Intro
The sky over Lima today was a thick, suffocating grey, looking less like weather and more like a slab of wet wool pressed against the city. I woke up in the Casa Ciclista feeling content but aware of the mountain of administrative tasks that accumulate when you aren’t pedaling. The humidity here makes everything feel slightly damp, from the bedsheets to the paved streets of Callao, setting a heavy tone for a day spent off the saddle.
Spreadsheets and Sautéed Onions
- The morning didn’t start with a gear shift, but with the sharp, sulfurous bite of sautéed onions and tomatoes hitting a hot pan. I took my turn in the communal kitchen, whipping up a massive batch of scrambled eggs for the house. It’s a ritual that keeps the peace in these invitation-only hubs. Between bites, I hunkered down with my laptop to face the damage from June. The numbers were high, a direct result of my pitstop in Germany. I’d poured cash into a new phone, a satellite communicator, and a full service for my Rohloff hub. It’s the price of reliability, but seeing the figures laid out in a spreadsheet while sitting in a humid room in Callao made the financial weight feel as heavy as the coastal air.
- There is a specific kind of mental fog that comes from staring at bank statements when you’d rather be staring at a map. I spent 2 hours sorting through receipts and ensuring my gear was ready for the next leg. The Rohloff feels smooth now, a stark contrast to the grit it had accumulated, and the new satellite tech is a necessary insurance policy for the remote stretches ahead. By noon, the kitchen smelled like burnt toast and strong tea, and I knew I had to get out into the city before the walls started closing in.
The Cyclist’s Underground Railroad
- My afternoon was dedicated to the ‘cyclist-to-cyclist’ supply chain. I had two parcels of gear I’d lugged back from Europe that needed to reach riders already deep in the mountains. Navigating Lima’s logistics is a sport in itself. I tracked down the Shalom office to send a package to Huaraz and then hunted for the T&Q terminal for a delivery to Oyon. It’s a strange feeling, handing over expensive components to a guy behind a plexiglass window, hoping the mechanical karma holds up. These parcels are lifelines for the people waiting for them, and the relief of getting them into the system was immediate.
- Once the errands were done, I drifted toward the Paseo de los Héroes Navales. The city was loud, but a different kind of noise cut through the traffic. I stopped to watch several dance groups practicing their choreography on the wide concrete expanses. The rhythmic thud of reggaeton and traditional Andean beats from their portable speakers echoed off the surrounding buildings. Watching them move with such precision amidst the chaotic swarm of Lima’s afternoon rush was the first time all day I felt the city’s energy as something positive rather than just a logistical hurdle to clear.
Statues in Shrouds
- Walking down Jr. de la Unión toward the Plaza de las Armas, the atmosphere shifted. The pedestrian zone was crowded, but there was a visible edge to the air. As I reached the main square, I saw it: the historical statues were completely wrapped in heavy industrial plastic. It was a surreal sight—monuments turned into ghostly, translucent shapes. The crinkle of heavy industrial plastic wrap flapping in the breeze was a constant, eerie soundtrack. The police presence was massive, with riot shields and cordons blocking off the heart of the plaza. A local officer told me it was a precaution against demonstrations following the recent election. It felt like a city holding its breath, dressed in bubble wrap and waiting for a strike.
- I managed to find a spot for Aji de Gallina, the creamy yellow chili sauce providing a much-needed heat against the damp afternoon. I followed it up with a slab of Turrón de Doña Pepa, the sticky, anise-flavored nougat coated in sprinkles that is a staple here. It’s dense, sugary, and exactly what I needed to fuel the long walk back through the grey streets. Even with the tension and the plastic-wrapped history, the city’s flavors are unapologetically bold.
The Olive Incident
- The day ended with a minor linguistic defeat. On my way back to the Casa Ciclista in Callao, I stopped at a small grocery to grab what I thought was cheese studded with olives for our communal dinner. Back at the house, I realized my Spanish had failed me in the humidity; I’d managed to buy a massive bag of plain olives instead. No cheese in sight. We ate them anyway, sitting around the table sharing stories of broken spokes and border crossings. The evening air in Callao is thick and smells of salt and exhaust, but the company of other riders makes the logistics feel less like a chore and more like a shared burden. Tomorrow, I need to stop looking at spreadsheets…
Overnight
I stayed at the Casa Ciclista in Callao, an invitation-only hub for long-distance cyclists that provides a communal kitchen and a shared space for repairs and recovery.
Reflection
The hidden cost of a ‘rest day’ is the mental energy required to manage the logistics of a long-term tour.