Sacred Rides in Bike Magazine: Peru

YOU’D THINK I’D BE USED TO IT BY NOW. In every corner of my periphery, I catch a fl ash of eyes, feel the stares bore into my back and sense each whisper in a foreign tongue. I’d told myself I’d grown accustomed to these feelings of alienation and awkwardness. It had, after all, been like this for the better part of a week.

This time, however, there was something differ-ent in the way they watched my every move. Sure, the inquisitiveness was still abundantly clear, and the hushed conversations still equally impenetrable to my monolingual ear, but the general aura of the whole situation seemed to have taken on a warmer, friendlier tone—almost as if they wanted us to be there. If this all seems a bit cryptic, perhaps this is the point where I should rewind a bit.

NOT EASY BEING GREENI’ve always had a problem with mountain biking. There, I said it. Don’t get me wrong—two knob-bied wheels have been a joyful constant in my life since a very early age. But the idea that our sport is green and environmentally conscious has never really sat well with me. I’m generalizing and, of course, very much include myself in these criti-cisms, but we mountain bikers really don’t seem to conform to eco-friendly norms in any signifi -cant way. Most riders I know will happily drive miles to trailheads, be them local or far-fl ung, and the majority of us won’t bat an eyelid at the idea of jetting across the globe in search of new geog-raphies on which to lay down fresh rubber.

Even putting aside concerns about the environ-mental impact of our activities, I’ve always been aware of how selfi sh an endeavor riding in a new

Bringing some balance to foreign singletrack sojourns

Words & photography by Dan Barham

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location can be. Unless you’re already familiar with the scene in your selected area, a trip normally fol-lows the same pattern: Travel to someone else’s soil. Park in someone else’s parking lot. Ride someone else’s trails. Spend a token amount of money in someone else’s food joint, and maybe suck back a couple of beers before getting the hell out.

Seems like there’s a good deal of taking in the bargain and not much in the way of giving.

Overseas bike vacations are both of those con-cerns combined, turned up to 11 with the overdrive on full. Pumping tons of jet vapor into the atmo-sphere to shred foreign singletrack seems to be the antithesis of environmentally sensitive decisions. Now, having said all of the above, I won’t lie: When Mike Brcic of Sacred Rides fi rst contacted me about the trip he was running to Peru, my fi rst thoughts weren’t of the worldly impact of the travel, or how I could give back to the area, or even when we would leave. Instead, my mind was immediately fi lled with that most basic question every mountain biker asks of any new location: “What’s the riding like?”

The answer from Brcic was: nothing short of phenomenal.

MUD HUTS AND MERCEDESThe excursion Brcic put together starts in Peru’s contradictory capital city, Lima, where recognizable fast-food chains, adventure-clothing retailers and polished Mercedes sedans share the streets with decrepit rickshaws and crumbling architecture of a very separate heritage.

Just a few minutes from the bustling tourist mall and fi ve-star hotels is all it takes to reach the fi rst pedal of the week, past scenes of poverty visible only as brief glimpses from the window of a speed-ing bus. Shiny metal and mirrored glass gives way to brick and mortar, which in turn slowly transforms to corrugated sheet metal and mud huts by the time

BIKE BOULDERING: STRAHAN LOKEN DRILLS HIS WAY DOWN A QUARRY NEAR OLLEROS, CHASING THE ECHOES OF THE CHAIN GANG ON POSSIBLY THE BEST DOWNHILL IN THE WORLD. IF THIS REGION WAS MORE ACCESSIBLE, IT MIGHT BE THE MOST MANDA-TORY MOUNTAIN-BIKE DESTINATION ON EARTH.

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we reach the trailhead. As we unpack our bikes and slather on sunscreen, it suddenly becomes apparent that this corner of Peru is characterized by extremes: For every North American steak and rib restaurant there is a corresponding earth oven; for every towering mountain peak there’s the equal-yet-oppo-site river valley.

Thankfully for our as-yet-unadjusted lungs, our initial foray begins in the latter, following a path carved by fl oods, seem-ingly shaped by the best builders in the world. Mud and soil moved by massive snow melt have hardened in the warm summer weather, producing waves of perfect rhythm that stretch toward the sea, each corner naturally shaped over the course of months by the downward travel of water. Not even the deafening buzz of tire on natural cement can drown out the yelps of joy as we blast our way back to civilization in the afternoon sun. Pisco Sour, the unoffi cial staple drink of our time there, lubricates the evening into a fuzzy haze and we retire to our simple-yet-comfortable hotel rooms, each confi dent in our individual reasons for being there.

If you’d asked me at that point how our trip was going I’d have told you that it was as good as it gets—surely nothing beats great trails, unfamiliar landscapes, new people and strong booze. The truth is that this was purely a warm-up—the opening act to the masterpiece that lay ahead.

A DIAMOND IN THE ROUGHOlleros is a word that divides any group of well-traveled rid-ers neatly in two—those that don’t recognize the name and can only respond with a shrug, and those whose eyes cloud over and let out a knowing sigh, their heads tilting back in an attempt to recollect their own experiences of a ride I’m not ashamed to relate to you as one of the longest, most balls-out-fun downhill trails I’ve ever had the privilege of riding.

Olleros is a town that, placed alongside an easily traversed highway in North America, would quickly eclipse Whistler,

SHIVER ME TIMBERS: WAYO STEIN AND TJ NEAULT PUT THE WOOD TO THEIR RIDING MATES NEAR CUSCO. BELOW: WHERE PERUVIAN WHEELS WAIT BETWEEN ONE LIFE AND THE NEXT.

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Moab or any other town you cared to mention as epicen-ters of bike culture. Thousands would fl ock every week from all over world. It’d become as much of a rite of pas-sage for a “true” mountain biker as the Slickrock trail or A-Line. Internet forums would be ablaze. As it happens, the start of Possibly the Best Downhill in the World sits at a dizzying altitude of eleven-thousand feet above sea level, guarded from all but the most determined travelers by three hours of unrelenting mountain-road switchbacks, bordered on both sides by certain-death drops.

To describe our 30-mile descent in detail would be a pursuit as unnecessary as it is futile—there’s simply too much to recall. What starts as cactus-lined rock chutes blends seamlessly into fl owing ribbons of fi nely dusted paths of pure speed, spiked shrubbery blurring into tunnel-vision insignifi cance as the eye focuses farther and farther in front.

Only a brief stop in a remote elementary school, mainly for purpose of pulling wheelies in front of delighted chil-dren, punctuates the sheer single-mindedness of the downhill; a continuous streak toward the distant cloud-fi lled valley that signaled the presence of the coast, our eventual destination.

THE RED BARON BOMBS HIS WAY DOWN THE RIVER VALLEY NEAROLLANTAYTAMBO. INSET: A DOG’S LIFE AT THE LOCAL CHICKEN JOINT.

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With every passing second the air grows thicker, mirrored by a deepen-ing sand that turns even the most trivial corner into a two-wheel-drifting affair. Normally I’d extol the virtues of a per-fectly-executed plough through the soft, golden grains of earth, but the com-pound effect of relentless concentration, crippling brake-pumped forearms and omnipresent boulders littering every potential crash zone make for a nerve-wracking experience. Several riders suc-cumb to the silent guardians of the trail boundary, their hesitation in correcting a wayward slide punished by hard knocks and scrapes, their fresh tracks serving as warnings to those that follow.

It’s a good few hours until we reach the lapping shores of the Pacifi c Ocean once again, but not before we also duck barbed wire and sneak through bullet-riddled fences, negotiating full-speed Star Wars-style trench runs through dried riverbeds. There’s a soothing fi nality to a ride that starts at

CLOCKWISE FROM TOP: THE LENGTHS BRETT WOOTTON WILL STOOP TO FOR PRIME PERU-VIAN SINGLETRACK; EYEING UP THE GRINGOS; INDIGENOUS OUTLOOK; COLONIAL FACADE; THE LONG CLIMB BACK TO THE VILLAGE.

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the peaks of mountains and ends where the land concedes to the sea—no farther to go, no possible way it could’ve been longer. It’s a fi tting end to an incredible day, and one I have no doubt will live with me for a very long time.

PASTY GRINGOS & GLARESWhile a ride this epic (and I use that term with none of the irony or exaggeration that normally accom-panies this word) is all well and good, it wasn’t until we journeyed deeper into the heart of Peru that we fi nally had a chance to see the real country and the people who inhabit it. It was here, in the iso-lated heights of the Andes, that we fi rst encountered the glares.

It’s understandable, really. The ancient Incan mountain town of Ollantaytambo is no stranger to foreign travelers, being a major stop on the trail to the modern wonder of the world that is Machu Picchu. Wizened locals rub shoul-ders with hemp-panted, greasy dreadlocked serial travelers and camera-happy, fanny-packed day-trippers; the sight of sunblock-cov-ered skin is as much a part of the village as the earth-bricked shacks and gaudy tourist merchandise.

Just minutes away from the town however, it’s a completely contrast-ing story: Visitors seldom tread in the villages of the surrounding hills, and a traditional way of life fl ourishes, unimpeded by the in-quisitive gringos who temporarily dwell below. Centuries-old dress, farming methods and buildings are all here with no hint of artifi cial preservation, so it’s to be expected that the sight of a half-dozen, pasty-white Canadians on various top-of-the-line mountain bikes would elicit the odd glance or two.

The alien echo of synchronized click-click-clicking freehub pawls snaps heads around and consistently

PLANTATION NATION: STRAHAN LOKEN TAKES TERRACE FARMING TO THE NEXT LEVEL. LEFT: PRIM AND PUCKER—WOULD YOU LIKE TO KISS MY LLAMA?

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brings eyes to doorways and windows. Gazes lock and track our every move. At fi rst, each stare seems to carry a threat, forcing my grip on the bars to tighten and my view into an unwavering fi x on the horizon. It takes a couple of unplanned halts—one for a pinched tube, the other for a lost guide—to realize such feelings are, for the most part, the outcome of my city-based upbringing. It’s the school of thought which teaches that every errant glare is an indication of imminent danger.

There’s still an air of suspicion and trepidation on both sides, but no ap-parent malice from the older people we meet. The kids, on the other hand, throw caution to the wind, crowding around each of us with excited en-ergy, the longing gapes at our bikes a universal language we all remem-ber from years past. Stepping off and gingerly passing my only form of transport in that remote region to the nearest extended hand, it’s deeply satisfying to watch the fl ock of exhilarated children swarm around the one bravest enough to risk contact. They whoop and holler in a manner I can only presume I would mimic, were a handful of astronauts to roll into my town with personal space shuttles and offer to let me take one for a spin. It’s a cycle that repeats itself in every hamlet we pass through.

KARMIC BALANCING ACTSoon I become aware that things are falling into a very familiar pattern. Like Crusaders from a bygone era, we arrive, plunder the trails, and

PISCO SOUR TIME: TJ NEAULT AND MEGAN MACADAM DE-SCEND INTO CUSCO. ABOVE: RUNNING OUT OF STEAM.

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leave without any manner of repara-tions. That is, at least, until we happen across the tiny commune of Patacan-cha, half-way point on a rocky single-track descent that begins at a breath-less 14,000 feet and ends back in the main town square of Ollantaytambo.

The men have long since deserted Patacancha in search of lucrative tourism dollars. Now this tiny col-lection of houses serves as home to a handful of women and children left to fend for themselves—and who happen to be the main focus of charity collective Awamaki. This group of volunteers works with the inhabitants of Patacancha, fostering a fair-trade market for the intricately woven items made possible by the patience, practice and talent passed down through countless generations. It’s here that we’re fi nally given the chance to pay our dues, return some goodwill and redress the karmic bal-ance of our journey.

Sacred Rides doesn’t run things like your average tour company. In the weeks leading up to our depar-ture, we’d been encouraged to raise donations to support the Awamaki cause, to pair with a similar donation taken from the cost of our tour. The key benefi t, however—the way we could actually make a tangible dif-ference—is that we’d actually get to visit and provide support in person. Making a donation is one thing, but helping out with your very own hands is something altogether different.

So there we were, six eager moun-tain bikers surrounded by the stares of twenty weavers, working to churn mud, straw and water into the crude spackling that covers the side of each shelter. We slap the mixture onto each wall with rapidly cooling fi ngers. It takes several applications before the adobe is smoothed into its fi nal shell, ready for the baking sun to fi nish the process. It’s a new experience for us.

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SQUEEZE PLAY: STRAHAN LOKEN SLIPS BETWEEN

THE CRACKS NEAR CUSCO.

RIGHT: VENDORS FLOG THE FRUITS OF THEIR LABOR.

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Are we even doing this right? Throughout the process, our work is accompanied by an incom-prehensible but friendly commentary from our onlookers.

The day fi nishes with a slap-up meal, and while we know there is much more work to be done here, it is amazing to note how just a few hours of manual labor over the course of a 10-day riding trip has helped us feel as if we made a meaningful change, however small, to the area’s standard of living. A warm glow fi lls my head as we pedal back down to our hotel in the cool evening air.

A couple of days later, on the fl ight home, I can’t help but refl ect on the feelings that fol-lowed the simple act of plastering an adobe wall. Did we forge world peace or end global hunger? Hardly. But for once in my mountain-biking life, I feel like there’s been some give to accompany the take. Maybe it’s a model I can extend to all my rides and journeys. Maybe next time I’m on an unfamiliar trail, I’ll fi x the drain that’s blocked or the berm that’s blown-out. Maybe I can travel to nearby areas and attend trailwork days or put some time back into the tracks I’ve taken so much from over the years. I can’t even begin to tell you how much those trails have given me.

CLOCKWISE FROM TOP: GET A CLOSE-UP VIEW

OF MACHU PICCHU AND YOU’LL SEE THAT THE

ANCIENT INCAS HAD IT ALL FIGURED OUT; LOAD ‘EM UP; GETTING DOWN

AND DIRTY; SETTING THE SAG; INDIGENOUS

HAUTE COUTURE.

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Sacred Rides in Bike Magazine: Peru

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Transcript of Sacred Rides in Bike Magazine: Peru