Intro
Today was a rest day in Oyón, though the word rest is a bit of a misnomer when you’re staring down the barrel of a three-day remote stretch to Huayllay. The sun was out for once, finally drying the paved streets of this mountain town while I pivoted from athlete to administrator, managing bank accounts and gear instead of gear inches.
The Morning Lockout
- The day started at 6:00 AM with a series of frantic calls to my father. Between managing a banking crisis involving unauthorized transfers on my brother’s account and trying to wake myself up with a handful of pretzel sticks and fruit, the morning felt more like a corporate shift than a cycling holiday. I managed to squeeze in a shower before heading out at 8:30 AM to drop off a heavy bag of laundry, but the momentum came to a literal halt when I realized I’d left my room key on the bed and the door had clicked shut behind me.
- I spent the next twenty minutes standing in the hallway, watching the hotel staff go to work on the door. The sound of the metallic scraping of the hotel staff picking the padlock echoed through the narrow patio—a rhythmic, grating noise that felt like it was sanding down my patience. It was a clumsy start to the day, but they eventually popped the mechanism, and I was back in. To settle my nerves, I took a second breakfast of avocado and bread on the hotel patio. The sun was surprisingly warm, and I ended up sharing the space with two German motorcyclists who had rolled into town yesterday. We traded notes on road conditions while I waited for my heart rate to drop from the morning’s administrative stress.
Digital Housekeeping and Market Trout
- By 11:00 AM, I was deep in the digital weeds. I spent ninety minutes on the phone with a friend back home, then moved on to the invisible labor of long-distance travel. I had to order a new debit card because mine expires in November, and I made the executive decision to axe the Cusco legs of my flight journey. Trying to reach Cusco by bike in this timeframe was becoming a source of anxiety rather than joy, and Lima is a far more logical exit point. It felt like a weight off my shoulders to see those flight confirmations change on the screen.
- The motorcyclists invited me to lunch at the central market at 12:30 PM. We sat on plastic stools and ate trucha al vapor served with a side of ensalada rusa. The trout was fresh, likely pulled from the local streams earlier that morning. After we finished, we wandered through the stalls together. I picked up some basic supplies—fruits and vegetables—but the real mission was still ahead of me. I needed calorie-dense, packable food for the high-altitude stretch toward Huayllay, and that meant finding specific supplies that aren’t always a priority in mountain markets.
The Great Tortilla Hunt
- What I thought would be a quick grocery run turned into a two-hour scavenger hunt. I was looking for ‘Rapiditos,’ the specific brand of wheat tortillas that survive being stuffed into a pannier better than bread does. I visited one tienda, then another, then a third. Each shopkeeper gave me the same shake of the head. By the seventh shop, I was ready to give up and just pack a kilo of crackers, but then I saw it: a single, slightly dusty package tucked behind some bags of rice.
- I reached for it like it was a gold bar. The waxy plastic of the ‘Rapiditos’ tortilla package felt smooth and substantial in my hand, a tactile promise of easy lunches at 4,000 meters. I rounded out the haul with trail mix, cans of tuna, and more snacks. It’s funny how much of this life is dictated by the availability of a specific brand of flatbread, but when you’re self-supported in the highlands, these small logistical wins feel like major tactical victories.
An Unexpected Reunion
- Just as I was heading to pick up my clean laundry at 6:15 PM, I ran into a familiar face at the hotel. Mateo, a cyclist I’d met a week ago in Huaraz, was trying to check in. The landlord was missing, so I played temporary host and opened the bicycle storage for him. We ended up going out for dinner at 7:00 PM to catch up. I ordered caldo de gallina, which arrived hot and oily, exactly what I needed before tomorrow’s climb. Mateo is a good guy, but he has a habit of smoking these hand-rolled cigarettes; the acrid, disgusting smell of Mateo’s smoke clung to my clothes and competed with the steam from my soup.
- We finished the night at a pastelería where I ordered a surtido—a thick, dark red juice made from beetroot and carrots. The German motorcyclists spotted us through the open shop front and joined the table, turning our quiet postre into a weirdly international summit of travelers. I’m back in the room now, the floor covered in gear. I’ve finished the packing and the grooming, trying to shave off every unnecessary gram. The bike is heavy with three days of water and food, but the logistics are handled. Tomorrow, I head back into the thin air.
Overnight
I stayed at a hotel in Oyón. It was a necessary base for sorting out a banking crisis and resupplying before the remote stretch to Huayllay, though I spent more time picking locks and hunting for tortillas than actually resting.
Reflection
Stocking up on specific supplies in a mountain town takes more time and effort than climbing a 4,000-meter pass.