Me - waiting for my pick up to take me to the top of the North Yungus road or Death Road as it has been nicknamed. After a lorry went over the edge and 100 people died, The Inter-American Development Bank named this "the most dangerous road in the world." On average 200-300 travelers die on this road annually. At least 18 bikers have perished here. Brushing those statistics aside, I hopped into the "Overdose" van with a bunch of other adrenalin seekers.
After an hour of driving, with a few stops to pick up bikes, other people and some snacks, we arrived at 4700m above sea level in near freezing temperatures.
I had layered up considerably, so I was quite snug as we received our briefing and our kit of: full face helmet, motor cross pants and jacket, knee and elbow guards and protective gloves. I got handed my Kona full suspension bike with hydraulic brakes and we headed off down 24 kilometers of tarred highway complete with gear-grinding trucks and death defying taxi drivers. It was a free wheeling downhill ride with spectacular scenery. The wind whistled through my helmet and squeezed tears out of the corners of my eyes. Towering mountains stood on either side of the road, their tops in the clouds, their bottoms plunging thousands of feet into the valley below. Mist and clouds swirled up from the depths of these gorges and caused the road to fade in and out of visibility. What an incredible feeling to zoom through this fog that seemed alive.
We arrived at the checkpoint, paid our 25 Bolivianos and headed towards the beginning of the original stone and dirt Death Road.
I gawked at the snaking road hugging the edge of the cliff and took a deep breath. As we started off, I was quite cautious, sticking to the mountainside of the 3 meter wide road, peering over the edge at the canyons far below. In Bolivia cars drive on the right hand side, but on death road, they drive on the left going down, so they can look out the window and see how close to the edge they are. Eventually we had to move to the left as there was a possibility of random trucks coming up the road.
We stopped a few times for photos, snacks and safety checks and it wasn't long before I was flying down, inches from the edge. What a rush! Waterfalls cascaded onto and sometimes over the road, as we dashed passed them.
38 kilometers later we were done. We had cycled a total of 62 kilometers and had descended 3500m from the pale Andean landscape to the green, balmy Bolivian jungle. There were a couple of streams to cross before we arrived at the sleepy town of Coroico.
Fifteen wet, sweaty and tired bikers pulled into a ramshackle town with one busy pub that was just finishing off with a group before us. "Un Huari por favor," was the common saying as everyone ordered an ice cold beer to congratulate themselves on cycling down the most dangerous road in the world - El Camino de la Muerte - The Death Road.
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