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Well, I’m here. Ushuaia. The dot on the map I’ve been zig-zaging towards for the last five months, and oddly, its a bit anticlimactic.
After the struggles and hardships navigating the mountains of Peru with Shannon, to arrive in Cuzco felt like reaching a summit. That first night I walked through the Plaza de Armas grinning like an idiot and marveling at the lights and sophistication. I smoked a cuban cigar on the cold balcony of Norton Rats Tavern and sipped a taste of home, burbon. Life was sweet. To get there Shannon and I had spent more than a week riding unmarked dirt roads with conditions so bad we often averaged 15 miles an hour. Totaly spent at the end of the day, we would reach some unknown town needing to find shelter and food. I loved it and hated it and I would run the full gamut of emotions in a day.
On these dirt tracks that pass for highways, not three hours outside of Cuzco, I had problems with my clutch and had to open the engine to fix it, spending two and half hours of precious daylight, causing us to arrive in Abancay, the next town of consequence, just before dark. We decided to spend the night there and “summit” Cuzco the next morning. Leaving Abancay in a light rain Shannon was hit by a taxi and he didn’t pass go, collect his $200 or make the summit. Instead he went to Lima and got some screws and a plate in his femur. That ride we did together was a highlight not despite its diffaculty, but because it was so hard, and when it was over I felt like I had done something – and Shannon was robbed of that feeling of completion.
It was the same riding the Altiplano in Boliva with Mike, Simon, Didi and Martina. I had reservations about crossing this remote desert with just the three of us, and out of nowhere, Didi and Martina Materialize. Almost immediately we became a little family, and together we complected a five day ride through sand and wind and nothingness – and it nearly broke me. When we pulled into San Pedro de Atacama tired and dirty, I felt like I had really done something, like I had had pushed my limits past boundaries I didn’t know existed – and it felt good.
I expected the same type of challenges from the infamous Ruta 40, a dirt track that runs the length of Argentina near the border with Chile and the route we chose to take to Ushuaia. Its known for being a hard ride with blasting side winds. When we rode it there wasn’t much wind and I’m sure that made a big difference, because we all found it not much more difficult than a gravel road, often averaging 50 or 60 miles an hour. The route runs past Mt. Fitzroy, El Calafate, and with a short detour, Torres Del Paine, the Yellowstone Park of South America. It was a great ride, but it didn’t kick my but the way I like to have it kicked.
That’s not to say Ruta 40 is a ride through the park. About 10 km outside of a small town called Tres Lagos, I was riding in front and as I crested a hill I saw a bike on the stand, sideways across the road, and an ambulance parked to the side. I pulled in with my engine off and asked the rider if he was OK. He gave me a broken look and waved his hand in a “so-so” motion. He walked around and swung his arm in a gesture that said “look at this mess”. When he settled down and started talking he kept asking the same questions over and over the way a person in shock does: “am I in Argentina? Got a cigarette mate? I’ll have to make a naked bike.”
Leo was riding north alone and he didn’t remember what happened, but the most obvious thing is that with his bald front tire he lost control in the gravel and fell. Who knows how long he was there before someone passed and contacted an ambulance – which didn’t do much good. Once we got there, the ambulance said there wasn’t anything they could do and that there was tow truck on the way. The ambulance driver said we should wait for the truck. And they left. With the help of the tow truck driver we got Leo and his bike to El Calafate where there is a hospital and where once he was feeling better he could get his bike sorted out. So even without wind Ruta 40 can bite you if lower your guard.
In Tores De Paine I wanted to spend more time than did Simon and Mike, so we split up, planning to meet back up in Ushuaia. I arrived in Tierra Del Fuego solo via the ferry from Punta Arenas and got my taste of gravel and wind – and that made it interesting. But it only lasted for about 100 km. The last 200 km to Ushuaia was a beautiful ride through forested mountains on smooth pavement. I pulled into town easy as pulling into any American city – and the streets were lined with gore-tex clad adventurers enjoying high end restaurants while they waited on their cruise ships to Anartica. It was no Cuzco or San Pedro. I had in mind a scene like the one in The Mission where Robert Dinero is climbing the waterfall dragging all his armor behind, not pulling into the parking lot at the mall. We did a lot, but arriving in Ushuaia isn’t a summit. Its more of a U-turn.
