Hard Days

It has been the hardest of days, in many ways. We started at a cabin on the side of the lake. Three of us sharing wonderful views and much banter the night before over beers. The first part of the journey was on dirt, riding along the side of the lake up and down the mountains in a series of climbs and falls. Cobalt blue water with white breakers and, at one point, a rainbow. Somehow I ended up riding most of the section alone, a consequence of taking photos. The temperature had dropped with dark clouds blotting the sun and threatening rain, though it never came. We stopped for fuel early and then at every opportunity thereafter; this is a desolate country. The road is often an endless ribbon of two lanes stretching into the distance bracketed by infinite horizons of brown pampas. You can travel for seemingly endless miles in an almost straight line. Occasionally there will be a kink and then the arrow straight centre line points again at infinity. I needed air for the front tyre, bashed out on the hard trails. That meant a gap and so for the next hour, riding Route 40, I was alone. I don’t just mean riding alone but alone as in not seeing another human being. I have never felt so lonely on a motorcycle.

Route 40 is famous, infamous rather, for one thing, the wind. You read about it in every description of those who drive or ride it. You hear of people being unable to stand up, of people blown off bikes, or bikes blown over. You imagine what it might be like: you have no idea. It is a physical and constant force. So strong that for over a mile I rode next to the gravel of the hard shoulder on the wrong side of the road fighting my way back to the proper lane only succeeding when the wind abated for a moment. For nigh on 60 miles I fought the wind until I was exhausted, and all the time alone. Then, in the distance a café, a group of bikes, and a huge sense of relief. Everyone was sharing horror stories, every one amazed and quite a few scared. We queued for fuel at the tiny pump until my turn when the guy asked me to wait, got a long steel rod, tested the cistern and announced ‘no more’. This is a remote place.

Lunch, a milky coffee and a hard ham sandwich and we set off again. The wind had become worse if anything but I had found my way with it and now enjoyed the battle. Not so my friend riding in front of me who was clearly struggling. Two of us stayed behind him for the next 30 miles providing moral support if nothing else as he fought his fight until we regrouped again at which point he collapsed with exhaustion.

The other challenge that Route 40 throws at you is a thing called a Guanaco, think llama and you’ll get the picture. Large, stupid and travelling in groups. There are fences that are meant to keep them from the road way but somehow no one has told the Guanaco. They are prone to wandering the road. Or standing with intent close by. The really scary thing is when there are 30 or so of them looking at you as you barrel along the road. You brake, you have to for if you don’t you know you will be in the middle of a stampeding herd, and then they just stay where they were, and always intended to be, looking vacantly back at you as you curse them for being Guancos .

And now we are at our remote farmhouse situated in the caldera of an extinct volcano, everyone is outside reminiscing on the day and drinking beer and wine, there is a BBQ later and more beer and more wine and more war stories. And tonight I hope to see a million stars.