The Bridge!

Approaching the bridge my mind was more on the low reading fuel gauge and the GPS to the next town than the quality of workmanship that went into the actual structure. So far we had spent the last one and half hours on one of the best paved roads through some of the most amazingly photogenic canyons of the trip so far. Why would the bridge fall short of these lofty standards? But that’s a beginner question that really belies the experience I often pretend to hold. Because this is Peru, where things are unfinished and workmanship last as long as the inspectors lunch break.

 

So I took what, in many educated motocyclers’ opinion, would constitute an appraisal of the situation at hand before proceeding. The bridge was around 60 metres long, its foundations cement, its steelwork freshly painted orange, slats horizontal to my trajectory, two wheel ruts vertical.

I committed.

Within 15 metres three things became clearly apparent. The horizontal slats were a wheel swallowing 20cms apart and the vertical slats were loose, many of which were conspicuous in their absence and that riding at 60km/h really means you are unable to gauge any cross-wind. I had come to a halt, my path now unsure and the wind now physically moving 340kgs of man, machine and luggage violently and unpredictably to the left.

Carlie had alighted before embarking on to the bridge to walk it. Now she stood on the right hand side realizing my uncomfortable predicament, her own panic rising with each gust of wind. Wearing full motorcycling gear and helmet even her five foot statue was presenting a sail to the ever-present torment of the wind. Now down on all fours the helmet intercom a static of whimpers and sobs I knew to be accompanied by tears behind the sunglasses.

20 metres below us, clearly visible between the now non-existent deck, raged the Rio Santa. This river, which drained a 200km stretch of very wet Andean mountains, roared over large rocks within a small canyon. It was not a sight I was ready to enjoy but one I was unable to ignore.

I was now forced to move inch by inch along a wobbly plank about the width of my hands, of which now held brake, clutch, accelerator and handlebars in a vice-like death grip. As I gingerly balanced on toes and timed my movement of the wind gusts, I reassured Carlie that things would be just fine as she fought her own battle three metres to my right.

With literally only centimetres to play with I slowly moved the bike forward, one over balance, slipped clutch or poorly aimed footfall would be my undoing. I was not ready to have poor Peruvian engineering my epitaph.

Once I had laboriously negotiated the worst of it I took one more look at the river and gunned it, the sound of rubber crunching gravel never sounded so good.

One kilometre into the dusty collection of mud huts and my hopes soared even further. Not only did I survive the crossing, but they even had reasonably priced fuel!

NOTE: there are no photos of this adventure, more pressing matters were at hand!