February 14, 2016
Other Nutcases On 3: Km2340 (Rio Chico) to2188.
During the night I'm awakened by the tent being battered by rain. This morning there is no sun and when I venture out, the ground is puddled and there's a big black bank of rain moving in from the west. Back in the tent, I breakfast on cornflakes and milk while listening to the rain patter on the tent material.
I break up camp in misery, rolling up a wet tent, bitter cold rain pelting down and no place to shelter, numb and shivering, I finally have all loaded on the bike. I push the bike up the gravel track alongside the bridge approach to the road, the steepness of which warms me somewhat before setting off on soaked black sheen road, a gutter full of rainwater in the depression left by heavy truck wheels close to the edge of the road where I ride. The gentle south west wind driving the rain pushes me along fairly quickly and before long, the rain eases and eventually stops completely.
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I pull over to the roadside viewpoint down into "Gran Bajo San Julian" a bleak big hollow going down below sea-level, but don't stand longer than it takes to take a photo or two because its too cold and there's more rain moving in from the west. However the rain doesn't amount to much and riding further the road is dry, as if it hasn't rained here at all.
By noon I'm descending toward San Julian, the wind having quickened up and cloud broken and scattered, when I see another cyclist struggle with headwind coming uphill. On meeting I swing across to the cyclist and greet with "Another nutcase riding route 3!" A woman and I think we've met before, but then I realise that I've met so many cyclists and seen myself in the mirror to recognize the sun and wind reddened face; a little brown skin left on the nose, the rest of the skin having peeled. Her face not a pretty sight, nevertheless, I'm glad to meet another cyclist.
We exchange names and countries and views, her's Julia, from Germany, doing what must be classic, namely riding down the east side of America to Ushuaia, to return up the west side.
Just as we stand talking, me on the gravel shoulder, her still on the edge of the road, along come a truck downhill, or northbound while another is coming uphill, southbound, which Julia has her back to and therefore is unaware that the truck shows little intention of slowing. I have to tell her to get off the road quickly, because the driver of the southbound truck would most likely have hit her as he squeeze between her and the oncoming northbound truck.
She is off onto the shoulder just in time as the truck's wheels pass right on the edge of the road where she had been standing.
She exclaims "I don't understand the crazy truck drivers in this country! Everywhere else they give you space when passing."
I reply, in light of being fed up of it myself "The Argentine culture is very macho, petrol headed, mad about driving. All that meat in the diet and watching football on TV and drinking beer certainly dims the senses" I generalise in a way which is unfair to the majority of truckers that slow and give you lots of space passing; nonetheless, it only takes one arshole to kill you with a truck.
San Julian is set in a coastal inlet. Its claim to fame is Magellan made landfall here on the first voyage round the southern tip of South America.
It is a couple of kilometre off 3 and on the way into town I find what I'm looking for, an La Anonomia supermercado, where I stock up for the long stretch ahead and lunch, again today in the sheltered east facing shop front, the cloud having now cleared and warm in the sunshine.
I set off again at half two, the day now pleasantly warm, the wind having dropped. but without tailwind, I've slowed down. The way on a longish gradual climb, then levelling out upon what could be called fairly scenic landscape, with green leaved low bushes to the side passing through a narrow high valley, which could easily be a high overpass in a mountain region in Europe. Then downhill to a long stretch with sandy small dunes on the right and barrancas off on the left.
I need to make a big dent in the 265km to Fitzroy, with the wind settled to calm, there's no longer that powerful push. Then there's a six kilometre long climb up a barranca slope out upon plateau. At this point I couldn't believe it but I see two more cyclists ahead coming south. I swing over to their side of the road and meet Peter and Katrina from the Czech Republic.
As it is almost seven I ask have they seen any good camping spot in passing. Peter replies, yes, about almost ten kilometres back there's a kind of river, well what once was a river. It is good sheltered and I though it would make a good camp place. Then Katrina speaks up, what about the pond we stopped at with trees. "Trees" I thought to myself, "what kind of place is this". She continues, its just back there, pointing back along the road, where it goes downhill. Peter interjects, there's not much shelter there.
In return I say that ahead of them they've a long descend, about five kilometres; then a few kilometres more there's a big mound on the east side of the road facing a salt lagoon, which I saw as a good camp spot.
We both cycle our own ways and less than a kilometre further I dip down to cross a large culvert with a track down the left side of the road to a water hole fringed with those willow like trees, the rest place Katrina described, which is a good camping place, though at Peter said there isn't much shelter. So I take Peter's word for it that the place he said would be better. Ten kilometres further the road drops into a canyon with the road banked up high like a wall on the downhill. He did say it was just where the road goes downhill and this must be the place. When I wheel the bike down its a bit of a bog but there's plenty of dry level areas to pitch the tent.
Today's ride: 154 km (96 miles)
Total: 5,677 km (3,525 miles)
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