There weren't any signs. It could have been either way at the fork.
I've been riding without a map for a month now. I've been using my seemingly-infinite faith in humanity to guide me through. My logic follows thus: A map can easily be out of date, but local knowledge is likely to be up-to-date. I've quickly found which people are likely to know more than others. But am still surprised often.
Taxi drivers know less than you might think. Police and Army are always a good bet. Bus drivers aren't likely to give you the time of day. Whatever information you glean, every single time distance and time are subjective. Very subjective. Whoever you ask will at least pretend to know the way, or agree with the first suggestion, so averaging large samples is the only way towards any semblance of accuracy, but some days the available sample is one lone boy...
"Was that a house?" I thought to myself, "Or just another seemingly abandoned hut in the middle of nowhere?" This thought process was after I'd already gone left, using only the force to help decide.
I'm going up a winding, rocky track in the Peruvian Andes - you could say off the beaten track, but I'm not sure that would do it justice. Maybe my decision-making skills are off today, back on the asphalt road the restaurant owner hadn't let me leave without three healthy samples of his sugar cane liquor, and beer was cheaper than a soft drink. Not quite the snack I'd imagined, but it left me confident for the day ahead.
I look back over my shoulder for a second to assess the building I'd passed, as I came to the conclusion that rational thinking might, for once, trump Star Wars mysticism. I was wrong, but who was to know at the time.
While I'm looking back the rear of the moto drifts out a touch too far. I face forward and in a flash am up on the pegs, leaning my body into the drift in a desperate attempt to catch my momentum. I over-correct and as the back wheel slides out the other way it grips suddenly and she pivots, throwing me off and over her, up the slope we're climbing into the dusty rocks.
It's called a highside. It's the cause of a lot of broken collarbones in track racing. I'm not on a track though, and luckily am only going fast enough to get dirty, stretched and bruised. I lay on my back, laughing to the sky. In a moment I realise it's not funny at all if my moto is damaged out here, and I jump up to assess her. She's not meant for crashing. Off-road moto's have folding foot pegs, protected hand levers, and guarded oil sumps. Mine has friendly looks, great fuel economy and a quiet exhaust.
She's laid on her right hand side. A good sign - it's much more possible to ride without brakes (which are all on that side) than gears (which are all on the other). Hope.
The lever and mirror twisted around the handlebars instead of breaking. Just as I'd intended when I loosened and loctited the bolts before crossing the border into Bolivia a month before. Satisfaction.
The footpeg is mangled and no longer attached, but fits back on in a similar fashion in which it started. And in a heart-warming act of self sacrifice it somehow saved the brake pedal from damage too. Admiration.
The exhaust is attached, if a bit less pretty and the bendy indicator stems all bent as far as their dignity allowed them when it really mattered. Gratitude.
She crashed well. Pride.
I head back down to the fork in the track where the hut is and, absolutely nothing more is obvious. Ten minutes before I was willing to go wherever the wind carried me, but now I feel less sure. If I can at least know that whichever track I take goes somewhere I will follow it, but neither have more logic than the other.
Then I see a flash of something swinging around a bend in the distance of the as-yet untried track. I race down and find a teenage boy carrying a ladder, seemingly between nowhere and nowhere else.
Amazingly he doesn't know what village this track goes to, even though he's walking along it, but suggests I ask the taxi. I'm laughing as I begin to ask him what taxi he's talking about, having not seen a vehicle since I left the asphalt some hours before.
But as I do a white 4-wheel-drive Toyota estate taxi bounces slowly round a bend ahead and I hail it, laughing with the boy, who clearly knows how powerful an ally the force is. The driver clearly has no idea where the village I'm asking about is, and is in the process of making something up when one of the (five) ladies in the back seat explains it's up the track right of the hut. Where I'd just been and crashed.
My instincts were right at first, and I found my lack of faith disturbing.
Back on the fateful track and I'm glad I got my crash out of the way when I did. It only got rockier and more difficult. The gradient was getting steeper and I was standing up on the pegs, leaning over the handlebars to keep the front down over some of the bumps. I rode up into the clouds and whiled away my afternoon picking my way up the mountain, promising my moto a more comfortable life someday. For now I hope she's happy with the demanding life of adventure. I'm sure she'd let me know if it were any other way...
We emerge from the clouds - we're coming to the top of the mountain, the track becomes asphalt and the view across the cloud-carpeted valley is amazing with the sun setting under the clouds. We stop for a rest to marvel and while she cools the uncomfortably hot oil coursing through her aluminium veins, I stretch out my pulled arm muscles and can suddenly feel every part of my body that I landed on.
As it gets darker I know I will get a bit cold, and I may have to ride a few hours into the night to find a warm bed to stay in. This is nothing new or scary, I have my usual untroubled demeanour and I'm still feeling independent, free and privileged to be here. After all, it's all downhill from here.
I turn on my headlight to clean it. It's not working. In a marvellous physical act of irony I use the last rays of the evening sunlight failing to find the problem with the light.
The stars are out, but my good friend the moon isn't up yet. In my mind in the northern hemisphere while growing up the moon was always a man, The Man in the Moon. Here she's a lady, La Luna, which while a little confusing for me is quite comforting. She was full only two nights before, so I know when she gets here she'll be great at lighting my way.
For now I can barely see anything, but going downhill I turn the engine off and in the chilly wind it feels like I'm using all my senses to feel my way down the silent mountain.
I've been riding without a map for a month now. I've been using my seemingly-infinite faith in humanity to guide me through. My logic follows thus: A map can easily be out of date, but local knowledge is likely to be up-to-date. I've quickly found which people are likely to know more than others. But am still surprised often.
Taxi drivers know less than you might think. Police and Army are always a good bet. Bus drivers aren't likely to give you the time of day. Whatever information you glean, every single time distance and time are subjective. Very subjective. Whoever you ask will at least pretend to know the way, or agree with the first suggestion, so averaging large samples is the only way towards any semblance of accuracy, but some days the available sample is one lone boy...
"Was that a house?" I thought to myself, "Or just another seemingly abandoned hut in the middle of nowhere?" This thought process was after I'd already gone left, using only the force to help decide.
I'm going up a winding, rocky track in the Peruvian Andes - you could say off the beaten track, but I'm not sure that would do it justice. Maybe my decision-making skills are off today, back on the asphalt road the restaurant owner hadn't let me leave without three healthy samples of his sugar cane liquor, and beer was cheaper than a soft drink. Not quite the snack I'd imagined, but it left me confident for the day ahead.
I look back over my shoulder for a second to assess the building I'd passed, as I came to the conclusion that rational thinking might, for once, trump Star Wars mysticism. I was wrong, but who was to know at the time.
While I'm looking back the rear of the moto drifts out a touch too far. I face forward and in a flash am up on the pegs, leaning my body into the drift in a desperate attempt to catch my momentum. I over-correct and as the back wheel slides out the other way it grips suddenly and she pivots, throwing me off and over her, up the slope we're climbing into the dusty rocks.
It's called a highside. It's the cause of a lot of broken collarbones in track racing. I'm not on a track though, and luckily am only going fast enough to get dirty, stretched and bruised. I lay on my back, laughing to the sky. In a moment I realise it's not funny at all if my moto is damaged out here, and I jump up to assess her. She's not meant for crashing. Off-road moto's have folding foot pegs, protected hand levers, and guarded oil sumps. Mine has friendly looks, great fuel economy and a quiet exhaust.
She's laid on her right hand side. A good sign - it's much more possible to ride without brakes (which are all on that side) than gears (which are all on the other). Hope.
The lever and mirror twisted around the handlebars instead of breaking. Just as I'd intended when I loosened and loctited the bolts before crossing the border into Bolivia a month before. Satisfaction.
The footpeg is mangled and no longer attached, but fits back on in a similar fashion in which it started. And in a heart-warming act of self sacrifice it somehow saved the brake pedal from damage too. Admiration.
The exhaust is attached, if a bit less pretty and the bendy indicator stems all bent as far as their dignity allowed them when it really mattered. Gratitude.
She crashed well. Pride.
I head back down to the fork in the track where the hut is and, absolutely nothing more is obvious. Ten minutes before I was willing to go wherever the wind carried me, but now I feel less sure. If I can at least know that whichever track I take goes somewhere I will follow it, but neither have more logic than the other.
Then I see a flash of something swinging around a bend in the distance of the as-yet untried track. I race down and find a teenage boy carrying a ladder, seemingly between nowhere and nowhere else.
Amazingly he doesn't know what village this track goes to, even though he's walking along it, but suggests I ask the taxi. I'm laughing as I begin to ask him what taxi he's talking about, having not seen a vehicle since I left the asphalt some hours before.
But as I do a white 4-wheel-drive Toyota estate taxi bounces slowly round a bend ahead and I hail it, laughing with the boy, who clearly knows how powerful an ally the force is. The driver clearly has no idea where the village I'm asking about is, and is in the process of making something up when one of the (five) ladies in the back seat explains it's up the track right of the hut. Where I'd just been and crashed.
My instincts were right at first, and I found my lack of faith disturbing.
Back on the fateful track and I'm glad I got my crash out of the way when I did. It only got rockier and more difficult. The gradient was getting steeper and I was standing up on the pegs, leaning over the handlebars to keep the front down over some of the bumps. I rode up into the clouds and whiled away my afternoon picking my way up the mountain, promising my moto a more comfortable life someday. For now I hope she's happy with the demanding life of adventure. I'm sure she'd let me know if it were any other way...
We emerge from the clouds - we're coming to the top of the mountain, the track becomes asphalt and the view across the cloud-carpeted valley is amazing with the sun setting under the clouds. We stop for a rest to marvel and while she cools the uncomfortably hot oil coursing through her aluminium veins, I stretch out my pulled arm muscles and can suddenly feel every part of my body that I landed on.
As it gets darker I know I will get a bit cold, and I may have to ride a few hours into the night to find a warm bed to stay in. This is nothing new or scary, I have my usual untroubled demeanour and I'm still feeling independent, free and privileged to be here. After all, it's all downhill from here.
I turn on my headlight to clean it. It's not working. In a marvellous physical act of irony I use the last rays of the evening sunlight failing to find the problem with the light.
The stars are out, but my good friend the moon isn't up yet. In my mind in the northern hemisphere while growing up the moon was always a man, The Man in the Moon. Here she's a lady, La Luna, which while a little confusing for me is quite comforting. She was full only two nights before, so I know when she gets here she'll be great at lighting my way.
For now I can barely see anything, but going downhill I turn the engine off and in the chilly wind it feels like I'm using all my senses to feel my way down the silent mountain.
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