My Road to Damascus

I find myself in a peloton of bikes, lycra clad people are jostling for first place, quick work is calling. Cycling through London on the Monday morning after reaching the capital and I am over taking taking people on bikes which if sold could fund another six months of my trip and they just use them as commuters; to be fare that is only one or two numpties, a good splattering of commuters are on run of the mill fit for the job bikes. It is a fashion parade, why people would spend so much money on cycling gear just to commute is beyond me. Being head to toe in lycra is by no means what I would wear on a fancy night out but the London rush hour is like a fashion parade.

I’m no explorer in the Edwardian sense of the word; I’ve surveyed no rivers, named no mountains nor have I discovered any long and forgotten civilisations, I will save that for my next trip. Everywhere I have gone someone has been there done that. Rarely did I stray to far from the road, albeit of questionable quality at times. It has been more of an exploration of a personal nature, I didn’t find myself, which is lucky because I can be an arse, no that would be to much of a cringe worthy conclusion. It has not been my road to Damascus, I’m still the same, women are beautiful, farts are funny and drinking is cool*. It has been personal in the fact that I have stumbled across a plethora of fantastic, generous and carefree individuals who have welcomed me with open arms.

In the isolated patches of the trip I have been free from the blabbering’s of Mr Trump, the bickering’s of the British parliament, bills or even a telephone. It is liberating, a sense of content satisfaction that few get to enjoy. Camping in vast wilderness’s has been a sheer pleasure with nothing but some mediocre camping food, a good book and my imagination to scare the bejesus out of me at the slightest noise in the night. At times this trip has been uninspiring to say the least, monotonous tundra or endless desert for days at a time but I can safely say that pretty much 80% of the time it has been a sheer pleasure. A more intelligent man than I, Richard P Feynman, once said “See that the imagination of nature is far, far greater than the imagination of man.” This rings true for me.

But why do the trip in the first place? I’ve always felt that I needed to push myself physically and have yet to really scratch that itch. The endeavour has of course been challenging at times, f’ing miserable both physically and mentally tiring but it has not been as tough as I expected or hoped it to be. Yes I have been in deserts in temperatures up to 50C where heat stroke was a serious threat and in the mountains of Peru I was in the clutches of hypothermia though it cat have been to bad cause I was conscious of the cold and the risk it posed. I would love to push myself further.

The entire trip is a touch egotistical or macho in that I needed to push myself to feel like I have achieved something to feel like a man. The stories and pictures are a good by-product with which to show off. For a while at parties my friends might introduce me, “this is my friend harry who just cycled around the world” but probably not and anyway soon it will be “this is plain old Harry” for nothing really has changed. Finishing is perhaps inevitably an anti climax.

For much of this trip I have looked like a Yeti all beard and hair, not having to worry about what to wear or if I have food in my beard (its normally a high probability). I’m back to the normalities now, with all the modcons, wearing underwear, using deodorant, showering every day with hot water and socialising perhaps even with the fairer sex. For now I will be confined to using the porcelain, no more nature poos. To reconnect with nature perhaps once a month I should walk off into the country with a loo roll tucked under one arm and go in search for the best spot for a poo with a view. This might be difficult if I end up in London, Hyde Park is limited in terms of suitable shrubbery.

I never actually understand what it is people do for a living unless they are say a policeman, a fireman or a doctor. But it is time I put on a white collar and find a desk to do what ever it is people do sat behind their desks. At times on this trip I have felt more content than I have ever been and I do have some concerns now that unless I find something that really tickles my pickle I might end slightly discontent with what life has in store for me down the line.

I remember being 18 and working in my local in Warminster, most of the core group of punters were in the thirties, what darn old buggers I thought. To a young whippersnapper with life laid out before him they seemed, pretty middle aged, settled and some had grown comfortable (a beer bell or two), uncool and unexciting. I travelled, played sport, skied and dived (God I’ve had a privileged life). Life was exciting, surely it would be all down hill from after my mid twenties; little did I know that at thirty I would embark on this cycle, a trip far more adventurous than anything to date. The arrogance of youth.

So if I’m doing this now, what is next? Drug addicts progress from the soft stuff through to heroine and adrenaline seekers escalate in their hunt for the next injection or adrenaline. They might start off as awkward baggy jeans and hoodie wearing teenagers, skate boarding and doing stupid things like jumping in to bushes (women might wonder what I’m talking about but I’ve jumped into a bush or two at full gallop and from a height), next snow boarding, then sky diving which might then culminate into the ultimate thrill seeking feat, extreme ironing. It is unlikely I will take a step backwards I suppose, so as a traveller and a challenge seeker what is next after this?

I’ve passed through 36 countries, across six continents with the Antarctic still eluding me and its just taken me 36,180km. I didn’t actually achieve my goal to reach all seven continents and I’ve been a lazy arse not cycling as far as I had wanted. An extra day here to have a few drinks with friends or the odd extra lazy day where I simply couldn’t be arsed has totted up. I wouldn’t change anything though for the butterfly effect would dictate that I would have had an entirely different set of experiences, met different people, perhaps being in the wrong place at the wrong time or the right at the right time I suppose but who knows.

All I know is that this year has been quite something. If I have learnt anything from this whole experience it would have to be, always give it an extra shake, for there is nothing worse than a soggy crotch.

*everything in moderation, please drink responsibly.

Solo in the City

Solo in the city, Luxembourg. On my meagre budget city exploration is difficult. To enjoy the delights of the urbanscape one must start the day with a nice and lazy breakfast complete with table clothes, followed by a stroll along the narrow cobbled streets or along the walls of the old town, you pop your head in a church or cathedral before continuing almost aimlessly; perhaps stopping in a chic coffee shop or patisserie which inevitably turns into an indulgent breakfast, part deux. Then its to a museum or a gallery perhaps if you are so inclined. An alfresco lunch with a blanket keeping off the worst of the chill before returning to the hotel for a nap after such a strenuous day out on the cobbles. In the evening it might be dinner and a show or cocktails then dinner. It all sounds jolly nice.

For me though on my short lonely shoe string it starts with a meagre hostel breakfast if I’m lucky, this usually consists of bread and butter with a cheap and sugary confectionary which is attempting to pass its self off as jam. There is no second breakfast to break up my morning walk and lunch is a second round of bread and jam, clandestinely smuggled out of breakfast wrapped in tissue and smuggled out down my sock (not really, normally it is stashed in my bag). More often than not tissue sticks to the jam and is seemingly impossible to remove all of it, extra roughage.

I stroll the streets peering into windows displaying warm customers choosing glazed pastries with light flaky bases which Mary Berry would be proud of. Any budgeteer is able to take in the big land marks, the cathedrals, castle or muddled streets, viewing the facades is always free. Museums and galleries tend to charge even some churches; yes they say voluntary donation but would are they kidding. You try walking past one of the judgy volunteers without paying, the fact that they often have gates or a narrow door through which to squeeze past the sour faced donation collector would suggest otherwise. It reminds me of being stuck in church as a child, the donation box thingy would be handed down the pew; the trick was to stick your hand in and jingle the coins to give the impression of donation and save your money for the tuck shop. That was all fine unless you were stuck on the front row and handed an empty vessel.

My fancy dinner out consists of supermarket fair carried back to the hostel refectory with its crumb riddled tables. If I am lucky I will have access to a microwave or a kettle allowing me to doge a third bread based meal of the day, yay more noodles.

People often say going solo? With an inflection emphasising the solo. Cities in particular are best done with a bottomless budget and a partner in crime be it of the romantic sort or the drink to much beer laddish variety. It would have been great to have a second who would join me for this trip. But finding someone who would give up work for a year to put up with my tyrannical regime would have been next to impossible. Just ask my brother George who in California had a ten day taste of my brand of tyranny. Future tours will be some what more leisurely and hopefully taken in tandem.

Tourist traps in Europe such a Luxembourg are lined with boutiques, designer shops displaying out fits that are almost as ridiculous as their prices. I shouldn’t be surprised here in Luxembourg that things are pricy considering that just like Switzerland it is a banking hot spot. It is good at delicatessens displaying olives, cheeses that tickle the nostrils, hams suspended from rafters and dusty bottles of wine; suspiciously dusty considering every surface is polished within an inch of its life. Gone are the jostling street markets of Peru and Bolivia selling knock off sun gasses, street food and mummified alpaca foetuses. You almost bounce down the street in these bustling markets from shoulder to shoulder, squeezing through the mass of people with no apology necessary for it is just part of the parcel; but the British man in me cant help but transmit a near constant stream of “pardon me’s” and “sorrys” from under one’s breath. Bump into someone in Luxembourg and despite the audible apology they might would look at you as if you and just shat on their over priced foot.

I did in fact treat myself to a fancy coffee and despite my better judgement a second; there was a pretty coffee lady you see. With long blonde hair which was no doubt intentionally scruffy and head to toe in back curve hugging clothes, she had the look of a French women. If I lived in Luxembourg I would drink a lot of over priced coffee until I built up to talking to her in circumstances other than customer services, all I could mumble was “coffee please” in what I envisage to be an adorable attempt at French, more likely the smile was a pity smile.

Imagination running wild I return on my lonesome to my hostel to my over crowded dormitory. The sun has gone down beneath the horizon and twilight has taken hold. One by one the old fashioned street lights illuminate the darkening streets. The old town sits raise about a river with narrow stone walk ways and stairwells descending its granite slopes. In the gloom it looks like a scene from The Exorcist though it is along way from the actual stair well which is part of most free walking tours in George Town, Washington DC.

Common People

Europe is a touch on the chilly side; I entered the airport in Buenos Aires in a sweat inducing thirty plus, two planes and two nights sleeping in airport corners and I emerge into a frosty minus five and things are only going to get worse. But its not so bad, the cold is manageable if you have the right gear, if. Much more so than oppressive heat from which there is no escape, just layer up or man up. It is unfortunate then that I’m a layer or two short so will have to opt for the latter option though it must be said that I certainly have no intention of camping out in the snow.
During my time in Europe I will be staying with local families along my route, organised through a cycling network of like minded people. At this time of year there are no other manly cycle tourers so it isnt hard to find a family willing to offer me a bed for the night. First and foremost it is a fantastic way of meeting local like minded people whilst getting a free bed for the night including board, that’s food not a headboard though normally it comes with one of those as well, laundry and a shower.

When you have a guest to stay especially when you have never me before you tend to put out the good china and a comprehensive spread to boot. As I make my way north through France I’m having four course dinners nightly, there is always a cheese board before dessert followed by coffee. The locals have opened their doors and larders up to me inviting me into their homes, the evenings normally end with a sample of the local cheese, wine, liquored and even home made saucisson. My waist line is quickly finding out that the French really are passionate about there food and wine, especially their cheese, which undeniably they are the best at in the world.

Its these small things that you do not get access to when on a normal holiday, yes you might drink the wine and eat the cheese but it will cost ya; but it is rare that you actually get to meet Mr and Mr France. I do have to earn your keep though in the form of polite conversation which inevitably follows the same course each evening, where did you come from? where do you go? Favourite country? Animal Encounters?….

Two days after landing in Geneva and on my final continent I find myself climbing up to the French ski resort of Tignes. It gets colder and snowier with every kilometre as I slowly make my way up hill. I must have looked peculiar to all the passengers of the cars with skies strapped to their roofs and chains on their wheels. My feet become water logged, I mentioned previously that the winter isn’t so bad if you have the right gear, well I don’t and I can’t feel my toes; as I ascend with sodden feet in sub zero temperatures, its approaching minus fifteen at the top, my feet are morphed into large useless ice cubes; it is all I can think about, the cold begins to creep up my Achilles and I can no longer articulate my ankles which is troublesome when one is cycling. I must have looked a right state when with wet foot prints I waddle into a fancy spa resort to defrost. I am promptly directed to the sofa by fire and they bring me a coffee….I may just never leave.

Post defrosting I reach Tignes where I am meeting friends for a week riding the ski slopes in a break from the bike. Being amongst friends is fantastic, a break to normality. Aside from the best snow ever it is a fantastic week, slightly surreal; needless to say nothing has changed, we eat and drink like the French and chat about absolute shit; topics include: our special talents (none of use have one apparently and the question of if you had to, what would you swap your arm for? Answers include a sponge, a go go gadget arm and a flesh light (if you do not know what one is, it is best left to the unknown, do not google it). We are a high brow bunch.

One evening we watch some British tele and it is not something to be proud of. The premise, a bunch of common pretty people, jobless (I’m one to talk), in an isolated location surrounded by crystal clear water. They have to “survive” on the island, fending for them selves which must be tough with all that make up, comfortable looking shelters complete with ablutions and as much vitals as one could need. This lot haven’t ever seen dirt under the nails or a long drop. Not only do they promote an unrealistic body image for any normal hard working folk but their constant dribble combined with their dialect pains one`s ears. Its all very Essex.

It is a stark contrast to the family who I stayed with a few nights before, the two adorable children had no tele or phones but entertained themselves with music (I was give a performance), games, art, some quite complicated puzzles for a ten year old and me, conversation and all that after a family day out cross country skiing. Not for the first time this year I wonder if me and my brothers were under achievers growing up!

If I found the climb up difficult the decent was extremely unpleasant and possibly the most dangers road that I have cycled. Though I’m not sure I can call slowly sliding down with my feet deployed as skies cycling. Behind me a rather long traffic jam routinely accumulated so I would pull in to let them pass. This stop and start snail pace saw be transform into the human icicle, at least on the accent I was working hard and warm, save the tootsies. With narrow roads, poor visibility in the heavy snow and the rumble of avalanches from within the white abyss it was an uncomfortable ride.

Over the next few days I will be leave the alps behind me as I head north towards Luxemburg, on through Holland and Belgium before getting on the ferry and approaching the White Cliffs of Dover. After seeing friends it is a touch depressing cycling on my own day in day out, but at east each evening I will have company, the days are short and my distance has plummeted as I have to plan each days ride to tie in with my accommodation, it is not as happy go lucky as other legs of my journey where I can cycle from sunrise to sunset and just pitch up happy as Larry. To that extent it is not as enjoyable but I’m in the vinegar strokes of the venture now and I need to enjoy every minute. I need to drink it all in, cherish the lack of responsibility, the space, the time, blah blah Blah! and unwind-I have no unwinding to do because I’ve been going a year at this stage and I’m a simpleton anyway.

Sex in South America

South America, I’ve followed the length of the Andes from top to tail from the Colombian capital of Bogota to the southern city of Ushuaia, traversing the big majestic buggers four times, though it must be said that in Patagonia there were no big passes from one side to the other, just deep glacial valleys, ferry crossings and fjords. As I made my way south these mountains were for ever present, even if they were out of sight shielded by the haze they were always their in spirit.

My original plan was to visit the Galapagos but in Ecuador I made the call to reach Patagonia instead; so the islands will have to wait. Who knows perhaps future Mrs Morris, the marine biologist, can take me. If you are going to do the Galapagos you should do it right, not a whirl wind on a budget, but take your time and dive deep into the waters, literally, which is something I couldn’t afford this time. But hey you have to save something for later.

In Peru I had my heart broken by Paddington, the small black and white dog who shepherded me through the Ausangate’s foot hills in what is possibly the toughest two days I have encountered. Ever. That route despite what I was told is not suitable for cycle tourers and saw me reach an altitude of 4900m in what was far more hike than bike . But god the Peruvian mountains are spectacular and perhaps I will return there with future Mr Morris, the cyclist, for I’m not done with Peru’s mountains and forests. I was genuinely considering putting the trip on hold and adopting the cuddly bugger Paddington but life on a lead would soon see him spiral into doggy depression, he’s a mountain dog and free to roam. Besides, after I abandoned him on the mountain side I’m sure he soon found another gringo to follow; or at least that’s what I tell myself to help me sleep at night.

Every day in Argentina I received acts of random kindness as people gave me a thumbs up, coffee, food or even money handed to me out of the window of a speeding muscle car. In Chile cutpurses stole my wallet and the cost of life in general didn’t help the bank balance either. But travelling through these two massive countries isn’t to much different from being on the continent; you could mistake the cities of Valparaiso or Buenos Aires for Madrid or Milan if it weren’t for the terrible coffee.

It’s my final afternoon; as I meander down from Mirador Lago Escondido through a deep glacial valley I am graced with a rare break in the over cast weather that seems to be the trade mark of Patagonia’s summer climate, I can without a shadow of a doubt say that I am the most content I have ever been. To live, cycle, camp and just be along side beautiful rivers, wild flower meadows and mountains or to call a gauchos refugios home for the night is a sheer joy. To think that this is my last ride in South America does sadden me, but the slight smile on my lips is testament to the pleasure that I have gotten from this trip. I’m talking as if it is already over, I still have a month left.

Unfortunately despite my best efforts to stop and appreciate the landscape, the dammed rivers forming moats around the beaver lodges, the mountains or just the crisp air, thoughts of life post cycling are worming their unwelcome way in. The idea of a desk…..dear lord no, what’s a boy to do? But enough of that, that’s future Harry’s concern. Perhaps extremely wealthy future Mrs Morris will negate the need of a desk job, life as a house husband perhaps.

One thing I certainly won’t miss is hostels, at times it is like living in student digs, surfaces are sticky, dirty pots and pans fill the sink, that or just a pond of dirty water where the half arsed washer upper has chosen not to notice fact that their past has clogged the sink. And that is just the communal living areas. The dorm rooms have their own hazards, a snorer can be the least of your troubles; if you are really unfortunate an inebriated youth might call your bottom bunk home. Drunks always think they are quiet as a mouse even when they bring Minnie back with them and your nights sleep is rocked awake; alcohol numbs certain things so it can be a prolonged affair from which ear pugs cannot save you. That’s about the extent of sex in South America for me.

By my estimations I am going to fall at least one thousand miles short of the mark, the circumference of the earth, the equator is 24,901 miles though I can save myself forty one miles by aiming for the meridional circumference taken through the poles. A day here and a day there and I could easily of made up the distance, after reaching Ushuaia I should have turned around and headed north for ten days to make it up. But life is to short, I don’t regret slowing down in Patagonia, I was well ahead of schedule to reach my flight back to Europe so took it steady. But if I hadn’t take a chill pill and slowed down yes I would have reached my target but I wouldnt have met the Slovenia’s, or had perfect weather to hike Fitzroy or have some company on some very cold days in the south when I was cycling with Clive. So I won’t hit the mileage, perhaps I will get home, have a cup of tea, go back out of the front door and get on the bike again.

The draw down is looming, following a less than idle stint in Ushuaia, Argentina’s most southerly settlement its time to pack up the bicycle for the final time and return to Europe. I spend one last night camping in a wild glen amongst the wild flowers nestled on a river bank, horses for company I couldn’t ask for a more peaceful spot. Camping isn’t on the agenda in France or Switzerland for strangely enough Europe might end up being the toughest leg, winter is in full swing and rumour has it that the Alps into which I return have had a serious dumping of snow. The daily distance, the roads and the amenities won’t be the issue; the snot freezing, testicle retracting, skin reddening ruddy cold will be miserable.

Tramp Urine

In the south after leaving the pine forests and mountains of the Austral behind, Patagonia as a cycling destination is a series of oasis; El Calafate, En Chalten, Torres del Paine and a few other gems…….. but in between these incredible places which are a hiker, climber or ski tourer’s nirvana there isnt to much excitement in the south for a cyclist. For me, it is not the best touring destination, a series oasis’s in a vast sea of grass. It might be that at this stage in the game I am spoilt for I’ve seen a good few scenic spots. The Slovenians laughed at the fact that I didn’t ever stop to take a photo of a waterfall or another lake and I suppose after a while a waterfall is a waterfall and a lake is a lake.

Patagonia is an incredible place but for me it is built for hikers more than bikers. If I were to recommend a place to visit for say a month by bicycle (or camper) it would be the mountains of Kyrgyzstan and save Patagonia for serious hiking adventure.

Following silly season I leave En Chalten for the south. Leaving the mountains behind the landscape flattens giving way to vast grasslands, home to guanacos (essentially llamas), foxes, hares and abandoned shacks. From the town of El Calafate it is just a short ride to see one of the greatest, easily accessible, spots in Patagonia, the Perito Moreno glacier. From the network of viewing platforms and promenades you are faced will a colossal wall of frozen H2O.

I join the hordes standing wide eyed in front of the glacier, it is one of those tourist traps which is a must see despite the crowds. To hear it groan from deep within the icy mass as its squeezes together, like distant unseen bellows, is something else. The weight of the mass of ice pushes the glacier forwards in to lake Argentino whilst the sun carves slices from its front. As you stand at the head of this seventy metre wall of ice, a mosaic of white and cobalt, you would be stupid to peer through the lens of your camera, finger on the button like a trigger waiting to shoot the moment a segment of wall collapses into the waters below. That is unless you have a fancy camera, which I do not, for you will be to slow. After a few futile attempts to capture the action I resided just to stand and watch the sceptical as a condor swoops into shot and a great plinth of ice topples into the water with a great slap as it hits the surface, the crescendo to the perfect performance.

South of El Calafate and into rolling grasslands. Unheeded by mountains the wind holds nothing back as it sweeps across this tundra. Its New Years Eve and I’m in for a wild one. I actually have a tailwind for once and I am flying, hitting 60km on the slight down hill I barely have to pedal. But you have to keep your wits about you, when the wind veers at the wrong moment I find my self on the opposite side of the road, eyes wide as I am faced with the bull bars of an en coming Defender. A close call. At times my bike like the motorcycles over taking me has a list, leaning to one side my arse hanging of the bike like a ballast to windward.

Signs look like they may be uprooted and after I’m uprooted from my saddle and sprawled in the dirt I decide that enough is enough and I decide to ride it out in my tent. The only snag is that there is no shelter and my tent even if I could get it up in this wind would soon be flattened. After a small battle through the wind I finally reach a petrol station and set up shop behind the building, out of the wind. I settle down to a wild night, its 2pm and I am horizontal reading in my tent and hoping the winds will have subsided come the New year.

After a pit stop in Puerto Natales for some bike maintenance I start on the final push to the self proclaimed “the end of the world,” Ushuaia, it claims to be the most southern town or city in the world despite just across the Beagle Canal and back in Chile the town of Puerto Williams clearly sits at a more southerly latitude. South America is full of these accolades, the highest capital in the world, the deepest gorge or the most southern city there is normally a tacky sign denoting these achievements.

I had planned to tour through Torres del Paine, a Chilean National Park which is a mecca for hiking, but at this time of year unless you have booked campsites months in advance it is not really doable save with a tour company. It is one of the problems with cycling, timings are difficult and booking ahead of time is a not possible. I have to leave something’s to do when I come back.

After the tent squashing winds in El Chalten I have come round to the fact that my flimsily tent is not cut out for the wind and I have to pick spots wisely, four walls and a roof is preferable and ideally glass in the windows. In this part of Patagonia there are sporadic abandoned buildings, gauchos refugio’s and bus stops. Each with their own character.

The gauchos refugio’s can be fantastic, complete with wood burners and bunk beds or they can be unsightly necessities with mud floors and rickety bunks with the occasional air mattress puncturing protruding nails. A few times I have attempted to open the door to one of these shelters only to be barred by a lock, peering through the windows these locked ones tend to be the deluxe suites, complete with table and chairs, a wood burner and even facilities (a loo). On these instances I either push on to the next bus stop or after fruitlessly searching under every rock in the vicinity for a hidden key reside to camping in the lee of the building.

The standard of bus stop varies significantly but they all have one thing in common, a slight smell; I I’m convinced that the last process in the bus stop assembly line is to have a drunk tramp urinate in one corner. The frequenting by cyclists is readily apparent in the graffiti sprawled across the walls of these shelters. The boring Englishman in me still sees this a vandalism, just because you are a cyclist doesn’t mean you graffiti is tasteful, at least there are no crude penis’s scrawled on the walls. But it must be said that although I don’t tag the walls myself some of the art work is pretty good. I don’t know what the locals think of all these ruddy cyclists kipping in their bus stops though or of their graffiti.

They come in all shapes and sizes, small one man-ers in which the foetal position must be assumed to squeeze in, four tent-ers which can either house four tents or ten sleeping bags top to tail, ones with open fronts (more shelter than house) and sometimes they come compete with a mattress propped against the wall which you couldn’t pay me to sleep on.

The calibre of bus stops, shrieking shacks and refugios is a hot topic in the communal areas of hostels as cyclists say things like “you must stay at this bus stop, its just fabulous, its got glass n all, oh and even a door,” or “yeah I stayed at that one with five other cold bikers squeezed in like a game of sardines.” On lookers must wonder why on earth a cyclists all seems to know so much about bus stops.

The last stretch, occasionally I pass unfortunate soles cycling north opposing the prevailing winds, I don’t stop, usually I would have a chin wag, but they are in the hurt locker and the last thing they need is my sympathies and the smug look on my face as they crawl through the cold wind full of hail and chilling rain. I link up with Clive and we take pit stop in a famous bus stop. When we arrive two other cyclists have beat us to the punch but there is plenty of floor space to play sardines.

The pair already there are in for a bit of a show, myself and Clive are soaked through and a change of clothes is required; now there is no graceful way to removing a pair of soaking wet leggings which seem to be glued on even when dry. They are presented with two bare arses, albeit shapely on account of all the cycling but quite close none the less in the confined quarters; hopping about we in turn manage to not so seductively remove our resisting legging and slip into some dry long johns, but that is not before Clive nearly topples over baring all…nearly. For some reason unbeknown to us the Brazilian cyclists, without a word, start to assemble their gear and move on, well more room for us.

A visit to see some King Pinguinos and a few days more of riding through the tundra, the grass ripples beneath the wind like a vast ocean its surface of infinite waves, before I reach Ushuaia the most southerly city in Argentina and the inky black waters of the Beagle Canal. Ushuaia is nestled in the southerly part of the Andes and I’m glad to return to the Andes once more, a great spot to complete my South American leg.

Willy Waving

Dated: 27 DEC 18

El Chalten is a small town nestled in central Patagonia and sits at the foot of the most iconic mountain in this region. Fitz Roy is for any hiker, biker, climber, mountaineer or camera clasping bus loaded tourist, synonymous with Patagonia and a must see. You just have to pray for the weather to be clear.

But when we roll into town in the blustering wet weather searching for a place to pitch the town is akin to a small ski resort with ominous heavy grey clouds threatening snow. El Chalten comprises of log cabins and pine clad buildings; warm inviting looking bars with classic rock or western pop, climbing shops in place of ski rentals and tour companies. The street is teaming with out bound fresh faced hikers, smiling as the stride along with the backpacks and hiking poles and a few can be seen looking a little more rough around the edges heading to a bar for a well deserved pint after a few days out in the mountains. Its a fashion parade of the latest brightly coloured outdoors gear.

I love the feel of the place, so many like minded people all here to enjoy the outdoors. We are just looking forward to a hot shower and a good feed so go in search of the cheapest establishment that meets these lofty requirements. Its rare you meet a cyclist on a plump holiday esque budget, we tend to be cheapskates.

It is a great place to be stuck for Christmas, although it isnt festive in the slightest, there isnt a decorated tree is sight, the hike up Fitz Roy is the golden standard of Christmas Day walks though. The previous days gloom giving way to pristine blue skies, perfect. With towering plinths of exposed rock, glaciers flowing downing its slopes and aqua marine blue lakes at its feet, Fitz Roy mountain is incredible. So much so that you almost have to queue to reach the natural theatre like viewing platform that a moraine has formed. But sometimes the tourist spots are there for a reason and cant be shied away from; I think it is the first time that I have ever lined up for a rock, the ideal picture spot. As we descend down the mountain on the seven hour return journey I almost strain my neck as I repeatedly cast me eyes behind to get one last look. We couldn’t have asked for better conditions, barely a cloud in the sky giving us a clear view of what is inarguably the most striking mountain in the world.

The Slovenia’s depart on Boxing Day morning and Australian Clive and I set off on the golden standard of Boxing Day hikes this time. The lengths we go to for a picture are ridiculous, 60 kilometres to be precise and a 1000m accent at the end. I think the furthest I have trekked just to see a vista. But what a sight, we crest the Heumul pass and before us is a vast expanse of ice, just a small portion of the Southern Patagonian Ice Field is visible to us but its extent is mind blowing and gives just an idea of the mass of ice beyond. It is the third largest ice field in the world coming in behind Antarctica and Greenland. Dark mounds of debris on the surface look like tyre tracks revealing the flow of the ice as it makes its way out through Viedma glacier and the lake beyond.

I was sad to see the Slovenian depart, we have had a good week or so bumping into one another, camping and them letting this scavenger share their ratios. They were over on just a whirl wind cycle through Patagonia taking in some of the good bits. Not surprisingly they are advocates of cycle holidays. By the sound of it their life style in Slovenia is fantastic, not to many people and therefore lots of space. They save up their short annual leave for one three week holiday each year. Life on the road is far from romantic according to Mateja, you are confined to a small space, washing nothing but your pits and bits for a good week at a time in between showers, never left on your own and it can be tough going out in the elements. But you know you are with the right person when it still seems like a good idea on the return flight and you are still talking to one another as you plot your next adventure.

Our campsite on Boxing Day evening was nestled in a small bay to the north of the Viedma glacier. Full of ice bergs it acts like a baseball glove, catching these colossal snowy white balls, except they are neither snow nor balls. Huge icebergs some as big a multi story car park collect in the bay. Seemingly motionless it is a peaceful seen to sit, read a book or eat yet another pasta dinner. But this tranquillity is broken sporadically as the occasional ice fall, caved off by the afternoon sun great chunks or cliffs plung into the clear waters with an almighty clatter. The campers all quickly look for the source of the noise to witness the sceptical but it is futile for the noise if after the act, the action having already taken place by the time the sound reaches your ears. I was lucky enough to happen to be looking at the right spot at the right moment as one of the larger icebergs fell apart in a silent film, that is until the drum of sound reached my ears.

It was a special place to be camped. As you lay sleeping or reading in your tent you are reminded of the ice beyond the stony shore as the ice bergs go bump in the night, jostling and grinding against one another. It must be said that the hike out to the Bahia des los Tempanos campsite was great with the anticipation of the view but the trudge back in the wind was not so appealing. Over the past three days we have trekked a good 90 kilometres or so, my legs are stiff and my back sore, I’m not used to this walking lark or carrying weight on my back, it is far tougher than cycling.

En Chalten, as I have already said I really like, full of hikers, climbers and bikers. A small tumen of about fifteen cycle tourers went past Clive and I as we were trudging back to the pub, they must be the latest arrivals from the ferry. All like minded people; conversations are about equipment, routes, weather and the next adventure. Tent envy is a really issue, especially for me in my summer tent which as flattened on top of me one night as the katabatic winds draining from the mountains ravaged my tent. I was forced to spend two nights sleeping in a stairwell, amazed that my tent poles didn’t snap I decided not to risk any longer camped out in the wind in Fitz Roy’s foot hills.


People might wonder why travel so much? A holiday or two is enough, but travelling gives one an insight into the world and other cultures. Food is possibly the easiest culture to share with others and conversations about native cuisine is often discussed. Christmas is the ideal time to show case your nations favourites but with one oven in the hostel and about thirty guests there will be no roast potatoes and stuffed goose this year. Its mayhem. We celebrate the festivities on Christmas Eve, Clive and I are the only none mainland Europeans and it turns out those continental heathens celebrate on the 24th. My contribution, an apple crumble. The Dutch there tell of Sinterklaas (St. Nicholas) and Black Pete (Zwarte Pieten), in a somewhat controversial tradition today; Santa tours the country bestowing Christmas cheer and presents with his black assistant, Black Pete, dishing the punishment to the naughty lot.

On returning from the ice field I’m sat next to two hikers in hot debate; ways to reduce weight, cooking techniques and food, pros and cons of different cookers, rice vs pasta, noodles are apparently a no no (a staple of mine), protein sources, which tent is best, what routes to do and how to avoid the masses. The French chap impresses the other, he crushes packs of crisp so the entire thing is just the little shards at the bottom of a packet. Compact and full of calories beating both rice and pasta, the ideal space saving food. These chaps are carb, protein and calorie counters and more is best in this circle.

On the hole conversations are great and people talk enthusiastically about their passions for which they find themselves in Patagonia exchanging ideas and suggesting new places to explore. An outdoorsman’s think tank. But there is often an undercurrent of a not so sublet willy waving competition. I’ve hiked this trek, this fast, it was the furtherst possible from the beaten track, blah blah blah, we are all giulty of it from time to time. Clive asked a French couple if they have done any other big hikes, they had just finished the four day Huemul trek, and they responded, no not really. But the conversation continues and they are serious hikers, on an indefinite holiday hiking through South America and have done multiple 8 to 10 day treks. Pretty serious I’d say. Modesty to the point of bragging. That’s like me saying that I’m not a serious cycle tourer even now at this stage in the game, with tens of thousands of kilometres to my name, lots of countries and five continents; I’ve got a pretty big willy to wave.



Christmas is Cancelled

Dated: 13 DEC 18

This place has a short temper. I’ve taken shelter in a refuge, at the back of a ladies house in a bare room, a stack of mattresses can be found against the back wall, the only break in the otherwise empty room, that and the cold steel of a wood burner. This is the Ritz as far as I am concerned or at least it will be once the lady has gone out there, chopped some wood and got the fire a burning. The windows are just sheets of thin clear tarp, flexing in the gusting winds and the pitter patter of rain on the corrugated roof adds to the din. I’m a head of time and no longer have the need or the drive to be outside despite of the inclement weather. Its the sort of weather that is only good for one thing, rugby; perfect for a forwards game, the sort of day when the backs freeze the bollocks off standing near stationary in the howling wind, the ball to slippery for them and their quick hands, it has to be kept in close.

One hour later and I’ve got a pot of tea boiling on the stove, a nest made on a mattress in a corner and a warm meal inside me. Bad weather is bliss when you have a fire and a window to the misery outside. I settle down to a good read and some me time, or I would if cyclist after cyclist didn’t keep ducking in to steal my warmth with a ghastly blast of cold wind as they stagger in dripping wet. I’m not the only one who isn’t up for getting cold and wet. The company is nice really.

The only problem with paying for accommodation is that when it comes to leaving the warm confines of a building in the morning going out into the elements it can be difficult; just one more cuppa then I will go; and one more to be on the safe side. Patagonia has a bleak beauty to it, even when the weather is a touch iffy and you are caught in a shower or two the cloud might permit short peeks at the peaks, it is stunning in a rugged fashion. But when the sun over comes the cloud if only for a minute it is transformed, beautiful, magnificent, nothing short of fantastico. At these moments my face breaks into a gaping smile, gaping because I’m often puffing for breath as I power up yet another short sharp slope whilst smiling, mouth wide open, all tonsils and teeth.

I make it seem that the weather is always a touch English but that isnt the case, I just happen to catch a week of weather before summer takes hold again. I move south along the Austral, tarmac gives way to graded road of stone and dust. In some ways I like the more rugged bone shaking endurance of poor road conditions. I’m in Patagonia after all, it adds to the wild feel of the place. But in reality tarmac would be a damn sight easier and I don’t really feel like I’m in the wilds, not like in Mongolia or parts of the Stans. I’m merely on the edge, despite being the least populated region of Chile, I am never far from a shop (at east once every few hundred k’s), never on single track and at least once an hour a truck will pass; transforming my face from the wide mouthed grin to being pursed like a cats arse, eyes squinting and mouth tightly shut as clouds of thick dust fill the air, kicked up from the wheels of the vehicle.

I can see the wilds from the road, the mountains, forests and ice but to get out in to it I would need to be on a different bike or on foot. One morning when I have decided to take a half day, I’ve earned it after cycling for the last ten or twelve days straight, I run into a chap coming the other direction. He has almost nothing with him on his carbon bike; pretty much just a change of underwear and a rain coat. We stop and chat for a good half an hour or so. Its one of those fantastico days so why not take a moment. Jonas Deichmann is on a half day himself, he is doing a casual 150km, that’s almost as much as a full day for me and I often get a “gee whiz” or a sceptically raised eyebrow when I mention how far I go each day. Jonas as it turns out has just got the world record for cycling from the northern most cycle-able point of Alaska to the Southern most city in South America, Ushaia. He did this in just 97 days if I remember correctly. A reminder for me that there is always someone out there better than you. He is a great guy, smiling almost constantly and clearly passionate about life; he lives by the idea that what has he done this month that he will bore my grandchildren with when he’s old? Not a bad life philosophy though a touch hard for most people.

A few days later, I arrived in Puerto Tranquilo and explored the Catedral Marmol, a formation of marble caves carved out by the waters of Lago Carrera. It is a rare tourist day out when I ditch the bike and get on the water with my camera in hand. The caves are stunning, marble caverns carved out over millions of years revealing layers of coloured rock polished by water and time in to a cave system like no other. It is only improved by the tranquil blue of the water here, you could be in the Caribbean if it weren’t for the temperature.

It was here on this lake where Douglas Tompkins lost his life in a kayaking accident. As the founder of North Face he was a pioneer of Patagonia conservation and together with his wife they donated 10 million acres of privately owned land to Chile to establish five new National Parks and expand three others; an area roughly the size of Switzerland is an unprecedented private effort of conservation. The day I am out on the water it is hard to imagine that these calm waters can turn nasty. It just goes to show that there is no taming Patagonia and it can catch even the most experienced adventurer out. 72 might be cutting it short but at least his lights went out doing what he loved where he loved.

I’ve teamed up with two Slavonians, Mateja and Mitja, and an Australian named Clive. We are on a push to reach the town of El Chalten for Christmas but have three ferries, some of that uncomfortable road and the weather to contend with. On our way we could be in for a treat, puma have been spotted here recently, it would be great to catch a sight of one of these shy animals.

Ferry number one is a simple affair, its free and runs regularly. It is the next one that proves problematic. The main company said flat out “no,” the wind is forecast to remain above the 15kt cut off for the next few days. Looks like Christmas is cancelled. But never fear, where there are desperate tourists there is always someone willing to bend the rules. Pedro owns the alternative option, tucked out of sight behind the lake worthy vessel a smaller craft, sausage shaped and made of fibre glass it is essentially an escape craft, pretty solid but uncomfortable. So together with a gabble of other cyclists, two dogs, a few locals and a sheep we embark.

It quickly becomes apparent that there is a reason that the limit if 15kts wind. It is horrendous, the bow of the boat plunges in the troughs of wave after wave as we head south, the neck jolting impact is enough to bring any sleepers to their senses (we had a few the night before) and I can only think thank god that we are going with the waves not against them. There is no enjoying the vista of glaciers and mountains out of the small port holes, you have to concentrated and tense your body with each crash into the waves. But after a bump of two we make the far shore and spot a good twenty tourists awaiting the return journey north.

It turns out that the weather has held them trapped in the no mans land at the border with Argentina, there is no shop, just a long drop and trees, some of the eager passengers have been stranded four days with rations running low they are elated our arrival. They almost cheer.

Next they almost cry, there is no chance Pedro can be talked into the return journey no matter how many peso waving desperate tourists there are. Looks like Christmas is cancelled for some.