Back in La Paz we seem to have gotten stuck in the black hole once more, mending our forever ill stomachs (one of the pleasures of Bolivia), getting out of breath constantly from walking up the many hills, and guiltily enjoying the pleasures of the very americanised chain of coffee shops, Alexander Coffee. If you´re in La Paz or head there soon, go there just for their hot chocolates - best I´ve ever tasted.
For some reason I let James drag me away from the safe and warm confines of Alexander coffee, and convince me to take on another of La Paz´s backpacking legends. The worlds most dangerous road. Having never been mountain biking before, the idea of my first attempt being on a winding gravel road with a very deadly reputation didn´t fill me with joy, nor did the fact that it was rainy season - and this meant that some companies ceased to offer the ride, deaming it ´too risky´, or doubled their prices to account for the extra care taken. Great! Despite knowing this we decided to go with the cheapest company we could find, and I had butterflies that felt more like helicopters in my stomach on the morning of our ride. We began the ride at the freezing and wind-swept La Cumbre (4,700m/15,400 feet) supposedly surrounded by snow-covered peaks and fantastic views - not that we saw any of these as there was a thick fog present at 8.00am when we started. Shaky at first, slightly terrified and with numb hands I quickly took up my position at the back of our small group. The first section is on a twisting tarmac road, which descends rapidly down to a checkpoint where we stopped for breakfast. I was beginning to gain a little bit more confidence by this point but still insisted on James staying nearby incase I went arse over handlebars.
The next section actually entered the Yungas, becoming hotter and wetter as we descended. This was the most challenging part of the ride. I nearly cried when our instructor told us we still had about 4 hours to go! My hands and bum were killing already, and we hadn´t even hit the gravel yet. This infamous narrow dirt road is cut precariously into the side of the mountain and descends 2,000m (6,500 feet). This is where the accidents happen, it´s estimated that every year 200 to 300 people die on this winding road less than 50 miles long. I asked our instructor when was the last time a biker died? He looked deadpan at me and said that two English people went over the edge last week. The whole group went silent, then he burst out laughing, no doubt at the look of horror on my face.....then said ´´I´m joking, they weren´t English, they were Argentinian´´.So we began the decent, with 1,000m+ (3,300 feet) sheer drops off to our left and hulking rock overhangs and cascading waterfalls to our right, we rode along, me completely ignoring our instructors advice to stick to the tire tracks on the left (near the sheer drop!) and sticking as 
close to the inside wall as possible. Followed by our support vehicle behind, a constant temptation to give up and jump in the van was hard to ignore. Thankfully, since March 2007 the majority of traffic has stopped driving down the WMDR, and now drives down the new road, so we didn´t have much in the way of vehicles to contend with, just other groups of mountainbikers who seemed to have a death wish and would zoom past at breakneck speed with little warning. Every now and then there would be a memorial plaque on the side of the road, some frighteningly recent, just to remind you what a stupid thing you were doing.
close to the inside wall as possible. Followed by our support vehicle behind, a constant temptation to give up and jump in the van was hard to ignore. Thankfully, since March 2007 the majority of traffic has stopped driving down the WMDR, and now drives down the new road, so we didn´t have much in the way of vehicles to contend with, just other groups of mountainbikers who seemed to have a death wish and would zoom past at breakneck speed with little warning. Every now and then there would be a memorial plaque on the side of the road, some frighteningly recent, just to remind you what a stupid thing you were doing. As we descended it began to get progressively hotter and dustier. And after 3 or so hours we made it to the bottom, a small town called Yolosa (1,100m/3,600 feet) deep in the Bolivian Yungas. I was amazed to be alive, and had actually began to enjoy the ride once I´d gotten the hang of it. I even managed to up my position in the group by one, giving up the last place position to a Colombian girl who was even more scared than I was. We were then driven to a hotel with a swimming pool to try and ease our quivering muscles and have some lunch. I definitely felt a sense of acheivement for managing to make it to the bottom. Thankfully I only found this BBC article after we´d been on the bikes, as I´m sure I would´ve chickened out if I´d read it before!
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