Sacred Rides in Bike Magazine: Peru

Bringing some balance
to foreign singletrack sojourns

YOU’D THINK I’D BE USED TO IT BY NOW.
In every corner of my periphery, I catch a flash 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 GREEN
I’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-flung, 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 selfish an endeavor riding in a new

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 first contacted me about
the trip he was running to Peru, my first 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 filled 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 MERCEDES
The 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 five-star hotels is all it takes to reach the first
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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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.

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 floods, 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 unofficial staple drink of
our time there, lubricates the evening into a fuzzy haze and
we retire to our simple-yet-comfortable hotel rooms, each
confident 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 ROUGH
Olleros 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,

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066
067

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Moab or any other town you cared to mention as epicen-
ters of bike culture. Thousands would flock 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 flowing ribbons of finely dusted
paths of pure speed, spiked shrubbery blurring into
tunnel-vision insignificance 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-
filled valley that signaled the presence of the coast, our
eventual destination.

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

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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.

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-

068
68 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 Paciﬁc 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 ﬁnality to a ride that starts at

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

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
fitting end to an incredible day, and
one I have no doubt will live with
me for a very long time.

PASTY GRINGOS & GLARES
While 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 finally 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
first 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.

070
70 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
flourishes, unimpeded by the in-
quisitive gringos who temporarily
dwell below. Centuries-old dress,
farming methods and buildings
are all here with no hint of artificial
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

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brings eyes to doorways and windows. Gazes lock and track our every
move. At first, each stare seems to carry a threat, forcing my grip on the
bars to tighten and my view into an unwavering fix 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 flock 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 ACT
Soon 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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SQUEEZE PLAY:
STRAHAN LOKEN
SLIPS BETWEEN
THE CRACKS
NEAR CUSCO.
RIGHT: VENDORS
FLOG THE FRUITS
OF THEIR LABOR.

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 finally 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
074 key benefit, 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 fingers. It
takes several applications before the
adobe is smoothed into its final shell,
ready for the baking sun to finish the
process. It’s a new experience for us.

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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.

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 finishes 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
076
76 area’s standard of living. A warm glow fills my
head as we pedal back down to our hotel in the
cool evening air.
A couple of days later, on the flight home, I
can’t help but reflect 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 fix 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.

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Sacred Rides in Bike Magazine: Peru

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Sacred Rides in Bike Magazine: Peru