ACROSS ANDES 2025

By Alison Tetrick

There is a certain kind of person who signs up for hard things. Not because they are chasing suffering—life provides plenty of that on its own—but because something inside them recognizes the call.

Challenges are a privilege.
Bikes do not have to be a punishment. Especially when given the opportunity to ride your bike all day and night.

For me, it has always been this way. If a challenge sings to my soul, I move toward it like a moth toward flame. Circling, mesmerized, knowing full well the light might burn, and signing up anyway.

I first fell in love with Patagonia while riding Fireflies Patagonia. Volcanoes stoically rising out of glacier-fed water. Long, empty ribbons of gravel disappearing into the mountains of southern Chile. Silence that didn’t feel lonely—silence that filled all your empty spaces with a spark of wonder. I hadn’t felt joy on the bike like that in a long time. Not the kind that asks for performance, but the kind that asks you to stay because it has always had a home inside your longing and wandering heart.

I wanted more of that feeling.
More unknown.
More depth.
Something that would pull a new version of myself to the surface.

That siren song led me to Across Andes.

Across Andes is an ultra-distance crossing of Chile—more than 800 kilometers of gravel through remote mountain towns, long star-soaked nights, and stretches so quiet you begin to hear your own thoughts echo back at you. Strangely, it was comforting, like chicken noodle soup for the soul, if soup came with steep volcanic climbs and sleep deprivation.

You can race it alone, or as a duo.
I chose the latter.

Not because it was easier, but because this kind of challenge is better shared. And because, if I’m honest, I was scared to do it alone.

THE CROSSING

Canuto Errázuriz and I began the way you’re supposed to begin something enormous: conservatively. Patient. Respectful—of the terrain, the distance, and each other. Across Andes doesn’t reward ego. It rewards presence, preparation, patience, and progress.

Early on, my body revolted. I was the weak link almost immediately. It was unlike anything I have experienced in my professional cycling career. Stomach pain. Vomiting. Back seizing. Hours where nothing felt smooth or rhythmic or familiar. But there was no panic. We had already committed. We stayed calm because there was no other option. I glued myself to Canuto’s wheel and trusted the plan—his plan—the one he built on spreadsheets I probably should have studied more closely. At least I am trusting.

Somewhere near Villarrica, around kilometer 540, things clicked. We were in control of the race and our destiny. Or so we thought.

Racing as a duo means every decision belongs to two people. Consistency matters. Trust matter. And when one person falters, the other doesn’t decide for them, they hold space with them.

That belief would soon be tested.

WHEN THE NIGHT ARRIVES

The nights were long and unforgiving. I had never ridden through the night before, but Patagonia rewrites what darkness means. The sky glittered with stars. The moon crested over snowcapped volcanoes like it was part of the course design, dappling more glitter in the air. Wild horses ran beside us across the high desert, their hooves syncing with my heartbeat. I had never felt more free. More calm. More resolved.

It felt unreal—and yet clarity mattered.

Reliable light became essential. Descending snowy mountain passes and endless gravel rollercoasters, while exhausted, required illumination that didn’t ask questions or demand attention. Our Lezyne Macro Drive 1400+, Strip Drive Pro 400+, and Helmet Lite Drive 1200+ ran steadily, hour after hour, carving clean tunnels through the dark. That steadiness felt calm. I could see everything. I could feel everything. It was magic—the kind that only works if you trust it completely.

Tools mattered too. Not because everything was breaking, but because knowing if something did, we had the tools to repair it, keeping doubt from creeping in. The SV Pro and Super SV23 multi-tools, tucked away where muscle memory could find them. The quiet reassurance of a Pocket Drive CO2, tubeless plugs, and the small ritual of order inside our bags. Fewer decisions. Fewer spirals. More energy saved for the work of continuing. When you’re depleted, confidence in your gear and in your systems becomes fuel.

Sometimes that fuel looks like pizza.
Sometimes it looks like a multi-tool.
Sometimes it’s just the relief of knowing one less thing can go wrong.

WHEN THE BODY SPEAKS

Shermer’s Neck (search it) arrived quietly and then refused to leave. My neck muscles stopped holding my head upright. Riding became unstable. My nervous system felt overloaded. My head would drop forward and the world would dissolve into pinwheels.

We tried everything. A USB cord from helmet to hydration pack. A water bottle shoved into my sports bra to prop up my chin. Riding and coasting hunched like The Thinker. We stopped for what we thought would be our final break at 50 kilometers to go. I took a selfie and sent it to my husband. Powdered my nose. Yes, I carried a makeup compact on that bike. (Don’t tell Canuto.)

And then I crashed.

I knew my sternum was broken. It was visibly displaced and protruding from my chest. Painful, yes. Familiar, unfortunately, since I have broken it before. What I didn’t yet know was how extensive the damage really was with all the other hidden broken bones in my neck and back. What I did know was this:

Riding was no longer safe.

We sat in the grass beside the road. Quiet. Heavy. The realization that this might be the end of our road seeped in slowly, thick as cigar smoke in a dark bar. Canuto gave me full freedom, more than that, adamant encouragement to stop. No pressure. No disappointment. Safety mattered more than anything. Quitting would not be failure. I refused. I pouted. I argued.

He asked me why I wanted to continue.

I said I was being stubborn.

He asked what stubborn meant.

I told him I was about to show him.

WALKING

So, we walked.

Seventeen hours.
Forty-five kilometers.
Through the night.

Progress became intimate. Every step, a decision. Every movement, deliberate. We slept on a rock pile on the side of the road. I had a soda can in my back pocket pressed painfully into my back. That bruise lasted a month. Walked in socks when cycling shoes stopped making sense. I used emergency blankets for warmth, and later, to support my neck like a flotation device, and eventually as a superhero cape when lunacy set in and I needed a theme song to keep moving.

Canuto pushed both bikes without hesitation. Never rushed. Always checking in. Except for a few moments when he asked if I could walk faster.

I could not.
That was my speed.

Even then, the gear mattered. The lights still guided us—now on foot instead of wheels. Storage kept essentials reachable. Tools let us adapt the bikes so I could shuffle forward safely, Flintstone-style, in short bursts. The plan had changed, but the systems held.

When we crossed the finish line in Pucón, third place for us was already decided.

It barely registered.

What mattered was that we arrived together.

BEYOND

I’ve spent most of my career learning how to honor start lines the hard way—the bravery it takes to say yes even when you’re scared, when your head is throbbing with doubt.

To sign up anyway.
To show up.
To answer the call before you know what it will ask in return.

Sometimes the hardest thing you can do is make it to the damn start.

Across Andes taught me something else.

There is bravery in finishing. Even when it isn’t a win.
In finishing when it isn’t pretty, when it’s full of heartbreak and pain.
When it’s slower.
Quieter. Messier.

When it doesn’t resemble the story you imagined—or the one you ever planned to tell—but it is yours, and you are the only one who can write it.

I didn’t come to Chile to ride 760 kilometers.
I came to ride 800.

Even if that meant walking the final 40.

I’m home now, healing—broken ribs, a fractured and displaced sternum, injuries to my neck and back—held together by exceptional medical teams and the people who show up when things fall apart. And I fall apart a lot, so I need these people. I’m proud of what we did. Proud of the trust we built. Proud of partners who understand that endurance is not just about courage, but about caring—about showing up to the scary, pushing limits when it’s safe, and refusing to believe that any finish line is an ending.

Would I do it again?
Without hesitation.

But only with the same teammate, if he’ll have me. That will be one daunting start line of an explanation that I don’t want to line up for alone.

It was the most meaningful and beautiful athletic experience of my career, not because of how it ended, but because I stayed with it until the end found me.

And perhaps that is just the beginning.

Because the truth is simple:

The journey doesn’t stop at the finish line—that’s where the real story begins.

Photos: @andrewbrndwn, @cdizphoto, @ramias_photo