A Different Kind of Courage-Day 13 of my solo bike trip across South America.

I awoke this morning to the sound of my alarm beeping at five o’clock. As I adjusted to wakefulness, another sound joined the first-the sound of rain. It pelted the window of my hotel room and was accompanied by a loud rumble of thunder. “Thank God.” I whispered and rolled back over and back to sleep.

When I did roust myself and squeezed my still groggy body into my bike shorts and tank top, still damp from their evening sink washing session, it was around six. I stumbled downstairs awkwardly with my bulky panniers, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes and was delighted to find that the hotel had just begun serving breakfast. A quick coffee, piece of fruit, yogurt and croissant and I was out the door. I felt much less rushed without the threat of impending heat. Things were looking up.

I couldn’t camp last night because there was no safe place. The local municipal park had a good number of men whiling away the evening with a few too many bottles of booze, paying me way too much attention to allow me to feel secure. So, as much as I wanted to be a tough guy, I retreated to the comforts of a hotel. The nice ones here run about 35 dollars and include breakfast.

As I stepped outside this morning, it was barely getting light. There was an spritz of rain and the sky was filled with heavy clouds. It was almost cool. Delicious. I has 56 miles of unknown highway ahead of me and last night, I had been worried that I might be roasted alive-a veritable Ms. Worry-Pants! Now look-no sun, no heat. A gift. What could go wrong?

The first 40 came easily, things seemed to be greening around me, springing back to life. I bounced through areas of road construction, where the road turned to mud for miles at a time, but I didn’t care-I was cool-and carefree. Mud splashed up my calves and panniers-coating everything with a patina of dirt, and I welcomed every puddle. I mooed to the cows and called out greetings to the farm dogs.

Then at mile 40 the road took a turn-for the worse. Suddenly, what had been a little-traveled country route, became a thorough-fare for cattle and grain trucks beating south to Cordoba. The sweet, little, two-lane road with no shoulder became less cute now that whenever two vehicles passed each other from opposite directions, they caused me to careen onto the grassy shoulder. This happened again and again and they didn’t like it anymore than I did. Friendly peeps turned into angry honks from the drivers, as I pedaled furiously in an effort to outpace the vehicles. But the speed limit was 100 kilometers an hour and I am not quite THAT fast. My legs thundered like pistons, my heart hammered, my whole body was singularly focused. Forget the cows, dogs and lovely countryside-just get me off this road alive. It was awful, but I made it. (Ms. Kamoot took me on that road!)

Now, again I sit in a hotel room because there is no camping in San Francisco. I don’t mind a bit. And again, I will set the alarm for five. It is supposed to be over 100 degrees tomorrow and I don’t think I will have the good fortune of being graced by the rain. But this time I am not going to worry.

Here will be the difference. If I do not feel safe tomorrow, if the road is not bike ready, I will take a bus for 100 miles to an area that is less intense with sun, truck traffic and stress. I do want to come home alive.

The truth is, sometimes, changing plans-like leaving a campsite when there are dodgy people around-or bailing out on a route, and choosing a new way-is actually very difficult for me. I can be too proud. I am trying to learn that it takes a different kind of courage.

By the way, when I showed up at the hotel, mud splattered, red faced and sweaty-they gave me the VIP room. Not bad at all.