You can see Peru's Sacred Valley by bike—here's how

I’m 100 metres into a 20-mile bike ride through Peru’s Sacred Valley and I’ve already come to a halt. My lungs are burning, my heart’s racing and I’m wondering if I’ve made a bad decision. At the safety briefing beside Huacarpay Lake, I’d been champing at the bit to get going, so why do I feel like I have the aerobic fitness of a foetus? It turns out my body isn’t used to operating above 10,000ft.

I’ve joined a cycling tour that begins beside the glass-like waters of Huacarpay, before following part of the Urubamba River and eventually leading to Pisac — a town known for its bohemian vibe, spiritual retreats and steady trade in ayahuasca. It’ll take us a couple of hours to complete the trail, a journey that promises shifting scenery, village life and glimpses of the Sacred Valley at its purest.

To the left, we’re flanked by low hills dotted with corrugated-roofed huts, bright brick houses and dozing dogs. On the right, meanwhile, the 33ft-wide Urubamba River rolls lazily over small, shining stones, concertinaing back and forth. The morning sun flashes between eucalyptus trunks, revealing the velvety flanks of mossy green hillsides. Despite the bright light, the air remains brisk — 10 degrees at most — and cold creeps up my arms in shivers.

Though my lungs heave and my legs strain, it’s my nose that seems to be getting the biggest workout. The scent of Molle tree (Peruvian pepper tree) flowers and thick grass flirt beneath my nostrils. And then there’s the smoke. Sometimes, it’s a faint trace, no stronger than a recently snuffed match; other times, it’s all consuming.

“August is a significant month in Peru,” our guide, Herbert Peralta Gonzales, calls from the front of the group. “As winter ends, leftover wheat and dried vegetation are gathered and burned. It’s part of clearing the fields for the next planting season, but it’s also symbolic. Smoke sends a message to Pachamama, the Earth Mother, asking for fertile soil and a good harvest,” he explains.

Pachamama — the Andean goddess of fertility, agriculture and life itself — is still honoured in rural Peru, especially by Indigenous communities. Offerings of smoke, tobacco, cocoa leaves, food and even alcohol are made to her in rituals that blend pre-Columbian spirituality with Catholic influence.

As I ride, slender columns of smoke rise from distant hillsides, streaking the blue sky with ashy wisps. There are countless bundles of straw strewn across the land and piled in stacks beside the road. At one point, our path flanks a burning field. I hold my breath and push through the smog, flames licking shrubbery a few feet from my tyres.

An hour or so later, I slow my pedalling to pass through the outskirts of a quiet village, Papacalle, exchanging a soft ‘buenos días’ with an elderly woman. She has the tender face of the great-grandmother from the Pixar film Coco, dressed in a traditional chullo (knitted cap) and wrapped in an patterned aguayo (multicoloured woollen cloth). Her desire to acknowledge me — with nothing to sell and no reason to engage other than to say ‘welcome, I see you’ — is deeply moving.

I’m snapped from my reverie as a car races past, its bonnet wrapped in yellow tinsel, sunflower bouquets strapped to its mirrors, and a glittering top hat glued to its roof. It’s come from Huanca, a hillside enclave near the town of San Salvador, known for its traditional vehicle blessing ceremony, where a local priest sprinkles holy water over engines, roofs and drivers to protect them and wish them safe travels.

“The use of yellow in Peru is believed to bring luck,” Herbert explains. “This tradition is said to have arrived with Chinese immigrants who came to Peru in the 19th and early 20th centuries, and, over time, these influences have blended with local traditions, creating unique expressions like the yellow decorations we see today.”

An ancient bus trundles by, decked out in the same vibrant yellow, and when we cycle through San Salvador a little later, I notice a bustling workstation where it all comes together. Men wash tyres and buff bonnets, while women blow up balloons and weave intricate bouquets of cantuta and sunflowers.

With 12 miles under our belts, we leave the main road behind. The smooth tarmac gives way to a dusty, pebble-strewn track and the valley widens to accommodate fields of farmland. The foliage changes, too, and I’m amazed by the variety of cactuses — from the enormous, spiky leaves of yellow agave to my favourite, the smaller patakiska. This cross-shaped cactus is traditionally planted atop walls as a natural barbed wire.

There’s also a noticeable absence of wildlife but, with the towering Andes at their paws, it’s little wonder most creatures make their homes on higher ground. Still, it thrills me to think that just out of sight spectacled bears, guinea pigs, viscachas (rodents), and even the revered puma roam. The birds, however, are less elusive: American kestrels — among the smallest falcons in the world — and black-and-white caracaras wheel gracefully above. A flock of black-faced ibis sweeps low across the valley, their long beaks catching the light before they vanish into the hills.

The track soon becomes potholed and rough, and my hands blur on the juddering handlebars as I fight to stay in control. But it’s exhilarating. The wind’s in my hair, so is the smoke, the car fumes and probably a few flecks of alpaca poo, but it all feels like part of the Peruvian experience. On foot, I’d never cover this kind of distance and, in a car, these magnificent landscapes would have been reduced to a a blur.

Our route continues through small communities, past tiny white churches and cosy, welcoming hostels — havens for the curious traveller seeking rest before heading deeper into the foothills. Hidden among the folds of the mountains are countless ayahuasca retreat centres, where ancient Amazonian plant-medicine ceremonies await.

We roll into Pisac, breathless and mud-splattered. I’ve long forgotten the thin air and burning lungs; what remains is a quiet exhilaration, a sense of connection to the land, its people and a valley that reveals far more from the saddle than it ever could from the sidelines.