27.1.09. Bajo Caracoles, Argentina

The bar at the petrol station (and why not?) in BC is a hive of inactivity. I've done 138 miles of Ruta 40 today without falling off, so I'm going to sit here, idle as a bee, until either I run out of pesos or I'm physically kicked into the gravel.

Men, yesterday

The road here varies between OK dirt and the worst pile of rocks you can imagine. Halfway in, though, there's a miracle: 30 odd miles of brand new blacktop. At first I think it's a mirage, and when I realise it's not I get down on my hunkers and kiss it. Kiss kiss kiss. Oh lovely road.

Ruta 40 is all about the weather. Today it's ideal - no wind (much) and no rain for 2 days. Under these conditions, the worst it gets is just really, really horrible, rather than impossible. The four times I've thrown La Fluffita into the rocks/mud on the way to Gobernador Gregores, however, have taken their toll. Scratched paintwork! A slightly bent footpeg! An engine that is not functioning with quite the efficiency one might hope for, and extremely dirty trousers. Injury-wise, I can only claim a pathetic bruise on me leg; you'll have had worse from banging your knee on the kitchen table.

29/1/09. Perito Moreno, Argentina.

Having proved myself the master of Ruta 40 (ignore, why don't you, the damage to bike, person and trousers mentioned above), I check into the Hotel Neveryoumind and steel myself for a serious rest. The slightly horrible old bint of a landlady suggests (I think) that a room is available for the first night, but that on Thursday she's got a busload of tourists arriving and I may or may not, at that point, be thrown, hopping mad and helpless, into a local ditch.

I decide to ride out the threat by visiting "El Viejo", and grab myself a seat at the bar that allows me to
A) look at the WHAM Jennifer Connelly (face and hair)/POW Jennifer Lopez (everything else) barmaid, and
B) spot the coach-load of shit-bags who may or may not be stealing my room as I write. We shall see. On va voir!

An agreeable hour passes - and it's sod you, you coachy, Pepsi-sucking, window-burnt bum-wits! My room is still mine, so damn you to hell, Johnny-come-lately.
I shit in your hair!