On Ruta 3 (95 km to Puerto San Julian)

I packed up the tent and left my campsite looking out across the plain to the mountain. The mountain was a dark shadow with the sun coming up behind it. It was a cold morning, the wind blowing as a light crosswind, and I wore my sweater and leggings along with my booties to keep my feet warm. I had 50km to the petrol station at Tres Cerros and from there it would be at least another day and 150km to Puerto San Julian, a larger town on the coast where I planned to take a rest day and purchase supplies.

I rode out of the range of burnt red mountains and back up onto the plain and it was flat for as far as I could see. There was only scrubby dark brush growing in the dusty fields. But like the previous day the road would drop suddenly from the plain and into a basin cut by a lake or small river that no longer existed, and in this one there were daisies growing on the roadside and it was green and fertile and sheep were grazing. The smell of the daisies was like a wonderful honey as I rode and then I was climbing back out of the basin, head down, turning a low gear slowly, riding along a cliff of exposed rock.

Guanaco

The town of Tres Cerros is simply a YPF petrol station with a hotel attached to it, but it was busy with tour buses headed to and from the south stopping to let out their passengers to eat and refill their mate thermoses. I ate a plate of delicious empanadas made with spicy cheese and ham, two packages of cookies and a bag of chips, and I drank a liter of peach juice and 1 liter of water. The service station had a slow wifi connection and I was able to learn, after some anxious moments as the sports pages loaded, that my team had won the biggest game.

On the TV they were now talking about ‘la fiesta de Super Bowl’, but the presenters were only interested in how the national hymn of the Americans had been botched, though they themselves weren’t sure what the mistake had been or where it had happened. The only highlights being replayed from the game were those of the blond girl singing and the halftime performance of a pop band. But it didn’t matter, and I was smiling and very happy and I knew in a small city far away, where it was very cold and the snow was very high, that the people were wearing green and gold and they were celebrating the great victory.

I bought a load of cookies and crackers and water for the ride to Puerto San Julian and outside I spoke with a mother sitting at a table near my bike. It is always shocking to an Argentine mother that a young man would ride alone over such a distance but she was shocked too that I still had so far to go. It is 1000 kilometers, she said, and she had a look of disbelief. And the wind, she added, shaking her head. The wind I thought I knew about now, and I figured being more than halfway to Ushuaia that I would stop getting such reactions from people.

It is not far, I assured her. If the wind is not strong and from the front, and the road is paved, I can arrive in Ushuaia in two weeks only. But this shocked her further, and she told me that Rio Gallegos, the city south of Puerto San Julian, was a 6 hour car trip. It was very far. For me, I said, it will be five days. I did not think this was very far, I said. Again the look of disbelief. She covered her eyes with her hand and shook her head.

I have become accustomed to calculating cycling distances and the days needed to ride between places and I no longer think in terms of automobile time. A town a couple days ride away begins to seem very close in a country where the distances are so long. But I could not explain this to her and I did not try to. I did not want to begin thinking like her that everything was so far away and unreachable. That was how I had thought in my first weeks outside Buenos Aires, when I was still looking on the front side of my two-sided map and needed a large table to unfold it and to look at all the land on the back. Ushuaia almost did not seem possible then.

But my fitness was not the best then, and the wind bothered me and effected my spirits and I feared it even. Now that I have ridden through very bad days and still put up the kilometers, and my body and legs are very strong, I only consider the wind a part of the day, like whether there are clouds or if it is warm or cold, or the condition of the asphalt.

The big map is no longer daunting and the distances break down into a few days here or a week to there. I ride from one folded section of map to another in about four days and it always excites me to begin looking at a new section of roads and to read aloud the names of the towns between the creases. When I hear 1000 kilometers I immediately think 12 days--10 days of riding and 2 days of rest-- if the wind and weather are good and the roads well-surfaced. I did not think it was very far at all now to Ushuaia but I would not be able to make it clear to this woman. I said goodbye to her and she wished me much luck and left with her family in their car for Rio Gallegos.

After lunch the wind had strengthened into a tough headwind. I had already ridden 50 km and wanted to do another 60 km, which would leave me less than 100 km the following day to make Puerto San Julian. I rode out of the service station and it was slow going into the wind. I crossed a range of small mountains. Then into another range I saw a large ridge along the road. It was similar to the one I had camped behind the night before and I put the bike down and took a look behind it. There was a newly smoothed dirt path along the fence line though the direction of the wind did not allow for the ridge to act as a windbreak. I was 10 kilometers from my goal, but this campsite was good enough not to pass up. There might be nothing so well-hidden further ahead.

I pushed the bike back behind the ridge and pitched the tent and began boiling water for a coffee. With the wind blowing it took a long time to heat the water and I realized I could not cook pasta until the sun went down and the wind stopped. I tried to block the wind but could find no way to do it. I ate some crackers and drank the coffee inside my tent. The sun went down but the wind still blew. Now it was dark and I ate another package of cookies and drank the 1 liter bottle of milk I had been carrying. That would be my dinner. I zipped into my sleeping bag and was soon asleep.

On Ruta 3 (50 km to Tres Cerros)

I woke up late. The wind was already blowing hard and there was no rush to get on the road. I heated some water and made a coffee. I packed up and rode back into town to the YPF service station and purchased cookies and water for the trip to the next service station at Tres Cerros. It would take at least a day and a half to get there.

 Fitzroy

It was flat but slow going into the wind. The country was more brown than golden now. You would be riding, thinking it totally flat, and then the steppe would be broken by deep basins where the earth had eroded, probably from a lake that no longer existed, and you would drop down into these basins with the cliffs and exposed layers of rock. You then slowly climbed out of them back to the flat of the plain, the headwind punishing you all the way.

I had hoped to go 100km on the day but a late afternoon climb into a range of burnt red mountains took much from me. It was rugged but beautiful riding and I stopped to have an apple and some water. Across the road was a large rocky ridge and set further back beyond the ridge was the fenceline for an estancia. I pushed the bike over and took a look and saw a marvelous, protected spot between the ridge and fence, totally hidden from the road. It was the place to camp and I pushed the bike through the sand and laid it down and pitched the tent.

The ridge provided complete protection from the wind and from my tent window I looked out at a great red and yellow mountain rising from the plain. I felt very good here and cooked a large plate of pasta, pouring the boiling water from the pasta into my cup to make a coffee. I was cooking the pasta with a new mixture of spice packets and it was a successful improvisation and it tasted wonderful and I was very happy. I finished the pasta and ate some cookies with my coffee and looked out from my room with a view. I watched the shadows and colors of the mountain change as the sun went down. I fell asleep thinking about the Green Bay Packers. Far away they were playing in the biggest game and I hoped they were playing well.

Fitzroy

The wind blew through the night but it was not as strong in the morning. It was cold and I wore my leggings and silk base layer and wool sweater, but I warmed up quickly when a pair of dogs pursued me to the edge of town. There the pavement ended and it was a gravel and sand climb up into the mountains. When the pavement returned there was a descent back to the sea and I rode along the coast over gentle ascents and descents.

Ruta 3 then turned inland and it was a long, slow ascent back up into the mountains and the wind was a headwind now, beating against me fiercely. The 30 km descent I had made into Comodoro Rivadavia I was now having to climb back.

I rode up to the height of one set of mountains and then dropped down into a valley and rode back up another range. It was 1pm and I was only 35km outside of Caleta Olivia and my legs were dead and heavy. Yesterday’s ride through the wind and rain had taken a lot from me.

I reached the peak of the next range of mountains and the Patagonian steppe stretched out ahead of me flatly. It was easy rolling country from here but with a crosswind and sometimes headwind until the pueblo of Fitzroy. I had had plans to make Jarmarillo, about 20 km further, but Fitzroy had supplies as well as a campground and I was too tired to go further.

The town was three blocks of shops along the western side of Ruta 3. I stopped in a parrilla and had a churrasco and a salad and a coffee, and the meat was delicious. I rode to the southern end of town to the campground and paid the owner 5 pesos for the night. I ate a bowl of pasta and fell asleep quickly. It had been two consecutive days of difficult riding.

Caleta Olivia

It was supposed to be an easy day. I had 78 km down the coast to Caleta Olivia. I left the hostel before 10am, but a big head wind was waiting, punishing me as I rode in heavy morning traffic out of Comodoro up a long climb on Ruta 3. Then outside the city the little paved shoulder ended and I was fighting the wind uphill through a canyon, trying to hold the white line, trucks and cars passing me. When there were descents they were into the wind and I had to down shift to fight down them.

The wind gathered in strength at Rada Tilly where I began a long descent towards the sea. But there the wind became a huge gusting crosswind and I had to pull off the road into the gravel and take the descent almost walking the bike for fear of the back end being blown out from under me. This was the most dangerous and powerful wind I had experienced yet.

There was a police checkpoint where Chubut Province ended and Santa Cruz Province began and an officer waved me down and we talked and he warned me to be very careful with the wind. It was blowing even stronger along the water, he said. It is very dangerous.

Along the coast gusts of cross wind hit the bike and the strongest would check me 5 feet. It was now too dangerous to ride along the edge of the pavement. I pulled off and began to ride slowly upon the gravel and sand banquina. It was jarring riding--losing traction in the gravel, or sinking in it to a stop, but at least I would not be thrown in front of a truck.

Dense clouds of dust and sand blew across the road, stinging my face and legs and nearly blinding me in spite of my sunglasses. And though I was riding at the furthest edge of the gravel shoulder the wind gusts were still nearly pushing me back onto the road. When trucks passed the winds swirled wildly and many times I almost lost the bike or ended up in the scrub. You had to be ready to brake quickly, despite how slowly I was going, because of how far the wind could throw you.

And then the road ascended steeply and the gravel shoulder was half as wide. It was almost impossible to ride in these conditions, blinded by blowing sand, and being smashed about by the wind, and when the bike sunk into the sand I got off and pushed it up the climb. I accepted it. It felt shameful to push a fully loaded touring bike but this was Patagonia.

The temperature dropped further and the skies darkened and I saw storms ahead down the coast. There were black, barren mountains to my right and the sea was a dark green and there was the feeling of gloom and something sinister. It was not a place for a cyclist. And then the rains came, and I put on my rain gear, the wind pelting my face with the drops.

I stopped to rest and had an apple and some cookies under the awning of an estancia entrance. I was beginning to think I could not make Caleta Olivia, though there was nowhere to camp along the coast. I had to keep going. The wind blew the bike over. I picked it up. I got on and slowly began to turn it through the gravel. It was the only thing to do.

Roadside shrine outside Caleta Olivia

But the rain stopped and the sun broke through the clouds and the wind died down enough that I could again ride on the road. I had 30 km to the city now and I removed my rain pants and began to push it. It would rain again before I made the town, but the wind was not as it was before.

I stopped at the tourist office and got directions to a campground along the water. It was 15 pesos a night and a young French couple from Marseille was camping there. We talked in French and they told me that the day before had been warm and windless and they had gone to the beach. They asked where I was coming from and I told them. The Frenchman was astonished. You rode here by bicycle in this wind and cold and rain? We were the whole day inside the tent together to share the heat. And why did you do it? I thought about his question. I don’t know, I said. I guess I needed to go for a ride.

I cooked some rice for dinner and had a coffee and a dusty little cat purred and rubbed against me, hopeful for some food. The wind had picked up again and I finished eating inside my tent. The small poplars on the campground bent over in the wind and it would only strengthen after the sun went down. I lay inside my tent, warm and cozy in my sleeping bag, and fell asleep listening to it blow a gale.

Comodoro Rivadavia 3

I took a second day of rest in Comodoro Rivadavia. There was nothing memorable that I did or that happened during my two days there. I laid in bed and when I was not resting I was eating because a touring cyclist is always hungry and in a city he does not need to ration his food consumption. I had a room next to the kitchen and spent my days eating and cooking pasta and speaking with the old woman that monitored it during the day.

My legs were heavy and when I did stumble out of the hospedaje for more food I stopped in panaderias and other shops where some wonderful smell of food was coming. I did not stop myself. I bought and ate whatever smelled good. I took my camera with me but there is not any great beauty in Comodoro and I took only a few pictures.

But cities, especially this one, are for shopping and I did that too. I bought two tshirts to replace the white ones that were now stained with grease, dirt, snot, blood, bits of food, sweat, sunscreen, coffee, tears, and other elements. The new ones are gray and blue but with the lower temperatures this far south they will only be worn as a base layer under my wool sweater, and should stay much cleaner looking.

I had the phone number of a good friend of Guido, from the agro tourism estancia at Punta Tombo, and I had planned to call him to meet for a drink, but I did not. I was tired and slow and the only effort I made other than eating and walking to get more food was to read Knut Hamsun’s Hunger.

My bed and my room were becoming very comfortable and after two days at the hospedaje in Comodoro I felt as though I might decide to stay even longer. It was then I realized I must get back onto the road. There were many kilometers ahead and the winds would be waiting. There would be rooms and cities and food, whenever I wanted them--and also much sitting and eating-- but that would come only after Ushuaia.

Comodoro Rivadavia 2

Comodoro Rivadavia

There was no wind at first light and I packed quickly and got on the road. It was cold again and I wore my leg warmers, booties, wool sweater, thermal layer and yellow rain jacket. This must be the start of the colder temperatures, I thought.

I wanted to ride hard before the wind awoke and to camp within 45 kilometers of Comodoro Rivadavia. It would leave me an easier day tomorrow, even with strong winds, to make the city. My knees were sore from pounding it out into the wind and a saddle sore caused by the ripio was producing a sharp pain, but I was riding strong and turning it hard on my large chain ring.

I was pumping out 10 kilometer blocks at a pace I had not done for many days and before 10am I had gone 80 kilometers. There remained over 100 kilometers to Comodoro and the wind had begun as a light breezing crosswind from the west. I did another 20 kilometers and stopped at an abandoned building, a pueblo marked on the map as Pico Salamanca. I sat against a cement wall and ate my last apple, finished a package of cookies and drank some water and unrolled my ground pad and took a nap.

The wind woke me and it was really blowing. It would be a tough 40 kilometers to reach my goal for the day. The map indicated Ruta 3 veered westward into the wind but then, 40 kilometers out of Comodoro Rivadavia, it turned back southeasterly. The wind then would be nearly a tailwind. There might even be a descent into the city. I began to consider that if I could struggle through the next 40 kilometers I might catch a tailwind and maybe a descent, and I could make Comodoro today and eat dinner in a restaurant there and take a hot shower at a hotel and tomorrow I would not have to ride. These ideas inspired me and I hopped on the bike with renewed vigor. I could fight the wind another 40 kilometers. I had done it before.

It was hard riding, but I was accustomed to it now, and head down, sipping water every 10 kilometers and eating cookies, I counted off the kilometers until the road turned. At the turn I had the wind and upshifted to my large chain ring and began to push it. It was not a pure tailwind but it was close enough and then ahead the road dropped into a gorge out of the scrub and out onto a windblown dusty, scrub-less plain.

I was pushing it hard and around a turn the flat plain broke into a series of deep gorges and I could see the ocean beyond and the plain had eroded to form mountains. I upshifted to my highest gear and was flying down the steeply dropping road, excited by the view and the descent, passing trucks, and gunning it hard for Comodoro.

The descent was long and fast and lasted over 30 kilometers and I coasted into the outskirts of the city and pedaled over the smaller hills, the mountains on my right, the ocean to my left. Then I was riding in heavy traffic on a narrow shoulder along a cliff that fell off to the water, cars and trucks speeding by me, until I rode into the city center.

Comodoro Rivadavia is an expensive city by Argentine standards as a result of the oil work that happens in the area and the cheapest lodging I could find was a room with a shared bath at a hospedaje for 100 pesos a night. I booked two nights and went and found a cash machine and sat down at an Italian restaurant and ordered a pizza, a salad and a large Quilmes. It felt wonderful to have cash in my pocket and access to so much food that I could pay someone to prepare for me, and that I would not need to ride the bicycle tomorrow. I ate quickly and felt happily dazed from the beer. I could have eaten more, but was too tired, too tired even to take a shower when I returned to the hospedaje, and I went to sleep. I had ridden 185 kilometers.