This trip is slowly sneaking up on it’s 2 year anniversary. Still, all these 35 000+ km into it, there are times when the only thing in the world I want to do – is to ride my bicycle. After bidding farewell to my newfound friends in the alpine chocolate-town of Bariloche, this was exactly the case.
Without thinking. Without stopping. Without caring about anything except enjoying every ounce of the freedom that comes with living with the wind in my hair and my home on the my rear rack. Doing nothing but letting the world around me change with the pace of my spinning legs.
Leaving Bariloche I wanted to ride my bike.
That’s what I did.
And this is what it looked like.
First off I found myself on ‘El Camino de los 7 Lagos’, also known as ‘The 7 Lakes Route’. As the name speaks quite well for itself, I’ll just add in some off the somewhat less obvious keywords shaping my ride on this particular stretch of road.
…Damn. I just caught myself about to write that I found natural beauty. In the less obvious section of this post? Come on Fredrika, you can do better than that.
Alright. Second try.
Just because of it being my very last in a loong time, I do feel like mentioning that I did find quite a bit of rain.
And because of him being a total rockstar – that I one night found myself in the company of my most badass neighbour of all times. I liked him all the way until he kicked over my dinner pot, just after I’d explained to him how I didn’t really feel like sharing my evening soup.
I can’t be the only one thinking Davy Jones?
I kept cycling. And just like I already mentioned – watched the landscape shift.
Without much notice, the very last bit of greenery was left behind and I had suddenly landed in one big déjà vu of being back on the long, winding, bone dry mountain roads of Kurdistan.
I peddled on.
Days yet again turned into that familiar meditative blur that I still have trouble defining why I love so much.
Every night offered another out-of-this-world camp spot.
And in every small town I passed the local bicycle mafia (still on summer holiday) was waiting by the main plaza, always ready to show me around and almost getting into fights when deciding who would help me to fill up my water bottles. Luckily, I generally had more than enough empty ones to prevent any gang battles following my departure.
By this point, my legs had started pointing out to me that they were getting a bit tired.
Though I still felt like cycling some more.
And soon found myself climbing gravel passes, and free wheeling along some volcanic sceneries more than stunning enough to have my previously heavy limbs change their minds completely, and decide they were more than happy to keep pushing those pedals for as long as I pleased.
So we rode a bunch of days more.
Then.
After 11 straight days, 80 something hours of cycling and who knows how many kilometers.
Came the last one.
Resting on the Andean foothills, the oasis town of Mendoza is the fruit and wine capital of Argentina. With a bustling city of wide, leafy avenues, atmospheric plazas and cosmopolitan cafes – Mendoza is a trap for anyone ever planning to leave.
I carefully read the words in my beaten up Lonely Planet one last time, while my sweaty hands were trying to squeeze out the very last of my toothpaste. Not even 8 am. Still the sun had already risen high up in the sky and temperatures were once again on a steady climb towards the daily 40°C mark.
My legs weren’t the only ones tired now. Every part of me wanted rest.
I took one deep breath. And smiled. Knowing I was just a single day’s ride away from getting it..!
Until next time,
Fredrika