roads, though they take one into mountains, all credit goes to the road builders, the gradients are easy riding. It is just the sheer scale of the terrain they traverse that is so daunting. What might be 300m vertical translates to 4 or 5k of traverses sometimes only 100 ft above each other.
At the bottom of the last big traverse of the day, some people offered me a lift in their Hilux.
Incidentally, almost all new vehicles here are dual cab Hiluxs.
Of course I declined. This scenario defines the difference between long distance cyclists and people who offer help and goodwill when offering a lift.
They see only hardship on the road ahead, using such transport. For me accepting such an offer, would, firstly, lessen the rewards gained from the scenery and the ascent, and secondly, after one lift has been accepted every time difficulties arose this would become the norm.
Their gestures of course are always welcome, one day when things might not be as they should be, a lift might be accepted as was on the road to Cajas national park in Ecuador..
The satisfaction, enjoyment and knowledge that these passages are made unassisted is really the essence of this mode of transport.
Though I do find, having a spiritual realm accompanying me, is such a great help. For reasons unknown, a chance encounter with a native American on the shores of Lake Winnibigoshish in Northern Minnesota has helped give me a strength both mentally and physically to find great enjoyment coupled with immense satisfaction during this southern passage to date.
His exact words were, "Don't let this touch the ground and it will look after you". Not, it will bring you good luck.
This road, at times, was so narrow I had to pull over to let the many construction trucks pass. There were sheer drop offs on the low side, the only thing that would stop your fall would be the road below in many cases.
Riding on the inside of the road offered some psychological comfort, at such low speeds keeping a straight line at times was hard.
On commencing riding after a stop, I always directed the bike towards the inside of the road, it is always wobbly initially with a load, especially with the extra water now carried.
Halfway up, time was getting on, a bunch of workers were assembling corrugated culverts on one bend. We all had a good chat, typical stuff, where was I from etc. They work 6 days a week. They had these assembled culverts chocked and lying on the side of the road. If one went over the side, the consequences would be quite bizarre and bloody lethal.
At the bend above the crew, was a house and a bit of a knoll with some half flat land. I asked the owner if I could camp there. He said fine, offering me use of water from his outdoor tap.
My campsite had views that fitted the days efforts. They reached east to the range I had come down on the way to Balsas ánd north. Both vistas contained nothing but the Andes.
Down below twinkled the few lights of Limon.
A cup of coffee was enjoyed on my stool near the drop off, just coming to terms with the vastitude of all before me.
Looking east, across the Marañon Canyon, further than the distant ranges would allow was Corres de Culla-Culla and a small desolate shelter. In some ways it was hard to believe almost 60kg of gear had been bought by bicycle to this point.
Contemplating all this, it was easy to see the reason why this had been done. The slightly sweetened coffee was ever so nice...............
D39, T5.29, 9, Av7.18, Max 31 Tot 13784 , 3718
Climbing the whole way, perfect temps though cool near the end of the day.
Leaving early, before the heat would be felt, a typical desert type day was experienced, that of a cool morning, though knowing the temperature would rapidly climb.
I knew to, that I would be climbing out of this “hell hole”, probably a bit harsher a description with due respect to the residents.
The river was marvelled at mid way across the bridge, some locals took some photos for me.
The road was gravel of course, but with such fine dust, there were piles of this talcum powder on the outside of every bend.
The temperature did indeed start dropping as I climbed, not radically but just noticeable.
The road just kept climbing with switch backs sometimes only just above each other. As altitude increased, the land became a bit more hospitable.
Stopping at one little tienda, the lady said she had 3 hectares with water and 2 without, water is so important, luckily there is an abundance of it here. Lower down it was dry though up further spring fed water was flowing in roadside drains, having been directed by houses on its journey to the Marañon.
By now, I was stripped down to my boxer shorts, peak hat and tee shirt. In the lowest gear, one revolution moves the bike about 1.5m, based on that, todays ride required 26,000 revolutions of the crank. The freer my upper legs were the better.
The locals never batted an eyelid.
Lunch was had at one bend in the road, chatting with a family. They were shucking corn in their house, a one room affair with beds and all belongings in close quarters.
From here, the road could be seen traversing to the top of the mountain. These traverses were almost running level across the face, it was that steep.
These roads, though they take one into mountains, all credit goes to the road builders, the gradients are easy riding. It is just the sheer scale of the terrain they traverse that is so daunting. What might be 300m vertical translates to 4 or 5k of traverses sometimes only 100 ft above each other.
At the bottom of the last big traverse of the day, some people offered me a lift in their Hilux.
Incidentally, almost all new vehicles here are dual cab Hiluxs.
Of course I declined. This scenario defines the difference between long distance cyclists and people who offer help and goodwill when offering a lift.
They see only hardship on the road ahead, using such transport. For me accepting such an offer, would, firstly, lessen the rewards gained from the scenery and the ascent, and secondly, after one lift has been accepted every time difficulties arose this would become the norm.
Their gestures of course are always welcome, one day when things might not be as they should be, a lift might be accepted as was on the road to Cajas national park in Ecuador..
The satisfaction, enjoyment and knowledge that these passages are made unassisted is really the essence of this mode of transport.
Though I do find, having a spiritual realm accompanying me, is such a great help. For reasons unknown, a chance encounter with a native American on the shores of Lake Winnibigoshish in Northern Minnesota has helped give me a strength both mentally and physically to find great enjoyment coupled with immense satisfaction during this southern passage to date.
His exact words were, "Don't let this touch the ground and it will look after you". Not, it will bring you good luck.
This road, at times, was so narrow I had to pull over to let the many construction trucks pass. There were sheer drop offs on the low side, the only thing that would stop your fall would be the road below in many cases.
Riding on the inside of the road offered some psychological comfort, at such low speeds keeping a straight line at times was hard.
On commencing riding after a stop, I always directed the bike towards the inside of the road, it is always wobbly initially with a load, especially with the extra water now carried.
Halfway up, time was getting on, a bunch of workers were assembling corrugated culverts on one bend. We all had a good chat, typical stuff, where was I from etc. They work 6 days a week. They had these assembled culverts chocked and lying on the side of the road. If one went over the side, the consequences would be quite bizarre and bloody lethal.
At the bend above the crew, was a house and a bit of a knoll with some half flat land. I asked the owner if I could camp there. He said fine, offering me use of water from his outdoor tap.
My campsite had views that fitted the days efforts. They reached east to the range I had come down on the way to Balsas ánd north. Both vistas contained nothing but the Andes.
Down below twinkled the few lights of Limon.
A cup of coffee was enjoyed on my stool near the drop off, just coming to terms with the vastitude of all before me.
Looking east, across the Marañon Canyon, further than the distant ranges would allow was Corres de Culla-Culla and a small desolate shelter. In some ways it was hard to believe almost 60kg of gear had been bought by bicycle to this point.
Contemplating all this, it was easy to see the reason why this had been done. The slightly sweetened coffee was ever so nice...............
The main drag, Balsas or should I say "dog"
Classic scenery, road in the background.
Limon valley and the "tapeworm".
Keeping left, was the best bet.
Camp, the chooks loved my bread.
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The swing bridge over the Marañon river, flowing towards you.
"Ditto", minus the road.
Free and easy in the groin department, the leather Brooks saddle allows this kind attire.
Many people travel the road in this manner.
Limon valley below my camp.
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