This is a long one so get a coffee and get comfy:

Having to wait for clutch parts was ‘a god send’ in many ways as we were
able to spend some leisure time doing a few activities in and around the La
Paz area. The city is wild and buzzing but also a great launch pad into the
surrounding and accessible mountains.

We were enjoying being in the big city but were starting to feel rough after
5 big nights out on the town. I was in dire need of some exercise so I
hooked up with an English guy Steve who we had bumped into in a bar and
arranged to climb Huayna Potosi, a 6088m (20,000 foot) mountain - odd what
you commit to after a few beers!

I had to leave Alan in La Paz as he needed to be around in case the parts
arrived. The first two days or the climb were short days spent acclimatising
and practicing ice climbing with crampons and axes up to base camp at 5100m.
Breathing at this altitude is difficult and sleeping was nearly impossible,
every two or three minutes I would wake myself up trying to take massive
lungs full of the very thin air. I had an almost claustrophobic feeling and
sometimes had to sit up in the tent to calm the rising panic of
asphyxiation. Everything you do at this altitude takes your breath away,
even tying my boot laces had me puffing and panting, you can imagine how
hard climbing was.

We set off from base camp on our summit bid at just after midnight, after
zero hours sleep. We were now above the snow line so fitted our crampons,
got roped up with our guides and started the long steady trudge up the
mountain. In all we were eleven people attempting the summit that day all
roped together in twos and threes and following the same trail. The climb
was indescribable taxing; just concentrating on the next step in the
torchlight took all of my physical and mental effort.

At around 5600m we were faced with a totally vertical ice gully. Our guide
Miguel shot up with no protection and hammered in a couple of ice anchors.
Steve and I then had to follow up under the relative protection of the rope
belay from above. This short technical climb was enough to take it out of
us, the adrenaline of the climb carried us well but when back on the steady
incline again we found our energy had totally gone. I felt tried to the
core, after every short break I would be winded after just a few steps and
felt like I had the strength and coordination of the newly born bambi. The
pace was thankfully only painfully slow as we took pigeon steps though the
solid frozen snow.

Now at 5800m and after four and a half hours climbing we were faced with a
60 degree slope up the last 250m plus to the top. The final technical climb
looked overwhelming and I had had it but we pushed on. I have done a fair
bit of rock climbing before and know what is safe and what is risky. The
guide was not anchoring us in any way as we climbed in the advance string of
three. This was definitely risky, if any of us had lost footing, the axes
would never had held in the soft snow and we would have certainly have
pulled the other two down to our deaths. Half way up both Steve and my
fingers on our axe hands were solid with frost. Miguel came down to us to
help warm up our frozen fingers, eventually the feeling started to come back
with excruciating consequences. The pain was unbelievable and definitely
took my mind of the fatigue and fear, this was the closest I have come to
frost bite and in my mind it was too close. We pushed on, Miguel had changed
technique, much to my satisfaction, as the slope steepened to around 75
degrees, he was ice anchoring and belaying us up in stages on the rope. I
was at the bottom of the rope and had to time my moves with Steve above me,
to avoid slack in the rope but also to avoid pulling down on him. We would
normally put together around four or five moves before having to stop
breathless for a break.

After what must have been an hour of near vertical effort we were there,
6088m and the summit - elated, we had made it! It was 5.45am the sun was
thinking about rising in front of us and behind us to the west the lights of
La Paz were twinkling. The weather was perfect, the sky clear and there was
no wind, we were lucky as cloud, wind and snow were the norm at this time of
year. Of the eleven climbers out that morning eight summited including a
solo nutter, apparently the average success rate is more normally around the
20% mark. No one wanted to ask about the incident rate, I am sure with the
Bolivian tilt on health and safety the risks were significant, certainly
more dangerous than I had imagined before the offset.

The summit was cold and cramped with at one point seven climbers crowded on
a thin, overhanging strip of frozen snow and ice. After a few snaps our
elation was tempering as we contemplated the long decent in the rising sun.
The decent was obviously quicker and physically easier but still not without
danger; apparently 70% of incidents occur on the way down. We were all so
exhausted that the spectacular views were only part registering and all I
wanted to do was rest. On arriving at base camp I was beyond tired and found
it hard to raise even a smile, conversation was beyond me. At this point the
thought of ever climbing again was the furthest thing from my mind, soon
after a full recovery in the safety and normality of La Paz I was euphoric
and looking forward to my next 6000m plus summit - I guess this is the
nature of mountaineering!

We would be in Bolivia for Carnival and apparently the best one in Bolivia
is in Oruro. We had met up with some locals who invited us to join their
group so we took the bus over for the weekend.

Things started quietly enough watching the procession and the amazing array
of costumed dancers. God knows how half of them didn't pass out prancing
about in the stifling heat under all that heavy weight gear. It all started
to go pear shaped when "Mountain Steve" turned up and we got caught in the
middle of a massive foam and water fight. It was all great fun, though I am
sure the locals were picking on the token Gringo turnout. Eventually we made
it back to hotel to dry out when I noticed my camera had been stolen,
probably the same little blighters who had been feeding us water bombs under
the bleacher seating had seized a golden opportunity - didn't they know we
were fund raising for UNICEF. What with Alan's phone pick pocketed from the
Witches Market in La Paz we were not doing too well in Bolivia.

After another “crack of sparrows” start we found ourselves on the bus ride
to the top of the Death Road. Apparently the most dangerous road in the
world we were about to mountain bike down it for around 50 miles. We decided
on a sedate start as we did not want to join the statistics, this lasted for
about 30 seconds when we saw four Israeli lads shoot off at breakneck speed.
The race was on and we were hammering along full tilt on the wobbly old
bikes with dodgy brakes. One on the Bolivian girls we were with took a face
plant through a short gravel section, scuffed her chin and broke her nose -
ouch!

We soon arrived at the scary bit, hairpin upon hairpin of twisty single lane
gravel and mud track with the occasional uphill oncoming bus just to liven
things up even more. On the steepest section a mistake to the left would
have meant a 2000 foot totally straight down fall - fatal! I saw an
Argentinean lad sliding all over the place round a corner and almost going
over. Along the way the various plaques and memorials to the fallen were a
sobering reminder of the dangers but did little to slow this group of
foolish idiots.

The off-road section was cool and conditions varied dramatically from top to
bottom. From the high altitude treeless cold, to the wet tropical rain
forest then finally down into the hot and dry gravel. At times we were
riding through thick cloud and water falls and in the end we were choking on
the dust.

At the bottom we had a massive water fight with the local villagers and the
Israelis - we were all soaked again - this is all a traditional and fun part
of the Carnival season. Then up to Coroico to relax by the pool, sunbathing
in the warm low altitude sun and to stuff our faces before the really
dangerous part - the bus trip back up the death road. Apparently around five
or six buses go over each year invariably killing everyone on board.

Fed Ex's promise three day delivery of Alan's parts turned out to take over
three weeks. Taking advantage of this we had managed to squeeze in a trip to
the hippy hangout of Copacobana on the shores of Lake Titicaca and another
short rock climbing jaunt.

The local Honda dealer, Walter Nosiglia ended up doing a terrific job and
only charged £70 labour to replace the clutch. New sets of Pirelli MT60's
were also only £70 - very reasonable!

So we were off to Peru our 24th country. We were sad to leave Bolivia having
had some incredible riding and other experiences there. So much for mixed
reports we had received on this poor country. If anything we might say this
is our favourite country so far, if you can have such a thing. The people
have been great, the scenery second to none and the outdoor adventure
possibilities boundless.

The first port of call in Peru was Puno and a boat trip to the Lake Titicaca
floating reed islands, interesting and informative but a bit touristy and
samey after the first hour.

The scenery was all good high Andean Alto Plano and the roads passable. The
major routes passed right through the middle of some very busy towns. One
particular place called Juliaca was most memorable, no proper roads, mud
everywhere, mad traffic and a gridlock of rickshaws, if ever a town needed a
bypass that was it. It was by far the most hectic place we have driven
through since Africa.

The heavens opened just before Cusco and we arrived in town a bit damp in
the britches. We were greeted in the street and shown to a hotel by an
American biker Jeff who owns the cool Norton Rats bikers pub. It turned out
Fritz and Bev were in town. We originally met them at the Horizons biker
meet in Argentina, then again in La Paz and again on the road to Copacobana.
It was to be a city of reunions as we also bumped into George and Mugami the
Japanese couple we first met in Egypt, then Sudan, then South Africa, then
Bolivia!

First things first so we arranged for the obligatory visit to Machu Picchu.
We had wanted to take our bikes up but were soon informed by Jeff that many
had tried but failed, so it was the usual tourist route by train for us. We
managed to get our arses moving early and we were first through the gates of
the site at 6am. It was very atmospheric being the first in and seeing the
mist rise over the almost deserted ruin - very impressive. The only down
side of places like this the world over is they do attract the crowds.
However on this day we had the first two hours almost alone save a run in
with one ignorant tourist who was complaining we were talking too loud and
getting in the way of his photos - in Machu Picchu what was he expecting, a
private viewing?

Rain and cloud closed in at 8am and we felt just a little bit sorry for the
late arriving tourists as the weather and visibility were terrible - we had
been lucky. We came back into town early and got the early 1st class train
back - complete with fashion show, can't imagine British Rail persuading
their ticket collectors to do one of those.

Back in Cusco Fritz, Bev and we twisted Jeff's arm to take us on a ride out
through the Sacred Valley. The tricky, steep back street exit from the city
should have been a clue of things to come. The ride was full of great
scenery and twisty roads down into the Valley, wonderful riding country. The
sky looked threatening and hid most of the snow capped peaks but luckily the
rain held off.

Jeff took us off the beaten track to a salt mine site that has been in
constant use since Inca times. A great view down into the valley where
literally hundreds of little salt pans were fed from a warm salty stream. We
rode down the dirt track deep into the valley and had a walk through the
mine, the only tourists for miles.

Jeff was in two minds whether to take us further down the track where it
petered out into a donkey path. In the end he decided to give it a go and
suggested we might need to help each other getting round the couple of the
hair pins. So off we headed down the narrowing path. It soon became apparent
we were past the point of no return as the path was too skinny and steep to
even think about turning the bikes. With a 100 foot drop on our right our
attention was now focused. Then we arrived at the first hair pin and I
realised we were in trouble. It was hard enough to imagine how a donkey
would safely negotiate this track let alone 300kg of BMW. Jeff seemed to not
be having too much difficulty on his near mint vintage Norton Commando with
low seat and center of gravity. On the other hand we on our big BMW's were
struggling. At times it was impossible to get your feet down as you inched
the bikes down over the big rocks and steep steps. The only way to do it was
get off the bike and walk it down with engine off using front brake and
clutch to stop the back wheel. At the hairpins of which there were about
six, it was so tight it was necessary to heave the bike back and forwards to
get it round. Each bend took at least two people and was hot work, thank
goodness little Bev was on hand to give us a shove.

We finally made it down sweating like a bunch of dyslexics sitting and
English exam, miraculously no one had dropped their bike.

We rode out from there to Pisac for a great spot of lunch on the market
square. Unluckily we were running short of time and were unable to visit the
apparently spectacular ruins near the town.

As we were pulling out a local in a white Corolla estate stopped us for a
chat. He seemed ok maybe a bit drunk but not aggressive. Jeff took off and
disappeared up the twisty mountain road, within a few miles we came up
behind the Corolla going at a fair old lick (for a Corolla). Fritz waited to
pass at a straight section and the idiot in the car swerved across the road
to block his path nearly knocking them off. I couldn't believe what this
fool was doing, at every possible passing place he did the same thing and a
couple of times came close to knocking Fritz and Bev over the edge. After 20
minutes or so at a long straight Alan pulled left and the car swerved in
front to block again. I saw my chance and shot up the inside and got in
front. As I turned in my seat I could see the two drunken fools laughing and
waving - they were playing a stupid game, one with potentially deadly
consequences. I was very angry with the idiots and sent a few appropriate
gestures their way. I slowed in front of them to try and make them stop but
it was clear they would rather run into me that pull over. Alan also got in
front but Fritz was struggling two up, without fuel injection at this
altitude and couldn't get past. He was also had the safety of his passenger
to worry about.

Jeff had now slowed down and could see the events unfolding behind him. He
then shot ahead to where he knew a police car normally waited. The police
tried to flag the driver down but he flew past with the passenger leaning
out of the window waving an empty beer bottle like a club as if to throw it.

We pulled aside and let the cop car take up pursuit. After a couple of miles
the driver decided he had had enough and pulled into a lay by full of street
vendors. We all pulled up and Alan and Fritz were straight over to the car
obviously more than slightly pissed off. The police seemed quite ineffective
and events took a bit of a turn as tensions were high and blood was boiling.
Alan and Fritz managed to land a few punches on the driver and passenger as
the police just looked on. The air was blue as we gave the idiots our
opinion of their reckless driving behaviour. The crowd seemed quite
interested but did nothing to intervene probably realising we were feeling
rather aggrieved.

Things simmered a little as the police took something approaching control.
As we followed the Corolla with the police now driving, into Cusco I new we
were in for a long night.

At the station it was clear we were in trouble as the passenger was bleeding
from a nick on the side of his nose, quite clearly self induced but there
was talk of assault charges. Thank god Jeff was there, his Spanish is fluent
and we soon had his lawyer on the scene all suited up and looking the part.

We waited and waited, five dirty bikers and one smart lawyer milling around
outside the cop shop. The driver and passenger both went off to give blood
tests and statements, not much else happened for three hours except a lot of
cigarette smoking and foot shuffling.

We were eventually redirected to the central police station (apparently the
tourist police were on vacation) where the night court was in session.
Another three hours later and we were in front of the female Judge who was
in fact quite cute in an authoritarian dominatrix kind of way. I was quite
sure the trouser legs visible under her trench coat were in fact only gators
and she was otherwise naked. Needless to say my constant winking got us
nowhere. It was clear the car passenger wanted to press assault charges even
though the driver was very apologetic and clearly wanted to go home and
sleep off his hangover. So court was adjourned and procedures reconvened for
the following day.

Back in Norton Rats bar for midnight we drowned our sorrows, recounted the
day from every angle and pondered our possible jail term. We had heard a
thing or two about the prisons in this part of the world and decided it
might be a good idea to buy some soap on a rope, just in case.

Just to take my mind of things I took my bike to Peru Moto Tours in the
morning (www.perumototours.com) and met the very friendly and helpful owner
Alex. I followed him half way across town to a muddy lockup where he got his
boys to change my front tyre using a ingenious method involving only small
levers and little stones. Great guys and I was not even charged for the
work!

Back in court the passenger had sobered up and in the end followed the
drivers lead and was apologetic for his aggressive actions. The assault
charges were dropped; we dropped the driving with intent to harm charge and
other than a drink drive wrap it was all over. I guess these guys will think
twice before drink driving or trying to run bikers off the road again so our
efforts might have been to some avail.

So as it was St Patrick's Day we celebrated with Irish coffees (well in fact
Irish hot chocolates) and partied the night away. The next day we went to
Irish bar to see England get narrowly beat by Ireland at Twickers, very
noble of our boys to give such a generous St Patrick’s present!

Next day following a very early start, great road and scenery, we were going
well on track for making the twisty 650km over the mountains to Nasca.
Further down the road Alan started feeling rough and passed out on the
ground outside a Petrol Station restaurant. A bus soon arrived on the scene
and decanted its 40 passengers who had to step over Alan to get into the
restaurant. Totally unconscious and snoring away I decided to let him rest
as he was in a bad way and I new our chances of making Nasca that day were
over.

After a partial recovery we made another good early start and more great
riding through twisty roads over several high passes up to 4300m. We stopped
for coffee in muddy hole of Puquio, again amazed how people put up with deep
mud right up to their front doors. It seems the government is prepared to
pave the highways but not the town roads, the asphalt road runs right up to
the edge of town on both sides but between is a total quagmire.

In Nasca we could not miss an early morning flight to view the puzzling
Nasca lines. The lines cover a vast area of elevated flat desert and where
possibly made by the inhabitants of this area over 2000 years ago. The
enormous patterns can only be truly appreciated from the air and depict
various ritual animals and geometric shapes. At first considered to be proof
of alien life they were probably more likely routes followed by ceremonial
processions to try and conjure up a spot of rain in the all to common times
of drought.

From here up the coast of Peru we would be on the Pan-American Highway. It
was actually quite nice to be in the warmth of the desert again after over
six weeks in the high altitude chill. The Panam was actually not too bad and
in sections quite scenic, in a deserty kind of way, with glimpses of the
Pacific from time to time. Traffic was sporadic but with a few too many
heavy trucks for my liking.

As we approached the city of Lima a weird coastal fog descended which is
apparently typical but not at this time of year. The toll highway was
deserted even though it was rush hour, which only added to the twilight zone
feel to our ride through the suburban slums.

We stayed only two nights but had lots of fun in the Lima suburb of
Miraflores. We needed to make up some time after our various delays and make
it to Alaska before we were totally broke.

Just out of the city on a six lane highway we were pulled over by Judge
Dread! Smooth as you like, this greasy slick motorcycle cop managed to part
Alan from around £20. Apparently we were doing 82kph in a 60 limit. How
anyone would have known what the speed limit was is beyond me and in fact we
were doing more like 110kph. The "fine" was dropped from £40 when we
explained we were riding around the world and raising funds for UNICEF. No
receipt was give and the money went straight in his pocket. He even then had
the gall to then start to chat about the bikes. I was disgusted by him,
especially as he was a Harley rider! I guess we have not done to bad as this
is our first "road traffic offence" on the trip so far.

Mancora was a cool little beach resort with a great beach that goes on for
miles and a nice little point break. A real chilled out little resort was
the perfect spot for some serious R&R, some badly needed sun tanning and a
spot of surfing. We took bikes to the local tyre shop (a shed with dirt
patch in front) to get our first “road bias” tyres fitted since Egypt and it
turned into a bit of an epic. The very friendly mechanics were obviously
more use to dealing with truck tyres, they were very heavy handed and gave
our delicate rims a right old beating!

So from Mancora it was only a hop, skip and a jump to the bureaucratic and
laborious border crossing into Ecuador, the biggest pain in the arse since
North Africa. No doubt Central America will have more such pleasures in
store for us, guess we have had it too easy for too long.

Riding into Guayaquil we had our second brush with the law in as many
countries. Apparently motorbikes are not allowed through the tunnels into
the city, the reasoning for which remains unclear. We were pulled over at
the exit from the tunnel and the unfriendly cop started to write out the
tickets when a crowd started to gather. One of the pedestrians spoke a
little English and pleaded our case; the crowd was behind us as a verbal
barrage was unleashed on the hapless policeman. None too pleased he
eventually backed down under mounting pressure and scuttled off with his
tail between his legs. We were grateful to the mob and thanked them
accordingly; can you imagine that sort of thing happening in England?

Out of Guayaquil we took a wrong turn off the Pan-American and ended up
riding over the mountain pass track between Quevedo and Latacunga, here
things started to take a turn for the cold, wet and muddy. The rain and
cloud closed in and the tarmac run out. We were then only crawling along in
close to zero visibility on a very slippery twisty track with our newly
fitted 'tarmac bias' tyres. Rounding one bend a loon in a car came out of
the mist on my side and nearly had me over the edge. I called a warning over
the comms to Alan behind and hoped he would be ok. He was probably only 50
yards behind but I could not see him because of the fog. I called out again
to see if he was still alive and to my growing concern heard no reply. I
stopped, turned and slithered back up the road with baited breath. About 200
yards back I found him waiting in a ditch, though happily alive, well and
upright. The car had hogged the road had forced Alan to take evasive action
and head for the relative safety of the channel between the road and the
cliff. After a bit of pushing and shoving and we were away again.

Eventually the fog cleared and the trail turned back to tarmac again so we
pulled over to take stock. As soon as he got off his bike and put it on its
side stand Alan notices a stream of black oil pissing out of the cylinder
rocker cover. It was apparent that a rock had bashed a small hole in the
magnesium cover when he had careered into the ditch. We fashioned a
makeshift repair by ramming a small wooden peg in the hole and holding it in
place with tape and wire. At this point we also noticed that the repair made
to his oil cooler in Mancora was not good. Oil was everywhere now leaking
badly from two places, what with all the mud the bike looked a big mess. We
needed to get to Quito soon and hope at least some oil stayed in the engine.

Having had a late start and being delayed by the bad road over the mountains
we were running out of daylight. We were also quite cold and wet, a drastic
change from the stifling heat of Guayaquil. The last two hours riding into
Quito was in total darkness, something we have tried avoid on this trip, for
safeties sake. Dodging the heavy trucks coming into the city from the
Pan-American Highway was a bit hairy but we lived through it. We followed
our GPS waypoint all the way across the busy city to an overdue arrival at
Ricardo Rocco's Moto House www.andesmoto-tours.com.

Ricardo is a friendly guy and was very welcoming; the setup is great with
ample bike parking a massive workshop and very comfortable accommodation in
his house.