Riding high.

A gringo's guide to cycling in Colombia.

By Black Sheep Cycling

August 12^th, 2018

DAWN TIL DUSK.

Sitting on the equator, it gets light in Colombia at 6am and dark at 6pm. It’s like a light switch. And that switch flicks without fail twice a day, 365 days of the year.

The dependability of dawn and dusk plays perfectly into the hands of Colombian cyclists, who are unwavering in their loyalty to routine.

Groups meet at the same time and the same place week in, week out.

Baranquilla: 04:15.

Smartphone alarms are ringing in the placid white apartment blocks across the northern quarter of the city.

The WhatsApp messages soon follow. Two letters: “BD”. It’s short for Buenos Días and it’s code for “Are you riding or bailing?”

It gets so hot on the Caribbean coast that the group meets at 4:45am. The ride is done by 7:30.

Individual bike lights blink their way through deserted streets and gather into a collective glow outside the Buenavista shopping mall. If you miss the meet, you’ve missed out. You’re not catching on.

It’s flat by the sea, and that means one thing: speed.

But as you fly along the empty highway 90A, desperately holding the wheel of the rider in front, it’s worth glancing right to witness the enormous red sun rising over the Caribbean Sea.

Bogotá: 05:30.

Small groups of riders zip through empty grey streets and congregate at the base of el Páramo del Verjón, an 18 kilometre climb that rises from 2,600 to 3,300 metres above sea level.

The fastest guys arrive last, streaming in from Avenida de los Cerros, and they don’t stop. Everyone else jumps on and the climb begins.

The ride is accompanied by the Bogotá police force. Motorbike outriders shadow the group and individual officers are positioned at key points along the road.

They offer protection from the cars and trucks navigating the twisting climb in the half-light, and also security against any chancers looking to purchase a high-end road bike for a five-finger discount.

Bang. Within five minutes the group is shattered. Pro Tip: do not eat breakfast before this ride. If you do, you’ll be tasting it again on your way up el Verjón.

But the views from the top looking back over Colombia’s capital make the suffering worth it. A moment of serenity before the exhilarating descent back down into the city.

MEDELLÍN: 06:30.

And now for something completely different.

There are no flat roads in the Antioquia region. You need to acknowledge that before you saddle up and meet outside the Country Club at the bottom of Las Palmas.

11km at 7% is a brutal introduction to the day’s ride. Rigoberto Uran has the record up Las Palmas: 29 minutes. Anyone who can get under 45 minutes will receive nods of approval from the locals.

But that’s just the start. You’ll achieve well over 2,000 metres of climbing on a standard 100km ride.

It’s extraordinary to see how the roads have conditioned the local riders. The pace is not necessarily fast, but it’s consistent. Regardless of an individual's strengths, everyone has learnt to pace themselves so as not blow up on the next climb. Or the next. Or the one after that.

But what goes up must come down, and with all the talk of climbing, it’s easy to forget to mention the thrill of descending. The tarmac is pristine and the hairpins have been engineered perfectly. It’s a dream to ride downhill here.

Wherever you ride in Colombia, there are some reoccurring ride rituals.

You don’t meet at a café to start. You meet on the side of the road at an innocuous landmark that has achieved reverential status in the cycling community from years of riders convening there. A health centre, a petrol station, or just a convenient junction.

You stop mid-ride at the most basic panaderia: half-bakery, half-café, half-convenience store.

Once everyone has stacked their bikes, they gather a few plastic stools together and sit. But no one removes their helmet or sunglasses. A coffee stop can last for 30 minutes and still the helmets and glasses stay on. It can feel strange to share half-a-dozen rides with people and yet never see their eyes or their hair.

Why? Helmet hair is not a good look. Especially after you’ve been sweating in the Colombian sun. And how you look means a lot when the phones inevitably come out. Instagram is a big deal. When you ride here, be prepared for a lot of photos.

"There are no flat roads in the Antioquia region. You need to acknowledge that before you saddle up."

The coffee. Ah, the coffee. Smug in the knowledge that Colombia is one of the world’s most prolific coffee producers, you sit on your plastic stool at 2,500 metres gazing out over the hills, summoning dreams of an espresso to-die-for, poured from the very soul of the old man currently hunched over the stove who has been doing this for centuries. This will be a coffee to write home about. To tell the grandchildren about. This coffee will be Instagram-worthy.

Sorry to disappoint you…

Tinto at least looks like an espresso. A bit. Well, it’s the same amount of brown liquid in a cup. But it can barely be considered coffee. As the name tinto suggests, it’s tinted water, an infusion of coffee that’s been stewing in a samovar for hours. You get a couple of gulps in a small plastic disposable cup.

Honestly, you can grow to love it. But no one will bat an eyelid if you ask for a Gatorade or Vive 100% instead.

The food, however, is special. Arepa, buñelo, almojabana, pan de queso. All variations on a theme and all equally nourishing. Corn bread or a small warm pastry with some white cheese. The perfect filler to allay a hunger flat and get you on your way.