Bikemum

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.

89.2 miles. That is what I have to do today. There doesn’t seem to be any choice in the matter, because I refuse to wild camp and that is the next campsite. A bit overwhelming, but I try to reframe it-I am just going to spend the day biking-the whole day.

I try to get an early start, but I have a hard time rousing the municipal camp ground owner to unlock the gate and let me out. I hammer on his door for around fifteen minutes before he shuffles out. I feel bad. Not really. In fact not at all.

Last night I heard him carrying on at 3:00. Playing loud music, chatting and cooking outside. I have come to the conclusion that there actually is no night in Argentina-just hours of the day that are dark. I am coming to peace with this.

When I finally hit the road, I find that once again I am on a highway. It isn’t as busy, but every time two trucks pass each other coming from opposite directions, I need to bail out into the grass. This makes riding very stressful, as it entails looking over my shoulder to see what is coming every 30 seconds. No spacing out at all. I opt for sneaky side roads whenever I get the chance.
After about an hour or so of this the wind picks up. A healthy headwind that leaves me breathless-much like an infant when you blow in their face. I gasp and double down.

When I finally stop for lunch in a school playground on the side of the road, a small girl with pink glasses approaches me. She stares at me and does some tricks on the equipment to get my attention, but I am already too tired to engage and just smile weakly while cramming a granola bar covered with peanut butter into my mouth.

At mile 65, my knees start to ache, and I can’t believe I still have 27 miles to go. The sky is heavy and thick and feels foreboding-I have to work hard to keep positive.
And then…

I cross the border between the Cordoba and San Luis and everything changes. The wind turns around and seems to push me along like a plaything. The skies lighten and show me a new landscape. Instead of the flat, dry pampas, I have now entered rolling hills. They are layered in mounds from the road to the horizon and they are every shade of green. Some vibrant, some dusky, some rich. It is now a beautiful pastoral landscape.

Ten miles from town, I find a fruit stand. There are crates of everything from watermelon and corn to plums and oranges and everything in between. I stop and buy bananas, grapes and a peach and stand there inhaling them-barely taking the time to chew.

Finally I make it to my campsite. I am greeted warmly by my host and he walks me over to a glade of trees with a cool breeze blowing through. I shower, set up my tent, and sit in my chair-the most comfortable chair in the whole world.

This day is why I love bike touring. Maybe I am a slow learner, but I don’t always taste the perfection of a grape, or the way a chair holds me just so, or the luxury of a tail wind, or the beauty of the world, unless I strip it all down. I need to exhaust myself to appreciate resting, to become filthy to appreciate a shower and to be overwhelmed by the heat to be relieved by the cool. It is how I feel the most alive-but wow do my knees ache.

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.