Three hours into our Nairo Pilgrimage, we climb on beautiful, new pavement out of San Pedro de Iguaque to a rolling plateau at 10,000 feet (3,050 metres). Paved roads seem to pop up randomly, often unconnected to other sections of tarmac. This section climbs to a sea of pastureland cut by dirt roads, like off-white veins on green muscle. A bit like Tuscany — beautiful, agricultural — except with a bite to the air that reminds you of your height above the sea. We’re higher than Cómbita and Nairo’s house. Far higher than the highest paved roads in Europe. A storm brews to the west, the direction we must go. Temperatures have dropped into the 50s. But first, Nairo’s.

A descent down to the main road ends our quiet hours on dirt. Since leaving the road out of Leyva perhaps a dozen motorcycles, half a dozen small trucks, and a handful of loaded-down horses and donkeys have passed us. It’s why we chose this way, even though it meant we’ve traveled 32 miles (51km) in five hours. One’s ability to truly explore a place, to stop and smell the roses, so to speak, is aided by a distance from things that can kill you, like giant trucks. The second half of the ride will fly by, anyway; it’s mostly downhill and mostly paved.

Nairo’s house is easy to spot. It sits off to the left on a sweeping right bend and has two massive Nairo statues sitting out front. They are at least 10 feet (3m) tall. The Movistar logos on his jersey have been replaced by the letter N, and underneath it says “Boyaca,” his home state. A massive grin on the larger of the two figures feels slightly out of place for a rider notorious for his poker face, but it fits the mood.

The place is an adorable little truck stop, basically. Except it doesn’t sell gas and my preferred Mega Queso flavor Doritos, it sells Nairo. There are shirts and scarves in yellow, the color of Colombia’s national soccer team, and pink, the color of the Giro.

The small parking lot in front of the building is a rotating carousel of pilgrims like us. They stop on motorbikes, covered head-to-toe in rain gear, or pile out of tiny hatchbacks. A massive truck pulls up. The driver jumps out, grabs a selfie with the Nairo statue, then jumps back in the cab and roars off in a cloud of diesel smoke. Our fellow pilgrims seem excited that the gringos came to see Nairo, too. One man asks if we’ll join him for a picture under the largest statue.

An odd combination of excitement and reverence makes the place feel quite a lot like most of the famous churches I’ve found myself in. Places of hushed delight, as if everyone is worried a saint might peek his head around the door and chide us for making too much noise. Maybe Nairo is home today? Best not to yell, then.