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Racing Downhill

After receiving navigation instructions from Jan ("Keep going until you get to the bottom" would be an almost suitable paraphrase), we rode our bikes all the way down the mountain road. Actually, calling it a "road" may have been a bit generous, given that this stretch of flattened dirt was so rocky, uneven, potholed, and washboarded from years of rain and erosion, it could almost have passed for a Costa Rica highway. Each turn of the road was another flirtation with death, as we risked hitting a pothole or protruding bone of an unsuccessful biker and being thrown clear off the cliff edge. We therefore had to keep our hands on the brakes almost the entire time, keeping us at a more reasonable speed of, oh, about ninety miles an hour (about three hundred kilometers per hour).

The most challenging part of the journey was the ripple-like bumps in the road caused by water erosion and sadistic park rangers. Trying to steer or brake would be suicide, and if you were going too fast when you hit them, it jarred your eyeballs to the point where you couldn't even see the road. The vibrations forced our hands to squeeze down even tighter around the handlebars, and with the frigid air and paper-thin gloves, our hands would freeze and cramp up, becoming permanent extensions to the handlebars until we could stop and massage some feeling back into them again.

Serene Landscape

But in only half an hour, we noticed a huge drop in temperature, not to mention altitude — about 1200 meters — and started enjoying ourselves a lot more again. We continued down, down, down, with only a couple of level spots, and ended with a long, uninterrupted coast that brought us into the valley. Although the road continued on, I say "ended" because we had no chance in hell of making it past "Killer Hill Number 2". I'd be lying if I said any of us even had interest in putting in the effort, although I did give it a shot, and made it about 100 feet before conking out and rolling right back down to where I started.

We loaded our bikes back on the roof, and drove back to town, getting back at around 5pm, but feeling like it was midnight. We bid goodbye to Sharon, then back in town, treated ourselves to a healthy dinner — as close to our hotel as possible — and retreated to our room. With the festivities of Days of Quito mostly over, we smiled to the sounds of no bars and blaring dancing music, and only the occasional chiva rolling by, with limited enthusiasm.

It was the best sleep we'd had on our entire trip.

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