Bikemum

If I believed in such things, which I don’t, I would say that the world was teasing me, having some fun at my expense.

A thick fog blanketed the coast this morning, and as I rode towards the Pacific, I could not tell what was a distant hill or the sea. “Oh there, that must be it!” I would think as my legs burned from yet another climb, only to find moments later that no, that was not it. What I had thought was the ocean was only the misty blue of another rise. At one point, I turned directly away from the Pacific because I was being pulled by some siren song towards what seemed west. Thank God Ms. Kamoot was on my side that time and sternly turned me around.

I battled trucks, grit and highways, and felt like a clock inside me was winding down. Every hill felt too high, every truck too scary and every mile too far. All I wanted was to be done.

Then finally, I saw it—the mighty Pacific, slowly rolling in. I met it at a little sea side town that hadn’t woken up yet, so I biked right down to the beach and stuck my toes in the water and in the still, foggy silence, I waited to feel something.

I am a slow processor. There I was, the big finish, and actually, I was at a loss. Was I supposed to feel triumphant? I sure as heck felt lucky. Was I supposed to feel relieved? I really just felt a just little lost, a little bereft even. I called my husband Twain, “You made it!”, he crowed. I could not match his enthusiasm. What was wrong with me?

So, I had a coffee and I went for a bike ride.
Just a little up the coast, and then around the next bend, and just over a few rocky promontories. I am aware that my craving for movement has gotten out of hand, but I was looking for something and finally, I found it.

This place was not sleepy, here the waves were robust; frothing and crashing. The fog burned off and the colors were dancing both on the water and on the surrounding land. The houses were brightly painted and clung to the cliff sides. The plants held fast to the rocky soil; flowers, enormous succulents, cacti and palms swayed in the breeze. Here was the energy I needed to match mine. I felt better and although I couldn’t yet appreciate what I have accomplished—I could appreciate the beauty of this place.

Now I have cycled back to a small eco reserve where I will stay for two nights. It is quiet and filled with endless walking trails, enormous trees, dunes and beaches. I will try to remember how to be still with grace. I will hike about, that is for sure, but I won’t touch my bike. (except a little caress now and again)

It is hard to stop. That is the craziest thing. I love my home, my friends and family, and this has been really difficult, but still this part is hard. I am glad I have tomorrow to practice before I am truly finished.

Sleep doesn’t describe what happened to me last night. I left the earth. I do not remember breathing, let alone turning over. I woke up in my own sweet time and ate a crusty biscuit (a specialty here) and some cheese with my hostel mates. What was the rush? Today was going to be easy-downhill all the way. You know where this is going don’t you?

I pedaled away from Los Andes around 8:30–practically the middle of the day. Chile is different than Argentina. There is more wealth here, more color and better roads.
I passed vegetable stands, cafes and panaderías. I tootled along hedgerows covered with purple morning glories and red roses and by lemon and peach orchards. One small town reaching its tendrils into the next, often connected by bike paths. It was Sunday, so the sound of asados rose up all around me; families splashing in pools, picnicking, grilling and spending time together.

This was easy riding, I dawdled, snacked and rested in town squares, it was nearly perfect except for a relentless sea breeze. “It is okay,” I thought, “just a little breeze.” I even texted my friend Jess at one point, that I was only 30 miles from the ocean. So close!

That is when it happened. Maybe it was because I was tired or had become complacent, but I let my guard down and I got lost. Really lost. And the wind picked up.

What had already promised to be a long day on very tired legs, just got too long. Ms. Kamoot took me to an impassable river. My campground app couldn’t find me. I found myself going up hills, away from the ocean, in traffic and chewing on the dust of angry taxis. I was hot and worn out. 60 miles turned into 75. It was too much.

But here is the thing, this trip has reminded me that, so far, I always seem to have a little more left in me than I think. A secret stash that I know can take me just a little further, and further and further. I know everyone has one.

I rolled my eyes at myself for getting so upset.
Getting lost and over tired is parr for my course. Doesn’t seem like I know how to do it any other way.

Of course, I eventually found my way, and showed up at a campground with red eyes, frazzled hair and a sunburnt nose, only to be greeted by an unimpressed teenage girl. Not everyone is susceptible to my charms.

Tomorrow, if I am lucky, I will dip my toes in the Pacific Ocean…but you never know, I don’t want to count on it.

I snuck out of my room last night because I couldn’t sleep. It was too hard to quiet my mind, knowing I had 4,000 more feet to climb today. Not only that, but I was going to encounter the scariest of all tunnels that has a long, uphill turn making it impossible to see the end or go fast. Then I would need to hitchhike through a two-and-a-half mile long tunnel in, which bikes were forbidden, right on top of the pass. And if that wasn’t enough, I had a border crossing to contend with that involved having to explain why I never got my passport stamped when I entered Argentina. Then there was just the dread of wind that was certain to complicate things. I thought, since I couldn’t sleep, I would at least stare at the stars instead of the ceiling.

As I rattled the front door of the hospedaje, my host appeared. “Where are you going?”, he asked.
“To look at the stars.” I told him.

“The door is locked, you need to be sleeping-but for one moment.” He let me take a peak and then whisked me off to bed.
This morning at 6:15 when I quietly rolled my bike across the lobby, he appeared again. This time he handed me a bag of sweet breads. “For you,” he said “Good luck.”

Outside, the air was still and the sun was not yet up. I switched on my lights and immediately started climbing.
After several miles I came upon some Inca Ruins by the side of the road. Nobody was there except a pack of dogs. I ate my first sweet bread and tried to absorb were I was, and how people could have lived here, in this land that I was so jittery to just pass through.
As I cycled on, the slope became more and more severe. These were no rolling hills, just a relentless up, winding around buttress and outcroppings.

It wasn’t long before I saw the dreaded uphill, curved dark tunnel, daring me with it’s open maw. Nothing to be done, but race into to it. My heart beat thudded in my ears, my breath was ragged, but I popped out the other side without getting eaten. Things were looking up.

Now I was high. The only thing higher was the Aconcagua peak, covered with snow. This morning, it sent gentle, fresh breezes down that that cooled me, but they didn’t threaten or slow me in anyway. I felt very thankful.

Finally, I arrived at the top. There really are no words. Ethereal? Other worldly? I felt euphoric and my head felt full of helium. There is nothing else up there—just the sky—and it seemed so close.

The long tunnnel that crosses over to Chile now waited. I pedaled over to a guard and told him my issue. He grinned and assured me that he would love to take me across. We loaded my bike and panniers up in his truck and we were off. Halfway through the tunnel is the border and he counted down until we crossed it. All my fears were being allieved.

Out on the other side, there was only one more obstacle, the border. I waited in line for ages, chatting to fellow travelers, having mutual English/Spanish lessons with some kids that were also waiting. It was an excellent distraction.

When my turn finally came, I practiced my best Spanish and said “Lo siento, mi español es muy mal.”

The border official looked at me and gave me a huge smile, “Good then I get to practice my English!” She then proceeded to ask me endless questions, but not about my legality, just about my bike trip. “I don’t get to see this everyday, I don’t even know what to put on the form!”
Soon she stamped my passport and sent me on my way, I had made it.

As I cycled away from the top, the road snaked down and down. Each guardrail-free turn was numbered. 27 in all. As I floated down, slowly, so I could enjoy every moment, cars honked, truck drivers gave me thumbs up, people literally cheered. It felt like I was in a parade. A parade at the top of the world.

And now I am here, eating a salad in Los Andes. Did that really happen?

Tomorrow, I hope to head towards the ocean and see what Chile is all about.

Wanted to eat me for breakfast

There is a violence to the landscape here. A harshness and a reminder of the intensity of power that is within this earth.

The truth is, the mountains here unsettle me. They are proof that this world is still a dynamic place and one that cares naught for me. Here, there is evidence of the earth opening and sending chunks of its mantle over 22,000 feet high.
You can see sublimations and upheavals, the strata of the rock ascending vertically, rather than sitting calmly in a relaxed horizontal fashion-a la Kansas. It seems that they are the reason South America exists, that they pulled the land right up from under the ocean.

The jagged peaks don’t hide their history under trees and grasses, they announce it and leave in me a feeling of awe, an awareness of how small and inconsequential I am, as well as, how short the time span I will be on this earth really is. They remind me how very tiny people really are. That is not to say that they are not beautiful, it is just that they are more than that.

As I pedaled up today, to 8,530 feet, I followed a wending river. The sun became brighter and brighter, giving everything a silvery tone. I felt a bit light headed, like I had blown up one too many balloons. I met Kim, a fellow bike traveler, who has been touring for seven years. We laughed and hugged and shared stories in the broken languages of Korean, English and Spanish. We were giddy at our meeting—like long lost friends—it may have been the altitude.

Now exhausted, I have stopped 15 miles from the border because the wind has come on hard. I can walk faster than I can bike. I am staying in a little hospedaje on the side of the road, very grateful for the respite from the sun and wind. I feel like I am in a dream.

If I am lucky, I have 4,000 more feet to climb tomorrow and then I will go down-boy does that fill me with all sorts of emotions.

Last night I couldn’t sleep, instead I drifted between excitement and anxiety, wondering what today would bring. Nevertheless, I slipped out of my bag in the predawn, because one thing was for certain, I wanted to avoid the afternoon wind that would only make my 6,000 foot elevation gain harder.

The road started climbing immediately, wending its way around bluffs and rocky outcroppings. There were no trees, just parched land strewn with boulders and sandy gravel.
The river I was following was chocolate brown. Occasionally, a straggly tree would be perched on the shore, but even these seemed to be struggling to gain a foothold.

Up and up the road climbed. When valley became too narrow to fit a road beside the river, the tunnels started. Nine tunnels so far, bored through rocks with no lights, no shoulder. When I would approach one, I would get as close as I could and strain my eyes looking back along the road to see if any cars or trucks were coming and then pedal like hell.

There were no towns. Traffic would come in bursts with five trucks and ten cars in a row. I got off the road when they came, grateful for an excuse to rest and drink. I couldn’t imagine where they were all going.

Another tunnel, a long one. My heart was in my throat and my breath came out in gasps. Sweat coated my skin with a rime-like layer of salt. And then finally, I burst through the other side and found the secret of the Andes.

The river valley opened up before me and created a wide, lush, fertile land. Where there had been gravel, drought and sand, now there were tall Poplars and Sycamores. The ground was covered with many shades of green, shoulder-high, grass that swayed in the cool breezes coming off the snow-capped peaks that surrounded it. The valley was endless.

Still I cycled up, but it was gentler now. Everything more forgiving; the slope, the cooler air, the shaded road. It was another world altogether.

Eventually, I made it to Uspallata, a town nestled in high end of this valley. To my surprise there were little markets, outdoor restaurants and even ice cream. People filled the streets, all here appreciating this beauty. This is where everyone had been heading! I sat down at the first cafe I saw and ordered some ravioli and a coke and ate like I had been starving for days. The air is shimmery, and I am only half way up, I am so curious as to what tomorrow will bring.

By the way, I did get my Malbec last night. I shared it with a retired Swiss humanitarian worker. One of the most interesting people I have met-well worth the wait!

Tents cartwheeled across the grass, people leapt from the pool, wrappers and clothing flew through the air-chased by their owners who had been caught unaware. A fierce wind pummeled the land. It came from high atop the Andes with a torrent of dust that blocked the sun, turning the sky brown. It whipped the trees and bent the grasses flat. Moments ago there had been calm-the sky had been blue, and I had been dreaming of my Malbec while taking periodic dips in the pool. Perhaps, I had been feeling too sure of myself-boastful even. Well, it seemed that the Andes would have none of that.

I ran to my tent, just as it flipped and jumped inside. People ran for their cars and the park emptied. The mountain seemed to be reminding everyone just how powerful it was and who was really in charge. So, there was no Malbec last night because I had to use my fanny to weigh down my tent, lest it blow away.

First thing this morning, I rode my bike into San Martin to the Maxibici bike shop and asked them to help me get her ready. They found dirt in the hub, they replaced a broken cog, the cleaned her, oiled her and pronounced her good to go-Andes ready. It took them about an hour and they charged me the equivalent of four dollars and fifty cents. They also served me a cafe con leche while I waited. My bike and I never had it so good.

From there I continued slowly up-passing through the wealthier sections of Mendoza with tree lined streets and gated communities. Every road has a canal beside it that is full of water rushing down and away from the mountains. The shade and the water cools the air and makes it easy to forget the intensity that surrounds these neighborhoods. Everything is so pleasant.

Fifty miles later and I am sitting in an apple orchard by the side of a river that I will follow up a canyon tomorrow, deeper and higher into the Andes. The beauty is astounding, but after last night, I am well aware that the tranquility of this moment could turn in an instant. Aconcagua willing, I will try for another Malbec tonight.

if I can’t post tomorrow or the next day-I could be without a signal-no need to fret.

Everything was different today. As I slowly climbed up towards the base of Andes, the desert scrub that I have been baking in for weeks, was replaced by vibrant, green vineyards. They were guarded by stately Poplar trees, that stood in rows, separating the fields and creating breaks from wind and water erosion-doing a job they seemed meant to do. The colors were rich and deep. The smell of life and growth was palpable.

And instead of the harsh sun beating down on me, today I rode in the shelter of massive Eucalyptus that lined the road. They filled the air with their sweet smell and the sound of all manner of birds singing and caterwauling amongst their branches.

There were small homes and fincas along the route, most likely housing the vineyard workers and their families, and many of them had signs along the road offering peaches, juices, plums and carrots.

Somebody even stopped me to ask were I was going IN ENGLISH for the first time on this trip. We stopped in the shelter of some trees and spoke for nearly half an hour.

From time to time, I would catch a glimpse of Aconcagua, through the trees. It is the 6th tallest peak in the world at 22,831 feet, so tall that I thought it was a cloud at first. Its snow capped peak seemed to float too high above the earth to possibly be connected to the ground. It felt like a beacon-pulling me-saying this way, come this way.

I am not homesick anymore. Maybe it is because of all this beauty, or maybe it is because of the kind words some of you shared with me. Or maybe it is because when I arrived at my campsite yesterday, exhausted and sweaty, I was greeted by a fellow traveler. He immediately kissed me on both my salty cheeks and offered me two oranges. What else does a person need?

Now, I am excited-scared too, of course, and humbled by these mountains, but I feel ready. My body has adapted. My legs are strong. My saddle-sores are healed. I have finally even adapted to the Argentinians crazy sleep schedule and I have learned to nap. First time in my life. I nap on park benches, I nap in the shade of trees, I nap with parties raging beside me. I feel rested. I also no longer feel like I will drop dead from heat stroke any moment. I am still bloody hot, but I don’t swell from the inside out anymore.

Tonight, I hope to find a glass of Malbec somewhere-this is the Malbec capital of the world after all. But, they don’t start serving until 10, so until then, I will take a dip in the campsite pool, relax in the shade, nap and think about those mountains.

Last night, as I lay in my fetid tent, staring at the mesh ceiling and wishing for a breeze-homesickness came. It descended on me like a thick blanket on a hot night that I couldn’t shrug off. A most unpleasant feeling.
Maybe it is because of the communities of people I encounter in every town, gathering together and playing. They swim, play cards, barbecue, dance and laugh. I miss my friends.

Maybe it is because the climate here is challenging and the heat, sun and barbed growth are not welcoming to my New England skin. I hear there is deep snow in Maine, and icy winds. That sounds like a balm.

Maybe it is because of my language barrier, I feel like I am on a monastic voyage-similar to what a solo at Outward Bound is like, but longer. I am in my head when I bike, when I land and when I try to rest. This blog is the most talking I do-beyond logistical and surface Spanish chat. Thank you for letting me blab on-it is cathartic.

Maybe it is because when I called home last night, my family was together, playing a silly game called “Poetry for Neanderthals” that involves bopping each other on the head with a blow-up baseball bat. I heard my youngest child Oakley call out “Hi, Mom!” and my eldest son’s partner say,

“Tell her that I am 18 weeks pregnant now!”

I told this son on the phone that I was homesick, he just said “I know.” Of course they know. Maybe I just miss touch.

Well, don’t cry for me Argentina, it is just homesickness and all part of the journey. I know it doesn’t mean anything is wrong-it is just uncomfortable. I will get home again, I just need to cross those Andes first.

I started climbing today. Day one of a long, slow upward pedal that will take me up to 12,000 feet over the next five days. I hear there is snow up there-so maybe it will feel like home.

I should have known when I passed the dead horse in the road. It was a big chestnut and had fallen half-in and half-out of the road-its guts already bursting out of its belly, its eyes eaten clean. No, I should have known before that, when I passed the Gaucho riding tall and training a new colt that skittered and pranced beside him. “Are you taking this road to Balde on your bicycle?”, he asked in Spanish with a raised eyebrow. That should have been enough. No, I should have known when the tiny grey fox came out of the bushes and just started at me as I wheeled by. No, I should have known when I woke this morning to the sight of roiling black clouds on the horizon. But, it was only 20 miles and it was all down hill. So, I didn’t heed the warnings.

The road started out pleasant enough, as it left San Luis. I passed girls trying to roller-skate on gravel, piles of puppies and a lovely pink convent. But, as the road continued on, pink convents turned to tar paper shacks and there were no girls on skates, just smattering of hungry looking men, staring at me as I pedaled by. The shacks became fewer and fewer and the road turned to dirt. I was alone, but not alone enough. I pedaled faster. 

Finally, shacks stopped all together, and were replaced by a dense chaparral, prickly pear and thorny acacia. That is when the lightening came. The roiling clouds had moved closer and their dark, angry mass filled the sky. They were coming from directly where I needed to go. I began pedaling slower, and the lightening came again and again. It shot to the ground, it shot from cloud to cloud-thick ropey bolts coming closer and closer. I stopped pedaling.

There were no trees, no buildings, just me and my metal bicycle. I decided to get off the bike and away from it. I dragged it off the road out of sight and then walked further away, mincing between shrubs that tried to grab my clothing and I squatted down and waited. I tried to call my husband Twain, just so someone would know, but there was no coverage.

The storm came. I feared dying and nobody ever finding me. How would they? I was hiding. My stomach rolled, my breath was shallow. Then the rain came. Torrents. I was so small.

It passed, and as I untangled my bike and headed back to the road, I saw it had become a sandy stream. I tried to ride it, sliding and skittering through the sand. The mud got up in my disc brakes making a horrible scraping sound with every revolution. My chain came off once, then again. A piece of wire had somehow jumped up and become coiled around my derailleur. I had to take it apart and put it back together again. 

When I finally made it to Balde, the town was flooded. The campsite was full of families stuffing wet tents into car trunks and heading out. I am shaking, but I am here.

I have eaten a pizza now-and a liter of grapefruit juice. I have soaked in a thermal hot spring, called Twain and set up my tent. The sun has come back and it is Sunday, so the park has refilled with people. There are eight different radio stations playing, and the smell of roast meat is in the air. I am okay. I am not sure where all this is taking me-but somewhere. I was powerless in the storm , but I can’t believe I rebuilt my own derailleur, with just these hands.

On a lighter note, I stopped at a gas station for a café con leche this morning, before all this craziness, at 7:30 and it was filled with people dressed in haute fashion. Probably four dozen of them, all ordering pizza and cokes. When I asked about it-I was told that the disco just let out. Man-us New Englanders have to start mixing it up a bit!

Last night when I was getting ready to crawl into my tent, there was a threat of rain. Some well-meaning neighbor walking by, told me to feel free to move my tent under the owner of the campgrounds carport so it wouldn’t get muddy. Great idea.

So, I emptied the tent and carried it over to the carport and climbed on in. Cozy times.
An hour or two later a car pulled into the carport and apparently didn’t want to get wet either. It nosed up so close to my tent, that it covered my tent stakes. I was so deeply asleep, I was only dimly aware. Not for long.

Out of nowhere, a shrieking, honking, pulsating blast permeated my dreams. What the hell?! I bolted up right and scrambled out of the tent. The cars alarm had gone off, less the 2 feet from my head! The headlights flashed and the alarm sounded on and on, shattering the night with its wail. It would stop for a minute and then start again, over and over. I stood there waiting for it to quiet, or for the owner to appear for quite some time, but did they? No.

So, again I collected my things from my tent, then picked up my tent and hauled it back over to its original patch of dirt. The car finally ceased beeping and my heart stopped pounding. Another night full of adventure.

This morning as I headed to San Luis, I was feeling a little sluggish. The first few miles were fine, but then my route took me back to a highway. A two lane highway in each direction this time. I just couldn’t stomach it. I turned back and decided to give Ms. Kamoot a try and take one of her fabled dirt roads that ran parallel to the highway. All went well for the first three miles, until the road disintegrated beneath me and turned to sand-it is impossible to bike on sand-so back to the highway.
This time though the highway surprised me by having a wide paved shoulder. What a treat.
For 40 miles I trudged (can you trudge a bike?) up a long subtle grade, and was rewarded by a 15 mile descent. No up and down-just down. That means the hills are here and the hills will lead to mountains!

When I moved my tent to the carport and when I took the sandy road, it wasn’t lost on me that one of the benefits of traveling alone is that nobody groans about your poor decision making-except maybe yourself. There are no rolled eyes, no what were you thinkings, no I told you sos. It makes the bad decisions I make much easier to bear.