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The bus marathon to get to Peru from Ecuador

So yeah, the buses were outrageous. First up: 14 hours overnight, 9 p.m. to 11 a.m. No AC. They turned it on for, like, half an hour total. The rest of the time? Just sweating it out.

We rolled into Chiclayo, Peru at 11 a.m., killed six hours in town before the next ride. Had one meal, sat around the bus station, nothing special.

Then came round two: another 7 hours to Chimbote. We got dropped off at midnight, still had to ride 5 km on the highway just to find a place to crash. The next morning we hung around the mall—couldn’t actually go inside because of the bikes—just killing time. Then came the final round: another 7-hour bus to Huaraz. At least I started watching El Patrón del Mal on Netflix—gotta make those hours count somehow.

All in all? 28 hours on buses. 28.

When we finally arrived in Huaraz (start of the Peru Great Divide), I immediately understood why people stay here for weeks or even months. The mountains around the city are insane—peaks shooting up 5,000–6,000 meters, just right there in front of you. Some travelers spend a whole month climbing and exploring them. Honestly, I get it. It’s definitely a place I’d like to come back to.

Peru Great Divide (PGD)

Alright, let’s get to the fun stuff. To be honest, I didn’t know much about cycling in South America before this trip. The only thing I really knew was that the Peru Great Divide is supposed to be incredible. But oh boy—what I didn’t know was just how brutal it would be, and how much of an ass-kicking this ride was about to deliver.

We started slow—just getting out of Huaraz on the first day with a short 2.5 hour ride. The real work began the next day, climbing higher and higher. It felt strange to be pedaling hard above 4,000 meters, where every push on the pedals hits different.

At the same time, the road was still in pretty good shape—because the first 70–80 kilometers were paved. So honestly, it didn’t feel that bad. But then we hit the gravel section. That’s when things changed. The first 30 kilometers, with all the ups and downs, took us more than three hours.

We eventually rolled into the small town of Corpanqui. Apparently, the town was celebrating the Aniversario de Colegio, so there was a small party going on. We got gladly pulled into it—offered beers by old señoritas and even invited to dance and join the locals. Totally unexpected, but it gave the whole stop a great vibe. We camped in the football field that night.

Carpe Diem

The next day really hammered home why the Peru Great Divide is so tough. The first 17 kilometers took me 1 hour and 40 minutes. Back in Lithuania, I could’ve done 40 km in 1 hour and 30–40 minutes. That’s when reality hit: the next month is going to be brutally hard. Devastating, even.

So yeah, I had a choice. Either worry about the future and suffer mentally, or figure out how to make this ride as enjoyable as possible. 

So I started playing this little game. With my Wahoo bike computer, I can see how far I’ve gone, the current elevation, and how much climbing I’ve done so far.

At one point, I was at 17 kilometers and 200 meters in distance, with 465 meters of elevation gain. That’s when I started asking myself: what’s going to happen first? Will I hit 18 kilometers, or will I hit 500 meters of climbing? In that sense, I managed to chop the big climb into smaller, manageable chunks. Instead of thinking, “I have to climb for 3–4 hours,” I could tell myself: okay, just make it to kilometer 18… then 19… then 20. Or hit 500 meters of elevation… then 550… then 600.

Breaking it down like this made the impossible feel just a bit possible. My head finally had a map. So, with my little game, the whole Carpe Diem strategy morphed into more of a Carpe Momentum approach, just focus on the next step, the next 5–10 minutes.

And let me remind you—most of this is happening at nearly 4,000 meters or higher. At the same time, we’re usually not talking about smooth gravel like you see in cycling magazines. Nope. It’s rocks, dirt, sand, and a chaotic mix of all of it. Sometimes it’s nice, though.

Overall, I found myself 10 to 20 times a day trying to shift to a lower gear on uphill sections—only to realize I was already on the lowest gear. As always, very, very humbling.

Big day (100km, 3000m gain, 8+ hours)

The next day we were trying to reach the city of Oyón, which meant 100 km with 3,000 meters of elevation gain. We knew it was possible, but at the same time we thought about stopping earlier. That would have meant camping somewhere around 4,300 meters.

In the morning, we didn’t think we were going to push it, but after the first successful 3 hour stretch at the beginning, we decided: alright, let’s do it.

It meant that for the first seven hours we were basically just climbing, with the exception of 15 minutes. You guessed it—I was playing the same game for up to seven hours. I was playing the same game—guessing whether I’d reach 2,200 meters of elevation first, or 55 kilometers, or 56 kilometers before hitting 2,250 meters, and so on.

For 6.5 to 7 hours, we were climbing—so basically 6.5 to 7 hours uphill with a 30-kilo bike. For my Lithuanian readers out there: imagine riding up Narbuto Hill for seven hours straight. Uphill. Seven hours.

That day, I really had to dig deep and think about why I’m doing this. By the end of the day, I realized that, to an extent, I’m very privileged to have the chance to be humbled in this way—to push myself to the limits, and do it just for fun when I step back and think about it.

It really made me feel that all of this—the struggles, the mental hardships—just kind of strengthens me. 

At the same time, I knew this climb was actually on good pavement, which made it easier. But I also knew what was coming later was just going to kick my ass even more.

Mental games and self doubt

The next day we started a long, gravelly section, and that’s when I realized I had made a huge mistake choosing my bike. I couldn’t have known beforehand, but basically my lowest gear isn’t low enough to handle 7, 8, 9 percent uphill climbs on gravel at close to 4,000 meters.

So for four hours, whenever I could still cycle, I was just thinking—self-doubting, self-blaming myself for not researching better. Even though I know I couldn’t have known everything at the start, it still felt like a huge mistake. And it also meant there was going to be a lot of bike pushing in the coming days.

Naturally, I couldn’t have known everything, and that’s understandable. We’re riding across so many different terrains, so having one bike that could cover it all is basically impossible.

But I can say for sure: having a bigger cassette in the back would have helped a lot. Now, even in the lowest gear, I have to work my ass off. Well… not my ass, technically—my legs—but I swear my ass feels involved too.

I started thinking in my head about how my bike compares to everyone else’s—which, to be honest, we haven’t seen many of yet on the PGD. The best way to put it? It’s like I’m riding an Audi A4 sedan. Sure, you can get from point A to B, but if you want a good experience on all terrains, you really need a proper SUV.

My bike will get me there, eventually, but it’s just going to make everything so much tougher.

Push, push, push

All my doubts became reality. We were tackling part of one of the biggest climbs—roughly 2,000 meters of ascent over 25 kilometers. On paper, that’s 8–9 percent incline, but it’s 25 kilometers of it.

We managed to make it through the first third or quarter, and then we just camped in a small town near the bullring—which actually turned out to be quite fun.

The next morning, there was basically no biking. 17 kilometers took us 4 hours of just pushing our bikes. Maybe 10 percent of it was actually riding.

And you know when I said Carpe Diem… or Carpe Momentum? It was so hard, so steep, that at some points I was literally counting every step I took while pushing my bike before I could rest. At first, I was thinking, I’m listening to music, I’ll just push the bike for one song—about 3-4 minutes—then rest. But soon that changed. I couldn’t make it more than 50 or 100 steps at a time. That became my new “unit” for surviving the climb.

Then I actually remembered Andrew Glaze. I’m not a huge fan—he’s a runner, kind of an Instagram “run-fluencer,” I don’t know. But he had this one phrase that stuck with me during that four-hour bike push: smile, or you’re doing it wrong.

And in a way, I felt it. If I wasn’t enjoying this—even a little—I was doing it wrong. So I started laughing at myself. Here I am, flying to South America to cycle across the country, buying all the gear… and suddenly I’m just pushing the bike. Honestly, if I were walking, I could’ve just taken a backpack instead!!!

Additionally, as I was building my Spanish song playlist, I added this song, Bonito, and it has a line: La vida es un chiste con triste final. I’d heard it many times before, but this time it hit me—life is a joke with a sad ending. That’s how I felt. Everything we’re doing—it’s just a joke. And laughing at the situation I put myself in? That’s what helps me get through it.

I believe self-irony helps a lot in situations like that. Before the trip, I was thinking, Oh yeah, maybe I’ll cycle 6–7 hours and do 100 km.

Now, on the PGD, it seems like if you want to do 100 km in a day, you’re moving 10–12 km/h at best. That means it might take you 10 hours. Reality hits—and honestly, it’s just funny to laugh at yourself.

Overall, throughout the first week on the PGD, I’ve noticed that I keep thinking a lot about the future—what kind of trips I want to do, whether I’m more into biking, hiking, running, or all sorts of different adventures.

But in reality, what I noticed is that the main reason I’m thinking about the future is because the present is so damn hard.

Altitude and the cold

Now I want to talk about altitude and the cold. Basically, every day we’re climbing… in just five or six days, we’ve crossed four passes over 4,800–4,900 meters. So yeah, it’s cold.

And the altitude kicks in at the same time, which means we have to sleep at those high elevations too. Not exactly comfortable, but part of the experience.

I felt the altitude kicking in for two nights. The first night was at around 3,900 meters of elevation. I felt like I was waking up every hour, to some extent gasping for air, and I actually wanted to pee more than I’m used to.

The second night was in the town called Yantac, which was situated at 4,600 meters, so we couldn’t push on. I had a lot of electrolytes and water, stayed hydrated, and ate well—or at least, to my understanding. But I still kept waking up every 45 to 60 minutes, and I actually went to pee three times during the night.

I figured out later that the breathing pattern is pretty common at higher altitudes—over 4,000 meters. It’s called Cheyne-Stokes respiration. Basically, when your brain senses low oxygen, it alternates between periods of fast, deep breathing and periods of slower, shallow breathing or even brief pauses. That’s why it feels like you’re waking up gasping for air.

And the frequent urination? That’s because your kidneys aren’t retaining water as much. At high elevations, your body produces less ADH (antidiuretic hormone), which normally signals your kidneys to conserve water. With less ADH, your kidneys flush out more fluid, so you pee more during the night.

Food

Overall, on the PGD, as Felipe said, we’re on the see-food diet: you see food, you eat food. There’s very little food and even less choice, so basically, you eat whatever you get—and you’re happy with it.

Stats

Fourth Week Cycling in South America

470 km | 38.3 h | 11,230 m gain

Daily Averages

67.1 km | 5h 29m | 1,604 m gain

P.S. that includes a total of 5 hours pushing the bike

Español

Pues, estoy un poco triste y no puedo hacer mucho en español, pero lo que sí puedo decir es que estoy leyendo un libro que se llama El Alquimista, que fue recomendación de mi amigo MJ, a.k.a. Darius Jonka. También estoy viendo El Patrón del Mal en Netflix, un episodio cada día.

Me parece que, con la música que estoy escuchando, quizás pueda mejorar un poco mi nivel de español.

Day 17

Today was by far the hardest day. We loved staying with Santiago and Ana Lucía at Casa de Ciclistas in Quito, but we left at 10 a.m. knowing we had to enter the Cotopaxi National Park by 3 p.m. — just 50 km away (including 1800 m vertical gain). I thought, okay, 50 km in 5 hours, that’s doable. Nope.

The first 25 km? We crushed them in an hour and a half. The next 25 km? Took us over three hours. Fourteen kilometers of cobblestone climbing, 700–800 meters up. At times the gradients hit 12–15%, once even 18%. I think I spent a solid 20–25 minutes just pushing my bike uphill. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I was in Ecuador or riding a stage of Paris–Roubaix.

We also skipped food early on, thinking we’d grab a snack later — but nothing was open. So I bonked hard. I couldn’t even ride a 2% incline; I was stepping off the bike and pushing. Add the headwind at 3,700 m, life is just rough.

Still, when we rolled up at 3:40 pm, we thought we’d be stuck camping at the entrance — but no. This is Ecuador, baby. The rangers just waved us in. Three more kilometers later, we’re pitching the tent outside a lodge with Wi-Fi. Food costs 5x town prices, but who cares. We’re in Cotopaxi. Cotopaxi, babyyyy!

Day 18

Surprisingly, I didn’t sleep too badly at 3,700 m, though my sleep score said 47 — even after 8.5 hours. Whatever.

Since we came in through the northern entrance — and the road was absolute shit — we knew most people enter from the south. So our plan was to ride across the park, get to the southern side, and see if we could hitch a ride up to 4,500 m (last parking lot). No way we were cycling that road. From there, we’d climb the extra 300 m to the Refugio and hope for a view of Cotopaxi.

It was raining, visibility sucked, but I figured: if I’m already here, I might as well give it a go and do my best trying to get as close as possible to Cotopaxi.

Hitching took about 15 minutes, then we ended up in the back of a truck. Tour group. Suddenly they wanted us to pay, even though nobody mentioned it before. 5$ each.

At the Refugio we didn’t see much, but standing at almost 5,000 m with the air thin and my legs heavy still felt good. Felt bad for people who were summitting that day.

Afterwards, we had a chill 2.5-hour ride to Latacunga. Dinner was ramen, burger, tacos — all in one go, one after another. I ate everything and was still hungry.

Following days

Like always, the morning started with pan — the most mediocre bread imaginable. This time I gambled on one with onion and cheese, and honestly, not bad. A rare win.

The ride began easy, just one 400 m climb, but I couldn’t shake the feeling something was off. Was it me? The bike? Or maybe those 45 mm tires actually do make every gradient feel 2% steeper. Either way, I felt weaker than I should have.

Then came a lot of downhill. Lunch was encebollada — hands down one of the better local meals.

The scenery at first was meh, but once we left the main road, riding through the valley was fun again. We skipped some hot springs (road down looked like hell) and later learned that when Ecuador says “road closed,” they really mean it.

The next day was the complete opposite. We started early, facing 1,500–1,600 m of climbing, and during our first break (six kilometers in, over breakfast) we decided to detour into Riobamba. The reason? Ice latte. Simple men, simple pleasures.

On the bike I felt stronger than ever — like my “bike legs” finally clicked. Climbs weren’t a grind anymore, they were actually fun. I even started building a Spanish playlist to keep the mood high (suggestions are welcome).

Further route

The way we think about our trip is basically in two days, two weeks, and two months: 85% of our focus on the next two days, 10% on the next two weeks, and maybe 5% on the next two months. Keeps us flexible, but also thinking ahead enough to hit the highlights.

After talking with a couple of riders going south-to-north — and digging online — it’s clear: the Peru Great Divide is the holy grail of South American cycling. Patagonia gets mentioned a lot, but the hype is really around Peru. Lagunas in Bolivia and Patagonia itself also promise the kind of remote, wilderness experience we’re really craving.

Problem is, if we stick to our current route, we’ll reach the Great Divide around mid-October, right when the rain season starts. Been there, done that. Not pretty.

We’ve only been riding near the Pan-American Highway for a day and a half, but it’s already clear that’s not the experience we’re looking for. Having the flexibility to skip sections, knowing we don’t have a full year to ride, and focusing on the most epic parts — that feels right.

So, plan change: skip the 1,300 km of southern Ecuador and northern Peru, hop straight to the Great Divide. That includes 3 buses —14 hours, 7 hours, and 6 hours—because nothing is a straight shot in South America. Lots of sitting, but we’re trading ‘meh’ roads and bad weather for more of the good stuff. Short term pain for long term gain.

Right now it feels pretty urban — showers every other day, small comforts — but what we really want is wilderness. Rough plan: Peru until mid-October, Bolivia until mid-November, then four to six weeks making our way from northern Argentina to Patagonia. January in Patagonia, and maybe a bit of February if we still feel like riding.

Simple goal: skip the filler, chase the epic, and get into the remote stuff we’ve been longing for. Who knows though, the plan might still change 10 times.

First three weeks were a great boot camp testing out the gear.

Cuenca, Ecuador

Cuenca, Ecuador deserves a separate mention. Hands down, it’s the best city we’ve visited so far in both Colombia and Ecuador. It’s vibrant yet calm, small enough to feel cozy but big enough to never get boring. The European-inspired vibe definitely spoke to me—quiet streets, no constant honking, and locals themselves come here on holiday. The food scene is great, and at 2,500 meters it’s perfect temperature wise. Honestly, I could see myself spending a couple of months here working remotely and just hanging around. Maybe that’s a future plan.

By the way, I tracked everything I ate during just one day in Cuenca while waiting for the bus:

• breakfast: chocolate croissant + croissant + flat white
• pre lunch: encebollada
• lunch: burrito + coke
• post lunch: iced latte + carrot cake
• dessert: macchiato + pistachio cheesecake
• dinner: 2 burritos (1 for the bus) + 0.5 quesadilla
• post dinner: passion fruit milkshake

All of this was 28€ / 33$

Otras cosas

1. He leído mi segundo libro, El Principito. La verdad es que lo leí hace unos 15 años en la escuela, en lituano, y ahora lo estoy leyendo en español. No fue muy difícil, pero me parece un buen libro para recordarme que podemos disfrutar más de las cosas y no ser tan serios en la vida. Estoy abierto a sugerencias de otros libros que me puedan recomendar.

2. El otro punto es la comida rápida en Ecuador. En los pueblitos pequeños casi no hay variedad: siempre pollo broaster, papas fritas o hamburguesas. Algunos días hasta terminamos comiendo eso dos veces. Y lo curioso es que las papas fritas siempre vienen sin sal, porque dicen que es “más sano”. Pero claro, con tanta fritanga alrededor, ya no sé si eso cambia mucho.

3. También, un señor francés de unos 70 años o más nos dijo que toda la comida sabe rica cuando estás a más de 3.000 metros de altitud. Estoy de acuerdo: es verdad.

4. En Ecuador me sorprendió que, en los restaurantes, cuando alguien entra y te ve comiendo, aunque no te conozca, siempre te dice “buen provecho”.

5. La mayor enseñanza de la semana pasada: puedes planear todo lo que quieras, pero al final los planes cambian. Nosotros, por ejemplo, decidimos tomar 3 autobuses para llegar a Perú. Al final, lo importante es ser flexible y dejarse llevar.

Stats

Third Week Cycling in South America (5 days)

345 km | 20h 29m | 6,309 m gain | 9,767 kcal

Daily Averages (5 days)

69.0 km | 4h 06m | 1,262 m gain| 1,953 kcal

Lessons learned

When I was prepping to write the blog for week one, I was slightly hesitant and felt weird. And Phil, as always full of wisdom, told me: ‘a farmer must farm.’ That’s how I felt. And honestly, writing the blog for week two feels so much easier.

I guess the best way to describe week two is with a phrase: there’s no need to judge the decisions of the past with the information of the present.

I suppose the only way to learn in biketouring (bikepacking) is by breaking cranks, blowing tires, and tweaking setups along the way. Feels like I’m just paying tuition to be part of this journey. Last week we talked about how I didn’t install my pedals properly and ended up fucking up the crank. This week? I’ve got a story about my tires. Throughout the week something felt off. My rear tire kept losing air more than usual, and I had to keep pumping it up. It didn’t make sense — Phil’s tires were always fine, and mine were constant trouble. Once I got a hole, the sealant plugged it up, but it never really closed properly. Every time I inflated it again, sealant would burst out and the tire would deflate right after. Phil offered to use Dynaplugs for the trouble spots, so we put in two of them. For those who don’t know, Dynaplugs are these little metal-and-rubber plugs you jam straight into the hole — kind of like sticking a cork in a wine bottle, but for bike tires.

Usually a Dynaplug does the trick — you just jam it in, cut the end, and you’re good. But this time, even with Dynaplugs, my tires kept leaking. So I went full ChatGPT deep-dive mode and figured out the problem: my tires weren’t even tubeless-ready. Everything else on the setup was tubeless, except the tires. Meaning… I’d ridden over a thousand kilometers on a tubeless setup that wasn’t actually tubeless. Pure ghetto style. It worked fine on smooth terrain, but once the roads got rougher, the whole system just couldn’t hold up. Basically, it worked as long as I didn’t pump the tires past ~40 PSI. Any higher and the air would just start hissing out through the Dynaplug spot. Still, it held for a couple of days — I probably rode around 150 kilometers like that — until the last day, when it finally gave up. By ‘gave up,’ I mean the tubeless sealant started pouring out the sides while I still had 14 km to town. So I went full survival mode: pump it up to the max, ride hard for five minutes while it leaked, stop, pump again. I repeated that seven or eight times until I was maybe 3–4 km from town… and then the tires completely quit on me — flat in under 30 seconds.

Just to make things better, all this was happening at 3,500 meters, in the rain, with clouds and fog, on nothing but rocks and cobblestone. The only blessing? At least it was downhill.

So what does that entail? Honestly, I don’t know — except that I clearly wasn’t fully ready for this trip. I was 100% sure my tires were tubeless ready, but turns out it was just a similar model that was. My bad. And in Quito, finding a 42mm gravel tire is basically impossible, so I had to swap both for 45mm. In the end, that little mistake set me back $150. So that’s where the quote of the week comes from: the decisions of the past can’t be judged with the information of the present. At the time, I thought I knew everything — turns out I didn’t. You can only see it as a sunk cost and move forward. Just a little setback. It hit me emotionally, because I really thought I was better prepared. But honestly, I just hope this is the last bike fix I’ll have to deal with for a while.

Riding

This week’s story can be split into three parts. First, the Trampolín de la Muerte — the ride from Mocoa to Pasto in Colombia. Second, leaving Tulcán, because yes, we actually crossed into Ecuador. And third, all the rides in between.

Well, let’s begin with Trampolín de la Muerte, also known as the Death Road. It’s in the Putumayo region, but we renamed it Puta Madre. Why? Because it rains all the damn time. I’ve never seen so much rain in my life. Add to that the most exhausting ride — hours of climbing uphill on rocks (not even gravel) — while small cars squeeze past, and at the same time bigger trucks grind through, delivering to tiny towns or just using it as the main connection between Pasto and Mocoa. All of this in the pouring rain. Brutal, but definitely the definition of type 2 fun.

We knew it was gonna rain, we just didn’t know how bad. The strategy was simple: only think about the next roof over our heads. First checkpoint — a church near the start. When we got there it was just light showers, nothing crazy, so we pushed on. Next stop, a “restaurant.” And yeah, technically it serves food, so it’s a restaurant, but let’s be honest — would you really call it that? Doubt it. Anyway, we just broke the day into small chunks and kept going. It rained non-stop, but it didn’t turn into full-on downpour until early afternoon. We ended up stuck in one of the abandoned houses by the road and decided to call it home. The plan was simple: if the rain stops for more than 5–10 minutes, we keep going. But it was 2:30 p.m. and it just didn’t stop. It rained, and rained, and kept on raining — for 18 straight hours. By 5 p.m. we called it. Sunset was around 6, and with the fog we could only see 10–20 meters ahead. On a “death road” in those conditions? No thanks. So yeah, that abandoned house turned into our camp for the night.

Just to put things into perspective: we cycled 36 kilometers in 4 hours. That’s an average speed of about 9 km/h, while climbing 2,000 meters on rocks and gravel. The average incline? Somewhere around 6–8%. And honestly, when it dropped to 3–5%, it felt like a rest. Funny how quickly your definition of “easy” changes.

Next morning, we had checked the weather forecast and knew we had a couple of dry hours ahead. So we pushed on. In about an hour and a half we managed 13 kilometers, then stopped at a “restaurant” just before the next downpour started. And that was at 9 a.m.

At that point we decided it was probably best to hitch a ride — it was clear it was going to rain all day, every day, for the next five days or so. That’s why, at least in our heads, the region stopped being Putumayo and became Puta Madre.

We got picked up by a local driver named William, who runs that route a few times a week. We spent over three hours in his car just to cover 80–90 kilometers and finally get out of that cursed stretch.

What followed was a day and a half of relatively uneventful riding through the border towns, trying to cross into Ecuador. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. We rode through one of those massive canyons, but since we had to stick to the main road, we tried sneaking off onto smaller ones whenever possible. Of course, that just meant more climbing—basically, we were going uphill the entire day. We didn’t cover many kilometers. Meanwhile, my tire kept leaking, so I was slowly inflating it over and over, already coming to terms with the fact that I’d have to swap them out soon.

Crossing the border into Ecuador was kinda interesting. First of all, we saw a lot of migrants. No idea where they were coming from—maybe Venezuelans or others heading north. But in the last 30–40 kilometers before the border on the Colombian side, there were a lot of them.

When we actually tried entering Ecuador, nobody checked us. We literally just rolled through the border. There were maybe 20 agents working as migration officers, but nobody stopped us or asked us to do anything. So we just cycled straight into Ecuador. Fifteen minutes later we were already climbing a hill, thinking all was good—until we realized, okay, we probably fucked up. At the top of the hill it wasn’t police, but the military, stopping vehicles for extra security checks. We asked them where to get the stamps, and they told us we had to turn back. So yeah, the worst part was that we had to descend back. And descending was fun — flying down at 50 km/h — but the thought that we’d have to climb it again right after wasn’t. First, we had to go back to the Colombian side and officially get the stamp that we’d left the country. Then we crossed over again to the Ecuadorian side. They didn’t ask us anything, no questions at all, but the whole process still took about an hour and a half. By the end, we finally had everything sorted and were actually ready to hit Ecuador.

Starting in Ecuador, we decided to take a less-traveled route, something that looked like gravel on the map. Oh boy, were we wrong. We rolled out of Tulcán at about 3,000 meters and climbed up to 3,700. At first it was fine, the climbing was steady, but then the “road” turned into rocks, overgrown brush, almost singletrack, and mud. Before long, we were pushing our bikes more than riding them.

In four hours we managed just 40 kilometers. It was wet, foggy, and visibility was close to nothing — you really couldn’t see much. Sure, it was beautiful in its own strange way, but that’s also when my tire gave up completely and started leaking every few minutes. So when the downhill finally came, let’s just say it was… interesting.

General thoughts

1. Santiago, el hospitalero de la Casa de Ciclistas en Tumbaco, cerca de Quito, nos dijo una frase que se nos quedó grabada: los peores caminos llevan a los mejores destinos. Y creo que es verdad si vemos las aventuras que tuvimos la semana pasada.

2. Además, Santiago, el hospitalero, abrió su casa a los ciclistas hace 34 años y desde entonces ha recibido a más de 4.000 viajeros de todo el mundo: de países como Irán, Japón o Liechtenstein. Pero nunca había recibido a alguien de Lituania… así que soy el primero.

3. Otra cosa es que en Colombia no tuvimos ducha caliente durante dos semanas. Ahora, aquí en Ecuador, me siento genial al poder ducharme con agua caliente, porque la mayoría de los pueblos y ciudades están a unos 2.500 metros de altitud.

Stats

Second Week Cycling in South America (6 days)

342 km | 22h 29m | 7,670 m gain | 10,866 kcal

Daily Averages (6 days)

57.0 km | 3h 45m | 1,278 m | 1,811 kcal

Okay, where do I start? It feels like I just wrote Week 0, the blog before the trip even began, and now somehow it’s already day 10 of cycling in Colombia. So let’s rewind and talk about how week one actually unfolded.

Instead of both of us arriving at the same time, Phil landed 36 hours later than planned. His flight got delayed, then cancelled, then rescheduled. At one point he was on a plane while his bike was on another. In the end, the airline told him they’d deliver the bike to our Airbnb, but of course that didn’t happen. He had to go back to the airport, hunt down the box, and re-pack everything in the United Airlines office. Meanwhile, I was already in chaotic Bogotá, fully loaded, trying to figure out what I’d gotten myself into. It felt strange to be “starting” alone.

We finally met about 10 kilometers outside the city, near the airport, where Phil had just finished assembling his bike. That reunion felt like a relief — now it was real. And the first thing he told me? Rule number one of this trip: don’t fall. That’s it. No more rules.

That first day we only rode out of Bogotá, less than 30 kilometers. We wanted to keep it light, settle in, redistribute the common gear, and just prepare for the kilometers ahead.

Dinner that night was funny. We were looking for a “cool local” spot and ended up at an arepas place (pic below). The moment we walked in, the owner shook our hands. Everyone was so over-the-top friendly that I couldn’t even pay before they made us put on traditional clothes and pose for a picture. It was great — a little forced, but also unforgettable.

Over dinner we started talking about what we actually wanted this trip to be. Do we go out of our way to find experiences like this? Or do we just let them happen? That night, we searched and it worked out. But soon enough we realized Colombia has its own rhythm. You can’t force these things — they either happen, or they don’t.

The beginning

The next day was our first real day. Let’s call the previous one Day Zero — we didn’t know it at the time, but looking back, that was just the warm-up.

Apparently, there was some kind of festival in town that morning, because the streets were absolutely packed. I swear I saw at least 2,000 people on bikes, all riding through a proper metropolitan city — not out in some remote valley. I couldn’t believe it.

From Bogotá, we dropped from around 2,700 meters of elevation all the way down to 300. A massive descent, but not without effort. During the day we still had to climb about 700 meters, and that’s when reality hit me. I checked my watch — my heart rate was sitting at 170–180 bpm. I couldn’t believe it. I thought I was fit.

At the same time, I wasn’t coming into this unprepared. Back in Lithuania, I’d done 3-, 4-, even 6-hour rides before leaving. But somehow, riding here for just 3–3.5 hours felt way harder. Sure, there was more elevation gain, the heat, a much heavier bike, and completely different riding patterns. Still, it was strange — I thought I’d built enough of a base, but the reality hit harder than I expected.

Suárez and Francisco

One day deserves its own story. We were planning to ride into a small town called Suárez. We chose that route so we could get off the main road, ride some gravel, and see more of the countryside. It was hot. It was hard. Honestly, I don’t remember many details about the ride itself—it didn’t seem like a huge day mileage-wise—but I just remember being tired and drained.

About 5 kilometers before town, Phil ran into a local named Francisco. Apparently, Francisco told him there was a festival happening in Suárez that weekend. Meanwhile, I had gotten a little ahead and was already in town, waiting for Phil to catch up to align on our next moves.

Suárez has a population of 1,000 people, yet there are multiple hotels—and every single one of them was booked three months in advance for the festival.

Francisco wasn’t just some random guy, though. After we helped him pump up both of his old bike’s tires (he’d ridden 15 km one way just to come to the festival), he basically adopted us. He made sure we had a place to sleep—on the terrace of one of the hotels. No room inside, but at least a roof over our heads. Lovely 25 degree heat at night still.

Later, we found out what the festival was all about: a bull-riding show. And, according to Francisco, he was one of the best riders in town. We thought he was joking but then he actually proved us wrong in the arena. You can see it in the video below

After the show, Francisco found us again in town and we sat down for dinner together. He seems to have a lot going on in his life, but at the same time he’s living it to the fullest. At one point, he told me I shouldn’t go by my name, Rokas, in South America — it’s too complicated. Instead, he suggested I go by Diego. I’m not sure about it yet. I’ll see if it grows on me.

The actual riding

Let’s be real — you don’t care about the everyday details of riding, so I’ll just put it all together. Riding here is different. Very different. Even when we go for what Phil calls ‘the path of least resistance,’ something always comes up. Sometimes it’s brutal climbs, sometimes it’s the heat. On one day we thought we had flat terrain, but it was so hot I ended up drinking 5 liters of water, 1 liter of freshly squeezed juice, 1 liter of Coke, and 1 liter of Gatorade. I think that’s a lot. I peed once.

Back home I cycled close to 2,000 kilometers before this trip and thought I was ready. I wasn’t. I kept praying for my ‘bike legs,’ if such a thing even exists, to finally kick in. Instead, the thought of not being ready kept creeping in and making me feel weak. And the worst part? These were supposed to be the flat days. Sure, the heat was insane, but in my head I kept thinking: if this already feels hard, what’s going to happen once we start climbing for real?

And then the climbing came. In the next three days we had 250 kilometers and 5,000 meters of elevation gain. First day was brutal — inclines of up to 14.9%. For the first time ever, I had to push my bike uphill. I felt weak, but also free. Free because I realized I didn’t need to prove anything to myself anymore. If I need to hike-a-bike, I’ll do it. No shame in that. Still, 14.9%? What the hell is that?

But those days also showed me something important: I’m going to be in my lowest gear way more often than I ever imagined. The only way through is to treat it like constant Zone 2 training. So on mornings where we’d start with a 700-meter climb, I just accepted it. I put on some music, maybe sang a little, and just ground uphill with a 30 kg bike for over an hour… and all of this before breakfast.

By day 6 and 7 something clicked. We started climbing 1,500–1,600 meters per day while still doing 70–80 kilometers, and it actually felt good. My back didn’t hurt, my legs felt fine, and I could sit in my lowest gear for over an hour and just destroy a climb. That gave me so much belief in myself — that maybe this trip can only get better.

The bike’s holding up too, even through rough gravel that leaves my arms shaking. But that just makes the paved roads feel like heaven. I’ve noticed I enjoy the days with more variation — a mix of gravel, climbs, descents — because I can break them up in my head. We’ve also fully embraced jugos naturales. At least one a day, sometimes two, ok, sometimes three. And we’ve officially decided: jugo de mango en leche slaps.

I catch myself eating a ton, thinking about how to tweak my gear setup, and actually looking forward to a rest day. But overall, I feel happy. Things are coming together the way they should. The plan was never rigid, so having a good attitude and accepting that challenges will inevitably come has been key.

From the road, it’s not always breathtaking views — it’s more subtle. Riding through the countryside, seeing the mountains in the distance or slowly climbing one, feels just as good. Sure, I’ve almost been bitten by a couple of dogs, but I’m getting pretty good at the imaginary rock throw. Maybe that’s just going to be part of the toolkit going forward.

I’m also enjoying how much my Spanish is improving, just chatting with locals. People honk, wave, shout encouragements, or stop for a quick word. Being friendly back seems to go a long way. And little by little, I’m starting to feel like we belong out here.

Random picturs below:

The real learnings

This part is about the real learnings of week one. Everything I wrote before — the climbs, the heat, the dogs — those are just the superficial stories. They’re fun to read, and they give an impression of what the trip is about, but they don’t capture the real trial that the first week turned out to be.

Phil has a saying: “Everything that can break, will break on a trip like this.” And to some extent, I believe him now. Week one was a crash course in that.

Did things break? Oh yes. Let me walk you through it.

On day 3, one of the hooks on my Ortlieb front gravel bag snapped off. On day 4, I lost a screw on my second pair of Ortlieb bags attached to the rear rack. And then, the worst one: the parts I had put on myself — the front wheel and pedals — turned out to be the weak link. I hadn’t tightened the pedals enough, which ended up destroying the crank threads. That meant I had to replace the entire crankset.

The problem? My crank wasn’t common in South America. Replacing it would’ve meant ordering the part and waiting at least a week. There was no way I was going to stop for that long in week one. So I just decided to adapt: I went with a local crank, swapped things out, and kept rolling.

It’s funny — or maybe not so funny — how much my own incompetence cost me. The front wheel? I hadn’t put it on correctly. And that’s supposed to be the easiest job ever. Instead, it was wobbly, squeaking, and driving me crazy. Then there were the pedals. I hadn’t tightened them enough, and that little mistake destroyed the crank threads. The result? I had to replace the entire crankset and put in new pedals.

All in all, I basically paid $80 for my own incompetence. The only silver lining is that I’ve now got a sick new pair of pedals. Still, that’s how I learned — the hard way.

Oh yeah, and by the way — I also managed to over-pump my tires. Combine that with a brutally hot day, and they expanded until both my front and rear blew out. Luckily, they were tubeless, so they sealed themselves up, but not before splashing sealant over my face. A good reminder that even when the gear “works,” it still finds a way to humble you.

All this made me question myself: am I really ready for this trip? Doubt started creeping back in. But then I asked myself — how could I possibly be “ready” for something I’ve never done before? Naturally, the first week is a trial period. Things will break. And what’s most frustrating is knowing that back home, these problems could be fixed in a day and for a reasonable price, while here in South America some fixes are nearly impossible or painfully slow. That’s just the reality I have to accept.

Looking back, I know I could have done a better job preparing my setup. I didn’t really test my gear, I didn’t run proper checks. I just thought: I’ll figure it out on the road. And now I’m paying the price. I’m not fully committed to the setup I have, and I keep thinking about what I could change or improve. But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I can’t change everything right now — and if I can, I will — but I can’t hold myself hostage to what-ifs either. It’s easy to look back now and say, this would have been the perfect setup for Colombia. But truthfully, when I rolled out on day one, I didn’t even know what roads we’d face, what terrain we’d cross, or what surprises would hit us along the way.

Random thoughts

1) The first thing that really hit me: Colombia is way more urban than we expected. We thought this would be a camping-heavy trip, but the reality is different. It’s hot — brutally hot — and by the end of each day we usually just want a bed, a shower, and a fan. So instead of pitching tents, we’ve been “credit card camping,” or maybe better said, “ATM camping.” Most nights we end up in small-town hotels, $15–20 total for the two of us — so basically eight or ten bucks per person. It’s simple, cheap, and it works.

And to be honest, when we’re at lower elevations, there’s no way I’m sleeping outside. It’s 25 degrees, humid, and full of flies. After pushing my body so hard all day, the last thing I want is a sleepless night. Proper rest feels just as important, so if that means a cheap hotel bed instead of a tent, I’ll take it. We are slowly starting to sleep outside when the conditions feel right, but for now (in Colombia) this trip is definitely not the full-on camping adventure we imagined.

2) Before the trip, because as I mentioned I haven’t tested out the gear, I bought just basic, random cycling gloves from Decathlon that are double extra large size, and they’re too small for me. What does that say about my hand size or what does it say about Decathlon sizing?

3) Absolutely no one knows Lithuania

4) We’re still trying to figure out — is it actually that hot, or is it just us who can’t handle the heat? But you know what, when even the locals are sweating and complaining, you know it’s hot. That’s why I’m extremely excited that next week we’ll start climbing above 2,000 meters of elevation.

5) I’m trying to eat a lot, to consume as many calories as possible — maybe even too many. I’m not sure I’m burning as much as I’m taking in, or at least not the amount I’d like to think I am. But in the last couple of days, I’ve noticed something new: I’ve actually started feeling my ass bones pressing into the saddle. I don’t know what that means or if I need to change something, but it definitely feels weird.

6) I’m sorry, I gotta say it — I don’t like Colombian food. It just feels like it lacks taste. We even started using “Colombian food” as a metaphor for anything bland. Sure, we’ve found a few hidden gems here and there, but honestly, the bar is low. I haven’t been to a country that screws up French fries so badly — like, how is this even possible? I’m shocked. Why the hate for salt? Why does everything have to be deep-fried? And vegetables… what happened to vegetables?

That said, I have to admit — pan de abuela slaps. I can easily have 3–4 pieces for breakfast and still have room for more. So I guess the positives kinda cover the negatives.

And yeah, don’t trust Google Maps — the places open when they feel like opening, and they close when they feel like closing.

That said, I have to give credit where it’s due: the jugos naturales are amazing. Mango, piña — those I could drink every day. But then there are the other fruits, the ones we don’t even know in Spanish: lulo, guanábana, mora. I’m sorry, but they’re just bad. The way I see it, the reason we hadn’t heard of them before is simple — they don’t get exported because they just aren’t tasty enough.

7) I kept the last point for those who stayed with me until the end. This isn’t mine — it came from an old Navajo man Phil met once in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He told Phil, “You’re chasing what you’re running from.” Phil told it to me, and now I’m passing it on to you.

Pués

Pues, ahora llega la parte que no puedo expresar tan bien como en inglés: ¿qué tal va mi español? La verdad, no lo sé con certeza.

Durante la semana, Phil y yo vimos un par de películas y entendí como el 70–80% de cada una. Al mismo tiempo, escuchando a la gente, también estoy aprendiendo mucho.

Puedo entender lo que la gente dice por aquí, pero quiero hablar más y mejorar mi español. Necesito estudiar un poco más la gramática, escuchar más y practicar más. Ayer leí mi primer libro en español: un librito pequeñito que me tomó unos 30 minutos.

La cuestión es: ¿cómo puedo saber si estoy mejorando? Escucho español todos los días y hablo con la gente, pero siento que las frases que uso son casi siempre las mismas. ¿Qué más debo hacer para avanzar?

Estuve muy feliz cuando fui a arreglar mi bici: más o menos entendí lo que el mecánico me decía sobre lo que había que hacer. No pude responder mucho, pero entendí la mayor parte, y eso me dio confianza. Creo que mi español seguirá creciendo en los próximos meses, al mismo ritmo que mi aventura en bicicleta.

Stats

First Week Cycling in South America

523 km | 26h 49m | 6,552 m gain | 13,714 kcal

Daily Averages

74.7 km | 3h 50m | 936 m | 1,959 kcal

September 20th, 2024. Day 84 on the Continental Divide Trail (CDT)

Roughly 1,900 miles in, we’d just left Salida, CO. I liked Salida. It has McDonald’s and Safeway – if that’s not thru-hiker paradise, I don’t know what is.

It was good to reconnect with Phil and Gabe after a while apart. The trail leaving town was mellow, and as we hiked, we began discussing life after the CDT. For me, it was simple – to give living in Lithuania a shot. But in the back of my mind, I was already wondering if I wanted another adventure.

I love hiking. I’m good at it. But should I just keep hiking other trails, such as Appalachian Trail or Te Araroa, simply because they’re there? I could, but I doubted I’d enjoy them the same way.

Then Phil, in his usual laid-back way, just said:
“What do you think about cycling South America next year?”

That one question didn’t lock in my plans right there, but it sparked something – a curiosity that over time grew into something bigger. Over the next few weeks on the trail, we spent a good chunk of time talking it through, turning a passing idea into a very real possibility.

Years ago, I heard Jesse Itzler talk about having one major year-defining event every single year. That idea stuck with me. While I focus on my studies and career, I’m equally, if not more, committed to building my life’s resume. After two long-distance hikes (PCT and CDT), it felt like time for something new. Maybe this could be it.

Philly Phil and Rocky in the most magical place – Grand Teton National Park, WY, August 11th, 2024
(Just before descending offroad into Lake Solitude… don’t do it, guys, lol!)

Photo taken 41 days before I first heard about the Tour de Suramérica plan
P.S. Phil is very proud of his Philly hat – Go Birds, I guess

The Plan (or Lack Thereof)

So, the plan? Honestly, there isn’t one. We’re starting in Bogotá, Colombia, and heading south(ish). The exact route is still a mystery. The end goal is Patagonia. The trip will probably take 5-6 months, covering approximately 12,000 kilometers. I’m writing this a few days before my flight to Bogotá, and the truth is: we don’t really know how long it’ll take or how far we’ll actually bike.

Compared to the PCT and CDT, where I felt this constant urge to push for bigger days and test my limits – this trip has a different purpose. We just want to ride. Ride through a country. Ride across borders. And let life happen along the way. This time, the goal isn’t about suffering through the “embrace the brutality” mindset from the CDT. This one’s about joy. About slowing down. About meeting people. About being instead of constantly doing and planning. What will that look like exactly? I don’t know. But I’ve got half a year to figure it out.

On a personal note, I also hope this trip finally pushes my Spanish from “functional” to a level where I can proudly say I speak it.

Preparation for the trip
Bike skills: 3/10
Enthusiasm: 8/10
Biking experience: 5/10
Camping experience: 9/10

Mottos for the trip (and life)
It can always be worse – I know there will be a lot of tough moments throughout, but a simple reminder that it can always get worse usually helps me. I just hope I don’t have to tell myself that too many times.

The only thing you have to do is die – everything else you choose. Although at first glance it may sound too nihilistic, deep inside I truly believe a quick reminder that everything I do is my choice helps me see the purpose through the mist.

Gear, labels, and starting as an amateur

By the way – bikepacking and bike touring overlap so much it’s annoying. I still don’t really know the difference. Bikepacking looks cool and sleek, while bike touring is basically your whole life strapped to a bike for an extended period of time.

Every time I see a post on Reddit, a suggested Facebook group, or Instagram, all those bikes look way cooler than mine. The algorithm is working overtime for sure. But I guess it doesn’t matter what kind of bike setup I’ll have – there will always be a million better setups. If people were crossing continents 60 – 80 years ago (at least according to ChatGPT), I can probably manage it too.

There’s just so much information and so many options that it’s easy to get lost in the details. But at the end of the day – any bike works. I remember when I was looking for gear advice for the PCT, I came across a comment on Reddit:

“My late mother always said: if a choice is difficult, then it doesn’t really matter, because that proves the available options have their own merits and on balance they are not far apart. People focus too much on weight and gear choices. As long as you make reasonable choices, you’ll be OK. The specific choice of gear is not going to decide the success of your hike.” – BackpackBirder

I screenshotted that in 2022 and have kept it on my desktop ever since. I look it up whenever I’m in doubt, gear-wise, for any trip. It’s a good reminder of the privileged position I’m in – being able to debate which color pannier bags to take or whether the Brooks C17 saddle is comfortable enough to ride without padded shorts.

I’m entering this as a complete amateur. But honestly, is there any other way to start? My last days feel like a smoothie made from equal parts excitement for the trip, anxiety about what’s coming, joy at having the chance to do what I want, and the uncertainty of not knowing what will happen.

It’s not my first rodeo, but it does sound somewhat scary when I say it out loud. Oh well – I guess that means the challenge is challenging enough.

Kastaneda – Sombrero (sorry, English speakers, that’s the classic Lithuanian)

Y también, me gustaría decir que un poco de este blog estará escrito en español. No es una broma. Pensé que – primero, por qué no, si estoy viajando en Suramérica. Y segundo, quizás sea una buena manera de evaluar cómo cambia mi nivel de español durante el viaje.