For those of you who didn’t overhear (or had the luxury not to have to deal with) my ongoing dilemma, I had to decide about a month ago whether to ride with Danny from the southern tip of Argentina north. He and a friend were headed to Machu Picchu. I was going to join them for a bit, but timing changed and I decided that it was too expensive and I had other priorities (like doing an internship in Microfinance). It sounded like the adventure of a lifetime, and I romanticized about the lifestyle of living with nothing more than your bike. Other than doing the trip on horseback, I really couldn’t think of anything more…romantic for lack of a better word.
I was so excited for this trip—I would still have the chance to experience all that Danny had been raving about, without the big commitment that the full trip would take. Well, you can see where this is going…
I fell in love. I loved every moment of it. It was no easy ride: We faced terrible winds that pushed us across the road. I tried to ride on the shoulder as much as possible and on the outside of Danny’s wheel because it was never clear when a huge gust of wind would force you out. Half the time we were riding at an angle all the way down. My bike, which had probably been rounded up off the street somewhere, rattled the least in 2nd gear, so that’s where I left it for the most part. The aged seat combined with the extra 15 pounds I was carrying on my back left my back side rather sore. Apparently if you ride for an extended period of time, you get what are essentially butt blisters. Cyclists see it as a rite of passage. I just saw it as painful, but I’m pretty sure I earned that one on the first day out. About an hour and a half into our trip, Danny’s bike jammed. He was clearly working hard to stay collected. The chain had wedged itself between the wheel and the derailer (the component on the back wheel of the bike that changes the gears). Neither of us could get it to budge and it had broken one of the spokes. We took Danny’s gear off his bike and he began to take the bike apart piece by piece until he had set the chain free and detached the wheel to replace the spoke.
Apparently this is one of the worst things that could happen to a bike (short of an accident), but Danny changed it calmly and skillfully. It was actually watching him do that—knowing that he in a sense had to fix it—that made my heart melt. We were on our own, and survival, or at least continuing the trip, meant fixing the bike.
From that point on, my thoughts began to run almost poetically—a genre I am almost entirely unfamiliar with as the editors I worked for will tell you. The rattle of the chain eased my mind into the comfort of the road, combating the harsh fluster of the wind, as my butt learned to deal with the poorly fitted saddle. We passed pastures, old shipping yards, and what we hoped were penguins (though found out were not ). I looked back to see our progress, and ahead to see the road before us. This, I thought to myself, is how to travel. We were free. We had been in the city, seen all they have to offer, and escaped. They clearly did not want us, and in this high priced tourist town, the feeling was mutual. But here we had the road. It offered a new side of the city—of the continent previously unknown to us. An army barrack, grand houses, guest houses, farms, sheep horses. Wind bent trees, and finally a restive almost free of the wind. Well, of the wind we had been experiencing.
My journal at this point says “Danny partly wanted me to ride with him because he kept hopes that I would change my mind. I’m on the verge of those hopes being realized. I knew this would be torture and had resolved not to join…but man this is torture. I’m riding with a smile on my face. I love it.”
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