Intro
Today was a slow, wet 18-kilometer crawl that felt triple the distance. I rolled out of La Union with a head cold and a sky full of heavy grey clouds that promised a soaking before noon. The initial six-kilometer climb on pavement was a two-and-a-half-hour grind that tested my patience more than my legs. The gravel thereafter was soft and unforgiving.
Grit and Grain
- I left the room above the hardware store at 9:30 AM, later than planned because the rain seemed to be waiting for me to zip my jacket. My primary fuel for the day was a bag of ten dry bread rolls I’d stuffed into my frame bag. The texture of those rolls—dry, floury, and slightly chalky—became a recurring theme as I chewed through them to distract myself from my running nose. Every time I reached for one, I felt the slick, cold sensation of the drizzle on my face, a reminder that my body was operating at about sixty percent capacity.
- The climb out of La Union was a mess of patched pavement and steep gradients. There is no rhythm to be found on a six-kilometer ascent when you are constantly sniffing and wiping condensation off your glasses. I reached the top by noon, my average speed hovering somewhere around ‘walking pace.’ The landscape opened up into the high plateau, but the wind was sharp, cutting through my damp layers. I stopped at the Huánuco Pampa Inca ruins at 12:30 PM for a lunch that consisted of more of those floury bread rolls and a single, cold cucumber. It wasn’t a feast, but it was enough to keep the legs moving.
The Precision of Stone
- I spent an hour wandering through the Huánuco Pampa site with a sun that finally won over the clouds. Even with a clouded head, the masonry is startling. I ran my fingers over the joints where the stones meet; they are fitted with a mathematical perfection that makes modern construction look sloppy. There is no mortar, just the weight of history and precise carving holding the walls against the Andean wind. I finished the loop by 2:10 PM and got back on the road toward Baños, but the sky had other plans.
- The drizzle returned almost immediately, turning into a steady, vertical rain within twenty minutes. I pulled on my rain poncho, which caught the wind like a sail. By the time I reached the edge of Seccha, the rain had intensified into a downpour that made continuing feel less like an adventure and more like a mistake. I needed a roof, but the town didn’t offer the usual neon signs or ‘Hostal’ banners. I was looking for the ‘unsign’—the informal markers of a living village.
Navigating the Unsign
- In Seccha, the map in my head stopped matching the reality on the ground. I found shelter under a corrugated metal overhang and watched the street. Across the way, a woman was carrying steaming plates of food between two nondescript buildings. There was no sign, no menu, and no window display, but the movement of the plates signaled a restaurant. I leaned my bike against the wall and stepped inside. The room was filled with the rhythmic thrum of a brass band taking a break, their instruments gleaming under the dim light bulbs.
- It turned out to be the village’s anniversary party. The musicians were drying off, and the air smelled of wet wool and fried meat. This is the informal map: you don’t find these places by searching for them; you find them by watching where the locals go when the weather turns foul. I sat there for two hours, eating a second lunch and listening to the rain hammer against the roof. The musicians told me about ‘El Tambo,’ a place to stay that wasn’t on any booking site. An elderly man overheard us, stood up, and walked out into the rain to check if there was a bed for me. He returned ten minutes later with a nod. The village wasn’t built for tourists, but it was perfectly equipped for a wet cyclist if you knew how to ask.
Brass and Salteado
- By 7:15 PM, I was back at the unmarked restaurant. The chef had promised Lomo Salteado at 7:30 sharp. Just as my soup arrived, the brass band started up again outside. The rhythmic thrum was deafening in the small street, the trumpets and tubas echoing off the stone walls. I left my soup and stood in the doorway. A group of dancers had formed, and before I could decline, I was pulled into a small circle. I spent ten minutes dancing, a clumsy contrast to the locals, before the music stopped and we all piled back inside to eat.
- The dinner was a communal affair. I sat with the musicians, sharing plates of Lomo Salteado—strips of beef, onions, and tomatoes over rice. We talked in short, simple sentences about the road and the rain. The musicians were staying up all night to keep the party going, but by 9:00 PM, my head cold was demanding sleep. I walked back to El Tambo, which was tucked away from the main square. The night was surprisingly quiet, the thick walls of the building muffling the distant tubas. I was in bed by 10:30 PM, the dry, floury taste of the morning’s bread finally replaced by the salt and heat of a proper meal.
Overnight
I stayed at ‘El Tambo’ in Seccha. It’s a basic lodging found through word-of-mouth. It mattered because it was far enough from the plaza to avoid the 24-hour anniversary music, allowing me to actually sleep off this cold.
Reflection
If the restaurant doesn’t have a sign, look for the person carrying the plates.
Route summary
- Date: 2026-05-11
- Distance: 18.02 km
- Elevation gain: 552 m
- Elevation loss: 39 m
- Duration: 6 h 21 min
- Time in Motion: N/A
- Average Speed: N/A