The gearing was different at this altitude, and once I learnt the best speeds to shift I could take the bumps a bit better and save my wrists a little. It didn't last for long though, I still had altitude to gain and when climbing was losing speed and going back to the bike-rattling, hand-slamming vibes.
There was plenty to take my mind off it though, and I hopped out of the track into the deep sand surrounding when I noticed I was between the most surreal array of orange-marbled mountains with snowy peaks. I forgot I even had wrists as I sat dumbfounded in the sand.
The next section was more sandy, but nothing crazy. It was the first deep enough to have the jeep tracks driven into it. As the front wheel crosses the tracks you inevitably fish-tail a bit - taming and directing it is the skilled part.
As I hit a crossing tyre track my back wheel drifted out half a metre to my left, and in the same second a Toyota Land Cruiser flew past ridiculously fast, millimetres away from smashing me into oblivion. At first when I'd realised the track was populated I was relieved that I might not be stranded if something happened. Now I realised I'd be a lot safer on my own.
Over the next kilometres I had a few hairy tankslappers (if you don't know what that means type "motogp saves" into youtube.com), but nothing I couldn't handle - it was exhilarating and more confidence-building each time I caught one.
The most difficult bit was trying to pay attention - the scenery was amazing. I'm sure I can't do it justice, but try and imagine dead still, vivid blue lagoons with frilly white edges, nestled between chocolate and vanilla ice-cream swirl mountains all set in a silent desert under a clear, vivid blue sky.
No matter how fun the riding was I couldn't get more than ten kilometres without stopping to appreciate. The alpacas seemed unfazed by my motorbike and I started seeing how close I could get to these weird, calming beasts.
Back on the ripio it was coming up to the eighty-eight kilometres from the border post and sure enough there was a little sign pointing up a steep track labelled "Aduana". Standing on the pegs, wheels scrabbling in the dirt I wound my way up, and soon enough was stopped, confused at the gate to a big industrial complex.
A bored looking guy opened the gate and pointed to a small building. Sure enough after hammering on the door and waiting for a while there was a customs official. In a quarry. In a National Park. Why, Bolivia?
The G.P.S. that Kevin had lent me had turned itself off. It was supposed to have another twenty hours or so of batteries... This was a bad sign, and I had to hope that I could use the force later on, instead of the waypoints I had painstakingly entered into the antique beast. I turned it back on as I headed inside.
The guy was friendly, and thought there must be a mistake on the ownership document for my moto when he read 110 c.c. engine displacement. He laughed when I asked if it was the smallest moto he'd seen here. I took that as a yes. Formalities were quick and easy, and the guy wished me luck quite sincerely - I was beginning to like South American borders.
Back outside the G.P.S. said it had full batteries, and that we were at 5,025 metres (that's about 16,500 feet) altitude. I was proud of my little bike, and sang my lungs out while we tore back down to the main track, back wheel drifting out on the bends, with my face tight in the cold wind. The G.P.S. stubbornly turned itself off again.
A few geysers, hot springs, lakes and lagoons later and there was a fork in the road with a little disused-looking hut, and it was time to see if the force was strong in this one. I went right, the more northerly direction, but instantly doubted myself and stopped after only a few hundred metres.
The G.P.S. would turn on again luckily, and I suddenly figured out the problem - when riding the bitterly cold wind was killing the batteries. They just wouldn't function at those temperatures. I'd read about the conditions here killing big, lead-acid motorcycle batteries overnight.
Looking back at the fork I realised there was a moto parked outside it I hadn't seen before - it wasn't disused at all. Then the G.P.S. informed me that my Jedi skills were poor, and I had gone the wrong way.
Back at the hut it turned out the Honda XR250 (just what you need out here) was owned by the fat Guardaparca inside the hut:
"¿Que paso amigo?" he said with a belly-laugh as I pulled up, obviously from the wrong direction.
He told me I'd reach the refugio at Lago Colorada in just an hour or so, so should try and make it to Villamar to sleep. I knew about the refugio, and had planned to sleep there, but I had no idea there'd be a place on the way. I checked with him that Villamar was a town, and he said yes, "Mas o menos". More or less.
This was a big surprise, and I was thinking over the research I had done, and how I'd missed a whole town. I was sure it would all become clear in time. There were more fun trails, and more beautiful views but my bike and wrists were still being abused badly by the ruts.
There was a right turn off the trail, it zig-zagged up a steep slope and was made of big rocks and sand.
If there was ever a point I *needed* an off-road bike, it was to go up something like that.
If there was ever a point where I was likely to crash and brake myself or the bike, it was going up something like that.
There was a sign pointing up the track, saying "Uyuni". My destination.
Balls.
I stopped the bike and got off - there was a freaky salt lake of many colours, with a martian mountain behind it, and they deserved a photo anyway. In the seconds I was taking out my camera a huge pínk flamingo soared across, right in front of me. I didn't get a photo, but saw it as a good omen.
I hadn't seen another vehicle in hours now, and knew I had to get this right. I had no body armour, but I knew the only way I would make it up there was absolutely as fast as I could go.
My poor little bike - the first thing that happened was the front suspension bottoming out on a big rock. As I pushed my weight down on the footpegs to keep traction the underside smashed on more rocks. I was still upright and moving, but was down a gear to second. Only one more in reserve.
Around the next bend the rocks became more sharp and pointy, and I felt them force through twenty pounds per square inch of tyre pressure and dinging my wheel rims. The rear suspension couldn't rebound in time for all the rocks, and the bike was bucking wildly as I deperately held the throttle wide open and tipped her right into the last turn.
Coming over the final crest the bottom hit again, and the engine revved wildly (well, as much as a four-stroke 110 c.c. can anyway) as the rear wheel came up and I pitched forward over the top.
I stopped to assess. All footpegs and pedals were still attached and functioning. The sump still contained the engine oil. Both stands still worked, the exhaust was still there and the frame was at least strong enough to hold them all together. Result.
Or so I thought.
There was plenty to take my mind off it though, and I hopped out of the track into the deep sand surrounding when I noticed I was between the most surreal array of orange-marbled mountains with snowy peaks. I forgot I even had wrists as I sat dumbfounded in the sand.
The next section was more sandy, but nothing crazy. It was the first deep enough to have the jeep tracks driven into it. As the front wheel crosses the tracks you inevitably fish-tail a bit - taming and directing it is the skilled part.
As I hit a crossing tyre track my back wheel drifted out half a metre to my left, and in the same second a Toyota Land Cruiser flew past ridiculously fast, millimetres away from smashing me into oblivion. At first when I'd realised the track was populated I was relieved that I might not be stranded if something happened. Now I realised I'd be a lot safer on my own.
Over the next kilometres I had a few hairy tankslappers (if you don't know what that means type "motogp saves" into youtube.com), but nothing I couldn't handle - it was exhilarating and more confidence-building each time I caught one.
The most difficult bit was trying to pay attention - the scenery was amazing. I'm sure I can't do it justice, but try and imagine dead still, vivid blue lagoons with frilly white edges, nestled between chocolate and vanilla ice-cream swirl mountains all set in a silent desert under a clear, vivid blue sky.
No matter how fun the riding was I couldn't get more than ten kilometres without stopping to appreciate. The alpacas seemed unfazed by my motorbike and I started seeing how close I could get to these weird, calming beasts.
Back on the ripio it was coming up to the eighty-eight kilometres from the border post and sure enough there was a little sign pointing up a steep track labelled "Aduana". Standing on the pegs, wheels scrabbling in the dirt I wound my way up, and soon enough was stopped, confused at the gate to a big industrial complex.
A bored looking guy opened the gate and pointed to a small building. Sure enough after hammering on the door and waiting for a while there was a customs official. In a quarry. In a National Park. Why, Bolivia?
The G.P.S. that Kevin had lent me had turned itself off. It was supposed to have another twenty hours or so of batteries... This was a bad sign, and I had to hope that I could use the force later on, instead of the waypoints I had painstakingly entered into the antique beast. I turned it back on as I headed inside.
The guy was friendly, and thought there must be a mistake on the ownership document for my moto when he read 110 c.c. engine displacement. He laughed when I asked if it was the smallest moto he'd seen here. I took that as a yes. Formalities were quick and easy, and the guy wished me luck quite sincerely - I was beginning to like South American borders.
Back outside the G.P.S. said it had full batteries, and that we were at 5,025 metres (that's about 16,500 feet) altitude. I was proud of my little bike, and sang my lungs out while we tore back down to the main track, back wheel drifting out on the bends, with my face tight in the cold wind. The G.P.S. stubbornly turned itself off again.
A few geysers, hot springs, lakes and lagoons later and there was a fork in the road with a little disused-looking hut, and it was time to see if the force was strong in this one. I went right, the more northerly direction, but instantly doubted myself and stopped after only a few hundred metres.
The G.P.S. would turn on again luckily, and I suddenly figured out the problem - when riding the bitterly cold wind was killing the batteries. They just wouldn't function at those temperatures. I'd read about the conditions here killing big, lead-acid motorcycle batteries overnight.
Looking back at the fork I realised there was a moto parked outside it I hadn't seen before - it wasn't disused at all. Then the G.P.S. informed me that my Jedi skills were poor, and I had gone the wrong way.
Back at the hut it turned out the Honda XR250 (just what you need out here) was owned by the fat Guardaparca inside the hut:
"¿Que paso amigo?" he said with a belly-laugh as I pulled up, obviously from the wrong direction.
He told me I'd reach the refugio at Lago Colorada in just an hour or so, so should try and make it to Villamar to sleep. I knew about the refugio, and had planned to sleep there, but I had no idea there'd be a place on the way. I checked with him that Villamar was a town, and he said yes, "Mas o menos". More or less.
This was a big surprise, and I was thinking over the research I had done, and how I'd missed a whole town. I was sure it would all become clear in time. There were more fun trails, and more beautiful views but my bike and wrists were still being abused badly by the ruts.
There was a right turn off the trail, it zig-zagged up a steep slope and was made of big rocks and sand.
If there was ever a point I *needed* an off-road bike, it was to go up something like that.
If there was ever a point where I was likely to crash and brake myself or the bike, it was going up something like that.
There was a sign pointing up the track, saying "Uyuni". My destination.
Balls.
I stopped the bike and got off - there was a freaky salt lake of many colours, with a martian mountain behind it, and they deserved a photo anyway. In the seconds I was taking out my camera a huge pínk flamingo soared across, right in front of me. I didn't get a photo, but saw it as a good omen.
I hadn't seen another vehicle in hours now, and knew I had to get this right. I had no body armour, but I knew the only way I would make it up there was absolutely as fast as I could go.
My poor little bike - the first thing that happened was the front suspension bottoming out on a big rock. As I pushed my weight down on the footpegs to keep traction the underside smashed on more rocks. I was still upright and moving, but was down a gear to second. Only one more in reserve.
Around the next bend the rocks became more sharp and pointy, and I felt them force through twenty pounds per square inch of tyre pressure and dinging my wheel rims. The rear suspension couldn't rebound in time for all the rocks, and the bike was bucking wildly as I deperately held the throttle wide open and tipped her right into the last turn.
Coming over the final crest the bottom hit again, and the engine revved wildly (well, as much as a four-stroke 110 c.c. can anyway) as the rear wheel came up and I pitched forward over the top.
I stopped to assess. All footpegs and pedals were still attached and functioning. The sump still contained the engine oil. Both stands still worked, the exhaust was still there and the frame was at least strong enough to hold them all together. Result.
Or so I thought.
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