I was warned that it was a dangerous eccentricity organised for and indulged by international tourists alone. They allegedly ‘lose’ a tourist a month (though I don’t believe it). I was however, for reasons that quite escape me, adamant I wanted to cycle down the most dangerous road in the world.
I have said I dislike tours. I also have little time for the vest topped Pepsi Max image of adrenaline sports, but there I was at the summit wanting to get on with it as if the size of my penis depended on it.
It was, to my surprise, an utterly thrilling experience to descend 3000 meters on a precipical dirt track in an hour and a half. It was also, when I took the time to lift my head from my vibrating handlebars, stunningly beautiful. I rode a few feet behind the guide, who also rode like a lunatic, grinning like an idiot through some of the most beautiful sub tropical scenary, rivers and waterfalls and eventually into the village of Coroico. I have a t-shirt to prove it (though I have yet to cut off the sleeves). I am a bit of lunatic on a bike, maybe this is the real reason I never learnt to drive.