O
ur starting point in La Paz at 3,600 metres
was almost a low point compared to the
motorcycle-chugging ascent up to La Cumbre’s
cloud forest at 4,650 metres. Along the way on
ruta 3, I coaxed Pearl on a little as she sighed in a
sluggish, less responsive manner. ‘It’s alright
lady, I’ll keep you in third gear’, I reassured her.
We fumbled our way farther on through bike-
swallowing fog under grey scraps of cloud,
which tossed like leaves in a fitful breeze,
shifted, like wind-tossed foliage. The cold wind
helped to numb the pangs of hunger but didn’t
alleviate my desperation for a pee; it pushed
against my bladder like a pin piercing my belly.
unbridled confidence. Bluster will get you
battered. Still, the views passing Cotapata
National Park took on the supremacy of the
Scottish highlands, the delirium of England’s
Lake District and then New Zealand’s soul-
nourishing hills, towering above us. Bolivia for
me just keeps getting better and better.
The entrance to the Death Road started in
rarefied air, slightly above the already high-
elevation of La Paz. Although not so deadly
nowadays, for a few hummingbird heartbeats
the realisation of making one mistake and you’d
meet your maker hit home, but the thought
flickered away again. May be the thought of
With my visor permanently steamed up, icy rain reaching ‘game over’ had been lurking but I
pellets stung my cheeks as I carefully worked my hadn’t dared to admit it because then, like the
way up and down the undulations of the road, nuclear bomb, it could never be uninvented.
skirting around deceptively deep potholes. I Pearl and I would exercise care and become
probably looked like a drunken sailor on two caution personified.
wheels heading toward the next watering hole.
When you face the force of foggy rain, you don’t
exactly ride boldly forward in a show of