Author: admin

After a wee-little siesta yesterday, I mosied outside to find a cup of coffee and think upon my situation. Bleary eyed, I stumbled into the first cafe I found and bellied up to the counter. I ordered a café negro con poco azúcar, hoping it would help bring me some clarity, and went to find a seat. As I sat down, I took a moment to take in my surroundings and I noticed that I happened to be the only female in the establishment. There were probably 17 or so men sitting around big tables, seemingly having a social hour together. Was this some sort of club? Sometimes my language barrier puts me in some confusing situations. No matter.

Soon the obvious proprietor of the cafe served me my coffee and gave me a big grin. I decided to take a swing at getting his opinion about which route I should take today. I told him about my bicycle trip and pulled out my map. He took great interest and showed a lot of concern about where I was and where I need to get to. He called over to some of the men at a nearby table and they spread my map out. There were a lot of charades, shaking of heads and Spanish words that even I understood thrown out. “Muy peligroso!”, and “Mucho tráfico!”, and “Camiones muy rápido!”

Basically, their answer was, “Whatever you think you are doing, don’t.” It became a veritable community forum.

So, off to the bus station I went. There they told me my bike wouldn’t fit in the bus. Again, I told my story, and before I knew it, the ticket salesman was conferring with the driver and made an exception that if I came to a certain bus tomorrow they would make it work. I am telling you-people are so nice.

With this matter cleared up, I was free to enjoy the evening in San Francisco, with no anxiety or early bedtime. I did as the locals do. I strolled the streets, window shopping until it got dark. I learned that the people of Argentina really love four things; shoes, sporting clothes, lingerie and pharmacies. I have never seen such a selection. Of course they were all independent business. No chains of any sort, and all the shops were open to the night air. It lent a party air.

Around 9:30 I sat down at an outdoor cafe for some ñoquis with crème sauce, read my book and people watched until nearly midnight. Only then did I roll on back to my hotel. Fat and happy, and grateful that I got to have this evening.

Now I sit on a bus, traveling 150 miles south to where better roads are promised. I feel vindicated because what I see out the window I would never want to bike on.
Tomorrow there will be hills, but today-I am really enjoying this nice plush seat.

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.

I woke up in the predawn darkness-backed my bags and was on the road my 5:45. That is really first light here and if I left any earlier, I wouldn’t feel safe. As I pedaled the quiet streets of Esperanza, I was able to see the town coming to life-and smell it. Nearly every corner I passed had a panadería-a bakery-and their sweet morning smells wafted through the air in the most enticing way. Of course I had to make a quick pit stop and purchase a big fat coconut tart filled with dulce de leche. I packed it away for a later breakfast-but it was difficult.

I pedaled hard and fast, through beautiful farm land on roads lined with trees. People waved, trucks beeped and moved over, and the sun rose over my shoulder.
I arrived at my destination by mid morning-I had barely broken a sweat and hadn’t even applied sunscreen. I plunked myself down on a park bench in the town square and enjoyed my tart and a café con leche. It was the most delicious worm any early bird ever caught.

A few people have asked me what I have in my bike touring kit, so for all you bike touring nerds out there, here you go.
First off, I am riding a Jamis Sequel 2. They gifted it to me in the form of a sponsorship. I was a bit nervous about it because I only got a chance to ride it a handful of times before this tour-but it is holding its own. I switched out the tires for some tougher ones (Marathon Schwalbe) and added handlebar extensions-the ones that look like horns. It is a perfect bike for this adventure-comfortable, smooth and fast.

My gear is stowed in Arkel panniers. The are bomb proof. They were gifted to me when I crossed the United States with my son a few years ago and have stood up to the test of time and abuse. They do kind of smell like sweat and spilled juice though…

I have racks on the front and back and a handle bar bag. My cell phone and an odometer are strapped to the handle bar.

I sleep in an REI half dome, two-person tent-really easy to set up. I sleep on an inflatable Thermarest. I do carry a little pillow and a Crazy Creek chair-probably my two most adored possessions.

I cook on a small Tangia stove. I just learned about these and they are great. They are small, self contained metal canisters that burn rubbing alcohol-which you can get anywhere. They weigh nothing and are practically indestructible. My kind of stove. I have one pot and one bowl.

That’s about it-add a phone charger, headlamp, some clothes, a book, rain gear and some assorted bike repair items and that is all I need. It is really very simple. That is what I love about it.
What I do wish I had were three wise people. One that could tell me all about the birds because they are all new to me, one that could tell me all about the history of the people here and one to speak Spanish. Then my kit would be complete.
Again-thank you for all your comments-I would love to respond-I just need to get off my phone and look around.

The people of Argentina seem to really know how to have a good time. As much as I roll my eyes at their late night antics, it is pretty incredible to think about. When the sun goes down, these people come out! Every night, friends and families gather and simply play. Last night, in the park I was trying to sleep in, there were late night soccer matches, all-age volley ball games, picnicking and general goofing off until way past my bedtime. Even the little kids were out, sliding on slides, swinging, making sand castles, riding horses and chasing each other, well past midnight. The focus of this time doesn’t really seem to be a alcohol or other shinanagins, just enjoying each others company. It is amazing to watch whole communities interact like that. There were literally over two hundred people, simply enjoying themselves.
As I lay in my tent last night, feeling a bit over tired and miserable from the days heat, I realized what a slow learner I am. I am going to try harder to emulate them. It might mean not sleeping in city parks and missing out on some of their fun, but it will mean using the cool of the predawn to get my miles in. Then I will rest and be much better able to enjoy my afternoons.
Today was a big day. I traveled from Viele to Paraná, which is a big city on the Paraná river. Then I caught a bus through the tunnel under the river, because bikes weren’t allowed, and then I was disgorged in Santa Fe. My slow learning self thought that it would be a good idea to bike an additional 29 miles to a small town called Esperanza, in the full heat of the afternoon. 101 degrees. I will never do that again. It is hard to appreciate a country when I reach that level of misery, and I didn’t come this far for that. So, from now on-up at 5 and on my bike by 5:30 and try to make the most of the cool when it comes-like everyone else here does. I will embrace the siesta. What took me so long?

I stood in the Ferra bike shop in Villaguay, doing my best to pantomime biking chit-chat to the owner. He had a bright smile, and like his shop he was clean, cool and inviting. (Don’t worry Twain) Outside, on the streets, chaos reined. A motorcycle rally was taking place and the streets were filled with hundreds of reving engines and leather jackets. The town was celebrating the event with drum circles, belly dancing-in thongs of course, and multitudes of horn blasts. It was a bit much for me and I think the bike shop owner could tell.

When I finally couldn’t find an excuse to linger more and went to step back out into the street, he told me the road I was taking tomorrow was not safe and to seek another way. I groaned. He seemed unphased.

When I got back to the hotel, I texted my husband and told him that I was uneasy. I don’t often admit this on this blog, because plenty of people who read this will be too nervous for me. But, I do get uneasy. Un. Easy. This is hard. Argentina is big and hot and NOBODY speaks English….and I don’t speak Spanish. It is loud and exhausting. I wasn’t looking for easy though, so I guess this is what I get. Twain tries to console me, but it is only me here, so it only helps so much.

I wake at 5:30 and hurry out of my hotel to catch the cool while I can. I pedal out of town to the highway-anticipating a 74 mile day, of traffic and intense sun with no towns to break up the ride. I am a bit whelmed thinking about it and I am doing my best to give myself a good pep talk. Just as I reach the intersection, I see that they are building a new highway beside the old narrow one. It is not open yet, but it is paved. I turn on it-happy to take a little break from the traffic and I find that the new, unused, perfectly-paved highway, goes the length of my entire journey. 74 MILES OF A PRIVATE, SMOOTH, TRAFFIC FREE ROAD! Up over the hot, dry, shimmering hills, past wheat fields, arroyos, palm trees and corn I race-racing against the sun. On and on all the way here. To where I sit at close to my campsite in Vaile, having a Coke in a cool tienda. Best Coke ever.
This is going to be really hard and I will happily accept every gift that comes my way.

When I mentioned previously, that the roads I was taking would rattle out the bolts of my bike-I thought I was joking. Alas, as I pedaled through the wide open country this morning, crossing over a 50 mile stretch of just me, the dry fields that cover this area and a good strong headwind, I heard a “KABLAM” and was lurched to a sudden stop. My back rack that holds two panniers, my tent and my chair had sheared free and fallen heavily behind me, like a bike emergency brake.
I hauled myself off the road and assessed the situation. The bolts holding the rack to the bike were gone. Sheared? Unwound? Well-I needed a fix. I unloaded my gear and set about using parachute cord to secure the rack back in place. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself when truck full of scrap metal slowed and stopped beside me. It rolled off the road onto the grassy margin with its front wheel wiggling, its tail end dragging and a terrible looseness to all its joints. It was hard to tell where the scrap metal started and the truck ended.

I inwardly groaned. “Alright,” I thought “Who are going to be these characters.” Out of the truck bounded a man, perhaps a little older than me and presumably his teenage son.
They cheerfully surrounded my bike-which was now fixed-and hemmed and hawed about how to help. In the end they added a wire from their truck to the parachute cord tie-not really necessary.

“Okay,” grinned the father, “a dollar for our help?” I just laughed, because they didn’t really help me at all, and then they laughed. We tried to speak and pantomime to each other, but it was pretty futile. In the end, the father offered me a cigarette, and we took pictures and exchanged Facebook information.

I slogged onward until I reached Valliguay, where I am staying tonight. I went first to the town square to get my bearings. As I sat on a bench, another man approached me with a huge cup of ice and a liter of soda. “For you.” Is all I could understand from him. He was a bit snaggle-toothed and didn’t seem to have much. I couldn’t believe there wasn’t a hitch-but there wasn’t.

Now I am sitting in a plush hotel. Freshly showered. I intend to spend the afternoon going over every link, bolt and spoke of my bicycle and tightening everything I can, then when it cools off, I will go out on the town and see what people get up to in these parts on a Saturday night. My guess is a lot.

Last night my camping neighbors were all up at two, smoking, coughing, throwing up and laughing-good fun.

I am lying by the side of an elaborate, thermal spring pool, in a camping resort in Villa Elisa, Argentina. There are eight of these pools of varying temperatures, all naturally warmed from well below the earths mantle, and people from all of Argentina seem to have flocked here to soak in their soothing waters. I had thought it would be a perfect place to spend a mellow afternoon. However, truth-be-told, I am having a hard time knowing where to look. Because from where I sit, all I can see are bum cheeks. Beautiful bum cheeks. Big ones, round ones, old ones and bitty ones. Everyone is sporting a thong-no matter their age or shape. Everyone, but me.
It is not that I am prudish about such things, I am all about “When in Rome…”, but with the current state of my saddle sores, I would scare people-probably even clear a pool! And then there are my current tan lines-they are of the bike short variety-not my best look. So I sit quietly, keeping my shorts on and watch the scenery go by as I think about my day.

Several hours ago, I crossed the Uruguay/Argentina border. I was a bit apprehensive, but there was no need-as a bicyclist, I was treated like royalty.

I anxiously peddled up to the end of a queue of old cars and trucks waiting to pass through customs, all parked in a long lines, with their engines burning hot, and their tail pipes spewing foul exhaust, barely inching forward. Just the thought of breathing their fumes while simultaneously fighting heat stroke made me feel queasy. It looked like an hour long process. Ack.
But, before both of my feet had even touched the ground, a kind custom agent put his hand on my arm and said to follow him-right to the front of the line. I grinned sheepishly at all the drivers as I passed them and was through in an instant. I was then shown to a four mile bike/walking bridge up over the river to Argentina and wished a good ride. Easy as that.

I do think it will be different here from Uruguay. It already seems faster paced and more intense, but that might just be because I am near the border. Borders are often like that. I did not see one thong in Uruguay though, I think that is a sign We shall see tomorrow.

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.