Divide & Conquer
In the remote mountains of Peru, the Incadivide pits cyclists against 1,650km of tough roads with 32,000m of climbing – much of it above 4,000m. No wonder only a few make it to the finish
Cyclist experiences ecstacy and agony on a 1,650km race with 32,000m of climbing in the remote mountains of Peru
Istop pedalling. Not because I want to but because I have no other choice. In the oxygenscarce air at 4,600m I only have the physical and mental capacity to focus on one task at a time. My mouth is parched, my lips are cracked and I need to drink something. The effort of climbing for the past four hours has left me deeply fatigued. Behind me lies a road that has already risen two vertical kilometres; ahead is another 300m of vertical ascent, the thought of which leaves me feeling completely empty. This is no ordinary climb, but then this is no ordinary race.
At 1,650km long and with an almost incomprehensible 32,000m of climbing, including several passes that rise above 4,000m in altitude, the Incadivide is one of the hardest self-supported ultra races in the world. It is for that reason that I find myself standing by a roadside in Peru, wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake.
Sleep comes easily after 3,000m of climbing, but waking to start at 4am the next day does not
At the start of the race, my strategy is simple: be on the road by 5am each day; ride all day; ride no more than three hours in the dark; be asleep by 10pm; repeat for seven days. I’m aware that this will be tough to execute. For starters, the temperature ranges anywhere from freezing to sweltering. Also, there is a huge amount of high altitude riding, a large proportion of it on gravel, and the remoteness of the route means there could be issues finding food and water.
Putting the plan into action
The race starts under a veil of darkness in the coastal town of Trujillo. The initial pace is high – too high – but that’s to be expected given the collective release of tension that has been building for days. A few hours down the road and the peloton has thinned out as riders settle into a more sustainable rhythm.
Day breaks and I feel energised as the wind presses against my back. I know the wind can be a fickle friend, one that can quickly turn against me, but it stays on my side for more
than 300km, pushing me to the mountain town of Cajamarca and checkpoint one, where I arrive in third place.
Sleep comes easily after 3,000m of climbing, but waking to start pedalling at 4am the next day does not. With the temperature close to freezing I yearn for the warmth of the sun and hot coffee, neither of which will come for some time. Ultra racing is a mindset as much as an experience, an ability to cope with discomfort, knowing that it won’t last forever.
As the first slivers of light creep over the horizon I roll through rural villages, slowly enough for me to catch glimpses of everyday life but too quickly to ever truly feel a part of the scenes I am fleetingly in. On more than one occasion villagers appear and invite me to stop to share their hospitality.
I must keep moving forward, so I smile, wave and, in my best schoolboy Spanish shout my apologies: Lo siento mi amigo. I can see the look of disappointment on the faces of my wouldbe hosts and a pang of guilt prods me in the stomach each time it happens. Then the voice in my head reminds me that I’m here to race, and with that I press a little harder on the pedals.
Dog days
Day slowly morphs into night, the horizon turning from orange to red and then to black. I opt to push on to the next village, which means one more climb at the end of a day that has been littered with energy-sapping inclines. Gravel soon turns to mud, and a growing sense of selfdoubt mixed with hunger and fatigue starts to turn my mind against me.
I briefly contemplate turning back until a snarling dog appears from nowhere, forcing me into a flat-out sprint to avoid being bitten. At 3,500m above sea level the effort sucks the air
from my lungs, and by the time I reach the crest my heart is pounding and my brow dripping with sweat. From here I begin the long and cold descent back towards civilisation and the promise of food and sleep.
By the third day my morale is starting to wane. Tackling a series of gravel climbs I feel unusually fatigued, and I try to boost my spirits by reminding myself that I am getting ever closer to the crux of the race, a gruelling 400km loop through the heart of the Huascaran National Park and the mighty Cordillera Blanca mountains.
In a bid to eat my way through the lethargy I devour several bananas and flapjacks, but to no avail. My body feels drained as I reach one of the highlights of the race: the climb to Pallasca, which boasts more than 50 switchbacks. As I make my way up the lower ramps I feel my condition worsening. I press on, doing my best to distract myself from my discomfort.
It’s no use. I stop and, hunched over like an old beggar, I vomit the contents of my stomach onto the dirt track. My worst fears have been realised: I’m sick, and to make matters worse, I still have another 10km of riding and 1,000m of climbing to reach the nearest village.
Just as I am about to give up hope, I remember I have two bars of chocolate in my saddlebag, labelled ‘in case of emergency’. This is definitely an emergency, but the sugary goodness doesn’t last long, and more rumbling in my stomach precedes another bout of vomiting.
For three hours I alternate between slowly pedalling and walking until finally I make it into the village square. I’m greeted by looks of concern from a gaggle of elderly women wrapped in brightly coloured ponchos and wearing bowler hats.
Gravel soon turns to mud, and self- doubt mixed with hunger and fatigue starts to turn my mind against me
I’m far from the only one who has to come to terms with a broken dream. Of the 50 riders who set off, only 12 will finish
‘ Donde esta el hotel, por favor?’ I ask weakly. They point to a small, whitewashed building on the other side of the square. Inside I’m welcomed by a portly gentleman who launches into a series of questions I neither understand nor have the energy to answer. Eventually he shows me to a run-down, windowless room that clearly hasn’t been cleaned for some time. I couldn’t care less. I collapse onto the bed and close my eyes.
Pain and glory
The next 36 hours are tortuous, both physically as my stomach violently expels anything I try to eat, and mentally as I watch my fourth place vanish. I finally resign myself to the fact that my race is over, and my heart sinks as I think back to all the miles I’ve ridden in the lead-up to the race, the long days and even longer nights away from my family.
I’m far from the only one who has to come to terms with a broken dream. Of the 50 riders who set off from Trujillo only 12 will make the finish, the rest succumbing to illness, mechanicals and high-altitude exhaustion.
Eventual winner Sofiane Sehili will describe the Incadivide as ‘the hardest I’ve ever ridden’ – this from a man who has top 10 finishes in both the Tour Divide in the Rockies and Trans Am Bike Race across America.
‘There’s so much climbing every day, climbing for four hours, five hours, even eight hours one day,’ he says. ‘Then there’s the altitude – it’s crippling. Above 4,000m you can’t really do much. Your body is working at maybe 50% of its capacity, it’s just so hard.’
And yet there’s still a smile on his face as he recounts his journey, one that sees him finish in a staggering five and a half days – and that includes an emergency stop for a rabies injection after he was bitten by a dog on the first day.
With so many tales of bravery and determination, I decide to make the most of my bad situation rather than returning to Trujillo feeling sorry for myself. Once I’ve mustered
enough energy to get out of bed, I take a bus and pick back up on the official race course at the foot of the Punta Olimpica climb, which starts at a height only a handful of Europe’s most iconic passes reach at their summits, eventually arriving at an altitude of 4,732m.
Still feeling a long way from full health, I set off from the town of Carhuaz at a gentle pace, easing myself into a climb that has become iconic among bikepackers visiting Peru. The road twists and turns through dense woodland, every so often opening out to offer sublime views of Huascaran, Peru’s tallest mountain at 6,768m.
Above the tree line the road shallows slightly as the pampas stretches out in front of me, herds of cattle grazing lazily on verdant grasses teeming with wildflowers. I edge past 4,000m and although my pace is agonisingly slow, I’m almost thankful that I am no longer a part of the race. Instead I’m able to immerse myself in the moment, acutely aware of the enormity of my surroundings, and how diminutive I must look by comparison.
The summit is hard won. I drag myself over the crest in a state of high altitude-induced delirium, bitterly cold and breathless. As I fight to fill my lungs I look around and staring back at me is a cluster of 6,000m glacier-clad mountains that dwarf the pampas below them. For a brief moment the disappointment of not completing the race is replaced by the privilege I feel at being able to witness this sight, something few riders – few people, even – will ever get to experience.
From Punta Olimpica I begin the long ride back down to sea level and the final stretch of the race route. The air becomes increasingly warmer with every metre dropped until, by the time I reach the Canyon del Pato, it’s as though I’m riding through a furnace.
I’m happy to be back down safely, yet a part of me yearns to be back up there at high altitude in the mountains, breathing in the cool air and the promise of adventure it brings.
Marcus Leach is a rider and writer who has spent more hours on a bike than most people have spent on their sofas
Staring back at me is a glacier- cluster of 6,000m
clad mountains