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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.

It’s a bit of a misnomer to call the stretch before them a road,
it’s little more than a narrow ledge, often no wider than
a single car, carved into a mountainside in the Andes
Mountains. The alternative to the menacing name “Death Road”,
“The World’s Most Dangerous Road” is no more comforting,
so no one in the group scoffs when the leader
draws out a small flask of brandy to offer a blessing of
sorts to Pachamama, Bolivia’s earth goddess, hoping to
earn her favors as they challenge the ledge before them on
mountain bikes. Taking a swig, he pours a splash on the road,
and the twelve follow suit thinking, “Hey, how can it hurt?”.

Straddling their bikes they push off, beginning a journey of
sixty miles in which they will drop from nearly 16,000 feet
above sea level to 5,000 feet, traveling through thick clouds
and dense fog over a muddy, slimly, slippery road pelted with
driving rain, hopefully ending in the lush subtropical jungle on
the banks of the Amazon.

The twelve have been briefed that the first fifteen miles
are paved, and grateful for that, they start out gently enough,
getting used to the terrain, even to a bit of traffic as a few
trucks and cars creep by with a couple of inches to spare.
This first leg of the excursion is all downhill which doesn’t
mean it’s easy, it takes concentration, especially when cornering,
and the words from their briefing ring loud in every ear, “If you
don’t go ’round the corner, you go off the cliff.”

Of course, all had done their homework prior to paying their
fee, all aware that in one year 300 persons in cars, buses
and trucks, as well as eleven mountain bikers, had met their
maker by plunging off the sheer side of the cliff. Only the easy
part was behind them now as the group paused, at the end of the
paved section, gasping for breath in the razor thin air and
allowing four laggards to catch up. When they did, the leader’s
talk remains as ominous as before, “No more pavement left,
and for the next three miles you’ll be pedaling mostly uphill”.

Muscles screaming, begging, praying for oxygen, they inch
along this length of upward hill, through thick clouds,
with visibility next to zero. Their path is rutted, wet,
muddy, slimy, strewn with rocks big as a fist, but they’re
thankful the heavy haze has obscured from view the deadly
drop on the left. At long last, and not a moment too soon,
they reach the end of the uphill trek. The leader calls for a
brief rest period after delivering good news for a change,
telling the group the remainder of the trip is all downhill.

They bump and roll downward, cornering carefully, deliberately,
knowing that one mistake could be their last. Two bikers slip
and slide, struck by a mild mud and rock fall from the cliff, but
fortunately the slimy muck they fall into cushions, actually
protects them, from harm to body or bike. Helped up and on
their way again, all twelve, thirteen including the leader from
the organizing company, soon pass a large rock jutting out
from the side of the cliff. Several cyclists whoop and yell, finding
they’re able to do that audibly enough to be heard in the heavier
air. They had been told during the last rest stop the rock roughly
marks the final one-third of the ride. Only twenty miles to go.

Almost magically the clouds begin to lift, revealing the spectacular
scenery for the first time, and they peek from the corner of their eyes
as they ride on, unable to resist at least a glance at the sheer beauty
of the abundant jungle still so far below. But with about eighteen miles
to go, they know to quickly refocus total vision on the road ahead,
having no wish to become part of the scenery themselves, not before
the road takes them there anyway.

As if taking on the cyclists on cue, the sun finally peeks through the single
remaining cloud, within moments emerging into clear view with brightly
shining splendor. Coasting gently now, the group rolls past the green jungle
and the tiny farms and shacks that dot it. The road is dry, the rain has
stopped, the incline is nearly flat, and it’s so much easier now.

They reach the end of the “World’s Most Dangerous Road”, all safely,
and their exuberance knows no bounds. The adrenaline addicts have had
more than their fill. “Absolutely stunning!” screams one. “I’m so glad it’s over,
I loved it!” yells another as they assemble for group pictures, wide smiles
everywhere.

Tomorrow they’ll fly back to their respective countries and homes, packing
full bragging rights along with the luggage. Things just won’t be the same
around the old water cooler when they return to work on Monday.

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