Everything had become mundane, focused on efficiency and speed, constantly checking the distance to camp. Gone were the days of joy. If I were to finish the route on time, I had to push every day.
This post is the continuation of the chapter below.
Weakened by sickness, with stormy weather shortening the days, the spontaneity faded. I kept going, riding whatever came — exhaustion and pain. Desperate, brief stops on passes, all to make my body suffer and mind to touch my soul.

In rare moments of tranquility, the golden sun touching my skin, warming my body, colouring the sky and filling me with courage. “It’s worth it”.





Finding my pace and joy again was what I needed to reach my steady state — until I got sick again, weakened further, muscles aching from laying in bed, my gut twisting with every breath, dragging myself in the smelly toilet. Walking through the city with shivers, missteps, cold sweat, and powerless legs, asking for medicine and bread. When you’re solo, you need to take care of yourself. “Enfermido, metrozinadole o tinidazole?”.

Had I eaten too many different things on my rest day? It must have been strawberries that poisoned me; regardless, my rest day became six days of recovery.
I was mentally exhausted. I’d lost my pace; there was no improvement but only decay. “It’s part of the journey”, I comforted myself, but my time was running out.
The city noises and smells made me sick. I couldn’t imagine riding in the mountains again. Yet, after six days I got back on the saddle and felt at home.
On my last day of recovery, I met Andy. “Sailed the seas on a sailboat we repaired with seven other like-minded folks, reached our destination, sold it and went our separate ways” was one of the stories he shared. He has been traveling the world on and off with his bicycle since 2015.
Things got strange; I ended up pitching myself to ensure I’m awake. My body moved but my awareness lagged by a few seconds; similar to having had a couple of drinks. “It must be the antibiotics”, I thought. Had I left too soon? I wanted to move; I couldn’t stay in the city any longer. I preferred nature’s toilet over my hostel’s. Whatever I used to ride before was now a struggle, even at 50% of the distance. I couldn’t think clearly or ride straight. Was it a mistake to be riding in this condition?
While planning my trip, my father asked me what I’m scared of. “Electric storms at high altitudes”, was my answer. That evening, I experienced the most intense storm of my adventure. I would see flashes, a second later, the lightning blast would shake my body and press my lungs. I was mentally prepared for such phenomena, and it wasn’t the first time I would experienced them; still intimidating.
I wasn’t feeling like myself; I was only thinking about resting in my tent. Taking photos, something I enjoyed, had become a chore. “This is a nice shot”, I thought many times, only to find excuses to not take it — I just didn’t have the energy.



As I mounted my panniers, I noticed my rack moving more than usual. Inspecting the mounts I saw the crack. I felt indifferent, almost as if I had expected something similar to happen. Fortunately, I caught it early enough to reinforce it — braking could have been a big issue.
I didn’t mind the suffering, but I started to feel unhappy; I was losing my interest, and once more, felt in a rush. I even questioned whether I should fix my bike or not to continue, although I knew it had to be done. “Is this frame damage the end of my trip?”. “I won’t come back on the route once I am in a city”. The damage planted the seed of stopping, making me realize that it was a valid option.
Given my pace and the route ahead, I would barely reach Abancay by late October, just days before returning home, leaving no time for other experiences I wanted. It felt like my journey was coming to a natural conclusion with more experiences and insights than I expected.
There was nothing to “finish”, it was a route ridden by a couple years ago that became established and was given a name: the Peru Great Divide. There was no true start or finish, only suggestions.
I never quitted a race apart from accidents and injuries; I approached them as training when things didn’t go well. But this was not racing. This was about finding balance and making choices best for me.
Suffering forces you to look deeper. The cycling chapter closed; I went with the flow. As I write this in Cusco, I feel satisfied with my decision.
It’s been a journey of self-exploration — a thousand kilometres in the Peruvian Andes. I’m grateful for all I experienced.
“Amazing journey! I can’t believe all the challenges you faced biking through the Andes!! So proud of you!”
Epic!