And to think I almost did it by bus.
Since starting the trip I had been told by three cyclists that the crossing from Santiago to Mendoza is as spectacular a bike route as one could ever hope to see, so despite the fact that I hadn't cycled for two weeks and had probably lost some shape, I decided I would never forgive myself if I didn't try it. However, with a 2200m climb in 64km it was never going to be a breeze. Fortunately, having never even come close to that sort of climb, I didn't have the slightest clue of how difficult it was going to be and was therefore able to convince myself that I would be able to leisurely meander upwards, perhaps even sipping a petrol station take-away cappuccino and cheekily winking at girls in bus stops as I sped on by.
As Waylon Jennings infamously sang: wrong. The first 34km were fairly tough, but after that it just got stupid. Needless to say, it wasn't so much a leisurely meander as a clumsy wobble as I drank frantically from my Camelbak and periodically flicked my shifter in the vain hope that another lower, magical gear had materialised on my freewheel. No such luck, and by 5'o clock (I'd set off from Los Andes at about 11am) I was destroyed, my legs felt like jelly and when I saw a sheltered clearing by the river it was all the excuse I needed to set up camp for the night and collapse.
I can't have slept more than four hours that night, but after whipping up a king's breakfast of porridge with dulce de leche on my Trangier I was ready for the road (and yes, I know the Scottish purists among you will be up in arms that I didn't cook it with water and salt, but quite frankly I'm loath to follow the traditions of a country whose second most important contribution to world cuisine is this). I got back on the road and it can't have been more than 10 minutes before I was ready to head back for Los Andes. At one point I actually turned the handlebars around and convinced myself I could try again in a couple of days. Only I knew I wouldn't. Now that I had seen the climb it was never going to be easier (unless I morphed into Lance Armstrong overnight), so if I headed back down I would only do it again by bus or car. Even in my downbeat state, this seemed a little ridiculous a mere 14km from the top, so I turned the handlebars back around, put in my headphones and probably let out a five-second cat-like whine.
But it wasn't a mere 14km. It was 14km of snaking roads and hairpin bends (30 to be precise) that climbed the best part of 1500m. Despite barely averaging 5km/h while cycling I made it to Chilean customs and 4km after that I caught my first sight of the tunnel that leads on to the Argentine side. 14km in four hours, hardly Tour de France winning times but enough to make me well up as I finally reached flat ground at the top.
Annoyingly, a three hour wait ensued on the other side as Chilean customs were on semi-strike (yes, Chilean, it's an integrated customs post) so I had to spend the night at Puente del Inca rather than Uspallata. As it turned out, the hotel was next to an army barracks and I awoke to the sound of courtyard drills and the unnerving realisation that in the mind of most of those soldiers they were training for one war and one war alone.
Welcome to Argentina.
Since starting the trip I had been told by three cyclists that the crossing from Santiago to Mendoza is as spectacular a bike route as one could ever hope to see, so despite the fact that I hadn't cycled for two weeks and had probably lost some shape, I decided I would never forgive myself if I didn't try it. However, with a 2200m climb in 64km it was never going to be a breeze. Fortunately, having never even come close to that sort of climb, I didn't have the slightest clue of how difficult it was going to be and was therefore able to convince myself that I would be able to leisurely meander upwards, perhaps even sipping a petrol station take-away cappuccino and cheekily winking at girls in bus stops as I sped on by.
As Waylon Jennings infamously sang: wrong. The first 34km were fairly tough, but after that it just got stupid. Needless to say, it wasn't so much a leisurely meander as a clumsy wobble as I drank frantically from my Camelbak and periodically flicked my shifter in the vain hope that another lower, magical gear had materialised on my freewheel. No such luck, and by 5'o clock (I'd set off from Los Andes at about 11am) I was destroyed, my legs felt like jelly and when I saw a sheltered clearing by the river it was all the excuse I needed to set up camp for the night and collapse.
I can't have slept more than four hours that night, but after whipping up a king's breakfast of porridge with dulce de leche on my Trangier I was ready for the road (and yes, I know the Scottish purists among you will be up in arms that I didn't cook it with water and salt, but quite frankly I'm loath to follow the traditions of a country whose second most important contribution to world cuisine is this). I got back on the road and it can't have been more than 10 minutes before I was ready to head back for Los Andes. At one point I actually turned the handlebars around and convinced myself I could try again in a couple of days. Only I knew I wouldn't. Now that I had seen the climb it was never going to be easier (unless I morphed into Lance Armstrong overnight), so if I headed back down I would only do it again by bus or car. Even in my downbeat state, this seemed a little ridiculous a mere 14km from the top, so I turned the handlebars back around, put in my headphones and probably let out a five-second cat-like whine.
But it wasn't a mere 14km. It was 14km of snaking roads and hairpin bends (30 to be precise) that climbed the best part of 1500m. Despite barely averaging 5km/h while cycling I made it to Chilean customs and 4km after that I caught my first sight of the tunnel that leads on to the Argentine side. 14km in four hours, hardly Tour de France winning times but enough to make me well up as I finally reached flat ground at the top.
Annoyingly, a three hour wait ensued on the other side as Chilean customs were on semi-strike (yes, Chilean, it's an integrated customs post) so I had to spend the night at Puente del Inca rather than Uspallata. As it turned out, the hotel was next to an army barracks and I awoke to the sound of courtyard drills and the unnerving realisation that in the mind of most of those soldiers they were training for one war and one war alone.
Welcome to Argentina.
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