Bike-packing Peru: Machu Picchu to Ollantaytambo

Leaving Machu Picchu for Ollantaytambo we opted to take the more direct route that follows the train tracks for about 30kms. While the trip in from the west was fraught with midnight adventures, the east bound trek was an absolute joy.

Unencumbered by railway security, we started out around 7:30am, following the narrow pedestrian trail that jumped back and forth across the tracks. While the trains would roll by just inches from our handle-bars, the stunned looks on the faces of other gringo tourists behind the windows were well worth the risk. We had feared passing through dark tunnels but only came across two very short ones, much to our relief.

Eventually the narrow rough trail became glorious single-track that meandered through simple peasant farmlands, past towering great hills and alongside numerous ancient Inka ruins. At one point we bumped into two young ladies–one Italian, one very cute German–who had sent their bags ahead and we’re hiking to Machu Picchu. Exchanging details of what to expect from the trails ahead, we bid each other farewell and continued on till lunch. For those next several kilometers the trail was beautifully groomed double- and single-track with several punchy, rocky climbs, just to keep us honest.

Soon after passing the ruins Reilly and I had explored while riding a week earlier with new friends Gomez and Elder, we three hit a dirt road for the 15km ride back to Ollantaytambo. As we did, we came across two remarkable expressions of both death and life.
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This day happened to be November 2nd, dia de los muertos or, Day of the Dead. Passing through a tiny little town, we happened upon a graveyard. There, the entire townsfolk were out socializing, placing flowers at the tombs of relatives long past and drinking lots of the locally made and potent-smelling corn beer, Chicha. It wasn’t some great street festival, it wasn’t some commercialized All Hallows’ Eve candy-infused party; rather, it was a day of family, community and reverence for the dead. We passed by in silent respect, soon finding ourselves shaking hands with life.

Wanting a cold Coca-Cola after many hours riding under the warm sun, we stopped at a little tienda in the equally as tiny town of Cilca. There, we chatted with the shop-owner and his wife who was very interested in us, our bikes and our cycling adventures. He laughed and smiled, he told jokes and expressed pride in his Inka heritage. He was so full of life it was infectious. He was also 82 years old and had spent his whole life living in the same house in Cilca City, as he called it.

We shook hands, wished each other well and rode off, knowing that we had just peered into the eyes of life, bright and twinkling.