They came from scattered points on the globe, from
the United States, Canada, Europe, Australia and Asia,
twelve adrenaline junkies ready to stare
death in the face for the adventure, and to take
bragging rights back home.
Two days earlier, having gladly paid a company that
organized this life risking opportunity, they had flown,
eager and excited, to La Paz, Bolivia, in South America,
just north of the Tropic of Capricorn. The big day having
finally arrived, the group was up before sunrise, nine
men and three women, to climb aboard the bus to La
Cumbre, a mountain pass almost 16,000 feet, more than
three miles, above sea level.
All in their 20’s and 30’s and all brave souls, they
were still human and therefore not totally intrepid,
each stifling undisclosed fear and anxiety as they listened,
solemn and intent, while the excursion’s leader offered
safety tips and riding instructions. In effect, his words
are a “How To” for cycling what the Spanish refer to as
“El Camino de la Muerte”, literal translation “Death Road”,
and living to tell about it.
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