BY Robert Hughes , FLORIDA TODAY

LA FORTUNA, Costa Rica - The road to paradise is paved with mud.

That's the way this pack of mountain bikers sees it, anyway, as we hammer our pedals to stay at the front of more than 3,000 cyclists circling Arenal Lake in an annual bike rally.

Rain hammers us as we speed along with eyes glued to the endless potholes to decide which will jar our bones the least.

The weather has been so bad, locals admit they haven't seen Arenal Volcano looming overhead in a month. By now, many gringos are convinced it doesn't even exist; it's just a hoax to draw tourists.

The rain is bad news for your average tour-bus tourist, but for us cyclists, "wet" only means more mud to play in.

Other cyclists look funny, because the only thing not covered by mud is their teeth as they grimace their way uphill.

After 10 miles, only 15 remain off the front, competing in a very unofficial race to see who can get to the end-line of the day's ride (and its complimentary beer) first.

But when we come to a ford over a wide whitewater river, everyone takes the time to dismount and drop their bikes into the water to clean them. (I will discover later just how crucial these stops are.)

Each rider courteously waits until everyone finishes cleaning before resuming the "race," showing it's a world-wide truth that bike events are a blast largely because everyone is so friendly and helpful.

But unlike in the U.S., where there's just a handful of official support vehicles, cyclists here are accompanied by uncountable cars driven by friends who drive along with the event like it's one big party.

Unfortunately, this gringo can't keep up with the leaders' pace, and my slow-down quickly makes me too cold.

As if on cue, the first shack I see for many miles has a sign advertising breakfast, and I pull off.

I hope to sit in the warm interior, but find no room in a house where Grandma has to leave the stove to let a customer get to the tiny bathroom.

So I sit on a stump on the porch, only to find I'm the source of entertainment for a gaggle of kids humored by my mud-caked appearance.

Every vehicle that passes diverts their attention, however, because such passings are normally rare events here. Today, these kids will see more people than ever in their young lives.

Groups of cyclists and their motorized entourages are strung out along the road when I get back in the saddle, so I have plenty of company on the roller coaster road back to town.

That road is paved, but its steep downhills are quite precarious because many of us don't have much stopping power left.

Hours of grinding mud has reduced brake pads to slivers or less. A couple of guys have perfected the Flintstonian art of dragging one foot on the pavement to slow their rapid descents, but I can only squeeze what's left of my brakes and hope no one pulls out in front of me.

I survive to see the next day, Sunday, bust out bright and beautiful and -- miraculously -- Arenal Volcano shows off its perfect cone shape.

Still, I sit out the second day of the bike rally.

Monday's newspaper shows pictures of the sun-day's smiling riders and reports "everyone enjoyed a perfect day for a ride."

I don't know, but I think our smiles on the previous, "miserable" day were bigger.

Then again, I guess our smiles were all you could see.

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