Intro
I’m writing this from a hotel room in Bambamarca, my skin still humming from a 34-kilometer day that felt twice as long. The morning in Chota began with a heavy, overcast sky and the realization that the Andes don’t care about my planning, whether it’s for today’s 821-meter climb or my future route through Germany. The pavement was dry when I set out, but the air held a damp weight that signaled the weather dance was about to begin.
Soup, Cash, and Software Glitches
- The day didn’t start on the bike. It started with me hunched over my phone, mapping out a future route through Germany for my June vacation, sending WhatsApp messages to family while the high-altitude chill seeped through the window. When hunger finally drove me out, I realized I’d walked out without a cent of cash. Rather than hunting for an ATM, I retreated to the tiny hole-in-the-wall opposite the hotel. I sat there with a bowl of green soup, a local staple that hit the table with a thick, earthy steam smelling of mountain herbs and scalded milk. I paired it with a surtido juice and a cheese sandwich, supplemented by the fruit I carry everywhere to keep my immune system from collapsing under the strain of these climbs.
- The exit from Chota was a repeat of last night’s brutality—steep, unrelenting, and immediate. But the real friction started four kilometers in. My GPS decided to quit. I spent thirty minutes standing on a narrow shoulder of the road, swearing at Komoot and Google Fit as they refused to acknowledge my location. There is a specific kind of frustration in watching your progress stall because of a satellite handshake while your legs are already burning from the first incline. I stood there, the silence of the road only broken by the occasional passing mototaxi, until I finally gave up on the tech.
The Constant Wardrobe Change
- I had a choice at the fork: a direct, steep gravel path or a longer, winding paved route. Given the vertical gain ahead, I chose the pavement. The traffic was non-existent, leaving me alone with the mountains and a sky that couldn’t make up its mind. This was the core of the day’s micro-management. When the sun punched through the cloud cover, the heat was sharp and stinging, forcing me to strip down to a t-shirt. Ten minutes later, a cloud would drift over, the temperature would plummet, and I’d be pulling my light jacket back on. I did this dance a dozen times.
- Twelve kilometers into the climb, I found a lone tree overlooking the valley. I sat in the grass and ate a simple meal, watching Chota shrink into a small cluster of blocks far below. The scale of the Peruvian highlands is difficult to process when you’re moving at six kilometers per hour. You don’t just see the landscape; you inhabit every temperature shift and every change in air density. Shortly after lunch, the sky darkened. I spent twenty minutes huddled under a corrugated metal roof, listening to the metallic ping of a passing rain shower, waiting for the rain to stop before I pushed toward the summit.
The Shivering Descent to Bambamarca
- The final two kilometers to the top were a race against a second, more serious wall of grey clouds. I reached the summit at 4:00 PM just as the sky opened up. The descent into Bambamarca should have been a relief, but the rain turned it into a test of endurance. I was wearing my rain jacket over a t-shirt with a poncho thrown over the top, but the damp, cold cling of the plastic against my bare forearms was a constant, shivering reminder of my own laziness. I knew I should have stopped to put on a thermal layer, but the momentum of the downhill was too addictive to break.
- The entry into Bambamarca was the polar opposite of yesterday’s grind into Chota. Instead of fighting for every meter, I was coasting through the rain, my brakes squealing against the wet disks. By the time I reached the city limits, I was soaked and vibrating from the cold, but the 821 meters of climbing were behind me. The technical management of the day—the GPS fixes, the layering, the rain delays—was finally over.
Tallarin and Bubble Waffles
- Dinner was a predictable but necessary comfort at El Abuela, a chain I recognized from Chota. I ordered the Tallarin Salteado, a massive plate of stir-fried noodles that I couldn’t even finish. I packed half of it away for tomorrow, a small victory for my food budget. My attempt to find fresh produce in the local markets was a bust; the stalls were either closing or lacked anything that didn’t look like it had been on a truck for a week.
- I ended the night at Cafe Citel, a surprisingly modern spot where I ordered a bubble waffle topped with soft ice cream and fruit. The sticky residue of the syrup on my fingers was the final sensory cap on a day defined by grit and rain. Sitting there, watching the locals dodge puddles outside, the physical toll of the Andes felt manageable again. I’m tired, my quads are heavy, but the bike is ready for whatever the next ridge decides to throw at me.
Overnight
I stayed at a basic hotel in Bambamarca, chosen for its proximity to the center and the fact that it had enough space to keep my bike inside the room away from the humidity.
Reflection
Mountain weather is less of a backdrop and more of a full-time job; if you aren’t changing layers, you’re probably about to be either overheated or hypothermic.
Route summary
- Date: 2026-04-01
- Distance: 34.12 km
- Elevation gain: 821 m
- Elevation loss: 685 m
- Duration: 7 h 5 min
- Time in Motion: N/A
- Average Speed: N/A