Well rested, we packed our things and were treated to a traditional Colombian desayuno at a dive on the outskirts of town. A place bound to satiate; a bit run down, an unpaved lot, open to the environment, racks upon racks of freshly made, sensationally aromatic baked goodness that tested the patience of even the most discerning patron. Changua was my charge; a milk soup of sorts served hot, stocked with egg, queso, and pan. A great breakfast with friends old and new, and a perfect send off to Zipaquirá christened with a prayer of thanks and protection.

On our way we stopped at a mall to procure a rain jacket for Mel. Three suggestions from security to move our bikes, three chats with a sales representative on his smoke breaks, and an hour and a half later, Mel found “the one” just before our first opportunity to put it to the test. Maybe it was the rain clouds now hovering over head, but our good fortune seemed to fade as we began crossing the autopista on the many elevated walkways that span the road. A hand full of times we hauled our bikes up and over just to double back after watching our precious cicloruta narrow to nothing before our eyes. The lesson for us? Ignore the crossovers. Not my crossover not my problem.

With Zipaquirá in sight we attended to finding a resting place and reconciling the rumbling of our stomachs. We eventually succumbed to the onslaught of chivalry from shop keepers and restaurant workers persuading us to indulge in their fairest of all fare, and were shuffled into an eatery adjacent to our hotel that promised a pleasing feast for la vegetariana. We ate well and were obliged to have a picture taken holding tiny flags representing the good will between Columbia and the Estados Unidos; a gracious gesture, but cheesy all the same.

We hulled up in a hotel that night, had hot showers, and were surprised to find that the population of the small town enjoyed what resembled a rave lasting well into the night. After waking to find the clothes washed in our collapsible sink still soaked, we decided to take the day to explore the town which sits on one of the largest salt deposits in the Americas. That night an encore rave was followed by an equally rousting performance from roosters just outside our room whose crow I foolishly thought was but a response to the rising sun. I was sorely mistaken.

From Zipaquirá we continued north along the autopista toward Ubaté, but because of yet another chain issue our progress was delayed, and we found ourselves midway through milk country in the quickening cast of a mountain shadow asking in tired, broken Spanglish for a place to camp.

Click below to see the updated photo gallery of our travels to Zipaquirá via Chía.