Intro
I woke up in a bunk bed at the Waves Surf Hostel. The Lima gloom has finally fractured, replaced by a mostly sunny sky and the rhythmic sound of the Pacific hitting the Punta Hermosa shore. Today was never going to be about mileage; it was about shifting from the pavement to the water while my spare parts began their long journey from Germany.
The International Logistics of a Broken Wheel
- The morning didn’t start with a gear check, but with a frantic look at my phone. My bike is currently a paperweight, and the solution is a multi-continental relay. My friend in Germany messaged to say the spokes and nipples finally arrived at his place. We had a Signal call to verify the parcels contents before he forwards it to a hotel in Madrid. From there, another friend with a one-night layover in Spain will hand-carry them back to Lima. It’s a ridiculous way to bypass Peruvian customs fees, but it’s the only way I’m getting back on the road before August. With the bike parts technically in motion, I decided to see if my fitness on the road translated to the water.
The Crinkle of Plastic and the San Bartolo Surf
- At 9:30 a.m., Carlos, the hostel owner, loaded Ben and me into his van for the short drive to San Bartolo. The air was salt-heavy and warm, a massive improvement over the damp wool feeling of Lima. We met Canilo, our instructor, who looked exactly like the archetype of a Peruvian surfer—medium length hair and a permanent squint. He handed me a thick, rubbery wetsuit that looked three sizes too small for my frame.
- That’s when I learned the trick. Canilo handed me a grocery bag. The crinkle of the plastic grocery bag echoed in the small changing area as I slipped it over my foot. The neoprene slid right over the plastic like it was lubricated. I did the same for my arms, marveling at how much skin I usually lose trying to wedge myself into these things. Once encased in rubber, we hit the beach. The grit of sand was everywhere—under my fingernails, pressed into the wax of the board, and eventually, inside my teeth as Canilo walked us through the ‘pop-up’ on the dry shore. It felt easy on land. I figured if I could climb Andean passes, I could stand up on a piece of foam.
Cycling Legs vs. Surfing Arms
- The ocean was the perfect temperature, neither shocking nor bath-like. Canilo explained the geography: a ‘lane’ on the left where no waves break for paddling out, and the surf zone on the right. This is where the reality of my physical state hit me. I have spent months building massive quad strength and endurance, but my upper body has essentially withered into two useless stalks. As I tried to paddle out, my back immediately began to protest. I couldn’t keep my head up to look at the horizon; my neck felt like it was made of lead.
- When the first wave came, Canilo gave me a shove to help me match the speed. I managed to pop up for a split second, feeling the board plane out, before I wobbled and collapsed. Every attempt after that was a comedy of errors. My arms simply lacked the explosive power to push my torso up. Instead of a clean pop-up, I kept getting stuck in a ‘cobra’ yoga pose, sliding along the wave on my stomach while leaning desperately to steer. By the end of the hour, I gave up on the traditional exit. I resorted to the ‘frog move’—slipping off the board and kicking my way through the water while clutching the foam with one arm. My cycling legs were doing all the work, but they were doing it in the wrong medium.
Provisions and the Evening Routine
- We got back to the hostel at noon, and I was ravenous. I put together a few whole wheat tortillas filled with tuna and a heavy spread of olive tapenade. The sharp, briny smell of olive tapenade filled the small kitchen, a scent that has become the unofficial aroma of my time in Punta Hermosa.
- I actually managed to mess up the timing for another call to another German friend. In my head, it was still Thursday, and I’d set my alarm for 5:00 p.m. to match the German time zone, forgetting that the call was supposed to happen at 10:00 a.m. local time. I missed the first window because I was surfing. Luckily, my friend is patient and we rescheduled for later in the afternoon. So, after the food, I finally sat down for the hour-and-a-half call to Germany.
- The rest of the afternoon was spent hunting for real food. Punta Hermosa has surprisingly good markets. I found actual natural yogurt—the kind without added sugar or deactivated bacteria—along with a decent spread of local cheeses. For dinner, I threw together a lentil and vegetable stir-fry, letting it simmer for forty minutes until the lentils were soft. I ate it with more tortillas while finishing up some digital chores. By 10:00 p.m., after a short walk along the shore, the sound of the surf was the only thing left, and I was more than ready to disappear into my bunk.
Overnight
I’m staying at the Waves Surf Hostel in Punta Hermosa. I’ve booked a bunk here for ten nights because it’s quieter than Lima and gives me a base to wait for the spoke relay to complete its journey across the Atlantic.
Reflection
A thousand miles of cycling does absolutely nothing to prepare your triceps for the demands of a surfboard.