It's midnight and we're speeding through arched tunnels suspended twenty metres above the Santiago streets.
There's around ten of us, and we're on mountain bikes, heading for Cerro San Cristobal. It's closed and we all know. The walkway connects to the back of the hill, and we stop for a break after having run the gauntlet of downtown Santiago traffic - skipping red lights, hopping pavements and weaving through queuing cars. Nearly all of us without lights.
"Everyone's lights off?" O'car asks in a hushed voice, and we set off for the top. Breathing, tyre friction, cranks and gears being the only sounds after that. The back side of the hill is unlit, which helps us avoid detection, but the moon-cast shadows of the trees are playing tricks with my eyes and I'm concentrating hard while O'car sets a challenging pace making my thighs burn.
Rabbits and dogs cross our paths, and every now and then the trees give way to a spectacular view of the night-lit city as the road meanders and climbs. We've split into a few smaller groups now and I hear the roar of an engine behind - I look back to see a Guardaparca camioneta lurching round a bend, flicking on their full beam to blind me as they see us.
We spread across the road to block them, but they swerve between us dangerously, forcing me out into the barrier at the perilous edge. O'car and I stop to see what they do, while Tom's friend keeps his pace up, ignoring them. They fly past him and skid sketchily in front of him at ninety degrees. He casually turns around the truck as they get out to scold him, enraging them further.
O'car and I are laughing at the spectacle, until they go straight into reverse, and are soon at top revs the engine screaming and bonnet twitching side to side as they try and keep straight while bearing down (up?) on the vulnerable cyclist.
As soon as we saw that they didn't hit him, O'car and I head back down the hill - he has a plan. We pass Kev and Daniel, shouting to follow us. Then Tom, his girlfriend and a couple of his friends, but they have their own plan and carry on up.
We fly down the hill, and at a right-left bend quickly double back on ourselves, to go uphill along an unmarked track. We wait, spying on the road through some bushes. A few minutes later Toms friend comes, absolutely flying down the hill, and after a glance over his shoulder to see if the Guardaparcas are in sight skids up the same track to find us all laughing in the bushes.
The camioneta tore down the hill at ridiculous speed, straight past us and we agree to a small rest while they tire themselves out.
Five minutes later the camioneta roars up the track, as if it had smelt us out like a bloodhound, kicking up stones as it skids to a stop. We wave goodbye and pedal past the fuming guards while they're trying to chastise us, and hope that we've at least stalled them for long enough for some of the group to get over the top and down the other side.
On the way down the speed built and built until the wind was pushing the liquid from the corners of my eyes and I couldn't think fast enough to process where the edges of the road were in the darkness. I smiled as I gently squeezed the brake and thought how boring a night the Guardaparca would have had without us.
Sailing through town O'car was calling people to find out who'd been caught and if anyone had made it, and it was agreed to meet at Tom's place for a de-brief. After a quick stop at a botilleria.
Sat in Tom's quirky house drinking beers with a crackly old L.P. playing while he showed us his seventies sushi roller, which is next to a pair of old leather binoculars and a book called "La ultima palabra en lo Oculto" on the shelf, we drank a few beers and laughed about the looks on the guards faces, and wondered how deeply they believed in what they did for a living.
There's around ten of us, and we're on mountain bikes, heading for Cerro San Cristobal. It's closed and we all know. The walkway connects to the back of the hill, and we stop for a break after having run the gauntlet of downtown Santiago traffic - skipping red lights, hopping pavements and weaving through queuing cars. Nearly all of us without lights.
"Everyone's lights off?" O'car asks in a hushed voice, and we set off for the top. Breathing, tyre friction, cranks and gears being the only sounds after that. The back side of the hill is unlit, which helps us avoid detection, but the moon-cast shadows of the trees are playing tricks with my eyes and I'm concentrating hard while O'car sets a challenging pace making my thighs burn.
Rabbits and dogs cross our paths, and every now and then the trees give way to a spectacular view of the night-lit city as the road meanders and climbs. We've split into a few smaller groups now and I hear the roar of an engine behind - I look back to see a Guardaparca camioneta lurching round a bend, flicking on their full beam to blind me as they see us.
We spread across the road to block them, but they swerve between us dangerously, forcing me out into the barrier at the perilous edge. O'car and I stop to see what they do, while Tom's friend keeps his pace up, ignoring them. They fly past him and skid sketchily in front of him at ninety degrees. He casually turns around the truck as they get out to scold him, enraging them further.
O'car and I are laughing at the spectacle, until they go straight into reverse, and are soon at top revs the engine screaming and bonnet twitching side to side as they try and keep straight while bearing down (up?) on the vulnerable cyclist.
As soon as we saw that they didn't hit him, O'car and I head back down the hill - he has a plan. We pass Kev and Daniel, shouting to follow us. Then Tom, his girlfriend and a couple of his friends, but they have their own plan and carry on up.
We fly down the hill, and at a right-left bend quickly double back on ourselves, to go uphill along an unmarked track. We wait, spying on the road through some bushes. A few minutes later Toms friend comes, absolutely flying down the hill, and after a glance over his shoulder to see if the Guardaparcas are in sight skids up the same track to find us all laughing in the bushes.
The camioneta tore down the hill at ridiculous speed, straight past us and we agree to a small rest while they tire themselves out.
Five minutes later the camioneta roars up the track, as if it had smelt us out like a bloodhound, kicking up stones as it skids to a stop. We wave goodbye and pedal past the fuming guards while they're trying to chastise us, and hope that we've at least stalled them for long enough for some of the group to get over the top and down the other side.
On the way down the speed built and built until the wind was pushing the liquid from the corners of my eyes and I couldn't think fast enough to process where the edges of the road were in the darkness. I smiled as I gently squeezed the brake and thought how boring a night the Guardaparca would have had without us.
Sailing through town O'car was calling people to find out who'd been caught and if anyone had made it, and it was agreed to meet at Tom's place for a de-brief. After a quick stop at a botilleria.
Sat in Tom's quirky house drinking beers with a crackly old L.P. playing while he showed us his seventies sushi roller, which is next to a pair of old leather binoculars and a book called "La ultima palabra en lo Oculto" on the shelf, we drank a few beers and laughed about the looks on the guards faces, and wondered how deeply they believed in what they did for a living.
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