On Saturday, Macky and I raced the Conquista Volcán Osorno, a 77km (about 50 mi) mountain bike race around Volcán Osorno. The race was long and hot, but Chile’s vibrant and quirky bike culture provided unceasing entertainment, before, during and after the race.

I love mountain bike racers. Friendly, outgoing, ever-enthusiastic about beer and new bike gadgets—these things are universal. Chileans, however, take bike ogling to a whole new level. It’s completely normal to see a bike surrounded by a crowd of curious corredores, poking, prodding, oohing and ahhing, even if the owner is nowhere in sight. By the time Macky was done answering one guy’s questions about our suction cup SeaSucker bike rack, a crowd had assembled, large enough to stop traffic. (Not that it’s really that hard to stop traffic in Las Cascadas, Chile.)

There were 650 people racing this Saturday. This included elite racers, kids with long travel bikes and flat pedals and everything in between. I rode part of the climb with an older guy, probably late 60s, who had a talking GPS in his jersey pocket. He asked me and every subsequent rider we came upon cuantos kilometros a la cumbre? How many miles to the top? The answers varied from 20 to three. It became clear that no on had any idea. This did not dissuade my friend in the least, and he continued to query everyone we saw. His GPS chirped every few minutes alerting us of our elevation and meager progress towards la cumbre.

The descent, through sand pits and scree fields, was much more entertaining than when I had ridden it earlier in the week with Macky. The thing about following a pro Super-D champ down a mountain is that he rarely does anything spectacularly stupid. This is kind of boring sometimes. Saturday, however, was pure, glorious, mountain bike carnage. Racers ahead and behind of me routinely lost control of their bikes and crashed into the sand in clouds of dust and flailing limbs. The technical sections became even more technical when littered with bodies and bicycle parts. Slalom, anyone?

Most people were polite and tentative even if they weren’t great bike handlers. However, there were a couple riders who would have faired better in a running-straight-into-a-brick-wall contest. My favorite was a larger Chilean man on a neon green Cannondale. He passed me three times, screaming by in a whir of dust and screeching brakes. Inevitably, I’d catch up to him where he sat, moaning and groaning on the side of the trail. The first time this happened I thought he might have seriously injured himself. By the third time, I had my doubts.

I have no idea how I did in the race. I do know that it took me almost 6 hours, that by the end I was hot and tired and carrying a sandbox of volcanic ash in my shoes and gloves, that I got a free hamburguesa and choripan out of the deal and that I had a really great time.