Missed Part one? Read it here...
Later, riding alone I find a small restaurant. Poking my nose in, I soon have some older ladies laughing and am reminded that a sense of humor is something we all share. Leaving, the road climbs out of the semi-arid desert into a lush, fertile valley. Mountainsides blanketed in thick green grass and peppered with small yellow flowers fill my lens as far as I can see, and catching the others we stop to admire the view.
By now we are used to the kick starting procedure, and covered in a layer of Peruvian dust are looking and feeling like a cohesive team. With our last member, Brandon McDearis, earning his crust as a nutritional chef, we find our camel backs full of treated water flavored with energy tablets daily. The pockets are filled with high-energy trail mix, and this is supplemented with power bars. We have also found some cocoa leaves in a roadside café to complement the altitude sickness pills, but a few hours later this doesn’t prove to be enough.
Climbing onto the Altiplano around 14,0000 ft we are doing fine. Riding as if on a vast table top with distant snow capped mountains on the horizon, there are no visual clues we are up so high. There are lakes with surfaces calm as Millponds, so deep and blue they appear as if colored from a mix on an artist’s palate. In the saddle of the XR the sun warms my bones even though the wind is fresh. The big single is less out of breath than I, and she’s still pulling strongly with smaller main jets in place. We have picked the town of 
Wrong. Minutes later we come to a screeching halt at some road works. With traffic on both sides lined up waiting to pass we pull over to wait. The lack of oxygen soon starts to tell and Brad gets hit hard. As the hours tick slowly by, we lay slumped against the truck gazing out at the massive landscape. Surreal in its beauty, it’s like sitting in a fish eye lens as I gaze at the massive horizon. Short, round, Quechuan women, who speak a little Spanish, sell stale out of date chips, cookies, and soda from wheelbarrows.
Existing now in a foggy, dream world, I move Christie and me to the front of the line as engines starting signal it’s time to go. The smell of diesel burning without oxygen is threatening my lunch with a revisit, as I somehow find the energy to kick-start both bikes. Hauling my lead carcass into the saddle, I ride off slumped behind the handlebars like a wet dishrag. Slowly the road begins to fall, and we drop into a tree-lined valley next to a river. Praising these wonderful trees for the gift of oxygen I realize we won’t make Abencay, so Flavio and I scan the map for a place to stay. We find the small one horse town of
Waking to the sound of chickens, donkeys, and life being lived on the only street in town, we breakfast and saddle up in a clear, cool morning. “Soon we won’t wake up in some strange, dusty little town in the mountains, load up our dirty old bikes that have sat outside like faithful horses and ride off into a totally new landscape.” NB Diary ’95. The road out of town passes small shops and street vendors, before following a vibrant river, and abundant vegetation to our right, steep mountainsides lit by the sun’s early light to the left. Thumping along at 50 mph with David on point, there’s a magic in the air that’s impossible to describe. Flavio and the rest of the gang are somewhere behind, and our only job is to hold the throttle open and enjoy.
Reaching Abencay, we are around 7,500ft and running well in the more oxygen rich environment. There is little I recognize, and my old snap shot memory is as faded as any I’ve had on this trip. Now a sprawling, modern town, I have one distinct place I need to find. We gas up, and on slick, smooth tarmac start the serpentine climb on the Via de los Libertadore heading for
Check back next week for more adventures in
