Look Out Below!

Passing is also a problem. When two vehicles meet, descending drivers normally have to back up until there is enough space for ascending drivers to pass. With horrifying frequency, they back entirely off the cliff. As of my May visit, the local Transit Police had logged 42 accidents, 34 deaths and 112 injuries along the route in the first five months of 2003 alone.

Surprisingly, mountain biking may be the safest way down. Since the La Cumbre-to-Coroico route became popular, there have been only five biking deaths, according to Alistair Matthew, a New Zealander who founded Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking, a leading La Paz outfitter. Three, however, have occurred this year.

On the upside, a new, somewhat safer vehicular route opened in July, and it should divert some traffic from the Road of Death. But the new road is still only partially open, and there are no plans to close the old route.

I, of course, had only a vague notion of any of this in May, when I stepped into Gravity's main competition, the Downhill Madness travel agency, a smallish storefront in La Paz's tourist district. Bolivia requires that mountain bikers hire guides for the ride, and several books recommended Downhill Madness.

Inside, I flipped through photo albums of the route while the woman at the desk confirmed two key facts: The company provided American-made Trek bikes, and no technical mountain-biking skills were required.

Both were important points. Matthew would later tell me that most agencies rent flimsy, Asian-made bikes that sell for less than $100 on the street -- not exactly Road of Death material. As to technical skills, most of my mountain-biking experience had come eight years before, when I occasionally rode my rock hopper to a college volleyball class.

Reasonably reassured, I signed a form stating that there would be no refunds in the event of landslides or "strikes caused by social conflicts," then handed over my credit card.

It's amazing the sort of trouble you can get yourself into with that little piece of plastic.

At 9:30 the next morning I was standing atop a frigid, 15,400-foot hilltop, putting on a bike helmet and looking at a 25-foot-tall statue of Jesus. His outstretched arms faced the valley below, and a plaque at the statue's base read "God bless the travelers."

This was the pass of La Cumbre, the starting point of our trip.

About an hour earlier I had met the seven other members of my group -- four Europeans, an Australian couple and a young Brazilian -- at the agency's office. From there, our Bolivian guides herded us onto a microbus and drove us out of La Paz, taking us past an enormous reservoir and several semi-frozen ponds.

When the bus rattled to a stop, we stepped onto a scree-covered hillock topped with power transformers and, of course, Jesus. Our guides handed out heavy wind pants, orange vests and bicycles. And then, after telling us to ignore the stray dogs lining the road, they pointed us down the mountain.