I am not feeling too great today. No longer do I have the sore throat but the cold has moved into my head. I'm stuffed with it. Flem and snot and I feel I've a bit of a temperature. All warm, sweat and shivers.

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The cloud is low and sky mat grey which it would remain throughout the day. And I would remain warmly dressed against the damp chill from the Pacific coast, which I get peeks of to the left at odd moments. The road extremely hilly. It begins flat though along a valley, heading toward a barrage of mountains blocking the way ahead, high up which is shrouded in cloud and rain. Then the inevitable long ramp up begins through a valley. Then there's the question of a tunnel having passed a tunnel sign, will there be an alternative old road.

Though as I hoped, a bit further I see the old road turn off, still in use and obligatory for explosive and dangerous truck cargos.

Its a gradual climb meandering up the valley side to a low gap in the mountain. Easy, unlike the series of straight steep inclines the rest of the day would bring. And it is fairly scenic up the mountain just below the cloud.

Then on the fast winding descent, a pickup truck almost drives into me while attempting to overtake me on a sharp bend, blaring the horn in protest, as much as to say keep in to the side of the road. I'm in the centre of the lane, which is about right for a fast descending bike, taking up no more than the space of a normal car. Doing nearly sixty kilometres per hour downhill isn't possible tight to the verge unless you want to go off the road and crash.

And I ask myself, why are weekend pickup truck drivers such brainless arsholes? Why can't they drive normal cars, instead of wanting to express some macho instinct.

There isn't much services on the road where I can stop for lunch, but late on I reach a small place called Pichicuy, with a Copec petrol station, though disappointingly there's no cafeteria attached. But just ahead are three roadside restaurants. The first I go to is empty and I turn away when I see the place next door is half full, sometimes a sign of a good place, so start walking to it. But before I've gone more than a few steps, the proprietor of the first, the empty place appears at the door and invites me in. I could've said no thanks, but thought what's the difference.

I ask what is the menu of the day and after he tells me the choice, I settle for chicken and chips. I ask what price and he tells me 3500 pesos (£3.50). I ask for a 1.125 litre bottle of coke, as the only other drinks on offer are nasty chemical colouring yellow and orange soft drinks. He puts a plate of bread on the table with a bowl of tomatoes and radish, which is good. And when the main coarse come out, it is a large oval plate with freshly cut chips and the chicken is lean breast, so there's no complains about the food. But, I instantly take a dislike to the man. He lounges on a sofa with the TV volume too high, watching a Sunday afternoon family show with terrible Chilean folk music, more like a noisy accordion bellowing in and out blasting my ears.

The food was a bit too much and I struggle to finish off the coke as I feel warm and sweaty and have stomach nausea, leading me to sit on and rest instead of going.

Eventually when I get up and ask for the bill, he says 6500. What? So a large bottle of coke and piece of bread costs 3000 pesos, almost as much as the meal. I believe he saw me coming. I'm too sick to argue anyway and pay up without a fuss.

I feel better riding on with the fresh air. I don't go too far when I halt at an old disused railway cutting running underneath the road at a right angle and continuing into a eucalyptus plantation and it being four, I decide to camp and rest.