![]() ![]() I don’t even want to think about that scenario. I am so thankful that my wheel went right and not left, which would have sent me toward the cliff’s edge. I get little snippets of the impact, freeze-framed shots of being in the air, of hitting my face, and then of sitting up, stunned, as the cyclists behind raced up to see if I was OK. That doesn’t seem that fast, of course, but I crashed face-first onto a road comprised solely of gravel, pebbles, and stones. Because of my biking experience, I knew not to brake (which would fling me over the handlebars) but I still ended up crashing to the ground at a speed of about 30 kilometres an hour. All I can assume is that I went over one of these rocks the wrong way, and my tire twisted to the right. It was raining, and the road was wet the big rocks were now slick with water. I have replayed the incident over and over again in my head, but it never gets any clearer. With those odds, it couldn’t possibly be me, right? Out of the 100-odd people who cycle Death Road every day, one has an accident resulting in injury. But one often feels invincible when faced with adventure. By now it was raining heavily, and the fog made it so that we could only see about five metres into the distance. We stopped for a quick sandwich and got back in the van to drive to the real road, the start of the unpaved bit. The first part was fun, despite the trucks. What was I to do, though? I had already paid in full, I was at the start of the road, and I considered myself a fairly experienced mountain biker. I looked around at the other groups preparing to cycle I had paid more, and yet there they were, full-face helmets, full-body uniforms, and given both knee-pads and wrist-guards. He also informed us that we would not have wrist guards or uniforms, just an orange vest. Trusting him, and yet not listening to my gut, I took a regular bike helmet. As it was raining, he said that visibility would be low. I had assumed that we would be given a full-face helmet as the pamphlet showed, but my guide told us that we would definitely regret that choice, as it was difficult to breathe in these helmets, and we would get very hot (though he did have a few in the van). I say relatively because this part was at least paved, although huge trucks were still whizzing by us, and there were plenty of times where injury and accident could occur. Right away I felt uneasy when we were given our helmets we had driven for about an hour outside of La Paz, and had a long stretch of relatively safe cycling to start. Besides, my guide claimed, “Every accident is the fault of the cyclist.” People died when they tried to take photos while cycling, or by acting irresponsibly. 19 people have died cycling on that road, but for the thousands of people who successfully manage every year, I thought that number was quite low. Death Road was just another thing to try I actually didn’t give it much thought. I love adventure I’ll scuba dive and bungee jump and like to think that I’ll try anything once. And yet, here I was, being fitted for my kneepads and helmet. There are no guardrails, and the road is often the width of one lane. The section nicknamed Death Road is a 69-kilometre (43-mile) mostly-downhill stretch of harrowing turns and 600-metre (1830-foot) drops. Built in the 1930s, it connects La Paz with the Amazon rainforest in the north. Our guide was a young Canadian, and he had been doing the tours of Death Road for a month.ĭeath Road (formal name: the North Yungas Road) is almost a rite of passage for backpackers in South America thousands of tourists cycle the dangerous road every year. There were six of us in all: me, an older Australian man and his wife (who would not be cycling), a lovely Irish couple I had also gone to Machu Picchu with, and a horribly obnoxious American I had met at Lake Titicaca. The day started at a cafe in La Paz, where I met my guide and my fellow cyclists. ![]() ![]() “Have you ever stitched a human face before?” “Have you…” I struggled to find the right words I didn’t want to offend her or seem impolite. My clothes were still covered in mud, and everything hurt. ![]() “I can stitch up your chin if you want,” the young woman told me as she pressed yet another alcohol-soaked cloth onto my bleeding face. ![]()
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