Remember all that crap I said about “the nearly even distribution of uphill battles and the subsequent downhill payoff“ of mountain biking?

Yeah, well, a few days later I found myself at a lofty 14,000 and some change feet, adjusting the seat and suspension of a bike I’ll most likely never be able to afford. It was raining. No, in fact it was raining/snowing, Andes style.

My legs were fresh, because I got a ride to the top. I skipped all the nonsense of being impressed with myself for climbing in the ultimate pursuit of that “subsequent downhill payoff.” I totally cheated.

And the downhill portion was definitely not a flash. Two, three hours later we rolled into a small village looking like this.

It was a little muddy towards the end. The locals got a kick out of it at our expense.

Because our guide was basically a self-centered man-child, he had no idea what the name of the village was, or the name of these ruins where we had lunch. I took a picture anyway.