Trans Americas 2009 - The Blog

Friday the 13th, a hangover and a full day riding one of the world's most notorious dirt roads whilst recovering from a cracked rib... Just perfect!

Actually the day didn't start with a hangover, that only started to make its presence felt in the afternoon, but the pain in my back was all too real. Within minutes of leaving the hostel I found myself riding on the dirt, the road switching from tarmac before it had even reached the town's limits. At first it was hard, well compacted dirt with little gravel and therefore relatively easy riding, but my lack of strength and determination not to fall again meant that I was riding very conservatively, at a steady 25-30mph in 2nd gear, stood up for better balance and to avoid the worst of the shocks being transmitted straight into my back. At this pace, I reasoned that I'd be riding for over 5 hours, but it seemed much more sensible than going any quicker and risking both the bike and myself should I slip or mis-judge the road surface. With the road winding its way through some dense vegetation and then out by the shore of a large lake, the scenery was once again beautiful, the ride taking us right back into the wilderness where very few other vehicles bother to go. It was hard for me to relax enough to really enjoy it, and I muttered dark noises into my helmet every time the road bounced be unexpectedly one way or another. At one stage I came across a scene that I've seen far too many times on this trip already, bikes parked up at the roadside whilst someone hauls one of them upright. Between me and the others was a large patch of deep sand, and on the other side, Nigel's bike being manhandled back to its normal position. As he'd gone through the sand he'd picked up a rear puncture, causing him to lose control and go down. Fortunately he was unhurt, and his bike undamaged, but he'd be waiting for Jeff before getting going again. Whilst we stood around discussing events, Finn, the Irish journalist turned up and toppled over in the sand. Like a true pro, he laid back down again for the photo...





He too was unhurt and his bike undamaged, so we all continued on our merry way, taking extra caution every time the road surface changed colour in case it was hiding a nasty surprise. Another very long patch of deep sand had me paddling like a toddler, but I managed to keep upright, glad when back on slightly firmer ground the other side of the sand-trap. These sand-traps are one stage of the roadworks that seemed to be everywhere on this road, great bike patches of sand or mud or gravel just spread over the surface to fill in some of the endless potholes. I think I prefer the potholes, personally, as the bike seems to skim over most of them without so much as a wiggle, whereas the attempts to fill them in cause the bike to shimmy alarmingly. After several hours of this slow-moving torture I came across a large bridge, and using my experience anticipated the inevitable pair of potholes that would be where the truck's tyres resumed the dirt at the end of the bridge, so kept to the middle. This was a mistake, as right in the middle was a large mud rut, which sent the bars into a painful “tank-slapper” just as they had in my sand-trap incident. This time I managed to keep the bike going in the right direction, but only by slamming my foot hard down on the ground whilst at the same time wrenching the muscles in my back getting the bars pointing the right way. I had to stop once I'd got things back under control and hobble about for a good 5 minutes until the wave of pain subsided enough for me to continue. Cursing under my breath once more, I rode perhaps half a mile before finding a petrol station and café where I could fill up with gas and a pork chop (the bike got the gas, which in hindsight was probably nicer than the chop). Outside the café was a sign to the instigator of this marvel of construction torture, none other than General Augustus Pinochet, the dictator who built the road in the 70's to unite North and South Chile (though why bother, when the South has nothing but the road and some nice scenery, is beyond me at the moment)...




After lunch and whilst still belching foul-smelling pork breath as the chop tried to escape my stomach, I rode straight into some fresh roadworks. Here the nice sadists of the Chilean road construction department had laid down some lovely wet mud so that those with 4 wheels or more can play at creating nice patterns of ruts, whilst those on 2 wheels can try and see if they can get them both into the same rut so they can go forwards and not sideways (and then horizontal). Normally this stuff would be fun, but when every movement of the bike sideways requires a sharp correction through the feet instigated by a twist of the torso, and that torso isn't in good condition, it's not. I'm sure I'll look back on days like today with great affection once they are confined to my over-imaginative memory, but right now they are a real pain in the arse. The game has become all about survival and getting to Ushuaia, and less about simply having fun on a motorbike. That's what pain does to you, it robs you of your fun. And I'm just about fed up of feeling sorry for myself (which will please you, dear reader, as it means at some point I'll stop complaining about it in the blog!).

After the big, slippery, muddy section, there was a long stretch of loose gravel, before the road became more solid again, this time winding its way along the side of the ocean inlet, where the Pacific carves deep into the Chile in a patchwork of fjord-like waterways. Running through dense forest on this dark wet road I could imagine the fun I'd have if I was in a rally car not on a bike, then found myself smiling and enjoying myself again. I was still only doing 30 mph, in 2nd gear, but the rode had stopped punishing me and I was able to relax and let it flow. Not quite grooving, but certainly closer to it than I had been lately.

All too soon the fun ended (actually, it wasn't too soon, I was getting very tired) and I pulled into the little town of Puyuhuapi, where we'd be staying. The town was originally founded by 4 German families in the 1930's and we were going to be staying in the house that was still owned by descendants of the first immigrants to settle in this desolate place. Right on the coast, the town consists of a few wooden houses all built in a very Germanic-Bavarian style, some brightly painted and others rotting away. Under a dull grey sky and cold drizzle, it had the feel of the Northern Highlands, up in the far North-West corner of Scotland. Bleak would be an apt word to describe it...





With a coach trip (actually “overland adventures with Kondor travel” - in an adapted Merc truck) of Germans hogging the town's only restaurant at 8pm we had to eat early, which suited me as I was tired from the ride and wanted an early night. The food was ok, nothing special, and I avoided any alcohol in order to give my body a break, and turned in around 9.15pm. I was quickly off to sleep, once again lying on my back, but this time in a dorm-style room I was sharing with Chris, Nick and Al... did I warn them about my snoring?