Trans Americas 2009 - The Blog

I think my body must be getting acclimatised to all this alcohol because once again I slept reasonably well, and woke without a hangover. Over breakfast I was congratulated my the rest of the group who had not been around when the news of my new granddaughters arrived, my fellow riders genuinely pleased for me. I then ran through my usual morning ritual, packing the bike and collecting together my things from the room, then putting on my bike gear. As the sun was shining I didn't put my electric jacket on, sticking to just a long-sleeved tee-shirt and my warm jacket underneath my bike jacket. At first this was fine, as I rode out of town alone, but as the road started to climb the hills and run across a flat plateau, the wind started blowing strongly and the temperature began to drop. I stopped and put on my outer windproof jacket to keep the worst of the wind off, and continued on my way, leaning into the wind as I went, riding the bike at an angle despite being on a perfectly straight road. After 60 miles of tarmac the route notes called for a right turn onto a dirt road (the last stretch of Ruta 40) but as my speedo is optimistic I was expecting the turn to be around 65-70 miles. At 61 miles there was as right turn, which looked like it ran into a farm, so I pressed on looking for the turn I was expecting. At 70 miles I realised the turn I'd seen must have been the right one, so did a quick u-turn and headed back. Going back the wind was stronger than ever and I struggled to keep the bike pointing down the road, getting blown from one side of the road to the other. Just before the turn was a sign that could only be seen when travelling in this direction, showing the dirt road I'd thought was a farm track was in fact Ruta 40...

The road was in excellent condition, hard packed mud with little gravel and as I was now heading into the wind, the going was easier than it had been on the tarmac. I made good progress keeping to my steady dirt-riding mantra of cruising at around 45mph keeping a very close eye out for changing road conditions. At one point I saw a large bird at the roadside, that looked like an emu. It was a rea, a native Patagonian bird guarding her brood of chicks, and she ran aggressively along the roadside as I slowed for a better look... with discretion the better part of valour, I didn't stop to take a picture and continued on my way leaving her to return back to her chicks without having had to peck at a voyeuristic motorcyclist. Further down the road a herd of guanacos ran from the scrub to my right and followed along the roadside before turning back, causing me to back off and prepare to take evasive action. But these distractions were nothing in comparison to watching the road surface as I strained to see whether it was changing, the bright flat light preventing shadows from forming and causing me to squint badly. My efforts paid off, though, as on one straight stretch I noticed what looked like a change and slowed rapidly, dropping down to 2nd gear before reaching what turned out to be a very long stretch of my least-favourite surface, loose gravel with no discernible tracks. Once again I found myself riding on marbles, the bike sliding from both front and rear the wind contributing to the impossibility of keeping it going in a direction of my choice. Several times I held my breath as the bike hit a deeper patch, digging in a little despite my delicate increase in throttle lightening the load on the front wheel. And as before, the handlebars were waggled this way and that by the gravel, sending waves of pain up to my left shoulder and then down my back. I rode on slowly, cursing the surface and using every expletive I know (and that's far too many for a nice guy like me!) for what seemed like an hour but was probably much less. I was caught and passed by Richard & Karen and Simon, both cruising along as if the surface was billiard-table smooth, but their weaving bucking bikes giving the game away. No sooner had they come past than the surface improved, with noticeable tracks of hard-packed mud easily wide enough for my bike's wheels and I could start to relax again and increase my speed. Now I was catching Richard & Karen, Simon, Nick and Al, the 5 bikes spread over 3 tracks and all kicking up small rooster-tails of dust which was immediately blown horizontal by the wind. Shortly after we formed a tight group we reached the end of the dirt, a t-junction where we met the tarmac again and a petrol station/café. We stopped and had a coffee and chocolate biscuit, whilst watching more bikes come down the dirt and pull up outside. When the van appeared it was time for me to leave, wanting to ensure I stayed sufficiently in front of Jeff so he wouldn't be pushing me along the dirt again. The tarmac lasted just 27 more miles before I took the right turn down another dirt road to the border. Again in excellent condition, the road led to the Argentinian customs post where 2 large coaches were already parked up. Inside the little office were 3 tour guides with huge stacks of passports that needed processing whilst their lazy owners sat in the air-conditioned splendour of their coach oblivious to the biting cold wind outside. I queued up patiently and was joined by several others of the group as we waited to get out exit stamps in our passports and hand in the bike permits. Eventually one of the coaches had been processed and I managed to get the all important stamp then I was on my bike and racing across the dirt to the Chilean customs a mile or two away, keen to get there before the coach caught me up and disgorged its contents into the customs hall. On arrival I was given the usual forms to fill in, then got myself stamped in and queued up for my bike permit, just as the coach arrived. This time the tourists could not avoid the inevitable and had to lug their huge suitcases into the hall for inspection and queue up like the rest of us for their passports to be checked and stamped. This part of the world is a haven for walkers and back-packers and most of the tourists from the coaches were dressed ready to spend some time in the mountains, but they were still carrying huge plastic cases that could easily fit the contents of several of our bikes' panniers and then some. And they all seemed miserable, lacking the energy and enthusiasm of my fellow riders, faces glowing from the cold wind, eyes bright from constantly trying to take in the beauty of the scenery were were part of, riding exposed as opposed to cosseted inside a metal tube sat in an armchair sleeping the world by...

Once clear of customs there was a short ride down a concrete road to the hotel, a lovely building set in fields and opposite a large hill over which huge condors flew. As I parked up outside, Kevin came out to tell me there was a puma in the area that had recently killed a couple of sheep. As I unpacked and changed the hosts began the process of preparing dinner, a group meal of parilla'd lamb, and no less than 3 lambs were being cooked for us. Whilst we whiled away the time before dinner sat in front of a log fire, or playing rubbish table-tennis in the games room (something I would regret later as I think it made my back worse), or reading books from the “van-library” (a collection of books brought out by the group and placed in the van for others to read, and which was being left at the hotel as we clear out things from the van before the end of the trip), we waited for news from the kippers. Once again Jim and Mac had taken a different route, sticking to the tarmac rather than riding the last section of dirt on Ruta 40, a round-trip which would have added about 30 miles to their journey. They had passed us at the petrol station/café, but had not been seen at the border. The most likely explanation was that they had followed their GPS and gone further south to the next border, one that Kevin knew existed but had no experience of. With no mobile phone signal we didn't know if they'd tried to contact us or not, but they didn't appear all evening, meaning that I had a room to myself once more (and more importantly could pinch Jim's pillow so I could try and get more comfortable).

When dinner was ready we headed out to the wooden cooking area, where we sat on big bench tables and drank a complimentary pisco sour (I had a sip for the toast – to my granddaughters – and then passed it to Julia, the taste reminding me too much of bad experiences). With a plate full of salad and a glass of red wine all was set for a good evening, then they brought round the first plate of lamb. Here they don't bother with carving it into small and neat bits of meat, preferring simply to hack great chunks off and let the diners select a piece they fancy. My first selection was a hunk of ribs loaded with succulent meat, simply delicious...





My second piece was half a leg, all meat and equally delicious. I couldn't manage a 3rd... after dessert we headed back to the warmth of the log fire, where the group sat chatting, reading or playing jenga... a lovely end to another great day...