Peru – Solo Female Cycling Around The World

How Would You End A Bicycle Tour?

I am tired now, I think I will go home Forest Gump’s brilliant words come to mind as I push the pedals on first gear up the Cordillera Blancha road in N. Peru’s national park. My legs towing the weight of my bicycle bags, they are strapped behind me on the rack. The pedals spin round as they have for 5 continuous years of touring, a 40 country, 5 continent effort that will soon complete my first bicycle tour.

It’s about the journey not the destination I remind myself while percolating with gratitude at all the places I have seenin the past years. Peru’s high altitude glaciated gorgeous mountains vistas north of Huaraz strain my eyes, my cold hands clasps the handlebars. I lean forward and continue up the mountain to 15,000ft.

The goal of cycling a line around the world was accomplished, 2 weeks ago, when I reached the coast at the Pacific Ocean south of Lima. I am cooked, done, chewed, crispy, burnt, finished; it is time to move on to the next life chapter. The lessons learned from bicycle touring I will always cherish. The basic kindness of humanity all over the world will stay with me, the beauty of living simply I will take with me to my next home.

However, the exit plan has gotten as logistically complicated as the cycling around the world goal.

Solo Female Cyclist Dream Road

A paper work problem on moving to a farm, 6 miles from the ocean on the east coast of the USA, (I am Canadian) prevented me from flying out of Lima and then an expired bank card furthered the delay. Allowing me to gratefully be able to pedal N. Peru and speak to the Huaraz, Peru newspaper about women’s bicycle touring.

Once you rush through something you have already decided it isn’t important…I cheer myself up from another delay and remind myself of what I love best of about slow bicycle travel and this weeks facebook and twitter post:

Photo bomb a mountain? Took a wrong turn at 15,000+ feet, went down a trail into a valley N. Peru, (a jokester of a woman in the village insisted I was going the right way). Then I proceeded to push my bike + 55pds of gear back up the steep loose rocky path for 6hrs. Eventually, I decided it was time to start having some fun. What a perfect opportunity for my new “photo bomb’ hobby. Moral of the story, when lost and getting your ass kicked by altitude and confusion a photo bomb can greatly improve the situation.

The only thing that remains now is how to end this world tour. Forest Gump it? I am tired now, I think I will go home…just stop. Interestingly, carrying on is not an option, not unless I rename Pandemic The Magic Bicycle ‘Wilson’ from Cast Away. Socially speaking, I am long over due for a stable social life.

I read somewhere that to go around the world, one must cycle in a continuous direction a minimal of 18,000 miles (29,000 km) and cross the equator at least 3 times. I have never been interested in mathematics, my actual mileage is unknown but since I cycle everywhere except when removed from my bicycle because of security that I have doubled or more likely tripled that distance. Ending on the equator, on the Pacific skinny dipping with a beer in my hand, that sounds good? How would you complete a bicycle tour?

Will I ever meet THE ONE?

Nearly every social interaction I have had for the last 3 weeks begins with one simple question. “Solita?(alone?)” followed by porque (why?). I can be entirely oblivious to my single, one woman status and all of a sudden I am all boo hoo hoo very much alone. The lonesome ache of travelling about alone by bicycle creeps back into my stomach like a long forgotten cramp. I’ve daydreamed about Mr Right, Mr. Wrong and just about every other kind of Mister in order to fill the familiar ache of lonesomeness. I am tempted to give rewards to people for NOT asking if I am alone, gifts of sweets? hugs? It happens so infrequently that I could even afford to give folks a crisp 20USD bill. On the 20USD bill it would say “thank you for recognizing that a woman travelling alone is not a safety hazard, she can take care of herself”

Yesterday, while pedaling, as I was pondering the tattles and tales of twenty dollar bills, some government road workers stopped their white pick-up truck to say hello, a pleasant change from the white trucks that slow down and drive next to me just looking. This friendly driver’s reflexive orange vests draped over his belly. His elbow protruded from the open window.

“hola” I said hoarsely, my throat was dry from not talking to anyone for a few days and from the altitude 15700-14100 feet (4800-4300 meters). Grateful to have someone to say hello to I smiled.

“Solita?” The man said, a shiny wedding band was secured around his finger, his hand firmly gripping the steering wheel. His black leather boot was pressed firmly on the brake pedal holding the truck back on the steep mountain road between Cusco and Nazca, Peru.

“Yes, solita” I said, trying not to roll my eyes or bust out in hysterical laughter at the mundane boredom.

Just saved 20usd, that guy doesn’t look very huggable anyway and his teeth don’t look very good, sweets would not improve his oral health situation…and I don’t think the color bright orange should be in his or anybody’s wardrobe, it does nothing for his eyes I think to myself

“Yes, solita…” I said

Like an x-mas tune in December, the incessant drawl of a repetitive conversation begins again.

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A never ending valentine show of twosomes unveils before my eyes as I pedal along, funny faced alpacas, llamas and rare Peruvian vacuna line the emerald green valley, all of whom are paired up, some mating for the moment, others for life. A Quechua elderly woman, the shadows hidden within her wrinkles reflect the frigid morning sun of the high altitude Peruvian Andes. Her head tilts in greeting, her smile grows as she sees me approach.

“Esta Frio? (Are you cold)” The elderly woman questions, her weathered well used fingers hold a piece of firewood that she has collected from the road side. Her three layered skirts dangle over her blue wooly leggings. Her ankles are covered in knitted alpaca fur leg warmers. She places the firewood on the ground and covers her shy grin with her strong coarse fingers.

“Hola, ques estes yamos?( Hello, What is your name?)” She asks. Her piercing kind eyes sparkle with years of wilderness wisdom. They are clearer then the nearby cascading stream.

What a great morning, it is 6:30am and I have a new friend, a Quechan and Spanish speaking beautiful indigenous woman. I genuinely enjoy meeting old people, full of history and culture, my favorite museums. Perhaps in this life time, I have already met THE ONE, the love of my life… the love of TRAVEL! I love the unknown, not knowing who I might meet, what will happen with the day, where I will sleep, what I will eat, where I might bathe. And just when I get so lonesome that I think the ache might do my head in some magical moment unfolds before my grateful eyes, reminding me how much I truly love to travel. My new friend did not even ask me if I am alone and she definitely looks huggable. Often, I find the indigenous population in any country to not be as concerned about such things, just one reason why I love travel amongst the indigenous peoples. I smile to myself as I push the breaks and say

“Buenes Dias (Good Morning), it is so good to meet you, My name is Loretta, I love to travel and like most loves there are some trade-offs. Thanks for being you!”

How To Practice Gratitude, Cycling and Meditation

Just a few months back, I was tossed like a ragdoll after getting hit by a bus miraculously suffering nothing more than a mildly bruised arm, a couple of shredded fingernails and destroying a bunch of expensive replaceable gear. The vivid memory drifts into my conscience while pedaling towards Cusco, Peru.

Breathe in, breathe out, focus on breath…push, pull, push, pull, coast… My legs repeat the circular motion of pedaling.

The financial loss of the accident or bus assault is the least important of the potential outcomes. I find myself grateful to new sponsors for replacing some of which was destroyed. However, all these months later, when I am passed by a big hard bus while pedaling, I can still see the blurry smoky blue color of that boisterous bus that hit me at 94km/62mph in my peripheral vision. The holler of scratching metal against my shoulder and bicycle has faded but the memory of the noise remains in my ears, near body trauma or possible death does have some lingering effects. I cycle on feeling extremely fortunate and very grateful to still be around.

Breathe in, breathe out, focus on breath… Push, pull, push, pull, coast…

A repetitive cathartic rhythm I find meditative propels me northward through South America and into Peru. The altiplano of Peru at 13,000 feet provides a spectacular backdrop of red hued mountains, Inca ruins and lush cascading rivers, a perfect location for meditative, rhythmic cycling and practicing gratitude.

“This is better than a Buddhist Vispassana retreat, more effective that sitting meditation and much more fun than an indoor yoga class, Thank you Peru”

I say out loud while leaning over the handlebars. The road is descending rapidly out of the high altitude altiplano region before climbing again into Cusco. Peru’s cultural center infamous for the Machu Pinchu Inca ruins.

“Thank you, Peru for large road shoulders AND putting up ‘caution cyclists in the shoulder signs’, what a great effort” I say while chuckling, bubbling with gratitude and bursting of new exhilarating oxygen supplies.

Herds of shaggy sheep, their lean bodies covered by a matted mass of superfluous fluff waddle across the road in search of the adjacent river’s hydration. Villagers clad in vibrant purple crinoline lined skirts carry bundles of fresh green sticks tied to their backs. Their blue and white checkered smocks protect their skirts from the falling leaves. Sombreros (hats) of every variety protect their bronzed faces from the craggy mountain’s sharp sun rays.

“Thank you to the people of Peru for being so beautiful and for wearing hats. I love hat countries and Peru is definitely one of the best hat countries I have ever seen”

I say to myself as I steer around the populated roadside. Plenty of bicycle carts congest the road shoulder, large rectangular metal signs erected by the Peruvian government provide a constant remainder to motorized traffic to stay alert and slow down, providing parochial Peruvians time to wave, smile and honk as they pass me.

Focus Retta, Focus…Breathe in, breathe out…push, pull, push, pull, coast

The mountain road begins to climb.

“Being off the bike for a month to see a dentist in La Paz, Bolivia is the best idea I have ever had. Thanks to Christian at the La Paz Casa De Cyclistes for the great stay. Thanks all at Dental Mundo, I love my healthy teeth”

I blurt out through my sparkly pearly whites to the shaggy sheep in need of haircuts.

Breathe in, breathe out, focus on breathe, breathe in, breathe out…push, pull, push, pull, coast…

Rounding the world alone by bike for the last 5 years is how I have developed my instincts to stay safe in every imaginable situation. Taking the occasional month long break and resting those instincts is how I have developed my instinct endurance. The ability to try to stay tuned on and tuned in to my surroundings at all times and being as genuinely happy as possible through the practice of active positivity.

“Thank you, well rested instinct endurance… practicing gratitude is fun, the more I practice the easier it rolls with me… this has got to strengthen the instincts” I say to the steep mountain incline. The road is a never ending platform on and of which to be grateful.

Focus Retta Focus… Breathe in, breathe out, upward, onward…push, pull, push, pull, breathe

Peru Photo Album Click Here

Peru…Photos and Gringos

Absolutely beautiful kind old woman who I befriended today. She grabbed my hands gesturing hello and tapped me on the shoulder with a huge grin when I met her on the street twice today!

“Gringo (foreigner in a disparaging sense)” I hear growled from the roadside market stand. The ladies rough holler captures my attention about as fast as the site of what she is selling at the market in Peno, Peru. Her beige sombrero hat hardly shades her from the grouchy scowl placed across her face.

A stark contrast to her nearby market vendors, smiling toothless welcomes. They wave their bronzed sun aged hands over their goods displaying coco leaves, dried llama fetus and every other remedy used for Peruvian traditional medicine. The locals market in which I wondering with my camera isn´t exactly in Peno´s tourist brochure.

I love this woman´s style. Notice the coco leaves stuck to the side of her face. After taking her photo, I showed her my pictures, her toothless kind energy put a huge smile on my face

“Gringo” The one woman persists and chuckles with the insistence of a harmless 8 year old school yard bully.

“Well, At least I am not selling llama fetuses…selling llama fetuses now that´s weird” I chuckle to myself as I continue strolling, my camera strap dangling on my wrist.