IN SEARCH OF A CIRCULAR CRANK

Both of my wheels are severely warped, the brakes are ridiculously loose, the rear derailleur is out of whack, and the front derailleur is simply missing. Welcome to cycling in Ecuador.

For years, my partner Mary and I have fantasized about escaping the wretched winters of Ohio to spend a few months in warmer climes, and now we’re finally doing it. The day after Thanksgiving, we fly out of a miserable grey Cleveland and are transported to the wonderful equatorial warmth and sun of Ecuador in the little Andes tourist town of Banos, four hours south of the capital, Quito. In Banos, we are soon introduced to the world of $5 per day bicycle rentals, and I begin to realize how big of a mistake I made by not bringing my own bike with me.

Typically, the rental agencies will provide a nasty old helmet (the same ones used by the white-water rafters, ATV riders, and rock climbers) and a map of the area. Quite a bargain if you ignore the fact that your bike hardly works. It will have a total of 2 or 3 skipping gears, but really, it’ll hardly matter if you choose the downhill route heading out of the highlands toward the lowland rainforest town of Puyo. You hardly have to pedal, so the fact that your ride’s frame size is far more suitable for a 6th grader than a 6-foot tall adult gringo will almost be irrelevant. And the fact that your crank only vaguely resembles a circle won’t be much of an issue, because you’ll be too amazed at your route to care. The “highway” that you ride on is largely unpaved, with a creek crossing and views of waterfalls every few minutes, one of which falls directly into your lane, perfect for riding through and cooling off. The road, in fact, is referred to as the “Avenue of Waterfalls,” not so much because you can roll into one, but because you cling to the edge of a 300 foot drop into the the lovely Pastaza River gorge, affording you spectacular views of countless little cascades and at least a half dozen major waterfalls.  Maybe the last person who rented your bike was so distracted by the scenery that they rode it over the edge, and that’s why it’s so screwed up.

 Mary and I leave Banos and head to the southern highland village of Vilcabamba, nestled into a broad valley ringed by saw tooth-ridged mountains. The cycling here has the potential to be perfect. The climate is warm and dry, and there are dozens of unnamed roads, both paved and dirt, that climb into the mountains, hug lively creeks or follow irrigation canals. And there’s next to no motor vehicle traffic here. Even on the ribbon of pavement that connects Vilcabamba to the rest of the world, there are more people walking than driving a car. The locals here don’t spend their days cooped up in SUVs on long commutes, which may be a reason Vilcabamba’s residents are know to be particularly healthy and long-living.  This place is known as the “valley of longevity” because folks supposedly live up to 120 years old—which I doubt. But as Mary likes to say, why let the truth get in the way of a good story?

We find a charming average priced hostel ($6 per night including breakfast) to stay at that not only has a pool, steam room, hot tub and a huge cabinet full of DVDs to watch, it also has about a dozen mountain bikes available for guests to use. Unfortunately, they all have serious problems. The silver specimen I choose to ride is a beat-up Trek – or so the prominent stickers say. The decals on bikes in Ecuador, you see, have little bearing on the machine’s manufacturer. When you buy a cheap bike in this country, your salesman will offer you a wide selection of logos to glue on, and it’s quite amusing when the purchaser can’t decide on just one name and ends up with a Specialized Bianchi.

My “Trek” has a stripped headset, so I have to stop every few minutes to align my handlebars with the wheel. I find myself fantasizing about my old Raleigh mountain bike back in Ohio. It’s nothing special, but it’s the right size, and fully functional, which is far more than I can hope for in a bike today. Not only is the steering hopeless, but the derailleur, which appears to made out of solder, inexplicably finds its way into the spokes, which stops me instantly -- something the brakes can’t do, since the pads are worn down to the thickness of a nickel. Luckily, town is downhill from my mechanical failure. From my vantage point I have a great view not only of Vilcabamba, but also of the square, muscular peak just west of town called Mandango, the end point for one of the best day hikes in Ecuador. I extract half the drive train from the rear wheel and I coast home, past narrow gorges, sparkling streams, fields full of hummingbirds and more butterflies than I have ever seen in my life.

Disappointed with the hostel’s bicycle collection, which resembles the offerings at a sad yard sale, I decide to walk into town and try my luck at another rental. But the nearest place to perhaps find an agency is in the city of Loja, an hour away by bus.

The next day, I head up to Loja, with the hope that a city of over 100,000 people will have several places to rent bikes. After all, Banos is a third of the size and you can’t throw a rock in that town and not hit a rental agency’s window. I search in vain all over Loja, at every bike repair shop, tourist information office, and guiding agency, and I’m finally directed to a little bike rental shop operating inside a city park at the north end of town, which is of course, closed. There are no posted hours and no phone number either. My hope was to cycle from Loja back to the hostel in Vilcabamba, but I have to settle for another bus ride.

I can’t rent a bike, so I hatch a new plan; borrow one of the junkers from the hostel, and just pay to get it fixed.  I’m planning on sticking around for a couple weeks, so it may be cheaper to do that than to rent anyway. I sort through the abused and neglected machinery and choose the bike with the longest seat post, and therefore the closest fit to my tall body.

There are two bike repair shops in town. One is staffed by 10 year-olds who manage to squeeze in some mechanics between watching pornos. The second shop—I don’t know what the staff there watches—has adults behind the counter, so I go there.

The parts for sale in the display case are amazingly cheap. Rear derailleur, $3. Brake lever, $1.50. Sure, you get what you pay for, but my bike only needs to last two weeks. And besides, this is all that’s available. I pay 40 cents for new brake pads (installed) and four bucks for a new tire. Other adjustments and parts include wheel truing, a few new spokes and a derailleur tweaking, all for under $10.  I take the freshly tuned clunker out on Vilcabamba’s dirt roads, rolling by fields thick with sugar cane and corn, and find a bit of scenic singletrack along a clear, rocky stream. My new brake pads split in half inside thirty minutes, but the new tire grips nicely, and the gears shift. The steering is tight, and the bike is almost big enough. In short, the bike works, and I feel ridiculously satisfied.

But the next time I come to Ecuador, I’m bringing my own bike.

--Attila