The often unheard of challenge of the road.

May 15, 2011

"They think it's nice weather all the time and you're in shorts and tee-short sunbathing most of the time." said an English cyclist I met. He was referring to family and friends at home; and their misconception that the climate in South America is like a continuous warm English Summer. Adding, "I got a message on Facebook one day "Hope you're enjoying the weather there"; he at that moment began to shake his head from side to side intimating how wrong and continued "that day it just happen to be snowing where I was." Having myself been here year round, the climate is either (depending on season), boiling hot, or depending on where you find yourself from May to September (Winter), in which it's not unusual that it will be bitterly cold often with temperatures well below zero in the mornings, indeed, it doesn't warm-up to around eleven o-clock and as soon as the sun begins to sink in the afternoon so does the temperature again. And for much of the year the wind is incessant: some days it may be just a breeze, but when you stop for lunch, a sudden strong gust blows the bike over and you scramble to catch camp cooking utensils as they're blown away. Given that most people from Northern Europe that have never been to South America only see pictures of Rio Janeiro or such places and probably think how nice it is and it most all be pretty much alike. The interior though is no beach with cooling sea-breeze, rather it's dry and dusty and the weather often makes life unpleasant for cycle-tourers exposed to the elements on what is usually long open stretches without even a tree for shelter.

Sunday morning was mild and sees me leaving San Juan; the time of the week when club cyclists and sports cyclist alike are out on the road and so at short intervals groups of riders in club jerseys or team jerseys past me by while shouting out a greeting, or came meeting waving across at me. Thankfully on leaving, I didn't have too long cycling along bumpy urban roads as the National Road East I sought is well signposted and soon Is out on a major road between lines of Eucalyptus and tall Popular trees enclosing fields of vines and irrigated agriculture with arid hills beyond. There was an ample shoulder which was just as well because of the speed cars where passing at, and so many cars too, going to where? The receptionist in the hostel told me this road would be busy on a Sunday with pilgrims to a shrine 50kms East of the city. The roadside shrine is a popular sight across Argentina. They commemorate people that had tragic deaths and to whom popular folklore and legend attach sainthood. One such saint, "La Difunta Correa", or "Deolinda" (her christian name), was a native of San Juan. The story from the year 1835 goes that her husband "Busto" was in the army of a "Caudillo" (warlord) faraway in the neighbouring Provence of La Rioja when he fell ill. Deolinda set off with the couple's small baby in arm across the desert to be with him but soon fell of thirst and exhaustion. Shortly thereafter, she was found died but miraculously the baby lived on.

I reach the shattered village of Caucete by eleven where the road narrows, the surface deteriorates and the traffic backs up as half the space is used up by parked cars on the inside and further halted by cars in the process of backing into available parking spaces. And caution is needed negotiating past the many side-roads flowing into the main making sure to make eye-contact with drivers to be sure they see me. Somewhere the main road splits into two roads without a sign to indicate which road is which and I'm not sure that the road I chose to continue on is the right road any longer. After a short bit, there is a lot less traffic and it becomes even narrower, and I begin to think perhaps it'll lead to nowhere. There wasn't any people I could ask either there being only children and teenagers about; until that is I came to where a little old grey-haired woman was sweeping around the threshold of her house. "Si, adelante", she confirmed Is on the right road and then began to ask how far Is cycling. When I said the National Park which at this point is near 300kms away, her jaw drops revealing a mouth with only a few teeth remaining. She preceded to offer me water telling that I will need a lot, but I pointed at the big bottles distributed between the the bike and the trailer carrying a total of seven litres. "Comida", yes I've enough food for three days which is how long it will take me, and her jaw drops again. Sure enough her directions takes me back to the main road East where on turning onto it, I'm straightaway uncomfortable with the closeness and speed cars fly pass at on what is now a shoulder-less road; then at that moment, a big group of mountainbikers approach on the other side and pass, not on the road but when I crossed over the road, I discover they had been on a perfectly smooth cycle-lane with white line markings which wasn't at all noticeable on the other side before they'd come along.

A cycle-lane, in Argentina!: and next pigs will fly.

How far will this cycle-lane last before I'm back risking death on the should-less road was going through my head, and why have they taken so much trouble building such as now the way ahead was barren thorny plain. I knew there was another village not far ahead, the village with the big "La Difunta Correa" shrine, perhaps it'll end there. To get to that village the road climbed steadily up for a few kilometres with a broad view on glancing back, before dropping abruptly down to the edge of the village. Sure enough as predictions would have it, the cycle-lane ended smoothly on the outside of the village where there was a plague which read it was build for the use of Pilgrims to the shrine which was but a little bit farther. And here was where all the traffic stopped too, as cars filled open spaces either side of the road and the smell of barbecuing filled the air.

Beware, the road descends abruptly. Not often is so much thought and care given to cyclists. And to the right, a glimpse of the featureless plain ahead.

The road onwards in the afternoon was the bleak plain Is kind of expecting, covered by thorn bushes. There was the relic of an old disused railway line running parallel. Finding a place to camp when the time came was easy, I pushed the bike in along a dry river. Monday continued much the same, nothing to look at, just ride and ride. I had an icy cold cross wind for a while in the morning but it didn't make cycling too difficult, it was more the thought of it lasting all day that bothered me or even it picking up strength. And there was one steep climb up through a gap in an escarpment which shelter me from the wind until I got to the top where it came at me head on. So I'd five kilometres of riding with a headwind to a crossroads where I turned left.

2pm Monday 16th May, midway point between San Juan and Valle Fertil where I plan to restock on provisions.

This road stretching out North was even quieter than the road East from the village with the shrine with only a few cars per hour. There was one settlement shortly after the beginning of a few scattered rough adobe mud-brick houses, a school and a police post, and here too, the road crosses the old railway line, beyond which the road curve East for a stretch and I'd the inhibiting headwind again until the road swung North again.

Ahead lay an empty lonely stretch of road for well over one hundred kilometres with only the occasional green sign with places and number of kilometres to them to assure me the distance was getting less and Is making some kind of progress. The feeling of utter solitude visits me and I wonder could another place possibly be as bleak as this place with the road stretching off into the distant yonder through the seemingly endless growth of thorn bushes and in the evening, I'm glad to be inside the tent that I don;t have to look at any more faraway hazy blue horizon with nothing with thorns in between, at lease not till morning.

10am Tue 17th May: When it rains here, there is no shelter, just extreme cold, wet and misery.

Dark cloud and the visible shafts of a heavy downpour could be seen off to the right on Monday evening and the same storm persisted on Tuesday morning but thankfully it never reached me. The road and the plain around now began a long gradual ascend and at last I saw the mountains not far to the left. Herds of goats wandered along the road, scarpering into the fence as I approached. And people too were not faraway as there is a village on top of the promontory hidden back from the road along an access road.

Here began a populated stretch with the mountains now rising on the left of the road where streams ran down and across the road in concrete dip-downs to support the streams with fording vehicles; none proofed a problem to ride through as they generally were only ankle deep. There were small farmsteads with goats and small cultivated plots amongst cleared thorns. And I passed a stall out by the roadside selling oranges and Goats cheese. I didn't stop though I thought of how oranges would've tasted good after eating nothing but pasta and biscuits for the last few days

After passing by a smaller village, I approach at three o-clock my gold for the day the large village of Valle Fertil. I was dreaming of eating food and in particular tasty Empandas de Carne (delicious meat filled pasties) but it being past lunch time and now is the siesta, no place was open. I settle for some Alforjores instead from one of the few shops open and sit-down outside on a step to eat. While watching the world-pass-by, I begin feeling tired with the effort of the day and I'm glad I've spotted a hostel a few doors along which I'll soon check myself into for the night.

Today's ride: 257 km (160 miles)
Total: 14,429 km (8,960 miles)

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