This is the kind of dirt road and countryside that I love…

It climbed up for 5km, emerging in a clearing at Cocha Dorado. A fork in the road continued to Tingo, and on towards Chimborazo. But I turned off towards Salinas, chocolates on my mind…

Eventually it lead me to the main road at Rayobamba – also dirt, I was pleased to see.

At this point I was at 4000m, way above the clouds, which crept forward like a rising sea tide.

There followed a sharp, 6km descent to Salinas – dropping over 500m in one gulp – offering some impressive views of Chimborazo. Thanks to the bulge in the earth at the equator, its peak is the closest point to the sun on the planet.

Salinas was a little touristy, but in a laid back, appealing way. Pre ’70s it was a different story. The village was incredibly depressed and poor – half of all children died before the age of 5. Then, a series of microloans, organised by an Italian Salesian missionary, played a pivotal role in transforming it into a thriving centre of commerce, with a self-sustaining economy. There’s a cheese making co-op, a chocolatiers that exports to Europe…

… and an essential oils factory.

Other produce includes dried mushrooms, perfect for travelling and adding to a soup, or frying up with oil and garlic.

Now I’m not longer running a Rohloff hub (sorely missed), I’m taking better care of my drivetrain. After so many grubby kilometres, I figured it was time to swap my chain with the spare I was carrying, and help extend the life of my cassette.

Then it up over the hill again and back to Simiatug. I’d planned to loop round the valley without the need to drop down into town once more, but I’d heard talk of a fiesta, so I headed back to check it out. Food and livestock were on sale, and throngs of people milled in the streets.

Nice underbite.

Various beaten up pickups had made the journey from outlying villages.

This is where you come to park your horse.

Small world. A couple of market goers, who’d seen me riding here from Zumbahua, came over to me to shake my hand. And I bumped into a few others I’d chatted to along the way, like they were old friends.

From there, it was back up again, along this quiet dirt road.

It eventually plateaued at 4250m, after a 1000m climb over 14kms.

To either side of the road were strange, bulbous, moss-like formations, home to clusters of high altitude daisies.

As well as other tiny, intricate flowers.

Chimborazo again: 6310m.

I have to admit that the 10km cobblestone descent on the other side of the pass was a ball-buster. Occasionally, there was a strip of dirt to one side where I could seek refuge.

It spat me out at a tiny, forlorn junction where a small shack drew a trickle of customers. Somewhat at odds with its setting, the sign above read: Bar International, Don Max, Rio Blanco. Max was an incredibly friendly character, and invited me to a round of plantanes, yucca and pork crackling. Then one of his cowboy buddies offered me a swig of his homebrew. I blame one of the above for my violent illness that night…

Still, even if the night was a long one, the campspot – protected from the howling wind – was good.

As was the view.

Plenty more of that to come. Although I was feeling incredibly weak, I limped my way onwards to the dirt road that runs between Volcan Chimborazo and Volcan Carihuairazo.

As luck would have it, there was a small refugio nearby, where I decided to rest up for the day.

The local community was doing its best to develop an eco-tourism project. One of the buildings was set up for weaving.

In fact, my visited coincided with a community shindig – brainstorming session for attracting tourists to the area to trek, horse ride and cycle. Everyone was out in their Sunday poncho best. I was encouraged to spread the word…

They also drew me a nice little map to supplement the topo I had, and help me on my way to Riobamba.

And, to help my still poorly stomach, a plant was collected from the páramo and boiled up into a tea – sompo seemed to be the name. It’s supposed to help with altitude too.

As dusk fell everyone wrapped up tight, swigged some dubious homebrew (which I declined on this occasion), hopped on their horses and galloped off across the plains, leaving me to my own devices in the refugio. It was all very dramatic and beautiful, watching them disappear across the páramo. With electricity on tap, I made myself a cup of sompo tea and watched a movie on my laptop (-:

The next day I was feeling stronger, so headed onwards. There’s Chimborazo to my right. 

And Volcan Carihuairazo to my left.

Vicuña, the athletic siblings of the fluffier llamas.

This was a dreamy trail for the most part. The sun flitted in and out, until usurped by clouds.

A steep descent lay ahead – a little boggy and awkward in places…

My orders were to cross the Mocha river to link up with the road to Urbina – but where, I wasn’t quite sure. It took me an hour of traipsing through thick, uneven grasses and dodging ditches – crossing the same river a half-dozen times – before I tracked it down.

Unfortunately, it was also at this point that I noticed, to my dismay, that my pedal had disappeared during one of the river crossings. I’d have to make do, and ride the spindle, local style. At least the road from there was all but downhill….

Glad to make it to Riobamba…

… a ramshackle, chaotic, colourful and friendly town that I immediately warmed to.

Plenty of elderly architecture has survived the ravages of volcanic activity, crammed with all manner of commerce: hair dressers, bakeries, hat shops, fruit shops, bike shops… In fact, there was the gentlest of tremors on one of the days I was in Riobamba.

Even the newer concrete blocks have some quirky character to them. A mix of mestizo and indigenous walked the streets, throwing in an extra dash of colour.

I chanced upon Patricio’s little cave of bike parts, where I was able to source some new Shimano M505 pedals for $35. Incidentally, some 29er tyres were due in soon.

Patricio went on to completely overhaul my rear Deore hub, meticulously stripping it down, scrubbing it clean and fitting new bearings. ‘Estoy quitando un poco de peso,’ he said with a laugh, referring the all the mud and muck he found inside. I’m saving you some weight!

My freshly-oiled freehub spinning freely once again. The charge? One whole dollar! He wouldn’t take a cent more, and insisted it was to help me on my way.

Patricio’s young apprentice at work. I’m sure he’ll turn out as adept as his boss.

Judging by the posters on the wall, the area seems to have a thriving mountain bike scene.

Another bike shop round the corner had these an assortment of stickers, to transform bog standard frames into the likes of fancy Specializeds, Cannondales, even Tomacs, Redlines and Oranges!

I also managed to track down some fuel for my Trangia – ‘alcohol industrial’ is the name used for methylalated spirits in Ecuador. When the owner of the hardware store found out I was from the UK, he announced – in pigeon English – that it was Paul McCartney’s birthday that very day. Which it was.

Ecuador is incredibly cheap to eat. A three course almuerzo – soup, main, juice and sometimes even a desert or piece of fruit – is often as little as a $1.75. Get used to soggy popcorn though: Ecuadorians lob them in their soups.

Ogre, riding great again thanks to Patricio.

Farewell beloved XTRs…