Victor Hugo Pena: 2004 Tour de France

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Outside Magazine, July 2004

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2004 Tour de France: The Ultimate Guide
Mountain Grown (cont.)


	Dangerous curves ahead: Peña and crew pass a military checkpoint outside Piedecuesta. (Antonin Kratochvil)

EARLY ONE SUNDAY morning last January, I met Peña outside his apartment building in Bucaramanga. Erika, his wife of one month, was still sleeping upstairs. A security guard dozed in a chair by the door, clutching a semi-automatic pistol.

Peña had brought out his old carbon-fiber Giant, for me to ride, and within minutes I could see why he has so many friends in the pro circuit: He's funny, friendly, and generous to a fault. Like Lance, Peña is a former swimmer,

Peña still vividly recalls a training ride, on a remote mountain road near Bucaramanga, when three guerrillas stepped into his path. He was trembling, afraid they would hold him for ransom.

and his back and shoulders are still dense with powerful muscles. Seated on his bike, he resembles a jaguar coiled to pounce.

As we set out, Ismael followed us, driving Peña's brawny Ford Explorer, hazard lights flashing. Because of Colombia's frequent extortion kidnappings, top cyclists never train alone. Pedaling out of the city, we were joined by Peña's coach, Absalon Rincón, 45, a tall man with curly hair who has worked with Peña for years. The city street merged into busy four-lane highway, and then it started to rain.

At a bus stop, we met up with Olmedo Capacho, a quiet but friendly 31-year-old pro for Colombia's Orbitel team, which races throughout Latin America and sometimes in Europe. There were also three older guys, wealthy local businessmen with paunches and expensive Trek and Cannondale bikes, and two up-and-coming 18-year-olds, Jorge Jimenez and Jaime Bueno, riding ancient, battered European road bikes.

As we passed through Piedecuesta and the road started going up, the businessmen turned back; the rest of us went over the top and dropped into a dry, rocky canyon. The rain stopped, and the Colombians flew deftly over the slick road's many potholes. At the bottom of the canyon, the road passed through a military checkpoint and crossed over the fast-flowing and muddy Río Sogamoso. Then it rounded a bend and tilted upward again. This was Pescadero, a brutal climb in the Vuelta a Colombia, rising more than 6,000 feet in about 18 miles.

"In the race," Peña said, "you make this turn and you think, My God, I cannot make it."

I was thinking the same thing. Without a word, Capacho handed me a congealed lump of panela, the brown sugar that Colombian cyclists eat instead of PowerBars. As it dissolved on my tongue, I found new inspiration. We settled into a rhythm, joined by a leathery peasant riding an old mountain bike. His cycling shoes and shorts were ratty and worn, but he kept up easily. Bogotá-bound traffic streamed past us.

"Normally, man," Peña said, "this is one fucking lonely road."

In Colombia, lonely means dangerous. Last year there were 2,200 reported abductions nationwide—many carried out in rural areas by communist guerrillas or right-wing paramilitaries. Peña still vividly recalls a training ride years ago, on a remote mountain road near Bucaramanga, when three guerrillas stepped into his path. Under their ponchos he spied telltale bulges that he took to be weapons. He was trembling, afraid they would kidnap him for ransom. But they recognized Peña and waved him along. He said he'd never climbed so fast in his life.

I had never climbed so fast in my life, either, but my attempts to keep up with the Colombians were hopeless. After a few more miles, they increased the pace slightly; soon they were several curves ahead, still riding easily toward the sun.

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