Author: admin

Today was a long day, probably because yesterday never really ended. Uruguayas might look tranquillo, but that is only their day time disguise. By night it is an altogether different story.
Just as my closed my eyes last night the the real fun began. A large drum circle began right outside the campsite at 9:30 and kept up and a fierce percussive beat until 11:30. To add to the fun, several of my tenting neighbors, hooked up their amplifiers to override the drum circle with their own pop-rock music. And they didn’t quit at 11:30-no sir. They just cranked it up even more. Dogs barked, motors reved, children squealed and adults belly-laughed until THREE OCLOCK in the morning. Call me a party pooper but-whoa. It completely explains why the people here are all so mellow during the day-they are exhausted!

Well, the only way forward is forward and the sun always comes up, and it comes up hot here, so I was up at six and on the road by 7.
I intended to follow the route of my new buddies, Alan and Wendy, but they took a 15 mile detour to go visit a beef bouillon museum, not really my thing, so instead I made a cautious return to Ms. Kamoot, (Okay-enough about my relationships) and I am glad I did.

I started the day on a three-mile dirt road, through a lovely country-side and was surprised to come around a corner and find the road full of cows. Probably, 50 of them. But, no worries-sitting astride a beautiful horse in the middle of the herd was a handsome, young gaucho. He smiled at me and moved the cows out of the way and then rode along beside me for a while, patiently encouraging me to try and explain myself in Spanish.
After we parted ways, and I returned to a paved road, who should appear, but the police car that stopped me yesterday! I was 45 miles from where they had stopped me last. It was only the female police officer this time and she got out of her van and took my hands in mine and told me that if I put my bike in the van she would give me a little ride and no one would ever know. She was grinning and seemed delighted to be trying to corrupt me. Of course I said no, and she gave me a hug and wished me a, “Bien Viaje!” before driving off.

Tonight, I sit in San Javier, on the Uruguay side of the river and look over at Argentina. Tomorrow I will cross over. I am trepidatious about leaving this good place. Here are some final thoughts before I go:

I have never seen more well-cared for animals.

People seem to respect their jobs, there are spritly uniforms for everything from car mechanics to grocery clerks, and they are all clean and crisp.

The police hug-and they don’t have guns-only billy clubs-painted white with yellow trim.

Every truck driver I have passed on the highway has waved at me and smiled. One even blew me a kiss and it was in no way offensive.

People have offered me water when they pass me, opened their closed shops so that I can buy food and have only been kind. Not once have I felt unsafe. Not once.

Just before I landed in this campsite tonight, I did meet a biker heading east. He was from Argentina. We stopped and chatted-he has been out for three weeks and today was his last day. I asked him how the roads were in his country and you know what he said? “Muy linda, seguridad con mucho bueno genres.” Very pretty, safe with many good people.
So here it goes.

I broke up with Ms. Kamoot today (my bike tour navigation system). Seems like she and I just had different ideas about what we wanted out of this tour. She was prone to take me down scenic dirt roads that were so rough, they threatened to reduce my bike and I to nuts and bolts-and molars and fillings. I tried to believe in her because she showed me beautiful places, but after today, when she sent me down a 35 mile, dusty horror show and then took me to a bridge that was completely washed out, I said enough. I am moving on.

I am not entirely going rogue though. I have Wendy and Alan. I have been reading their blog on line and they did a very similar route to what I intend to, several years ago, on a tandem! They are in their sixties, and I now plan to more or less follow in their footsteps.

After making this decision today, I found myself riding in the flood plain of Uruguay River rather than on a hateful jeep track that I had been earlier and I enjoyed a delightful tail wind to boot. The hills rolled much more gently, the land was much more lush and it was even overcast. A smattering of rain even tickled my shoulders before evaporating. A little piece of heaven I tell you. Thanks Wendy and Alan-my new besties.

I stopped for second breakfasts in a town called Dolores and had my first real Spanish conversation. Not just “Donde está el baño?”, but a true-blue chat. People seem intrigued by what I am doing and I am becoming more comfortable telling them-in Spanish.

As I sped along to my final destination of Mercedes, I was stopped by the police. They wanted to say hello and wish me safe travels. They said if I ever need help, even just to change a flat tire, to call them-911. They were incredibly encouraging.

Now I sit in a campground on the River Uruguay surrounded by other campers. They are drinking Mate and listening to loud music, laughing, clapping and egging each other on. I think it is going to be a party scene tonight-perhaps I will embrace it.

By the way-gauze, Neosporin and medical tape, seem to have turned the tide on my saddle sores. Thanks for everyone’s advice.

I awake just as the sky lightens. It is early yet, but I am determined to beat the heat, so with a groan, I sit up, stuff my sleeping bag and begin preparing for the day.
I light my little Tangia alcohol stove to heat some water and while I wait I pack up my tent and organize my panniers. My bum is very sore, so I stow away my nasty, hot bike shorts complete with serious, sponge like, sweat absorbing padding and decide to wear regular old gym shorts-but not first without grabbing the duct tape and adhering it to the the sore spots on my derrière. Genius, right?

When the water is hot, I guzzle some instant coffee and inhale a bowl of granola with boxed chocolate milk. Delish. Time to go.

The first few hours of the ride are lovely. I ride the gentle, rolling hills full of optimism. It is still cool and I entertain myself by belting out songs that parallel my mood, “When you see the southern cross for the first time…”

By ten o’clock, I ready myself for the coming heat. I reslather sunscreen, change into my long sleeve cotton shirt, have a snack of a granola bar and continue.
As the heat builds, my singing lessens. I stop again in a half hour to take water from my stored liters and refill my accesible water bottles. I am hungry again- another granola bar-but as I fumble to retrieve one from my bag, the unthinkable happens. I knock over my water and it splashes out across the ground. Ack! I still have one liter to spare, but I have already drank two. No worries-I am sure I will pass a tienda soon.

Another half an hour passes. I am scared to drink my water until I see a place to replenish. Finally up ahead, I see a service station.
I careen in to door and am immediately awash in air conditioning. I don’t ever want to leave. The woman at the counter stares at me with some concern-perhaps it is because I am tomato red and my salted hair is slicked back against my forehead, and I am literally making a puddle of sweat on the floor. “Agua por favor?” I also buy another snack called a Triple-think triple-layer Little Debbie Snack filled with a carmel sauce and coated in chocolate. I stand in the shade of the shop-too embarrassed to remain inside-guzzling and gulping.

Back on the bike. These rolling hills seem to be more like rollar coaster hills. Another twenty minutes and I have to stop again. There is no shade except high up under the skirts of the occasional tall tree-but they are often difficult to reach. I notice my toes are getting sunburned. I wear flip flops when I bike-because everything else is too hot-so I lather more sunscreen on them.
I am now five miles from Carmelo-my destination-but it is high noon and I just won’t make it without another break. Luckily, I come upon a bus stop, complete with a tin roof and cement benches, all under the shade of a magnificent Eucalyptus.
I lie on a bench and feel the cool of the cement permeating my skin. Over head, parrots and fork-tailed birds that I don’t know screech and flit around. I just lie there-listening.

Back on my bike. Forward is the only way there. I make a rule that I can coast whenever I am going above ten miles an hour. Forward is forward.

At one thirty, I coast across a swing bridge and into town. There is no camping in Carmelo, so as a special treat, I get to stay in a hostel. Gabriel, the owner welcomes me in and soon hands me a towel, directing me to the shower. It feels so good until I try to take the duct tape off…Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. It is cool here. There is a courtyard with grapes and pears, lemons and oranges.
Now I sit on my bed, where I will remain until this evening. I plan tomorrow’s route, write my blog and rest. Later I will explore the town.
I will go for a walk on the Rambla by the river, do some shopping for provisions, then find some dinner. Lastly I will call my family, read my book and go to sleep. Then I will do it all again tomorrow.

I am incredibly appreciative of everyone who has left an encouraging comments on this blog or on Facebook.
I cannot respond to you, but please know how much they mean to me. Every comment helps me go a little further. Thank you very, very much.

My brain is rattling against the inside of my skull, the bolts on my bike threaten to unwind and the pots and pans crash around in my panniers like a badly played percussion set. I had no idea that Kamoot-my bicycle navigation system-would send me down roads like this. They are not just dirt, not just washboardy, but they are comprised of sand and grapefruit sized rocks. Seems like it is either this or the highway, so I will have to make it work. I will try to trust Ms. Kamoot. (She talks to me all day long and scolds me every time I leave the route-even for a second. She is just what I need, so we are becoming fast friends.)

As I bounce and shimmy down the road, I feel a little disheartened. This is really hard and slow, but luckily, as the day unfolds, there are many other more pleasant surprises.

Green parrots in flocks that reach the hundreds, chatter in the trees overhead. Fields of sunflowers stretch to the horizon. Horses and cows stand in the road watching me pass. They don’t move. Their coats are like satin and I am not sure why. I have never seen healthier livestock anywhere. Even the dogs that are allowed to roam free seem hale and hearty and they never chase me-they are like the people here, quiet, gentle and calm.
There are definitely gifts that come from taking the road less traveled and almost all of me appreciated them.

When I finally reached Colonia de Sacramento, I was truly exhausted. It is not my muscles so much, but the heat and the-um-rubbing, but before I could rest, the manger of the campground made be practice my spanish for half an hour. Entrance fee, I guess. As soon as he was finished I took a shower with all my clothes on-to wash them as well as me and now I am going to try not to move again.

I grew up in Philadelphia, and every summer my family would pack up the station wagon and drive down the Blackhorse Pike to the New Jersey shore. The road there was flanked by farm stands offering sweet corn and peaches often waving colorful banners to help their particular goods stand out. As I biked along the Uruguay coast today I couldn’t help, but feel certain similarities. The farm stands, motorcycles with couples heading to the beach, the heat radiating off the pavement, the occasional store with 40, enticing beach chairs lined up-but that is where it ended. Here are the differences:

The peaches at the farm stands in Uruguay are so juicy, that when you take a bite the juice runs down your chin and onto your only white shirt that you brought to wear for a month before you can stop it. Totally worth it.

The motorcycles, with the couples roaring by, are often driven by women with the man in back! This sight has been on my bucket list for a long time. I have never seen it in the United States.

The roads here are lined with medicinal smelling Eucalyptus trees, as well as, what I deem to be Trufula trees, and they are all filled with parrots and other shrieking unidentified birds, creating a multi-sensory cacophony. Often there is a healthy-looking horse tied up to them, just doing it’s thing. Behind the trees are endless fields of sugar cane. No barbed wire-no private signs-just wide open.
And unlike New Jersey-Uruguay isn’t flat. Who knew? The land rolls up and down, and up and down…and up and down.

So needless to say, by the end of the day, I was an overheated, sticky, toasted marshmallow. My face was swollen with heat, my skin had turned crispy and my head was filled with goo.

I was feeling a bit depleted when I got to my campsite, but up popped a new friend, Brittin. He is six and he helped me set up my tent, fill my water bottles and taught me how to play rock paper scissors in Spanish. Just what I needed.
Tomorrow I head to Colonia de Sacramento. It is only supposed to be 96 degrees. Piece of cake.

There is no better way to practice Spanish and get to know a place than biking around a large city, trying desperately to procure a SIM card for your iPhone. I visited four different cell phone stores to no avail, before finally getting an international roaming plan directly with my carrier. No matter- it allowed me to see Montevideo inside and out and I have found that it is a beautiful city and the people are muy tranquilo-very helpful and kind. I also found that Spanish in Uruguay is much different that Duolingo Spanish-but more on that later.

Montevideo is pressed up against a dark, chocolate-brown Atlantic. Rows and rows of tall apartment buildings seem to be elbowing their way to try to get closest to the water, but luckily, they are held back by the Rambla. The Rambla is 22 kilometer, stone walkway that runs along the coast for biking and strolling. (and rambling?) I did both, taking in the endless beaches and volcanic rocky outcrops, and as I did, I happened upon a young man who is also out for a month-long bike ride. He had come along the coast from Brazil and today was his last day. I love finding people like this-it feels like a secret society.

Perhaps he chose to bike here because of how well cyclists are treated. There are bike lanes, cars are courteous and they have guarded bike garages throughout the city. You show them your ID and they secure your bike while you run your errands-for free!

As I write this, the city is full of the sound of drumming-I have seen three large drum circles-100 drummers strong- in my wanderings this evening and now the night is alive with their energy, but not mine. Tomorrow is when the real fun starts and I need to get some rest.

Smooth starts were really never my thing. Not sure why, but my adventures always begin in the same fashion-like trying to uncoil a knotted skien of yarn. An overwhelming mess that, by pure luck, eventually sorts itself out and becomes something beautiful. Or-maybe it is other people that sort it out and it is not luck, but sheer will.

Let’s just say that I maybe left my panniers and all my gear in Portland and didn’t realize that I didn’t have them until we were parked in the Logan airport in Boston.

Let’s just say that it was impossible to get them in time and there were no more seats available for several days.

Let’s just say that due to a herculaic effort on both my husband and my son’s parts, while I just stood there numb, those said bags miraculously made their way from Portland to Boston in record breaking time and onto the plane with zero minutes to spare.

It involved a bit of speeding on my son’s part, a cheering ticket agent, an invested baggage supervisor-willing to work around the computer system, a sprinting bloody-headed spouse and a pilot willing to hold the plane for one extra little minute.

Everyone was okay-except perhaps me, I was a mess, and then there were the people watching Twain jump the baggage line, carrying a 60-pound laundry bag over his shoulder filled with my gear while covered in blood-God knows what they thought. (The sliced head was from an over exuberant unlatching of the my son’s car trunk in Twain’s rush to save the day-he says it was no big deal).

24 hours later, here I am sitting in the shade of a Eucalyptus tree in Montevideo. I am exhausted, but beginning to gather my wits. I just ate a bag of hot, greasy, sugar coated Churros for dinner while watching all the people in the town converge in the city park to drink Mate, goof around with their kids and/or engage in some light, lover nuzzling. Smooches abound. It is pretty tranquilo and is helping to settle my nerves. Tomorrow I will explore the coast on my bike before turning west. Let’s hope it is time to begin knitting the sweater and the snarl is behind us.

I have lists on the back of Christmas cards, lists on the backs of junk mail, notebook pages full of lists and lists set on the reminder app of my phone, and I bounce from one to the other manifesting a popping, fizzing, chaotic energy, much like a mouth full of Pop Rocks-but perhaps not so pleasant.

Do I have my solar charger, sleeping bag liner, paper maps, and rain gear? How about a first aid kit? Did I forward the emails from my son’s teachers and coaches to my husband Twain? Have I written notes on the kitchen calendar about this doctor appointment and that school conference and the swim meet schedule? Now I need to box my new Jamis bike, pack my panniers, check maps again and exchange my tent-it was defective. I am going to need a SIM card and what is the exchange rate anyway? Will Google translate work? How about a universal charger? Do I have my passport? Better double check. My COVID vaccination card? Where did I put my pocket Spanish Dictionary? All this while trying to be present and home while I am. All without being completely self-centered. It isn’t pretty.

I am excited for this adventure, but today-it is easy to forget that. Home is comfortable and holds me tight in its many layers of responsibility and routine. Sometimes it feels hard to get a deep breath in all those layers and I get restless, but today it feels like to not have them is to run naked down a city street. Alone and exposed.

I choose to do this to myself. It makes me very uncomfortable, but very awake. It is now that I love my family more than anything. I love this cat right here who is naughtily sitting on the dining table pressing up against the warmth of this computer, like I have never loved him before. I love the touch of my husband and the easy laughter of my friends. I love my kitchen and the idea of cooking good food and hearing Oakley’s banter about his current favorite car over dinner. I love the patterns of my day that at other times can seem so boring and predictable. Today it all comprises a vivid, interwoven tapestry and I take none of it for granted.

Tomorrow I will leave all this and fly to Uruguay. I will cry a lot and second guess my decision to go at least 150 times in route. I will then, hopefully, mop up my tears and cycle alone for 30 days relying on the goodness of strangers, the care of drivers and strength in my muscles and brains. I intend to finish on the Pacific coast near Santiago, Chile. I will be terribly homesick, even if all goes well, even if it is shockingly beautiful. I will worry about my family and worry about myself for my family. I will be an outsider-my Spanish is still very rough and I will have to keep my wits about me every second of the day and night. Exhausting.

But, here is the thing. I am accepting these difficult feelings, because this is how I want to engage with this life. I want to trust and be open to what is out there and who we are as humans. I want to say “Yes” and hear other people say it back. I want to gulp it all in. All the feelings. All the world. The peeling of all these domestic layers creates a new fresh skin. It is tender and vulnerable, but it lets in so much.

I can hardly wait to be home again, and that is because I am leaving.

I will write when I can-when I have wifi. Feel free to follow and learn about this part of the world with me.

*If you liked reading this-try “Changing Gears” at Familius Press

When I was eleven or so, I used to try to get lost on my bicycle. I would jump on the saddle and just start pedaling away from my home. I decided where to go at every intersection based on what looked less familiar, and which route seemed like it might have a smaller hill to contend with. I would turn left, right, and left again, meandering farther and farther from home and anything I knew. I would only stop when the realization hit me that I didn’t remember how to get home-then I would challenge myself to find the way.

Usually, these adventures were overlayed by fantastical stories that I would invent in my mind-I was delivering top-secret messages, or a hurricane was coming and I had to rescue a cat, or I had to sneak across the border of a hostile country. I would get lost not only on the road, but also in my head, letting one thought lead to another, away from whatever stresses eleven-year-olds hold.

For this reason, I would always go alone. I had friends that I played with at other times, but these were solitary adventures that allowed me to just be me, with no one watching. I felt the need to bump up against the borders of my self and my backyard with a little manufactured challenge and independence.

When I did eventually find my way home, and could finally see my sturdy, unchanged house, I always felt a little stronger, braver and more content than when I had left, and also, a little relieved. I had gone out on the land and learned something about the world and about myself and now I delighted in feeling safe again, until next time.

I don’t think that I have changed a lot since then. They say that women return to their prepubescent selves during midlife, and I believe, for me, that is true. The only difference is that now, I have to travel farther to get lost.

I leave for my bicycle trip across South America in a little less than four weeks. I have fussed over maps and tried to figure out my route, but the truth is, there are so many variables out there that I can only plan a day or two at a time. South America is big. Maybe there will be traffic to avoid, or bad weather, or a big hill. I do know that on the first night of the adventure, I intend to stay in a zoo. In Uruguay you are allowed to camp in them! Me and the hippos. My eleven-year-old self is cartwheeling in excitement.

I have also learned that it will be hot. Very hot. The average high temperature will be 101. This will mean very early mornings, a lot of water and the need to sneak out of range of the sun’s merciless rays. I will be a spy-delivering myself safely from shady spot to shady spot, from the cool of one night to the next.

I will bicycle across the long flat pampas in Uruguay for about a week, up along the River Plate. Then I will cross into Argentina at Concepcion del Uruguay, from there will pedaling through what I hear is endless cattle farming land, until I reach Cordoba. In Cordoba I will head up the Salinas Grande mountains and down on to the salt flats. They are huge-the third largest in the world! Then I will make my way to Mendoza-deep in the foothills of the Andes, and then, hopefully, up and over them. The tunnel at Paso International Los Libertadores marks the border between Argentina and Chile. It is high in the Andes at 12,500 feet. I guess there will be no avoiding hills this time. When I leave the pass, I will hug the switchbacks that serpentine down the lush western flanks of the Andes for several days all the way to the sea. I will finish my bicycle journey in Valparaiso, where I hope to take a splash in the Pacific.

It is a big adventure for me and an exciting one. I will cross borders-like in my childhood fantasies and face all sorts of obstacles and challenges. I am looking forward to going alone because that is how my brain unravels best-in a good way.

I have faith that when I do get home after the adventure, and I see my sturdy, unchanged house, I will feel a stronger, braver, more content, and a little relieved-just like I did when I was eleven. I still feel like a child sometimes, but now I have the wisdom and strength of fifty-three. Middle-age rocks.

-If you would like to read more please check out changinggears@familius.com

Axel Rose is blasting from the upstairs bathroom where my husband shaves. Eminem, from the kitchen where my daughter has been tasked with mopping, and I am not sure who is wailing from my son Oakley’s room, but it is packing a wallop. The whole house is pulsing.

I just finished sweeping up the remains of a pink pompom hat that our dog, Georgie, unwound into hundreds of three-inch-long strings of yarn all over my bedroom floor. It was intermingled with an equal amount of both his hair and mine-good nesting fodder, but not terribly good Feng Shui.

To top it off, I am wearing my very tight tights. They are squeezing my legs like two over-stuffed sausages and are making me feel like my derriere is swollen. I just went through four varicose vein procedures and have not been able to exercise for a month-so maybe it actually is swelling? And in the midst of all this, I am trying to listen to my latest Doulingo Spanish lesson through my AirPods and shout back the answers. My accent is truly terrible and I keep increasing the volume of my voice in the hopes that the program will understand me. It isn’t pretty, but I am trying to maintain my 87-day streak and doing whatever I can to get ready for my bike ride across South America. Yo creo que, es muy difícil.

When I am finished with my chores, I step into the night to walk my dogs and maybe find some peace, but Georgie pulls and Cricket drags, and before long I get myself tangled up in the knot of their leashes. Through my neighbor’s windows, I see a variety of peaceful domestic scenes; kids doing dishes, and adults reading, and I wonder why I seem to crave chaos rather than tranquility? Why isn’t a cozy, domestic lifestyle enough for me?

I am aware that training for this trip isn’t just about getting in shape, studying routes and learning spanish. There is a bigger part of it that involves a lot of introspection. I need to be aware of why I am doing this, as well as what my weakness are and where my blind spots may be-both for safety and so that I can enjoy my own company and not feel like I am traveling with a fool. So, as I untangle my dogs, I also take the time to untangle myself.

Somewhere along the last few years, I feel as though I have become a little lost. Life has been busy with a new career, COVID, midlife transitions, and my book publication-all good things, but also confusing and distracting. Truthfully, there are times that I question why I have chosen to ride solo across South America. Why up the ante so high? Florida is nice enough this time of year, isn’t it? In moments of self-doubt, I wonder if I am doing this to gather attention, write another book, or prove something to someone. Those are the worst reasons I can fathom and they make me feel rather nauseous. I fear that speaking large, postulating, and using social media as a billboard for my adventures may have marred the path to where I intended to go. Am I just like a teenager, counting likes as a measure of my worth?

As I walk along, stumbling through the dark autumn leaves, feeling the push me-pull me of my dogs, I thankfully hear an internal answer, a resounding “No”. What I long for on these adventures, is actually what I am intending to do on this walk-to become unlost.

These trips allow me to strip myself of the noise of life; the dog hair, loud music and other distractions and to find out who I am again. They help me remember how amazing this world is; the land, the people, the life and even myself. They help me appreciate the world in a way that fills me up with all that is good and my hope is that they enable me to pour it back out. These trips help me to reestablish myself in the midst of life’s craziness so that I can be who I want to be. Walkabouts so to speak.

As I circle the block and return to my home, my dogs race up the steps and crash into the door in their exuberence over dinner time. They bark and nip at each other telling me that the time for deep thoughts is over. I open the door and feel a waft of warmth and noise cascade out onto the porch and I remember one last thing. The best thing about these trips.

The best thing is that I get to come back here to this pulsating house-to the craziness and the mess; dog hair, Eminem and all. I wouldn’t have one without the other. Not for a second.