Hell Road gives us an arduous end

Lightning flashes in the distance. Scuffing sounds in the undergrowth, as unknown creatures pad by in the night. The occasional lorry chugging by, stacked high with tree trunks.

As the sun comes up, we all start to get organised, strapping gear back onto bikes and putting the place back how we found it.

The whole village seems to have gathered around to wave us off, with a parting offering of masato. Making masato is a time-consuming exercise, with the yuca plant boiled, peeled and then chewed, before being spat into a container to ferment for several days. Being invited to share a drink with your hosts is an ancient tradition of hospitality, and social suicide to turn it down. We pass around the glass, taking a gulp each. Yuca doesn't have much flavour by itself, so the drink is flavoured with fruit and spices. It's hard to describe the taste, except to say it's sour and maybe a bit tingly on the tongue.

With a big smile, our host drains the rest of the glass, and it's waves all around as the villages sends us off - onward, to Atalaya.

We've only been riding a few minutes before we're brought to a sudden halt again, as Joolz' chain comes off, and gets stuck in the gap beside the sprocket. A bit of brute force eventually gets it unstuck and back where it belongs. Soon after, Heather realises that her chain is also really loose, so another quick halt to tighten it up.

We had set off with a rough idea that it was maybe another 50km to Atalaya - a few hours and we'd be there. With no reception and no accurate map, we started asking the locals to get a better picture, and it sounds like it might be twice that distance, and with few opportunities for petrol along the the way. We fill up in a small village, not just the bikes but the jerry-cans we're all carrying too, and press on.

Despite the uncertainty about what's ahead, the bright sunshine and warmth brings out the playful side, and the river crossings give us an excuse to play - followed by the inevitable crashes.

It's around midday when Alvaro races through a stream at speed, spray coming up on both sides and giving us a great photo opportunity. Until he reaches the far side, and the bike sputters to a halt. And refuses to start. As he starts stripping bits off the bike, with water pouring out of the air intake, and the filter sodden and dripping, it's really not looking great.

With Heather and I both nursing issues with our bikes and being generally a little less gung-ho than the others, we decide to carry on, thinking that it won't be long before the others catch up. As we leave, it's reached the point where Alvaro's started removing the intake manifold.

Heather still has the occasional stop to open her tank and break the vacuum lock - her efforts to clean up the breather have helped some, but it's still not totally fixed. We ride on, not in any rush, and after a few hours, we're surprised that there's no sign of the others. Reaching a bridge, we look down into the river and decide this is a perfect spot to park up and cool off.

Half an hour later, with no sign of the others, we're back on the bikes and riding on. There's not been a hint of phone reception since we entered the jungle, so with no way to communicate, there's nothing to be done except keep riding.

As the day goes on, the road gets increasingly worse. The steep uphill sections are covered in so much loose rock there's practically nothing for the tyres to grip, and in first gear, we're half-riding, half-pushing the bikes up the hills. Stressing the engine like this soon has my bike overheating, with the engine stalling and struggling to restart. To top it all off, the bouncing and vibrations have done in for the panniers and luggage rack, with some of the bolts missing, and others sheared through. I do a quick bodge repair with the last bit of cord I've brought.

As dusk settles in, it looks like there's still a long way to Atalaya, and darkness brings a new problem. An earlier knock had thrown out the alignment of my headlamp, so rather than illuminating the road, it shines up in the air, lighting up the trees to my left. Heather and I experiment: side-by-side, her leading, her behind - whichever way we try, her headlight helps a little, but nothing really makes up for the lack of light. Things take a turn for the worse when my handlebars finally let go. Nursing a crack from before, they've now properly given up the ghost. Both sides can now swivel independently, and it's only by actively pushing them both forward can I keep any hint of control. The right handlebar rotates so far forward it's almost pointing at the front wheel.

But never mind, we're…er…not nearly there in the slightest - we've actually got no idea how far it is to go. But at least the road is…er…worse than any stretch we'd already gone through. Well, shit.

We encounter rivers across our path where we're having to shine headlights across, trying to figure out where (and whether) the road continues on the other side. They're both wider and deeper than anything before. "Hell road" indeed.

There's nothing for it but to keep going, wrestling the bikes up hills and across rivers, peering through the dark hoping not to come a cropper against the next unseen rock or pothole.

It's around 9 o'clock when we breathe a sigh of relief for a most welcome sight: a wrought-iron arch over the road, dangling a dimly-lit sign welcoming weary travellers. Atalaya. We'd arrived. Streetlights in the distance beckon us on, and the gravel turns to paved roads as we approach the central square.

We slump onto a park bench, and call Alfonso for directions to the finish line. "Where *are* you, we expected you hours ago! We've been messaging you all day!"

He jumps on a bike to find us, and leads us back to the finish line. It's only a block away, and the balloons pay tribute to the finish-line party that's been waiting for us for most of the day. With beers in hand, as we drink to the end of our adventure, and wonder what's become of the others.

It's not until 11:30 when they straggle in, and we get to find out what became of them. Alvaro's flooded engine had actually been fixed in fairly short order, and they'd all got underway. But it wasn't long until Joolz' engine inexplicably gave up the ghost, and he'd spent the entire trip being towed (occasionally dragged) behind Alvaro. Wow. That bike.

So at the end, after a spectacular week: what a ride. What a trip. What an adventure. Let's do it again.

Hangover cures and unexpected bridges

Rum was a tremendous idea. Last night. This morning, less good. Thankfully, the same café that plied us with rum yesterday, is now making amends with omelette, fresh papaya juice, and coffee by the gallon.

Heather and Rich make an early start, whilst Joolz and I take our time over coffee. We have a half-baked plan to maybe meet around Puerto Ocopa, but the coffee's too distracting.

As we leave Satipo, the traffic quickly disappears, and we have an open tarmac road ahead of us. It's quite odd, being back on tarmac. After wrestling gravel trails, mud and potholes for so long, it's actually quite nice, cruising at 40kmh, soaking up the sights.

As we're riding along, I begin to realise just how large the bugs are here, in what is essentially still jungle. They remind me how large they are by flying into my face, and at 40kmh, that's quite a reminder!

We reach Puerto Ocopa around midday, perfect time for a spot of lunch. As we ride down towards the ferries, Joolz starts cursing. He explains, pointing towards the narrow rickety boats, "The last time I came through here, we had to take those, they were the only way across the river. Now, some fucker's gone and built that!" As he gesticulates towards the main road, it's clear that the modern tarmac bridge has sadly taken some of the adventure out of the route.

Thankfully the adventure's not entirely gone. As we enter a café to ask about the menu, the lady who walks up to us has a tail wrapped around her neck, and of course I can't help but ask. She turns sideways to reveal a tiny marmoset, who, as I reach out my hand to say hello, jumps over to my arm and climbs up, before perching on my shoulder and holding on to my neck. It's just the cutest thing ever. Eventually I manage to detach myself, and we head up the hill.

With Puerto Ocopa running alongside the river, we had been hoping to find somewhere serving fish, and this place doesn't disappoint. A fish broth, followed by smoked fish and potatoes - exactly what we need to refuel.

We stop at the petrol station - a proper petrol station, with normal petrol pumps - and Joolz shares his concern. After riding all morning from Satipo on tarmac, and seeing a brand new bridge spanning the river, this could be it. Tarmac to the end. And what kind of finish would that be? The locals at the petrol pump quickly put us right: the tarmac is about to run out, and it'll be gravel from then on.

Sure enough, we cross the bridge, and the tarmac runs out, leaving gravel, grit, and rough terrain. As we leave the tarmac behind, the jungle becomes more and more obvious. During a brief pause, Joolz takes a chance than he's correctly identified the plant by the side of the road as coffee, and takes a bite. "If I die in a few hours, please don't tell Cool Earth what I ate, they'll laugh at me if I've got it wrong". He sounds a bit worried.

We catch up with Rich and Heather shortly after, and thankfully, Joolz still isn't dead.

As it gets closer to the evening, we're thinking about maybe stopping somewhere for dinner, and reach a village somewhat larger than the rest at just the right time. A large space sheltered by a roof but no walls marks out an open air restaurant, but it's the bird that catches our eyes. Iridescent green feathers and perched on a sign, she looks at us, shuffling side to side. We're told her name is Aurora.

With most strange animals, I'll proffer my hand, and wait for their reaction. Aurora jumps on my hand, scuffles up my arm, and perches on my shoulder, nestling her beak against my ear. The local animals really are adorable. It takes some encouragement, but she eventually takes her place perched back up on the sign.

Although it's getting late, with daylight left, in the end we decide to press on, with no expectation of reaching Atalaya this evening, but thinking to at least reduce the distance. Soon after we leave, Alvaro and Alberto catch us up - the first time we've seen them since Ayacucho. But with darkness falling, their tales of adventure will have to wait - we need a campsite.

Twilight quickly turns pitch black, but we're passing buildings, and having Alvaro and Alberto with us, my terrible attempts at Spanish translation are thankfully no longer required.

It turns out we're passing an Ashaninka community, who offer us the shelter of their school building for the night. It's a large cabana - a dirt-floored pavilion with a thatch roof and no walls - and most welcome. The others pull benches together for beds, whilst I hang my hammock from the roof beams.

We share tales of adventure across a campfire, before drifting off to sleep to the sound of crickets, and a crystal clear view of the southern stars dotting the sky.

Jungle, sunshine, and Satipo

An early night leads to an early start, as we all wake up with the dawn. It's still cold and overcast, but for now the rain's stopped, and it shouldn't be long before we descend into the warmth of the jungle.

We set off mindful that although we're carrying jerry-cans, it wouldn't be a bad idea to fill up at the next opportunity. We've not been riding long when we reach what seems to be a small village, and a building with cars and bikes in various states of disrepair parked outside. This usually means a mechanic, who often doubles as the local petrol station.

We stop, and I jump off, looking around for signs of life. Someone from the next building comes out, and I ask if there's petrol to be had in the village. She runs the village café and asks if we want to eat, but right now the priority is petrol. As she waves us off towards a field, we find someone midway through milking a cow. She does have petrol, but right now she's busy with cow's udders.

With that settled, we take a seat in the café. Fresh coffee and fried egg sandwiches makes us feel altogether more human, and it's not long before our bikes are fed too.

As we carry on, the road heads steadily downhill, exchanging altitude for warmth on the way into the jungle.

I love mountains, but jungles are new to me. They're their own kind of photogenic. Verdant greens, towering trees, and waterfalls crashing through canyons.

We've already had a few stream-crossings, but now they're getting wider and deeper. And inevitably more fun. Add in go-pros, cameras, and muddy lumps formed into natural kickers, we stop to have fun with one of them. Surprisingly, no one crashed!

Eventually Joolz and I press on to Satipo, leaving the others behind. I'm keen to get a mechanic to look over my bike, having accumulated a decent collection of breakages since my last mechanic visit only a few days ago. I blame it entirely on the bike. We arrive sooner than I expect, and the route in is lined with garages and workshops. After finding a hotel, I head back to mechanic alley, where everything is fixed apart from the cracked handlebar mount. Sadly that's aluminium, so most mechanics aren't able to weld it, and those who can, are shut. It looks like I'll be stuck like this for a while longer.

Back at the hotel, we go out to find food, and seeing all the Mototaxis, Joolz succumbs to nostalgia. A lap of the square (just for the hell of it) and a short ride later, our driver finds us the sort of food place where locals eat. The food's lovely, the local drunk seems to have taken a shine to us, and a begging dog has Heather feeding him scraps under the table.

Tired and fed, we reach our hotel, when Rich suggests a quick nightcap in the café next door. When he asks for a glass of rum, we find out that they only sell it by the bottle. So naturally, Rich buys the bottle. Cheers!

Snores galore, and a cold drizzly start

SnzzxxxGWKH. GhroWwhZZxFg. GrrOWWKHJIjdh. HHhhNhghgxx.

Despite the all-night snores of the upstairs resident, the shelter was most welcome. Camping at 3'500m altitude wouldn't be much fun, especially given the rain I'd heard overnight. So I was already sympathising with Rich and Heather, who had no doubt spent an uncomfortable night in the torrential rain. Whilst Joolz and I got up warm and dry, and breakfasted on hot coffee and fried egg baps.

We head off, and this is the point where we leave the "road", and head off into the hills, along a trail that's barely a dotted line on the map. Straight away there's trouble: Joolz, riding an even more diminutive bike than the rest of us, can barely get up. The path is *steep*, and his bike seems inclined to stall at every turn. It takes another 30 minutes for us to figure out the problem was - yet again - fuel. Brimming the tank at least stops it stalling, but can't do much about the 5kmh crawling speed up the hills.

Between the cloud cover and the altitude, it's blimmin cold. Having to physically wrestle the bikes around some of the more challenging terrain is at least one way to keep warm. An assortment of sheep, cows, pigs and alpacas line the route, mostly untethered and wandering free. Sadly, the dogs were also untethered, and it makes for a slightly worrying experience, riding a mountain path with a cliff to one side whilst a dog chases beside you, barking at you and nipping at your ankle. Slightly territorial.

The trail turns out to be fairly similar to the earlier road: sections of hairpin bends, loose gravel, and challenging riding, and parts where you can open up the throttle, and maybe even reach third gear!

We regroup near Comas, where the trail rejoins the road. Although we're aiming for Satipo, the clouds get thicker, the rain gets worse, and visibility fades away. With darkness falling and us all drenched and shivering, as we enter a village, Joolz calls a halt. Camping in this doesn't sound much like fun, and as Joolz eyes up some of the shepherd huts dotted along the roadside, I see a most welcome sign painted on the side of a building. Restaurant!

With hopes of repeating yesterday's success with a home-stay, I walk over to ask if there's anywhere to stay. I'm not sure my appallingly bad Spanish is understood, but they fetch someone else, and then a third, and before long they're offering to open their village hall, which turns out to have four bedrooms and doubles as a hostel. As soon as we park our bikes and drop our bags, they shoo us back up to the restaurant, where they bring out hot soup, and a platter of hot potatoes, which also turn out to be great hand warmers. We must have looked a right sight; shivering, soaked and bedraggled travellers, as we realise they're intending to feed us all entirely for free. In the end, we settle for leaving some money on the table, as we say our thanks and head to bed and the enticing warmth of a pile of a blankets.

Dodging potholes and finding shelter in a homestay

Morning comes, and Joolz, Rich and I set off to find out the verdict. Were the bikes fixed? Were they better than before? Had they all been flogged off on the black market? We jump into a taxi to find out.

As we rounded the final corner, we all burst into smiles to see three bikes lined up on the road, with our mechanic bent over the last in line. With my broken Spanish, I grasp the basics of "it's fixed, try it".

I climb on, turn the key, and cross my fingers. Deliberately choosing not to use the choke, I hit the starter button, expecting disappointment.

Broooooom broom brmmm brmmm brmmm brooooom. Big beaming smile, broooooooom!

Like a kid in a candy shop, I open the throttle full, and my grin gets even wider as the front wheel comes off the ground. Now *this* is what I'm talking about. It's like a new bike.

After a few laps up and down the road, I pull in again, and proffer wholehearted thanks to our mechanic.

One by one, we check our bikes out, and all have the same reaction. And what will this master mechanic charge us for this last-minute, rush-job repair? The princely sum of 80 Soles. A whopping £18.00. Needless to say we leave a tip.

Back at the hotel, we start stressing about our route again. Because it's not really mapped. Or if it's mapped, it's washed out. Or maybe occasionally passable. But we're riding monkey bikes, so we should be able to find a way around, right? Right?! We cross fingers, which is the best we can do.

On the way out of town, sirens blast, as Joolz gets stopped by the police. Apparently the licence plate is meant to be attached to your bike, not stuffed into your rucksack. Who knew? But duct tape solves every problem.

What was ahead can only be described as a mountain, and despite the best efforts of our mechanic, Joolz' bike struggled. Only to be expected, given that he was riding a 70cc compared to our 110.

That said, after summiting the peak over 4'000m, he blitzed the downhills, and it was my turn to struggle to keep up. Swerving potholes at speed with a cliff only a few feet away is surprisingly fun!

Eventually, as the sun starts to set, my sensible streak kicks in and I slow down. If I'm going to drive off the edge of a cliff, I at least want to see the view on the way down, and it's too dark for that.

With the sun totally gone, Joolz and I descend the mountain with the path ahead lit up by nothing more than our fairly rubbish headlights. The map shows a village a short way ahead, where our path leaves the road and cuts over the mountains.

As we enter the village, we spot a large building next to the road , and shine our lights against a sign: "Centro de Salud". My thinking is that "well, salud is something you might say to mean 'hello' or 'cheers', so maybe it means 'welcome centre' or something like that?"

So I go down the stairs, and examine the signs and notices, to figure out that "Salud" means "health" and the place is a clinic. Score nil for my Spanish.

As I'm explaining my mistake to Joolz, someone approaches wheeling a barrow, so I jump on the chance for some local knowledge. "A hotel? Yes, follow me". He abandons the barrow by the side of the road, and leads me into the village, where he walks into the hardware store.

We'd lucked into a home-stay: a place ready to welcome travellers in their spare room. A hot meal and a beer from the café over the road topped the evening.

Broken locks, sympathetic roads, and a mechanic in mind.

Ah, respite. It was nice whilst it lasted. I woke up, comfortable. I had a long shower, in warm water. I got dressed in clean clothes. All was well with the world. I came downstairs. The others were already there. I said good morning. I went to my bike.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

We'd left our bikes parked up in a row, in front of the hotel. It was the central square, extremely visible. We thought it was safe. Clearly not.

I was intending to get some fuel. I crouch down next to the bike, to unlock the saddle and look inside the tank, but there's clearly something wrong. The saddle lock is *scarred*. I pointless insert the key, already expecting failure. Sure enough, it struggles, and I don't want to force it and risk breaking the key.

Our best guess is that someone wanted fuel, and as my bike was on the end, well, they'd tried. Whilst failing to get into my bike but breaking the lock in trying, they'd also completely failed to notice the full jerry can of fuel strapped to the side of the next bike along.

With the aid of a sturdy screwdriver and brute-force to break my saddle lock, I could at least refuel.

With my bike back in action, the next priority was rather more enjoyable. Fresh coffee, churros, and pastries more than made up for the morning's surprises.

We all set off from Pampas together, but the hills on the way out leave poor Joolz struggling. On the plus side, as I'm waiting for him to struggle up the hills, I get enough time to add a jumper and gloves - it's bloody freezing in the clouds.

We can follow this solid, tarmac road, all the way to Huancayo. Or we can turn off this road, and take a shortcut. Do we? Of course we do. The turnoff has maybe 30m of tarmac at the start, as if to reassure us it's a road. It's really not.

It's a lot of fun, as we video each other slipping and sliding down this dirt track on totally inappropriate and impractical bikes. There are a lot of steep twists and turns, and then, just after it levels out, we start "breaking down". Well, I say breaking down. I have a red fuel-warning light, so I put some fuel in, and problem solved. Others though, they insist that as there is fuel sloshing about in the tanks, they're not out of fuel - it must be broken down. Strangely enough, after filling the tank, the problem goes away. The fuel pickup isn't in the best position to deal with these hills.

We eventually reach Huancayo. Great. Not only is it an urban area - which my bike will inevitably *hate*, most of the traffic seems intent on killing us. I turn off the engine at every red light, which of course means getting beeped by everyone the moment the light turns green.

Somehow, both me and the bike survive to reach our destination - the hotel Balcones. Relief and high-fives all around.

It takes about 30 seconds of discussion for Rich, Joolz and I to decide to seek professional help. We'd spent the last few days experiencing or on the brink of a breakdown, and we desperately needed a mechanic. Numerous badly translated directions and wrong turnings later, we eventually found a garage. And apparently I'm the nominated speaker. I last practiced Spanish for my GCSEs, 21 years ago. If only my teacher could hear me now…she'd take away that GCSE in a heartbeat. Sorry Miss James.

Mostly through the medium of mime, we managed to communicate just how fucked the bikes are. Sadly, the mechanic is busy, and can't help us right now. As I try to explain what we're doing, and that we're leaving tomorrow, he says if we leave the bikes with him, he'll have them ready for us tomorrow morning - come back at 9 am. Result!

Mountains, views, and breakages on the way to Pampas

A sunny but chilly morning, and a plan. The mission: to find a bottle for spare fuel, and fuel up. Churcampa's a large village/small town, so it has a hardware store. The friendly owner tells me about his love of opera music, calls us "loco" after I describe our trip, and quickly digs out a spare empty bottle for fuel, which he gives me for free.

Back at the hotel, and Joolz has done some recon. We jump on the bikes to fuel up. We follow Joolz' directions, but the "gas station" isn't a covered forecourt with pumps and signs. Locals direct us to an unmarked door on a side street. We park our bikes on the pavement and wait. In the end, it takes over an hour for our bikes and jerry cans to be filled, as we get passed over for a JCB, a truck, and a couple of cars. Filling tanks with one-gallon jugs is slow going. Joolz gets his jerry-can filled, but moments later, it starts pouring out onto the road. Positioning it at a careful angle stops the leak, but lets face it: it won't make the journey like that. He abandons that can, and siphons it into another: Joolz is going to have to go without a spare.

It feels like we spent ages getting ready to go, but it's still fairly early when we leave Churcampa, climbing up the mountains, making our best guess about the road out. With the weight of the jerry-can, Rich looks a little wobbly. Thankfully, he drives into the ditch. Good thing too, the other side has no barrier, and quite a drop.

Whilst Rich repacks his bike, I use the excuse to take some photos; mountains and sunshine giving glorious views.

As we press on, the road gets worse, becoming little more than a gravel path. A gravel path also being taken by a huge truck carrying massive coils of electrical cable. We can either trudge along at 15 kmh behind the truck, or try to overtake on the narrow gravel road-that's-not-a-road without dying. We both overtake, nearly but not quite dying.

Heather and I press on, conscious that we want to stay ahead of the truck, but aware we haven't seen Rich or Joolz since we overtook. I'm also trying to avoid full throttle, because my bike's given up way too many times already, and if I have to push it over this mountain, I might well end up collapsing too.

As we pass a sign for Centro Poblado, there's a village on the road below us, so we stop, wondering if they'll catch up. We park in the shade of a rudimentary storage building, and make friends with a snuffling pig on the hillside just below. We wait long enough for the truck to overtake us, checking WhatsApp to see if Rich or Joolz has picked up our messages. They haven't.

With no way to communicate, we decide that they're probably together, and if they've broken down, they're more likely to backtrack towards Churcampa, so our best bet is to press on rather than wait.

We set off, and breathe a sigh of relief to see the massive truck parked up in the village. Neither of us fancied trying a second overtake! The road alternates steep hills then steep descents, glorious views and occasional alpacas.

After the earlier trials and torments, my bike seemed to have been doing so well. It turned out that was false promise, as I ran out of fuel. Running out of fuel wasn't really a surprise - for the last twenty minutes, I'd been running with the red light on - but after refuelling from the jerry-can, it stubbornly refuses to start. Sadly, swearing at it and kicking it does not solve the problem.

With a thousand-foot cliff off to one side, bump-starting it isn't a choice I particularly wanted, but the alternative is pushing it for a long long way. Once it starts, I turn up hill, open up the throttle, and go go go. If I stop, it'll probably stall, and I don't really want to go through all this again.

Sadly my bike cares little for what I want. Not long after, there's a THUNK, and I immediately look around to see my petrol can being dragged along by the cord I'd used to attach it. Screeching to a stop, I grab the fuel can and tilt it until it stops leaking. Then I notice that my luggage rack has broken, and wonder just how many things can go wrong.

After decanting what was left of the fuel, and rearranging the luggage as best as possible, we press on. I'm now riding so far forward I'm practically straddling the handlebars. This really is not comfortable.

To say that "we then arrived in Pampas" is to omit hours of discomfort, awkwardness, swearing, and a general desire to throw the bike off a cliff, but we then arrived in Pampas.

Pampas is a small town - an urban area, wth traffic lights, stop-signs, and such like. So what happens? My bike throws a tantrum and breaks down. Well of course it does. Cue swearing.

Over the next few hours, we manage to generally get our shit sorted out. ATM discovered and used. Hotel found. Made contact with Rich and Joolz, who had indeed broken down, and again, ended up hitching a ride on the back of a truck.

Here's the thing - be it a hostel, hotel, or room for the night - somewhere to stay makes it all OK. When you get a room, unload your luggage, and lie down on a bed, all the problems go away. Sure, you'll wake up tomorrow with a bike determined to break down and a road of torment ahead, but for now, there's a few hours of respite and blessed peace.

Stalls, breakdowns, and fear of the dark

It's 10am. We originally planned to leave at 6. Our bikes are being dismantled and modded - brackets for our saddlebags. I don't have saddlebags. Oh well, next time.

We eventually set off just before 12. Well, I say "set off". I got as far as 10 yards out of the courtyard before the bike stalled. Then wouldn't start. I tried choke on, choke off, throttle on, throttle off: no dice. Eventually turn the bike around to try a bump-start: it lives! I go around the block, meet the others, and we set off again.

Over the next 30 minutes I discover just how temperamental this bike is. Having stalled rather too many times, and on the latest occasion, couldn't restart, I lost the others. This is how, 30 minutes after setting off, I ended up pulling out the toolkit and getting to work. Air intakes clean and not blocked, fuel's coming through, but the spark plug's black as sin. After cleaning it up a little, the engine finally started. I've no idea where the others are, but there was a vague plan to go north to Churcampa, so I put the sun to my back and head to the north road out.

It was around 10 minutes later, the bike having come to another shuddering halt, I figured out that not only was the bike crap, so was my sense of direction: I'd been going south. Turns out that putting the sun to your back to head north only works in the northern hemisphere. But really, who knew?

It was gone 2pm before I finally got out of Ayacucho, and away from the stop-start traffic of the town, the bike actually start behaving. I gunned it onto Huanta to catch up. Given an open road, the bikes are actually quite quick: 60kmh on the flat.

The bike ate up the miles, and an hour later I found myself in Huanta. A short pause to look up directions, a couple of traffic lights, and the bike was back to its bad behaviour. Letting it cool down seemed to help, and I eventually reached the edge of Huanta, and saw some familiar shapes on the road ahead: I'd caught up!

And just in time too: they'd planned an off-road section just after Huanta. Leaving the tarmac behind is what these trips are about. The trail turned out to be steep, with loose gravel sending our bikes skidding around: Joolz is the only one with proper off-road tyres. A couple of shallow fords add to the fun. As we stop for a break half way along, we get quickly surrounded by the local kids, who are keen to find out where we're from, and laugh at our appalling broken Spanish.

When we reached the main road again, we set off towards Churcampa with a plan to camp there for the night. But you know what happens to plans on trips like this…

My fuel-warning light came on, but sadly no gas-station in sight. Our group of four had become separated: Heather ahead of me, with Rich and Joolz behind. As my bike came sputtering to a halt, I still felt it necessary to look in the fuel tank and confirm it was indeed empty. Pushing a bike - even a little monkey bike - uphill at 4000m altitude is not much fun. I hoped after the crest there might be a nice downhill stretch, to a village and a gas station, but it was not to be. There was a downhill stretch, but ending in a bridge then an uphill: the village, Mayocc, was still a little further.

With night falling, I left the bike by the side of the road and started walking. Along the way, I see an update from Joolz and Rich: they've also had a breakdown, which explains why they hadn't passed me by.

In the village, I ask about fuel, and the locals direct me further down the road, and as I'm going into a shop to ask, a guy comes over from his truck. Not only does he have fuel, he'll give me a lift back to the bike! As we drive back down the hill, he mentions my "dos amigos" - turns out he's on the way to help out with Joolz and Rich. We fill up my tank, and I follow him back down the road to regroup with the others.

It seems that Joolz' bike really won't start, so his bike goes on the truck, and we all set off. A lightning storm made camping look less inviting, but Heather had made it to Churcampa and found a hotel with room for all of us.

Rich and I press on with truck and Joolz a little way behind, darkness making the sketchy roads even sketchier. As we're going along, I realise Rich is no longer with me. After waiting for a few minutes, I head back down the hill, to find him by the side of the road with a bike that won't go. Sure enough, his tank's looking fairly dry too. Sloshing the dregs around, he manages to get it going again briefly, but it's not all that long before it conks out again, and his bike joins Joolz on the truck.

It's really dark now, and spotting pot-holes, loose gravel, and the edge of the road is proving tricky. This might be the most dangerous thing I've ever done.

The sign saying "Churcampa" is a welcome sight, and following Heather's directions, I find the hotel, and switch the bike off with relief.

As the truck pulls up shortly after, we quickly figure out what was wrong with Joolz' bike: he too had run out of fuel. That actually made all four of us, but Heather had been the only one with foresight to carry spare fuel. We all resolved to do something about that in the morning, but for now, our plans are sleep and rest. We'll figure the rest out tomorrow.

Blessings and breakfast

Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep. My alarm nudges me insistently from sleep, and as I pick up my phone to turn it off, I see a whole bunch of messages from the others…our plans of meeting at 8 have suddenly changed, and the Shaman blessing our journey has arrived early. The only schedule you can guarantee on these trips is that whatever time you plan for, that's the time it won't happen.

I quickly head over to join the end of the ceremony, and get blessed by the Shaman. It's an interesting mix of Christianity, Peruvian and Andean tradition, with herbs dipped in holy water, and splashed over our bikes and us. This evening, the Shaman will climb a nearby mountain, to light candles and pray for the success of our trip.

Blessings complete, I pack and carry my gear to the bikes. Ready to go, it's time for breakfast. Sitting on the balcony, espresso in hand, sun shining down over the square, and no plans beyond jumping on the bike and riding, I think: this is nice.

Start lines, bikes, and launches

Snow-capped peaks in the distance. Here and there, a building, clinging to the edge of the mountain like a barnacle on a rock. We seem to be flying close to the mountain. Is it us that's low, or the mountains so high? On another day, in another aircraft, I'd jump out. Another blanket of cloud, clinging and spilling down cliff-faces like sea-foam hiding rock-pools along a shore.

As mountains gives way to hills, the blanket of cloud frays and disappears, and houses start to dot the hillside. As we approach Ayacucho, carefully steering our way around mountains peaking above us, a wide lick of brown gives testament to the rains and mudslides that so recently laid waste to the country.

Ayacucho airport. More suited to Cessnas than Boeings. I learned that our flight had been at 25,000', not much higher than the mountains at all.

On to breakfast: Café Viavia, overlooking the lovely Plaza de Armas. With emphasis on the Armas, as I discovered, peering down from the balcony to find myself staring down the barrel of a gun. A squad of soldiers lined up for a parade, rifles shouldered, pointing up at…me. Oh. Still, nice of the Adventurists to organise a parade for the start of the Monkey Run, right?

Alberto and Alvaro soon joined me, when I learned we were one short: Felix was currently stuck in the UK. Is it possible that my dose of adventure luck has missed its mark and struck elsewhere? After all, my journey so far has been untroubled: flights on time, luggage not lost, surely this can't last?

And so: to the bikes! They are unsurprisingly shit. Heather's been here two days already, and has discovered two in particular are noticeably shitter than the others. Stalls are frequent, and throttles erratic. Best to avoid those two then.

Joolz brings out a helmet and drops the keys inside. As Heather begins to fish, she shares the ones to avoid: "don't go for the blue ones". Heather looks at the label: "Yes, it's the black one! That one's the best!" I'm next. I pull out a key, and read licence number on the label. As I walk along the row of bikes, looking for a match, it comes as no surprise to find I have a blue one.

Bikes assigned and paperwork complete, we wander out to find Ayacucho in siesta. Splendid idea. We follow suit.