Sasaima to Termales El Pino

“Babe, this is another morning of mixed emotions,” I said, as we rode away from Jose and Jaime, their big smiles and waves trailing behind us like a warm breeze we didn’t want to leave.

Before this trip, I thought the toughest parts would be the massive climbs or long days in the saddle. Turns out, it’s the goodbyes that hit hardest. Saying farewell to people who’ve welcomed us like family—now that’s the real uphill.

Today played out like an emotional and physical rollercoaster. We climbed, we coasted, we sweated our way through about 1,400 metres up and nearly 900 metres down. Not bad for a day at the office.

The landscape was something else— bollard like rock faces, thick lush bush, and views that stopped us in our tracks. At times, it felt like we were pedalling through a painting.

We eventually rolled into the wee town of Viani. With no accommodation for another 30km, we called it a day.

Good call —my left arm had started playing up, feels like a pinched nerve or something.

Maree, legend that she is, treated me to a therapeutic bedtime arm massage.

“Hey babe, I reckon we should take it easy on the downhill,” Maree called out.

I knew what she really meant—I should take it easy. My enthusiasm for downhill cruising can sometimes turn into a full send, and after last night’s torrential rain, the road was slick as a greased eel.

The descent was mellow—one of those beautiful rolling downhills with the odd nudge uphill to keep you honest.

We were winding our way through thick, vibrant bush, with pockets of farmland peeking out from behind curtains of greenery. Honestly, the whole scene was lush on lush.

By the time we rolled into Camboa, the tummies were talking. It was high time for a feed, so we parked up for a plate of pollo con arroz—classic, cheap and cheerful.

After lunch, we carried on across the valley floor. I couldn’t help but feel like we’d pedalled into Sherwood Forest.

Wrong continent, sure—but something about the dappled light through the bush and those open green meadows had me expecting Robin Hood and his Merry Men to pop out for a yarn.

We stopped at an intersection to our turn to start the Nevado del Ruiz road, for a drink, looking up at the road we’d need to climb, an epic 4100m accent

It hit us then—no towns for 30km and over 1000 metres of climbing.

“Let’s wing it,” we agreed. Classic.

After about 10km of steady climbing, we spotted a farmhouse and figured we’d try our luck.

A friendly landowner gave us the nod to camp on their property, and just like that, we had a patch of grass with a view looking back across the lush hills we’d conquered.

“Hey babe, we could play join the dots on you!” I laughed, trying to lift the mood.

Maree had been savaged by the no-see-ums and looked like she was coming down with some kind of exotic pox.

Lucky we’d restocked our antihistamines after the last bite-fest.

She must taste good or something!.

Hot tip: If you're navigating perimenopause, just find the biggest hill you can to climb and flush your way up it!

Natural life sauna, Colombian style!

Today kicked off the first of a three-day uphill slog.

We would climb about 390 vertical metres for every 10km we rode.

And just to spice things up, my body decided it was a great time to throw a hot flush into the mix. Cheers, mate!

About 5km in, drenched in sweat and probably glowing red like a beacon, we stumbled upon a roadside empanada stall.

“Babe,” Maree said with a laugh, “you look like you fell in the swamp!"

I sat there in a puddle of my own making, clutching an empanada and a bottle of Coke—desperate times. I don’t even like Coke.

That’s how dire it was.

Back on the road, we wound our way up through lush, green bush. It felt like we’d been teleported to the West Coast of the South Island—ferns galore, thick, dripping bush, except for the occasional clearing revealing coffee plants or cows grazing peacefully.

Every so often, a little village would pop up like magic, offering shade, snacks, and more precious liquid. I like still leaking like a sieve.

Then, about 7km from Libano, the sky cracked.

Thunder. Lightning. Rain—proper sideways, soak-you-to-your-undies rain. I sure I heard the water hiss as ot hit my skin!!

It was the kind of storm that makes your hair stand on end and your guts do a little flip.

Lightning flashed right above us, thunder boomed like a cannon going off.

I didn’t know it was possible to be 'shit ya self' terrified and absolutely fizzing with adrenaline at the same time—but here we are.

We finally rolled into Libano, two drowned rats with bikes, and were welcomed into a hotel by staff who looked half amused, half horrified.

They had hot showers—actual hot water!

By the time we had warmed up and turned our room into a drying room the deluge had ceased. It was time for food, refuelling our wrung-out bodies.

Today was a beast. 1400m of climbing over just 21km. Our legs were jelly, our hearts were full, and we fell asleep knowing tomorrow was going to be even more brutal

Today the hill climbing cranked things up a notch—yesterday was 300 metres of up every 10 kays, but today it was 300 every five.

It was a brutal wake-up call for the body first thing. No warm-up, just straight into it.

We hit the first 5km like a couple of sleepy sloths on two wheels. Lucky for us, salvation appeared in the form of a roadside café.

We snorted back some coffee, smashed a cheesy arepa, and prepped ourselves to embrace the climb with whatever enthusiasm we could muster.

The scenery stayed lush and green, like some moody West Coast hybrid, and the higher we climbed, the cooler it got—which was a welcome shift after days of cycling in my sauna

We broke up the ride with chat stops, drink stops, and occasional snack attacks.

With around 5km to go, Maree, looking very official, declared it was time for a proper break: "Babe. Coffee. Chippies. Cheese. Now."

So that’s exactly what we did. Pulled over under a tree, brewed up, and tucked in.

Sometimes it’s the smallest wins that carry you through the toughest bits.

Turns out she had good instincts. The last 5km hit us with the steepest climbing of the day. Our legs screamed, our gears groaned, and but we just kept inching upward.

And then—Murillo.

Rolling into town, we heard music pumping. Not unusual in Colombia, but what we saw next had us grinning: half the bloody town was in the plaza, dancing in a massive circle.

There was a bloke in the middle leading the moves, and everyone from little kids, to workers to policia were going full noise in the town square.

I may or may not have thrown a few cheeky bike-seat boogies myself as we rolled past.

Tonight’s digs are as rustic as they come—think creaky floors, thin walls, and charm in bucketloads—but it’s perched right on the edge of town, with a view out to farmland and the soft, rumpled hills.

We’ve decided tomorrow’s a rest day. We’ve climbed to 3000 metres. The pass is at 4100.

With two big days behind us, and the forecast’s better in a couple of days, it’s time to kick back, breathe deep, and let the legs recover.

Ah, the sound of rain on a tin roof—simple, sweet, and for some reason my mind and body just melt into acceptance that today is a quiet day.

As I’d predicted (okay, fine... researched), today was a full-blown rest day, the kind where even the sky wants a lie-in.

Cycling up to 4100 metres in this weather? Yeah, nah. Not today, mate.

Our rustic little hostal turned out to be just the ticket. Perched on the edge of Murillo, it came with a covered porch, a saggy old couch, and a front-row seat to the moody mountain mist and sideways rain.

Perfect spot to plonk ourselves and soak in the slow.

We did a single lap of town—mostly to stretch the legs and grab a few supplies—but the rest of the day was spent in classic horizontal mode, bundled up with warm chocolates watching the world get washed.

There's something magic about these enforced slow days. Time to reflect, recalibrate, and let the body knit itself back together.

The climb ahead is no joke, but today, we gave ourselves permission to just be.

The day ended like the final scene out of Thelma and Louise—just minus the convertible and a police chase.

FYI, my bike is called Thelma.

We rolled out of Murillo with 1100m of climbing ahead of us, stretched over 30km. A kinder gradient than the brute from Líbano to Murillo, but still enough to make your legs squeak in protest.

Right on cue at 10km, a wee roadside tinto lady appeared—like she'd read our minds. Nothing fancy, just pure Colombian fuel and a smile. Bloody magic!

The next stretch took us through farmland dotted with cows—at this altitude, it seemed unlikely, but there they were, chomping away like they didn’t notice the thinning air.

Then things got wild—in the best way!

Towering rock formations emerged, and alpine plants that looked like something from another planet started to weave themselves into the scene.

We were heading into the ecological reserve surrounding Nevado del Ruiz, a volcano that last errupted in 1985.

The road we were on in the Los Nevados National Park, recently paved, boasts being the longest continuous ascent in the world. It was a slow-burn epic.

Around halfway up, Maree started feeling a bit woozy. Altitude? Could be??

We pulled into a grove of trees, whipped up some maize arepa pizzas (don’t knock it till you’ve tried it), brewed a strong coffee, and let ourselves breathe.

It did the trick!

This route had “tourist trail” written all over it—flashy SUVs and motorbikes cruised past only for us to pass them again moments later as they snapped their Insta-worthy pics.

We smiled, nodded, and kept grinding.

It’s a good feeling when your own legs are the reason you're still moving.

But a few things stuck in my core:

Fragile alpine areas fenced off with nothing but yellow tape... and footprints clearly stomping right through it.

Cows grazing in delicate ecosystems.

Rubbish still tosstheout into the roadside gutter.

There was an effort to keep this ecolicical area in its natural state and yes something is better than nothing.

By 3pm, we reached a spot we’d researched as a potential campsite. Nope. Nada. Not even a hint of a tent zone.

Our jelly legs groaned as we pushed on, scouring for anything that looked even remotely like a sneaky pitch spot.

"Hey babe, this looks alright,” I mumbled, exhausted.

I leaned Thelma on the edge of a culvert—a move I’ve done a hundred times before—and wandered down a rocky bank with Maree to check for a hidden flat spot.

Then—CRASH.

We spun around to the sight of Thelma nosediving down the bank 10m and somersaulting into a stream below.

We both stood there, mouths hanging open, too stunned to even swear.

My heart sank. “That’s it,” I thought. “She’s rooted. This adventure’s over.”

We scrambled down and dragged her out—wet, muddy, and tangled. But bugger me sideways... apart from a ripped handlebar grip, Thelma was fine.

Not even bent.

I still can’t believe it.

We found our sneaky camp spot tucked off the road, pitched the tent, and collapsed—physically fried, emotionally rattled, but deeply grateful.

Thelma’s a trooper. And so are we.

Being a Kiwi bush girl, I take my leave no trace pretty seriously. Number twos? No problem.

I pride myself on walking away from the scene like nothing ever happened— leaving 'no trace'.

This morning, the call of the wild came loud and clear. I scouted out the perfect spot—tucked away, out of sight from the odd passing tourist snapping photos of the mountain views.

Hole dug, position assumed... when suddenly—voices!!

I looked up mid-squat to see four people above me. I froze like a rabbit in headlights. Panic. Shame. Instinct told me to stay put. If they didn’t move downhill, they wouldn't see me.

Still, it was one of those moments where you re-evaluate your life choices.

Poo trauma dealt with, breakfast consumed, and it was time to get moving. I took Thelma for a little spin up the road to make sure she was still in fighting form after her tu⁹mble yesterday.

She passed the test, and we started loading up.

We were just about packed when Maree stepped one foot over a yellow rope to grab the last of her gear.

Blaaaarp!

A loud honk shattered the mountain air. A white ute pulled up—Tourist Police. Yep, that’s a real thing here.

We walked up to the window. The officer launched into rapid-fire Spanish, clearly unimpressed.

“Epococo Español,” I mumbled apologetically.

He gestured sternly. Don’t step past the yellow line. Don’t go in that area. We nodded, respectful and sheepishly.

Uf only he knew!!

This is how they manage their ecosystems here—a single guy in a ute. And the moment he drives away? People wander all over the fragile alpine zone.

Yes I know - even us!

But soon enough, we were off—only 50 metres more uphill and then... downhill bliss.

Ten glorious kilometres of descending to our reward: thermal pools with a campsite, Thermales El Pino.

Jackpot!

We rolled in and stripped off our stinky cycle gear like kids on Christmas morning.

Our tired bodies rejoiced as we melted into the hot water, all aches and pains slipping away with the steam.

The place had that worn-out charm—probably once a well-loved local escape, now rough around the edges and clearly running on limited maintenance.

But honestly, so were we. Rough, road-weary, and a little unwashed... it felt like home.