Embedded Files
Post date: Apr 25, 2011 6:12:16 PM
Oh, so it’s Saturday, April 9. Ok.
10pm
Writing beneath a star speckled sky atop a gravel hill overlooking the dark and infamous Argentinian Route 40 somewhere in the desert way south of Mendoza.
Out of Rosario with another hard goodbye to Yara, I chugged along through an increasingly dry, pasture-like terrain. Lots ear tagged cows, tranquil rows of trees, and good roads. Argentina has good roads- the kind your mind can wander off from. But, accident after accident has reinforced my attention span while driving a motorcycle, so not to worry. Being the last day of my relationships with coffee and chocolate, I was loaded on caffeine by the time I rolled out of town, and I chomped down 4 bars of chocolate, totaling 450 grams, almost one pound. With plenty of energy on day 1, I drove several hours through the night, comforted by the first streetlamp lined highway I’ve seen since the U.S. I camped outside of San Luis after 420 miles, in a desert.
I found a nice little shrub lined sandy ditch a few hundred yards from the main complex of parked semis. Overhead the stars shone brilliantly. I was reminded of New Mexico, camping outside my 4runner as I traveled for a month across the states before I landed in San Diego. But you know, New Mexico doesn’t have ants like they do in Mississippi, Costa Rica, Brazil, and Argentina. I thought the sand was a perfect spot. Under the stars, in the open air, on the sand… idyllic. I restlessly fell asleep despite the stimulants pumping through me. I awoke shortly after falling asleep with the sensation of bugs on me. I wasn’t sure if it was the overdose on chocolate and caffeine creating neural storms on my skin or actual ants crawling on me. I swatted for awhile before I gave up and pitched the tent. I had crazy dreams that night.
The next day as I was loading my bike, I lifted my tank bag from the spot next to where I had been laying down on the sand originally and coating the bottom of the bag were ants. I dropped the bag and then slammed it against the bike to shake them off. Right next to the bag, over which my sleeping mat had laid, was a 3 inch diameter hole that was the entrance to the ants’ colony! I would be biting me too, if my big butt was clogging the doorway.
I shook off all the ants I could find, but many came along for the ride. At stops I would occasionally find one crawl out from between my sleeping bag bag and the tent bag. Then, 2 days later, I opened up the front pocket on the bag and found 100 little ants all bunched together in one corner. No wonder they kept crawling out of my bag as I sat there in the little Shell station WiFi spot! I killed them as they came out, and I dropped my bar of Nopikex, a bug repellant soap I bought in Colombia, into the pocket to work its magic. By the end of the next ride, all the bugs inside were gone. I learned to be careful where I laid my stuff after that. More than once I picked up gear to find the same species of ant exploring my goods, including my pants. I had ants in my pants, literally. Which isn’t that big of a deal, really, except this kind bites a stinging bite.
To top that, in Rosario, in Yara and I’s cute little house (well, not so cute, but affordable and nice nonetheless), I lifted my riding pants one morning to find a tarantula beneath. I admit that I yelped. And then laughed. And then Yara grabbed the broom and scooted him out the door. Tipped my shoes over every time after that.
Also in Rosario, I went to the college hospital clinic. For free. My wrists still hurt, especially the left one, due to the motorcycle accident. 6 years ago I broke my wrist in a skiing accident and did not find out that it was broken until I had it checked 3 months after the fall. I didn’t want another case of mistaken-for-a-sprain, so I got some x-rays and the lady confirmed that nothing was broken. Just might take a few months for the tendons and ligaments to mend.
Trivia: The Parana River, which runs through Rosario, is 60 km, or 40 miles wide. This is not a joke. It looks much narrower from ground level because there are so many islands blocking the view. It also has a reputation for big dorado catfish over 100 pounds.
The desert climate is a warm welcome after almost 5 months in humid, tropical weather. The air is dry, clean, and the kind of temperature where you can’t say whether it’s hot or cold- it’s just right in the middle and perfect. Some areas have been a bit hot and dusty, but mostly the weather is just nice. Not a rain cloud. Strange.
I finally realized that the majority of Argentinians do not wear helmets while riding motorcycles. One gas station I visited had a sign posted that read the latest law, which prohibits gas stations from refilling motorcycles whose drivers are not wearing helmets. Must be a very recent law, or an ineffective one.
Argentina is a proud country. But, unlike Brazil’s pride, which is rooted in their happiness and belief that Brazil is paradise, Argentina’s pride feels more egoistic and accomplishment based. Certainly they are convinced that they have the best soccer team on the planet. I also saw a billboard that stated that the province I was in was going to be the #1 province in the country. Do states in the U.S. compete like that? Not that I am aware of. There were also signs along the road that said, “Go, Argentina!” and I don’t think it was soccer related. Add to that the notoriety of Argentinians being snobs and it all adds up.
Interruption: I just saw a shooting star. A tiny one, but it still counts.
I failed to mention that on my first day out of Rosario, my sidestand nearly busted off. The nut securing the pivot bolt had disappeared and the bolt had nearly popped free. The sidestand flanges through which the bolt feed were bent pretty good, so I borrowed a hammer from the friendly and inquisitive gas station attendants, pounded back into shape, and luckily found a spare nut in my spare parts bag to resecure the sidestand. Would have been difficult to reach Ushuaia if I had had to lean the bike against a tree or wall when I parked.
I received lots of thumbs up from people I passed. It was nice. I felt like I was in a cross country race with spectators behind the tape, cheering me on.
Motorcycle etiquette is the same here as in the U.S. By that I mean, when you pass by another rider, you show your hand to say, “What’s up? Rock on, Man!”
Mendoza is filled with vinyards. It’s wine country. I had no idea that grapes grow so well in such an arid environment. But it’s not just grapes. The Mendoza region is the nation’s supplier of fruits and vegetables. I bought some dehydrated fruit from a little restaurant and yes, they were good. I ended up behind a dump truck overflowing with apples on Route 40. He bumped on the road and two popped off. SCREECH! I spin around, park the bike, pick up the apples, wipe them off, and eat them. Those apples were two of the best of my life.
Argentina is also known for its meat, especially lamb. One cannot help but wonder at the connotations of their famous way of cooking the lamb. They slow cook it all day over a fire on an iron cross. In my opinion, the lamb is their best meat, but I didn’t find anything to truly uphold the reputation.
Ruta 40 is Argentina’s Route 66. It connects the south to the north and runs along the spine of the Andes Mountains in the west. The work is far from complete; numerous stretches of 50 miles of gravel, paved highways without lines (a drag at night), and insufficient signposts still pose barriers. Argentina is mostly flat, dry, windy land except in the west, where there are mountains, crystal clear rivers, and some trees. It is for that reason that I chose to take that road south- not because it’s a hassle to tackle from time to time.
My first smack at Route 40’s wild side busted my luggage rack from all the shaking. Granted, the luggage rack had been bent and cracked already, but the endless ridges in the road made me feel like putting a bomb on the road. It could have been smoother going completely offroad.
I turned around and took the smooth road to San Rafael, where I ate some ribs (ok) and enough bread to feed a family. That was my reward for my first day of sobriety from caffeine and chocolate. I camped in a yard beside the Shell station on night #2. In the morning I used my QuikSteel putty to repair the busted rack. Then the bike tipped over as I was loading it and broke my repair. An hour and a half later I had the second batch of putty on and dried. A couple hours down the road I leaned over as I was riding and found that it was off again. This was a problem. The aluminum box was tipped in due to the lack of support, and when I hit bumps, of which there were many, the box was slamming into the brace that held my rear brake line. The brace was flattened and the line’s rubber was clearly scraped. How long until I lose the line and my rear brakes?
I lined up a couch through Couchsurfer in Ushuaia. I was happy to have a warm, friendly, free place to stay once I arrived to my final destination.
In Buta Ranquil I went from the gas station to half a dozen places, asking people for where to find a welder in town (a town of 500 people, max). Eventually I landed in a shop that fixes heavy industrial equipment. The first guy was a pretty boy who looked more fit to be working in a clothing store than a man’s shop. His boss, part owner of the place he shared with his two brothers, took over and in short order the frame was stronger than before and actually spaced the boxes to a distance they hadn’t seen since the US, probably. Wonderful. I paid Dario $25 and a machete. I asked if he or any of the other guys there at the shop have friends or family in Ushuaia. Por que? Because I want to sell when I reach Ushuaia. Dario’s eyes lit up like a boy at dawn when he first sees the Christmas tree, or better yet, what lies beneath. He said, “I’ll buy! My cousin lives there! He’ll bring it up to me!” No, not English. All Spanish. “How much?” “$1500” “I’ll buy it!” “Great. Deal. I’ll be there in 10 days and call you.” Dario proceeded to blurt “Crazy!” “How crazy is that?” “Amazing!” He was happy with the price and I was more than relieved to have already lined up a buyer. I rolled out and found myself a cozy little place here up in this gravel construction mound along the highway. This is where I now rest, beneath the star speckled heavens.
April 17th, Sunday.
Next day I rode out with more confidence in my bike. I pushed through some rough roads. It was a good thing that I withdrew all that cash in Rosario because less than half of the gas stations accept credit cards down here. That’s as bad as the boonies in Mexico.
People talk fast here. It’s like Italian Spanish. I cannot understand them, and they cannot understand me. Colombia has, by far, the purest, most textbook Spanish there is.
I passed several salt mines. I guess that will substitute for the Uni Salt Flats I will miss by not going to Bolivia. It would have been nice to see those buildings made of salt though. And the stars there. Ah well. What on this trip HAS gone as expected?
Shortly before nightfall I came to a bridge crossing the Rio Grande and I stopped to admire the view. It cuts right through the mountains and has wide, flat, rocky banks. A man was fishing just upstream, and his buddies were tossing firewood into a pile next to their parked SUV. I sat there on my bike for 10 minutes, debating whether to push ahead through the night to gain lost ground due to the luggage rack issue or to camp there, surrounded by beauty, and try my hand at the trout surely swimming in that river.
How could I say no? I took advantage of my bike’s offroad talent, rolled down the steep bank and clunked my way over big rocks to a sandy spot down the shore from the other guys on the opposite side of the bridge. Collecting wood, I felt drops on my head, looked down and saw wet rocks beneath me. I looked up, but the sky was spotless. Then I noticed that the rocks weren’t wet, they were shiny with sap raining from the tree.
I built a huge fire. God, it was good. I ate dehydrated fruit, drank water from the river, and stared up at the glittery blackness above. This is what it’s all about, my friends.
I woke up to bitter cold and roaring wind. At least there was clear sunlight. Roaming the bank for a good place to fish was horrible. That cold was intense, likely due to the wind. Back at camp, I attempted to cook breakfast but found the stove inoperational. I took it all apart, cleaning it, but it still didn’t work. Altitude? Without a stove, not confident about the fishing (I know nothing about trout fishing), and freezing, I packed up.
And the bike didn’t start. My god, I thought, why is it always in a bad place? I couldn’t push it up the bank. No way, even unloaded. So, I tried a little, waited, pushed the bike. Tried again and gave it 2 mm rotation of throttle, a couple rotations of the idle screw, and finally it started. Few things in life rival such a feeling.
That day I passed a police checkpoint and chatted a bit with the friendly officers. I came to the point behind a truck loaded with goats, and they were BAHHHHBAAAHHing their sad BAHs. One of the officers and truck driver spoke, and then one was pulled off the truck. The officer held it still by its horns, and it was whining the saddest, loneliest cry ever. The officer with whom I spoke noted my expression and stated that goat is the traditional food of the area and is very tasty. He also said there are many trout in the area. Not very big, but plentiful and delicious, he said.
I stopped in little ‘ol Las Lajas for gas and to ask a trio for directions to the gas station and Zapala. Sergio and his two friends are from Chile, and they hitchhiked there for the weekend to see the rodeo. A rodeo, huh? Hmmm… I got lost on the way to the gas station and passed by the rodeo. People dressed in traditional gaucho (cowboy) garb were walking in. I changed my mind. I wanted to see the rodeo. I’d never seen one, and what better place than in the wild west of Argentina?
After almost 4 days without a shower, my body odor was beginning to irritate me. My feet smelled so bad that I thought there was a serious health risk breathing the air around them. Sometimes I even smelled myself going 70mph on the motorcycle, rinsed by the wind. That’s bad. So, I decided to bathe in the river in the river before the rodeo. Freakin’ cold. Glacier fed and icy, but that water cut very bacterial leech from my skin, I’m sure of it. I also washed my socks and shirt.
The rodeo arena was big as a football field, with 3 posts at one end to which the horses are tethered and the rider readied. Gaucho music, like lonesome cowboy home on the range songs were sung by a Spanish guitar playing musician next to the announcer. Hundreds of people were in attendance. Some people wore the traditional clothing in celebration. Even babies were dressed up like little gauchos. Around the arena were the food and merchandise vendors, one of whom sold me gloves for $2.50, a fleece hat for $5, and 3 pairs of short, “Nike” socks for $5. Going to the most southern part of the planet with only one pair of socks warranted the $12.50 investment.
I had a traditional chilled, sweet drink called Mote, which is like corn syrup, oats, and peach slices. Yum. Then I had some slow-cooked-over-the-fire chicken.
The riders were impressive. One horse and rider fell down completely, and when the horse righted himself, he flung right back up with it, still in the stirrups. The horses were spirited alright. One of the things they would do when the horse was tethered was push its butt (from the side, of course) to aggravate it. After the rider was kicked off, the horse would run and continue bucking sometimes.
The Chileans convinced me to take the 7 Lagos route south via Alumine. I chugged along several hours after the rodeo, including several after dark on a narrow, winding, gravel mountain highland road. Freezing and tired of worrying I’d lose traction at 30mph around a turn and end up at the bottom of the cliff, I found a little river and bridge by which I could camp and have some shelter from the wind. I did lots of night driving on bad roads. Just another one of the things I did but said I never would on this trip.
In the morning, a herd of cows came down the road towards me. I looked down and noticed the cow footprints surrounding the bike and tent. Crap, I thought, they’re going to trample my stuff on their path to the river. When they got within 200 feet, they stopped and stared at me. I think they were calling for a staredown. They were not happy I was on their path. They said, “Mooooooove! Mooooooove!” But they got smart and crossed the river on the other side of the bridge.
And don’t ya know, the bike wouldn’t start. None of my tricks worked, so I pushed it up onto road with the help of some passing goatherders. I asked them to help me push start it, and after 3 attempts, we got it going! Woo!
That day I drove through the pampas, a desert-like highland in the Andes. Just pastures and sparse stands of trees and lots of cold and wind. I passed by Lake Alumine, and it was nice, like they said, and then I made my way along the gravel to 7 Lagos Park. At the one end is San Martin de los Andes, the cutest town I’ve seen on my trip. It’s got an Aspen, Colorado feel. It’s a ski town.
But no time to waste, I whizzed along the highway through the park, gawking at the mountain and lake scenery. I had seen snow on mountains as early as just south of Mendoza, but the snow was accumulating significantly at this latitude. I camped that night at a campground all to myself. I built another fire to beat off the drizzle from the latter half of the day, and I cut up the dry bag my sister Tammy gave me. I created threaded foot protectors from them to keep dry and block the wind. Running shoes are inadequate footwear for motorcycle riding in wet, cold terrain.
I ran the bike 10 minutes just before bed to keep the bike warm enough to start later on. But, 4 hours later, when I awoke in the rain, it barely started. In the morning, it barely started again. I reminded myself of the danger; I was way back in the campground and it would be impossible to pushstart back there. It would be best, I determined, to camp near people and a slope.
The morning greeted me with nasty, muddy, gravel, sand road for the first 30 miles. I’m glad I camped before I hit that stretch at night.
I sped ahead like a demon, cranking out the miles on Ruta 40. It started to rain. And it was cold. VERY COLD. I was miserable. Too tight with cold to even shiver. The road was nearly empty. By nightfall, I wanted to die. This was the most barren stretch of road I’d seen yet. I stopped at a gas station to ask for info about the road ahead. The guy was barely comprehendible he spoke so fast with such an accent. It’s funny how these guys know the exact distance in kilometers between towns and gas stations. It’s a good thing I stopped to ask. I had wanted to push ahead another 150 miles, but the guy said that the next town, 50 miles down the road, was the last gas station for 200 miles. My map showed two little towns in that span. What about those? He said that the one town was a house, nothing more. The other town had no gas station. I went inside the station and bought a map of Patagonia, the southern portion of Argentina, where I was.
I whined for mommy as I suffered the poor visibility and freezing, wet cold all the way to Gobernador Costa. Cold is the most weakening thing. It can dissolve one’s resolve so easily. Of course, I haven’t seen a true winter in 4 years, so my body isn’t quite adjusted, but the experience of cold is all the same. In Gobernador Costa, I stopped by 2 hotels and opted for the 2nd one. I needed warmth, and my god did I get warmth. Heaven! Chirping birds and baby blankets and true love! I hung my stuff to dry.
In the morning, I changed the oil and cleaned the air filter. And the bike didn’t start. Not only did it not start, but the bike would not roll with a pulled clutch in any gear. A streetsweeper tried to push the bike with me, but it would not roll. We tried so long to start that bike we killed the battery. Around the corner was a Chilean mechanic, but the hotel owner said he was not trustworthy and knew nothing, so I waited on his mechanic to arrive. But, that guy never showed, so I rolled her over to the Chilean. How can I get screwed on a battery charge? Sure, the Chilean was rude and his eyes spoke greed and lies, but he charged up my battery for $2.50. The guy tried to make nice by saying his uncle lives in California. He said the bike would have to be taken apart to be diagnosed. Right. I knew why it wouldn’t start. It was a combination of the worn valves, the high altitude, the cold temperature, the weakened battery, and who knows what else. I changed the spark plug then, took out the air filter to allow more oxygen, and tweeked her best I could to no avail. The hotel owner called a second guy to come out. In the time I was waiting, I was deliberating what to do. The main problem was the not rolling part. That’s a serious mechanical issue. If I can roll it, and if there are people around, I can push start the bike. But, if I took Ruta 40 all the way through Patagonia, I would be in some very remote places, going very slowly over gravel roads, and it would take me a very long time to reach Ushuaia. One option was to never let the bike get cold in the first place, meaning I would have to wake up every 2 hours to run the bike. That would be a lot of grumpiness and sleepy (dangerous) riding. That is, IF the bike would run.
I was some bummed about the thought of having to wait for a new clutch or something I just wanted to lay down and give up. I wanted it all over with. How could I detour past the most scenic part of the country? Safety won this battle, barely. I chose to take the quicker route, more populated, lower elevation, warmer route to Ushuaia via Route 3.
I ran to the gas station, used their WiFi, and found a suggestion on good ‘ol KLR650.net. It sounded like it was just stuck clutch disks that just needed to come unglued. My situation was far worse than what guys on the forum described, but that was the only explanation I found. Back to the bike, I took it to the asphalt for better traction, and tried pushing it in every gear. I was able to get it to roll barely in 3rd. But after a few yards, it loosed a hair. I bumped down to 2nd and kept pushing. I thought, “If they’re stuck from cold, I’ll just warm them up by the friction of forced rotation.” It worked. I still couldn’t push it fast enough myself, but the gas station guys were able to push me up to speed, and I popped the start in 2nd, something I’d never known you could do.
Route 3 or Route 40, it didn’t matter; my bike was running!
But it was 6pm, an hour before dark, and I was 150 miles from the town I wanted to reach next, Sarmiento. No time to waste, I packed up and headed out, but the hotel guy encouraged me to stay the night. He refused to return even part of my money because he said I checked in at the time of 2pm. I was the only person in that hotel besides him. It wasn’t high season for Ruta 40 travel.
I couldn’t let the bike rest though. I was too excited also.
In the dark, in more rain, in even more cold and wind, on an unmarked highway, I raced and froze for 150 miles to Sarmiento. My angels appeared again. The conditions were dangerous for motorcycle travel, especially since my headlight angle was never fully corrected, so my angels appeared in front of me. I was able to pace myself and follow their two rear red lights around the turns.
Driving blind on a motorcycle is a somewhat terrifying experience. It’s almost like a video game. You don’t see the road, you see a dot in front of you, or a series of dots, and you pull or push the handle bars just a tiny bit left or right to follow those dots at the right curvature. You don’t see the potholes. You don’t see the edge of the road because it’s all black. Or, when your visor is sprayed in dirt and water, and someone’s lights are blinding you, you just remind yourself not to make any sudden moves until you have a semblance of vision again. Then you think about how exposed you are, how you will mangle your body if you wipe out. This kind of driving- night, in the rain, with a bad headlight, on an unlined highway, at 75mph, in the freezing cold, will tense you neck like no other.
I must say, those homemade foot protectors were more than a good laugh. They may have saved my life. My feet actually didn’t blind my consciousness from cold. Still unbearably cold, by 10x better than before.
I got another hotel in Sarmiento. What can I say, I broke down. I planned to follow the plan of waking every 2 hours to start and warm the bike, but I just couldn’t do it. In the morning, the bike would not start again, but, I was able to shove the bike a few blocks until I found some guys to shove with me. After many, many attempts at push starting, we finally barely got a “thump… … thump… … thump… …” and it started. Another rush of adrenaline!
I stuffed myself with French bread, butter, and a fruity gelatin thing and then hit the road. In short order, Comodoro Rivadaria, and just south of there. A road block just south of there said no passage south for 4 hours, so I went back to Comodoro, chatted with some friendly Petrobras gas station workers (Petrobras is a Brazilian gas company, and their workers are far nicer than the Argentinian YPF stations’) and bought a meal, thermal boots, and thermal gloves. My rodeo gloves fell apart after one day. I wonder if that was a snicker I heard from the seller when I asked him if they were truly waterproof like they said. Yeah, the threads all came loose. The duct tape didn’t do it. I’d have had to duct tape the entire glove.
My god, warm feet and warm hands? There’s nothing I can’t do! I’m ready for Antarctica and hell after that!
A knocking sound had developed in the engine somewhere around Gobernador Costa. I still don’t know what it was. I met the 4th motorcycle traveler of my trip the next day in Tres Cerros (“Three Pigs”… the Argentinians have funny names for towns. Another one I passed through was called “Pig Hat.”), where I camped for the night outside a $50 hotel behind a gas station. That guy said it may mean the valves need shimmed. Whatever. I’ll blow up the motorcycle before I make those repairs, I thought. I was happy with my choice to take the 3 south, just in case the motorcycle exploded again and I needed an ambulance. This traveler is from Arizona. He had sold his house, and was riding his KTM 950 Adventure around South America. He’d been traveling 11 months and planned to ship over to tackle Africa next. He was moving north from Ushuaia, where he said it was snowing the day he left. Fan-freaking-tastic. It was wonderful to see him though. He looked like a Robert Downey Jr. I was so jealous of his bike. It wasn’t broken. It started perfect and there wasn’t a rattle in the engine. He had a gps and two high powered spot lights mounted to his handlebars. He was traveling lighter than I, staying in hotels all the way (wuss), but taking lots and lots of offread treks that few guys take. I wanted his bike so bad. With his bike, I could probably go on forever. Well, if I had the money also. He also mentioned he had a wife who is “kinda supporting” him, whatever that means.
The night in Tres Cerros I awoke every 2 hours to run the bike for 10 minutes. The gas station was my warm refuge while I groggily waited. I watched some stupid QVC-like program. They sold stuff, but the seller was just some pretty girl who made lots of random facial expressions, and the camera zoomed in and out and rolled around all over the place. It was disorienting. She received calls from people. I don’t know what they said.
At that same gas station I saw another dude riding his bike south. He was on a fully loaded BMW. Another guy at the station said he was from North Carolina. I told him, in response to his question, that we were not together. The guy took a picture of me with my bike. In no other country did anyone take pictures of me with my bike, but this happened to me half a dozen times in Argentina. Part of the reason is cultural, I am sure, but I also think they just have more money to spend on technology like cameras.
On my way south, I passed a handful more of motorcycle travelers riding north, probably to Buenos Aires. See, the 40 is the north-south highway of the west and the 3 is the same in the east.
I saw only one or two bicycle travelers on the 3, but Ruta 40 had lots of bicyclists loaded with camping gear slowly plugging away at some hill. I always waved as I zoomed by at 60mph. North to South America bicyclists are actually much more common than motorcycle adventurers. It seems crazier to me to ride a bicycle 25,000 miles roundtrip to Ushuaia, but then again, their lives are much simpler. You’d have to have nutty patience for that kind of ride.
Because of the motorcycle’s signals of imminent death, I was frantically running through my mind the perfect Plan A, the perfect Plan B, and how badly I just wanted to be freed from this burden. I asked my couchsurfer host in Ushuaia to contact the buyer from Buta Ranquil to arrange the pickup at the host’s house on Sunday, at noon. I expected to arrive Saturday night/early Sunday morning, and I did not want to delay any longer. Having to keep the motorcycle warm nonstop and hearing the big knocking sound every time you give it throttle signify a cardiogram with little movement away from dead flat.
But, the host was resistant to calling the guy because there are some legal issues with selling a used, imported vehicle in Argentina. A contact here said that most guys who buy bikes from travelers live in Buenos Aires, and they just pay the police a 50 peso ($15) bribe/fine every time they get caught without registration. Still my host did not make me confident that he would make the arrangement in advance (I couldn’t blame him- we’d never even met before), so I started to stress that my buyer would never show, or the bike would die while I waited for him to show, or that it would die and he wouldn’t show and then I couldn’t get out of Ushuaia or find a buyer there because it’s dead and I would just have to leave it there.
So, I was sitting on that motorcycle for days, freezing, freezing, freezing, and storming over how badly I wanted to reach Ushuaia and immediately sell it for $1500. I realized just how insane I am. My mind repeated the scenario over and over again, as if by sheer force of will I could create my future. The stress was unbearable. My back and neck sewed up tight as a fist, worrying over the prospect of motorcycle failure, mission failure, and sale failure. Every time I told myself I was being crazy with this control, I laughed a shallow laugh and returned to the same mode of thought- trying to create a reality with my mind. It got so ugly that I could not bear it. At long last I accepted the possibility that my motorcycle may die on the side of the road, that it will never reach Ushuaia and that I will never accomplish this dream mission. I accepted that the motorcycle may not sell at all. I reminded myself that it was only money. Only money. Money I could rebuild in the future. This granted me some peace that lasted more than a couple hours.
Then, angels. I stopped in this little town south of Tres Cerros in order to buy oil. The mechanic explained he bought a broken BMW from a traveler but the police took it from him. Nonetheless, we shook hands in agreement that if I did not sell in Ushuaia, he would buy from me. His shop lies 2 days north of Ushuaia. I can handle that, I thought. My Plan B was to sell to a mechanic in Ushuaia. With this guy, I had a foolproof Plan C. That helped reduce the anxiety significantly. Of course, the motorcycle needed to stay alive that much longer if it came to that.
Being two days north meant two days left of this grand motorcycle adventure. I remembered all the fun and lessons I’d gained from the last 11 months on the road. A dead motorcycle and failed sale can never take that away, I thought.
Thus I made a goal to enjoy every bit of the ride as much as I could.
The 3 isn’t exactly the most scenic place, but I had lots of clear skies, dry road, and sun. Still cold as you’d expect from this latitude, but sunlight has a way of softening misery.
My eyes turned to the scenery. Hawks, the sign of the wild, soared overhead and perched on wooden fence posts bordering the highway. One hawk is a virtual replica of the bald eagle. I thought it was a bald eagle for the longest time. There are these stupid looking gray turkey-sized birds, flightless, I believe, that flock together on the roadsides in groups of 10-20. Why do they insist on being there if every time a car zips by they panic and flee? I couldn’t get close enough for good pictures because they continually scurried off as I approached. There were also lots of llamas and alpacas. I’m not sure how many of these animals are wild and how many are livestock. They look like humpless camels, but they are cuter. I also several more than one red fox. I saw two black dogs chasing a desert hare. I saw lots and lots of shrubby brown flatlands to my left and to my right. The road was straight and well paved. I tried to keep the RPMs below 5k in order to maximize the life of my oil.
But, scenery doesn’t entertain one perpetually, so the mind reverts to its inner sanctum, which isn’t always the most hospitable place for me.
What DOES one do while sitting on a motorcycle all day in a rather drab and dreary land? Well, you adjust your butt to decompress all the numb skin and blood vessels. You cycle through the many ways to grip the throttle so as to minimize wear. There’s one, two, three, four, and fiver finger holds. There are probably a dozen ways to grip a throttle. Every 50 miles or so I stand up on the motorcycle in order to stretch out and entertain the passersby on the highway. I lean forward, I lean backward, I drive with one arm, etc.
The brain doesn’t stop moving though. I think about everything from Kelsey Grammar’s career from Cheers to X-Men. I think about the geological events that took place to create the striations in the eroded mountains lining the highway. I reminisce about old girlfriends. At that time, I thought about my relationship with Yara. I also make myself laugh here and there. I translate kilometers into miles and meticulously watch my odometer to predict the amount of boredom I must endure until the next gas station treat. Just stopping and filling up gas is wonderful. I would practice my Spanish in my head. As negative outlooks attacked my mind, I defended. Almost always I was singing some song in my mind, and unfortunately, without significant effort, the same song would repeat itself for an hour without stop. This trip, I had a lot of John Mayer’s “Slow Dancing in a Burning Room” and “Edge of Desire” on repeat play. You talk to yourself a lot. When you hear yourself singing the same song over and again, you say, “Gary, would you please shut up with that song and move on to something else?” I would also think about how dramatic my trip is to me and my life, and I compare that to what others do and have done, so I end up humbled and dissatisfied. I think about what kind of fishing boat I would love to have. I dream about hunting big blue catfish with my brother on the Ohio River. I dream of going to IU and having a fantastic college life there. I think about why I am so interested in being stressed, especially at this stage of my trip, days north of my grand finale.
In Rio Gallegos, I was warming, feeding, and relaxing myself when some Argentinian petroleum workers initiated conversation with me. They were friendly and gave me some valuable input on the quality and service station frequency on the road ahead. They convinced me to spend the night in that city, but after searching around for a decent priced hotel to no avail, I ended up camped in the corner of an empty lot adjacent to a $50 hotel. I learned that night that I could actually let the bike sit for up to 3 hours without a problem. I slept surprisingly well that night.
I was up, packed, and on the highway before dawn. My goal, on Saturday, April 16th, 2011, was to ride 360 miles, cross two borders, take a ferry across the infamous Magellan Strait, and reach the conclusion of my motorcycle adventure in the southernmost city on the planet, Ushuaia, Argentina. The sunrise was spectacular. Why did I wait until the last day of my trip to ride before sunrise? It was so beautiful. At the border, I spent 2 hours exiting Argentina and entering Chile. Shortly after I took the 20 minute ferry across the tranquil strait that Magellan discovered, which allowed ships to safely bypass the treacherous Cape Horn seas just south of the continent. On the other side I had I stopped in Cerro Sombrero for the absolutely necessary and last refill before the next town. I had to wait 20 minutes for the attendant to arrive, and the gas price was 50% higher than anywhere else I’d been. Poor quality gas also. And the guy didn’t give me the correct change. Then it was 70 miles of gravel and pot holes I swore would bust my bike’s frame. Crossed back into Argentina in 30 minutes time, complete with the same paperwork I’d had 4 hours previously. Then in Rio Grande I called my couchsurfer host and told him I would indeed make it to Ushuaia that night. He informed me that he had called my buyer, but the buyer said he needed to call back later. That was good news.
Then I was on the road again, and 100 miles north of Ushuaia, the sun set. There was just enough light to see snow capping the mountains I wound through as I grew closer and closer to my goal. My nerves were on fire. I was screaming with joy. And I was panicked I was about to die. I had heard a story months ago about an American whose dream was to reach Ushuaia by motorcycle but died 50 miles short of the destination. I don’t remember if he was hit by a truck or he went off the road. I kept that story alive in my mind as I drove down the wet (it was raining!), frigid, dark, winding mountain roads for the last 50 miles. I was terrified of hitting a patch of ice. I was burning inside, so I barely noticed my freezing fingertips. Tears were building inside of me.
Then the road straightened. And descended. And then I saw a light. Then two. And then I hit a police checkpoint, beyond which I could see the fabulous sight of a thousand lights in a bay shrouded in shadowy, snow capped mountains. Ushuaia. I made it. Saturday, 8pm, April 16th, 2011
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse