Intro
I rolled out of Chongoyape at noon, the sun already a heavy weight on my shoulders and the pavement radiating a steady, dry heat. This was a short 24-kilometer positioning leg toward Puente Cumbil, a slow-motion push east on smooth asphalt that felt more like a visual transition than a grueling journey. The mood was steady, a quiet anticipation for the mountains that finally began to crowd the horizon.
The Yellow and the Green
- The morning in Chongoyape was slow, anchored by a plate of fried fish, rice, and camote at the same spot I frequented last night. I spent the late morning hours packing local fuel: ‘cigars’—those thin, brittle bread sticks—and Bizcochuelos, which are small, square sponge cakes that weigh almost nothing. As I pedaled out of the city limits, I reached into my bar bag for a bread stick. The dry snap of the cigar echoed against the hum of my tires. It’s a brittle, dusty texture that matches the landscape of the coast, but as I moved east, that landscape began to fail.
- The shift happened over a mere 24 kilometers. To my left and right, the flat, monochromatic yellow of the desert started to ripple. The ground rose, and the color palette bled from parched sand into a dense, forest green. The mountains didn’t just appear; they seemed to solidify out of the heat haze, towering over the road as the gradient ticked upward. Despite the climb, the most persistent sound wasn’t my breathing, but the gritty crunch of the drivetrain. Weeks of desert sand had turned my chain into a grinding stone, a reminder that the bike was suffering even if my legs felt fine.
Stone Suns and Roadside Stops
- I reached Puente Cumbil by mid-afternoon. It’s little more than a cluster of buildings serving as the final supply point before the push to Catache. The restaurant owners, a welcoming family, pointed toward a fenced area in front of their house where I could pitch my tent. Once the bike was leaned against the wall, I felt the need to move without the pedals. At 4:46 PM, I took a short hike to a nearby boulder to find the petroglyphs I’d heard about. There, etched into the dark skin of the rock, was a sun—a sharp, ancient carving that looked exactly like the one currently baking the back of my neck.
- Returning to the restaurant, I sat with one of the owner’s sons. We watched the light change on the new green peaks while I chewed on another Bizcochuelo. The sponge cake was a contrast to the bread sticks, soft and yielding, but the dry snap of the cigars was still the sound of the road in my head. The peace was interrupted by the arrival of a fruit truck. Two vendors hopped out, and we fell into a long talk about the mechanics of a life. They asked about the trip, and I told them my stance: if you aren’t satisfied with the way things are going, complaining is a waste of breath—you just have to change the variables. They nodded, leaning against their truck loaded with citrus, discussing the courage it takes to actually turn the wheel.
Gasoline and Greasy Fingers
- By 9:00 PM, the gritty crunch of the chain became unbearable to think about. I decided to strip the drivetrain right there on the road. The restaurant lady’s two brothers came out to help. One of them is a mechanic in a nearby mine, a man used to handling industrial chains that run forty meters long and weigh tons. My bicycle chain looked like a toy in his grease-stained hands. We used a bowl of raw gasoline to cut through the accumulated gunk. The sharp, nose-stinging scent of gasoline quickly replaced the smell of woodsmoke from the kitchen, filling the air as we scrubbed the links.
- Disaster struck when we tried to open the missing link without the proper pliers. The small metal piece pinged off into the dark, landing somewhere in the dirt and spilled fuel. For ten minutes, the three of us hovered over the ground with headlamps, sifting through the oily soil. The scent of gasoline was thick enough to taste by the time the miner spotted the glint of metal near the puddle. We rinsed it, snapped the chain back together, and watched the brother toss the leftover black fuel directly onto the ground—a move that made me wince, though I stayed quiet. The chain is now silent, the bike is prepped, and the tent is up. The desert is behind me.
Overnight
I camped in a fenced area directly in front of a roadside restaurant at Puente Cumbil. The owners and their sons provided a safe spot and company, making it the last logical staging point before the terrain gets significantly more isolated.
Reflection
A clean chain is worth the price of smelling like a refinery for twelve hours.
Route summary
- Date: 2026-03-26
- Distance: 24.24 km
- Elevation gain: 338 m
- Elevation loss: 154 m
- Duration: 5 h 9 min
- Time in Motion: 2 h 8 min
- Average Speed: 11.3 km/h