It’s quite possible there are days, in Patagonia, when the wind doesn’t blow. It’s also possible the wind might decide one morning, just for a change, to blow from the north, east or south, rather than the west. But based on the last six weeks, glaciers could be rolling through Hades before this happens. This is not a problem today, however, as I’m going the right way, at least to start with. So I splice the mainbrace, hoist the sail and set an easterly course out of El Calafate along the southern shore of Lago Argentino.
The westerlies do not disappoint, and I’m soon sailing along at 20 knots under leaden skies. As the lakes in these parts are reassuringly flat, the screaming habdabs I normally get from my legs after a few rest days are absent, but this is temporary. The road soon turns southeast and climbs over a high ridge. “Don’t worry, the worst of it’s over” I say to my aching thighs, as I rub them vigorously. This is a blatant lie, but I reckon if I’m talking to my legs at this stage of the trip I have bigger issues.
I’m soon picking up speed again as the road snakes its way down to the plains, and then heads, arrow-like, to the city of Rio Gallegos on the east coast. The wind’s redoubling, and I nearly miss my turn, as I’m wondering if it’s possible to reach the coast, 200km away, without pedalling at all. I’ll never know, as the route to Chile now takes me southwest, on a gravel road, before hitting the tarmac again 100km further on.
200m after my turn there’s a cattle grid guarded by a man holding a black lightsabre. On closer inspection, Darth Vader turns out to be a bunch of clothes sewn together and stuffed with straw. But the message is clear: Jedis and cyclists not welcome! To reinforce the warning, I pass a stricken vehicle (probably a starfighter) a little further on. I lean into the pedals, hoping to put a few parsecs between me and the Empire before sundown. But progress is slow and the warp speeds of 30 minutes ago are a distant memory. A long time ago, in a galaxy far away, there may have been some pretty nifty technology. In this galaxy, in the present day, they throw a few rocks on the ground and call it a road.
An hour later, Tommaso Skywalker flags me down. He went on ahead, while I was queuing for money in El Calafate, and found an abandoned police station to shelter in. The walls are daubed with messages from other cyclists who, in the absence of bones and discarded tyre levers, must have passed the night here safely and moved on. Sven and Sarah join us later and we grab a room each. I pitch my tent as a precaution, to ward off Death Stars and mosquitoes, and hunker down for the night. The forecast for the morning looks particularly grim, so I plan an early start.
The wind is up before me, so I adopt my most streamline posture and head out. The next seven hours are brutal and relentless, as I try to stay upright in the crosswinds. It’s 2pm and I’ve covered about 45km. It’ll be another 15km before I reach sanctuary on the main road, at which point I’ll be heading due west. There’s no traffic to hitch a ride, apart from one 4×4 that Sven and Sarah have managed to flag down, so I soldier on. For the last 2km I push my bike, as it’s easier than riding. Battered and bruised, I see a petrol station in the distance. Half an age later, I stagger through the door, out of the wind, and eat biscuits for the next 15 minutes until Tommaso appears. Even our redoubtable Italian is suffering. Everything, including his beard, is pointing in an easterly direction.
It’s 4.30pm and Argentina are about to play Croatia in the semis. The main road is quiet but, fortunately, not everyone is watching telly. We swallow our pride and flag down an Argentinian army vehicle, which takes us 40km up the road towards Cancha Carrera, where we reload our bikes and cross into Chile. Back on the tarmac, and newly invigorated, we spend a few minutes taking videos of each other struggling in the wind. These could come in useful if I ever apply for a job testing wind tunnels.
From the border post at Cerro Castillo, it would be a relaxing 60km ride south to Puerto Natales. But that’s for another day, as I’m heading north to the Torres del Paine first. Officially, I’m doing a recce to make sure the mountains are still there etc etc but, in reality, I am taking photos in case the weather craps out before I return, with my family, next week.
It’s another 50km to the Torres and, mercifully, the wind only starts howling for the last 15km or so. Less mercifully, this section is on gravel with a steep climb up and over to Laguna Azul. My head is down and teeth gritted as I pass three vehicles and a group of tourists with cameras to my right. Surprisingly, there’s something in the bushes over there even more interesting than a middle-aged cyclist. I don’t stop as I’m in “the zone”: a big mistake. Later, I discover there’s a family of pumas not far away. They’re super rare and hard to spot. Drat and triple drat.
Blissfully ignorant on matters feline, I finish the climb and freewheel down to a campsite by the lake and put up my tent. The views are good and the Torres are peeking out from behind the clouds. The technical term for this, among photographers, is “dramatic”, although “storm-crazed” might be more accurate. I head inside the café to get out of the wind, and a kind lady tells me I can cook inside if I want to. She doesn’t mention anything about burning the place down with my petrol stove, which I avoid doing – just.
The next day it’s tears and farewells, as Tommaso, Sven and Sarah are heading off to the other side of the park, while I head south. My eyes are peeled for pumas, but all that’s left are fur-balls and guanaco bones. Never mind, next time perhaps. The winds are favourable and I’m topping 70km/h as I approach Cerro Castillo once more. I then have 5km of headwinds before turning south again, so I replenish my coke and chocolate supply while I have the chance. After that it’s Type 1 fun all the way to Puerto Natales, where I’m greeted by a giant sloth.
I check into a hotel that meets my exacting requirements (any place that’s cleaner than I am) and chisel the dirt off my skin before heading out for some grub. Cathy has just messaged me saying the baggage-handler strike has been called off and she and Adam will be on their way over soon. This is great news and a big relief all round, so I celebrate in style with a large bag of caramelised popcorn. Later, I have a hamburger and a pisco sour: we cyclists know how to live!
It’ll be another 2 weeks before I’m back on my bike again. No problem there as, frankly, I am looking forward to resting my cycling legs and my, um, derriere for a bit. While I’ve another 400 miles to go before completing my journey to Ushuaia, I’ve done most of the hard stuff in the 2,600 miles I’ve notched up so far. I’m in the proverbial home-straight. What I’ve done is, of course, pitifully slow compared with our 2,750-mile ride around Europe back in 1983. Andy and I completed that trip in 39 days (just over a third of my time in South America). But if you divide our age back then by my age now and multiply by the square of the hypotenuse, you get roughly the same daily average distance for both journeys. This demonstrates something important, but what that may be has temporarily slipped my mind. I’ll have to go and have a little lie down and see if it comes back to me.
Next stop, Torres del Paine…
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Birdies
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Any port in a storm
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The Torres del Paine from Argentina
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Rhea of the Year
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The Force is strong in this one!
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Just to make a change
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Who are you calling a camel?
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It’s hard to get a decent background sometimes
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Sense of puma failure?
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Laguna Azul
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The number of times I was blown off my bike
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Muriel!
