CHAPTER 3 – TRAVELING UP RUTA 40

Wednesday Jan 21st

START: 4592 km

FROM: Ushuaia (ARG)

TO: Punta Arenas (CHI)

FINISH: 5161 km

Without the rain and the clouds that followed us into Ushuaia, the same road back out is just magic. The road is dry and threads its way through the same scenery we saw 2 days ago, but it's a teen romance with sunshine exposing all the glorious bits we didn't see on the first date. We are both smiling wide in our helmets.

It's worth saying that we are not the only people on the road to / from Ushuaia. Every day we get a wave from other overland bikers passing in the opposite direction, people living out a similar dream to the one we are I'm sure. But there is a subpopulation of complete nutcases amongst this lot, and they are the overland cyclists. On their bicycles, carrying tents, sleeping bags, cooking gear, food and 10 Litres of Water they slowly grind their way along this road to the end of the earth. We respect them immensely but cannot fathom any joy between the second day and the last.

Out of the mountains and onto the highway and the wind starts picking up to the point of unridable. What makes today so tricky is that these winds are gusting, and they can hit from any side. Routinely we are getting belted a metre by these forces, pushed and pulled as a cat would toy with an insect in its paws. When there is any consistency in the breeze it is like sailing, with the panniers and bags acting as sail and handlebars as rudder. The 200km tack and jibe to the border takes us 3.5 hours – twice as long as we had thought. Hard work, but not a patch on what our cyclist friends have to endure.

You can tell the force of the wind by looking at the water...white tops mean it's blowing pretty hard. Our view of the Rio Grande shows up as a dirty green and white houndstooth check. Any kitesurfer out there today would probably be implanted in Jupiter by now.

At the border to Chile, a Polish couple come up to us and check we are OK. They are hitchiking their way up the Americas (she must be angling for a new kitchen on their return) and passed us in a car...the sight of 2 guys on motorbikes chugging down straight roads on a 30 degree lean warranted a photo, and through the wonders of the digital age he shows us the picture taken. Our day captured in a single absurd image.

To get out of Tierra del Fuego there are 2 ferry crossings – the one we did from Ruta 3 on the way down, and another remote one, crossing the Magellan Strait from the town of Porvenir. To keep things interesting we choose the remote one, and after the tracked km progress of the highways it's a nice change to be making our way to our destination on 150 km of unsigned gravel roads.

The country around this Bahia Inatil is the kind of scenery that sends farmers into palpitations and hot flushes. Silvery spears of straight grass poking out of rolling moss-like pasture, wire fences disappearing into infinity with sheep patrolling the interior. These are the grand estancias of the south and they still retain the romance mistakenly given to other farming lands. This is just the hem of Chile's garment and already we are swooning, begging her for panoramic photos every 30 kilometres or so.

When we arrive at 5PM in the sleepy port town of Porvenir we discover that the ferry only leaves from here once a day – at 1 PM. Whoops...looks like a night spent in a nothing town waiting for tomorrow's ferry. Checking into a nearby hotel, the owner tells us that due to the extreme winds, today's ferry was canceled but they will probably run a later one at 9PM. Incredible – the winds that we were cursing all day were actually blowing in our favour!

On the ferry that night, on still swollen seas we meet Shawna – a pioneering fly fishing, rafting, gun toting American girl who breaks wild mustangs in her spare time. She is down in this part of the world to help run the first fly fishing outfit on this side of the Rio Grande. Because they could not whack her dislocated knee back into place with a rafting oar during an expedition (or something like that), she is reluctantly limping back home to get repaired. It would be very easy to feel like the soft handed sissies we are in her company, but she is hilarious and the 3 hours of chunderous water crossing flies by with a barrage of funny stories and revelations on the origin of todays swear words.

When we land in Punta Arenas at midnight, we take up her suggestion of hotels and follow  the taxi into town. I think you can tell a lot about a place by looking at the animals that inhabit it, and the 2 dogs that demoniacally chase me around the city square in pursuit of my blood is not exactly material for Chilean tourism. It does however make for a funny souvenir video for Shawna who captures the pandemonium on her camera. These dogs just do it for sport it turns out...as soon as the motorcycle engine is turned off, they lose all interest and return to the standard butt snifffing, scrotum licking antics of their peers.

Wednesday Jan 21st

START: 5161 km

FROM: Punta Arenas (CHI)

TO: Puerto Natales (CHI)

FINISH: 5322 km

Thankfully there is no segway that could or should be made from the term “scrotum licking”.

The beds may have cost us $80 but oh were they worth it. Having slept like logs we rise late, say our goodbyes to our new friend and run around town in search of tyres for the bike.

Given that most people around here drive around in clapped out Hyundais, this proves to be quite a mission but after an amusing morning of running up to strangers in our spaceman bike suits and asking where we can get our hands on a venereal disease (gomeria) we hit paydirt and rustle up a single tyre for Pierpaolo's bike. Strapped to the back of his bike, we are chased out of town by the same mad dogs that welcomed us in and hit the road toward Puerto Natales.

The morning is grey and dull in every way – road surface and sky above. After such a glorious introduction to Chile yesterday it is a bit of a come down, but after a hearty lunch stop things improve considerably. Temperatures are hovering around low single digits and a chill breeze is blowing, but our first view of the snowcapped Andes in the distance is reward for being this cold in the middle of summer. White, yellow and purple alpine flowers bloom by the road side in spite of it all, offering a coloured border to the monotone strip of concrete rolling underneath our wheels.

In terms of layers I am wearing all but one, with the thermal of my bike jacket stashed as a trump card in my pannier for when things get really chilly. It's getting uncomfortably cold now, but if I hold out a bit longer I will appreciate it more on the days when the mercury really plummets.

Puerto Natales is a little gem of a town, reminiscent of what I imagine Queenstown NZ would have been like 40 years ago before bungee jumpers and jet boats made it adrenalin Disney. Having left my diary back at our tyre shop on Punta Arenas, I go in search of a replacement. Being 20 Pesos short (5c) the shopkeepers say not to worry – that's a good example of the pace of life here. Perched on the shores of a gorgeous lake, cormorants congregate on an abandoned pier in the middle.  With the spires of Torres del Paine National Park in the distance it is a wonderful scene, and while Pierpaolo is inquiring on a place to stay for the night a local dog comes up and says a waggy hello. Canine etiquette between Chilean towns could not be more different.

Pierpaolo goes off on a mission to contract gomeria and get the new rear tyre fitted to his bike. In doing so he finds that gomeria comes in many different strains. The prevalent case of gomeria in this town appears not to effect its syptoms on motorcycles, much to his disappointment. But in the end he tracks down a particularly virulent variety that will festoon itself on his worn rear end. Fnarr fnarr.

With a decent meal in town it's oh so perfect, at least up to the point where the gaggle of Israeli 20 something backpackers stay up all night in our hostel and rise early with the Hebrew turned up to 11.

Thursday Jan 22nd

START: 5322km

FROM: Puerto Natales (CHI)

TO: Lago Pehoe, Torres del Paine (CHI)

FINISH: 5473 km

My little laptop is starting to play up and crash, no doubt due to my ill conceived idea of not  installing anti virus software before I left Australia. So after a quick software download and bike lube, as well as a call to our tyre man in Punta Arenas to confirm that they have the diary in their possession we head out to Torres del Paine National Park.

It is a picture postcard day with big blue skies cleaned and scrubbed by last night's storm. With the Andes on our left we travel the 20km of surfaced road and then onto the gravel and dirt tracks that wind their way through the park. Llamas, guanachos, foxes and condors keep us company almost as if they are extras called in on cue from stage right. This really is stunning, and has us stopping the bikes and reaching for our cameras every 10 kilometres. Emerald green glacial lakes dot the park, and a brisk wind knits up lines of white caps  for them to wear.

Park entrance is a model for the rest of the world. A ranger comes up and talks to us, telling us what to get, where to go and advising us of any recent hazards. Our plan to see Las Torres up close come asunder, as the storms last night have put the bridge under 2 metres of water. So it's off to Lake Pehoe to set up camp, winding our way through landscape that has peaks similar to the Dolomites and the Wyoming Rockies.

Truth be told we are both a bit limp when it comes to the outdoors – Bear Grylls we certainly ain't. Given a choice between a soft bed with clean sheets versus a camping mat with a t-shirt pillow, the soft bed wins almost every time. But tonight is the template for how camping should be. Pole position with nothing between us and the lake, and a restaurant 100 metres away where parilla is being cooked on an open fire. We can sleep in the great outdoors with someone else cooking an edible meal AND doing the washing up. Result!

The remaining daylight is filled with us wandering around the lake trying to do justice with our cameras to the surrounding landscape. But the electrical gremlins are wreaking havoc... with a surreal situation of installing the anti virus software on my laptop at camp, my camera then decides to throw a wobbly and ceases being of use. It's a pain lugging around this high tech ballast and Pierpaolo inherits the role of sole photographer for The Wrong Way Down.

Friday Jan 23nd

START: 5473km

FROM: Lago Pehoe, Torres del Paine (CHI)

TO: El Calafate (ARG)

FINISH: 5780 km

After a cold night that sees us wearing nearly all our clothes in our sleeping bags, we pack up site and head out of the park and toward El Calafate in Argentina.

Today is a significant point of the trip in that it marks our first foray onto the legendary Ruta 40. This is South America's Route 66, a road that has carried countless dreamers, pioneers, revolutionaries and rat bags in its time. Being IT consultants by day I am not sure into which category we fit into – maybe a hybrid rat bag dreamer cross, depending on which of our past clients you speak to. But romantic notions of the road are replaced by a more imminent fear of its harsh unpaved sections (ripio) and the ability of our disintegrating tyres to hold themselves together on it.

On the road and with some distance to cover and with the notable absence of howling Patagonian winds, it's time for me to test the internal acoustics of my Arai helmet.

Forged from years of driving 1970's cars with factory installed AM radios, singing to myself on road trips is now normal behavior. And by pure accident I discover that my helmet has audio qualities unsurpassed by any previous models I have owned. The motard  style helmet means that the area around the chin sticks out from the face about an inch more than a chin hugging road helmet, resulting in an acoustic sound space like the Royal Albert Hall in comparison. Everything from Audioslave through to Elvis sounds superb. Well at least in the audience of one.

Is this concept of sublime motoring acoustics a happy accident on behalf of our Japanese friends? I am inclined to think not. When Mazda were developing the MX-5 convertible back in the late 1980's, a sizeable wad from the development budget was spent on... making sure the exhaust sound had a certain sound. And Toyota's Lexus division have teams of people ensuring that the their doors make just the right “clunk” on closing. At first pass it seems a strange way to spend tightly controlled corporate cash, but the farty rasp of a convertible's exhaust and today the Dolby surround sound of a bike helmet are all tickling the right audio stimuli to ensure satisfaction beyond the point of sale.

If only a bit more attention was paid to ocular concerns in Arai's development program. After crossing the border into Argentina, rain makes it's first unwelcome appearance on our trip, and, combined with the dust kicked up from Route 40's roads, forms a murky glue on my visor. Pierpaolo does not seem to be having such problems with his Italian helmet. It results in the ridiculous situation of me driving along slippery gravel on balding tyres, having to take my hand off the bars every 10 seconds to smear it clean for a few fleeting seconds.

Oh the joy of the 4 Elements – Wind (always), Water (today), Earth (on visor). The only thing missing is Fire, but with the wedding berries sat on top of 32 Litres of 95 Octane I will count myself fortunate to be spared from that one.

And then it gets cold...really cold. Even with all layers now zipped into the jackets and winter gloves, the air has a knack of slicing through it all, to the point where we are driving along the road with our chests pinned to the tank just to avoid exposure to the elements. But on the road to Perito Moreno glacier, it would be a bit daft not to expect things to be a bit chilly.

The last 60kms into El Calafate and a change in the mountain weather lifts the spirits. Rain gives way to sunshine, and in the distance we can make out the lower Andes. The image in front of me of Pierpaolo riding into a silhouette of large mountains is something to behold, and makes me think maybe the next trip could be something involving the Himalayas. Today the mountains have maintained some prudish dignity. Clouds drape themselves across the top like strategically ruffled bedsheets in a Hollywood sex scene. You can make out the form, but the really interesting bits remain covered.

Calafate is like Banff in miniature. Very well laid out and chocolate box alpine cute, but the machinery of alpine tourism visibly clunking away. Fancying a day off the bikes we book ourselves on a bus-em-in, bus-em-out tour of Perito Moreno glacier tomorrow, and then go to round  up some tyres to shod my steed with.

No complaints about this place being geared up for tourists – after descending on his office and him willingly surrendering his computer for us to search on, the chap from Budget rent a car has organised a set of tyres to be bussed in tomorrow from Rio Gallegos 400km away. No service charge, no commission, just a guy that is happy to help us on our travels. Time for a subliminal message – sell your car and rent one for life from Budget, El Calafate.

For those of you who find traveling with the kids a bit much, turn away now. Walking back from our successful tyre purchasing expedition we see a gigantic Winnebago camper in the main street, with an additional 20ft trailer towed behind it. It's all painted up and stickered to denote that a grand voyage around the world is taking place, with South America being just one of 5 continents visited. French Mum and and Dad are present and tell me it is a 4 year trip and they are 1 year into it – schooling on the move their son and daughter with another one visibly in the oven.  Mad dogs and Englishmen, you now have competition from new age French parents.

Feeling pretty happy with ourselves we soak up a beer in the fading afternoon sunlight (9PM) and behold the population explosion that is all of the tourists returning from their glacier trips. Empty restaurants we were eying up an hour before now have queues of punters tailing out the door, so its back to the hostel for an early night with a complimentary nightcap of some local wine and delectable plums with my room mates Isaac and Brodie from Brisbane.

Saturday Jan 24th

REST DAY: El Calafate (ARG)

A day off the bikes and joining the throng of tourists making their pilgrimage to Perito Moreno glacier. The photos will do more than I can ever say but this place is absolutely stunning.

Into the National Park after being fleeced the usual 60 Pesos and we take a boat trip on the lake to see this mass of ice and snow up close and personal. Covering an area as large as Buenos Aires itself and standing 60 metres proud of the lake, this is the largest glacier in Patagonia and perhaps the most picturesque in the world. Turquoise water meeting a splintered wall of white, blue sky background today and a palette of greens in the surrounding forest...it's a Kodak test shot.

What is amazing is the light that comes up from the cracks and fissures on the surface of the glacier. Through the inexplicable magic of chromatic distortion, a celestial blue light rises from some of the crevasses in the snow. Either chromatic distortion or an Essex boy racer has tricked it up with some neon underlights from his Vauxhall Nova. Whatever it is, it is something to be seen at least once in your life.

After the boat trip it's then time to walk around the park and look upon the glacier from the paths within the forest. This heaving white mass is advancing at a rate of 2 metres a day at its midpoint, which means there is a regular performance of chunks cleaving themselves free from the mothership and falling into the lake below, crumbling like giant Albino parmesan. The size of the chunks and the height from which they drop ensure that their descent into the water below is met with an explosion of sound. Every 15 minutes or so you can hear rumblings and detonations, with the chunks breaking up in the lake to form a giant slurpee in the placid waters. Better than television, although like the watched pot, the really big bits seem to always splinter off as our backs are turned or a tree blocks our view.

Back to town in the afternoon and time to drag my fast fading computer into a service shop to be cured of its electronic Ebola. A 10 minute once over from the busy team becomes a full 5 hour scan and check...again, hard to find fault with Argentine service anywhere. In the end we have to force 50 pesos into their hands for destroying their evening. I get the newly delivered tyres fitted to my bike while Pierpaolo holds the computer fort. A meal of  pizza and beer (50 million bachelors can't be wrong) is proffered to all at the computer shop to convey our gratitude.

Sunday Jan 25th

START: 5780km

FROM: El Calafate (ARG)

TO: Bajo Caracoles (ARG)

FINISH: 6288 km

One of those rare days of travel where you start out from a certain point but have no idea where you are going to end up. With thousands of kilometres of the deserted Ruta 40 ahead of us we chuck some extra water bottles and muesli bars in the panniers. The road condition horror stories from bikers heading down towards Ushuaia have filled us with a sense of trepidation, so we prepare ourselves as best we can.

Bad things come in threes, and our 12 volt tyre pump has joined the ranks of my camera and laptop as things to have surrendered themselves for sacrifice to the electron gods. Our tyres are set at the right pressure for the rough roads ahead, but if we get a puncture we will be shagged. With everything being closed in town on a Sunday morning we decide to set off anyway, via the tyre fitters to set off the alarms and retrieve my dust caps which they neglected to screw back on after an overpriced tyre change last night.

Ruta 40 starts out wonderfully, with tarmac speeding us past Lago Argentino in the morning sun. However after 50 km all the travelers' tales come knocking on our door, and the road becomes a strip of 30 centimetre wide dusty paths, bordered by loose gravel half a wheel high on either side. In itself this presents no problem, but coupled with the ever present Patagonian winds which can gust and blow you 1 metre in either direction, it gets pretty hairy. If the front wheel touches the gravel on the sides it's goodnight Vienna, so choosing your speed is a calculated compromise between making some kind of progress and minimising the damage if / when you come off.

No prizes then for guessing who bins it first then! Yes, yours truly gets gusted into the gravel, wheel gets consumed, Barney eats dirt. Fortunately no big damage, pick the bike up (thank God I'm not on 230kg BMW today) and continue on our merry way. After that the winds die down and the deep wheel eating gravel disappears, and we get into the groove of riding on the washboard road. Being so far from the security blanket of bitumen and 200km from the nearest town, it feels like a real adventure now and it's a feeling to savour.

Our final 20km stretch into Bajo Caracoles and there is an upgrade of Ruta 40 in progress. A 2 lane stretch of dirt has been freshly rolled and looks like a trotting track ready for a meet. Cars are separated from this tempting alternative alongside the current lumpy road by means of a 50 cm high earthen barrier but after 7 hours of constant scanning of the road in front for potholes and tyre busting rocks it's a little bit too hard to resist on the bikes. Like naughty schoolkids we sneak over the break and unleash some of our pent up throttle ponies on the pristine track, kicking up satisfying clods of crud in each others visors at 120km/hour.

Ruta 40 is changing and changing fast. Historically it has always been a bumpy escape down into the bowels of nowhere, a journey to either find yourself or lose yourself depending on your bent. If you made it down to Ushuaia you had not made it, you had simply run out of places to go. But now the aspirations of well-heeled tourists and the air conditioned dollars they bring to get to these parts of the world are putting an end to this romantic myth of a hard fought journey through Patagonia. Your average Chuck and Mavis from the US have a mouthful of expensive orthodontics to keep in tact, and jutting down bumpy gravel roads in a tour bus is not definitely not conducive to their preservation.

So inevitably over time it will all be covered in tarmac, with some nice yellow lines painted in the middle and souvenir stalls set up at all the cross roads. A boon for the tourism industry and no doubt a welcome bit of progress for the mailman and the locals who travel this line on the map every day. But I feel some sort of lament for the passing of its untamed roughness, purely because it removes some of the reward for those of us fortunate enough to have a crack at doing a journey such as this. Having one of history's escape paths paved and upgraded is like the rebellious teenager leaving home with a lunch packed by Mum.

How soon until the golden age of travel on motorbikes is over here? Pretty soon I reckon. If Ruta 40 was in Australia or the UK, the dream of romanticized vertebrae separating travel could live on forever, such is the pace of roadbuilding in these fair nations. But things seem to move a lot quicker here. There's nothing like the motivation of minus 30 degree winters to complete all your necessary tarmac laying tasks in the 4 months of I Can't Believe It's Not Summer.

And so to Bajo Caracoles, a settlement that takes true advantage of its non proximity to other towns. Without any gas, food or lodging within 300km to the south and 150km to the north, it keenly holds all passing travelers hostage to whatever rates it can dream up. Only here can you find the most expensive hostel in Argentina, little more than a fibro board room in a bakery (re-heatery) with 4 bunk beds wedged into it. No thanks signor. We opt for the best / only hotel / restaurant / gas station in town, the imaginatively monikered “Hotel Bajo Caracoles”, or what our Lonely Planet enthusiastically bills as “a severely overpriced flophouse”. I resist the urge to  see if I can check in with my Marriott Rewards card as I fear such sterling humor may be lost on the portly attendant.

Robbed of 150 Pesos ($50 US) we take a room in the hotel and avail ourselves to cold beer and a microwaved soggy tostado. Egon Ronay, this town ain't big enough for the 3 of us.

We get chatting to a German couple who are holed up here with a broken down campervan (engine spewing oil) and are soon joined by a Dutch couple with a cosmetically  challlenged campervan (rolled it at 80km/h). Cutlery, panties and sleeping bags are visibly escaping from where windows and fibreglass edges used to be.

And yes, all campervans are supplied by the same company. An inverted approximation  of a campervan we saw in Calafate this morning was also part of the same network, so the German couple looking for a working replacement may be in for a bit of a wait as 4 from 10 of the working company fleet have been put out of action in the last 5 days. Apparently another one has a blown engine somewhere near Bariloche up the road. Moral of the story is to get fully comprehensive insurance when renting campervans in Patagonia! And never own a campervan company. Anywhere.

Patagonia is dotted with Welsh settlements all over the place. Lord knows what brought them here – either the cheap land or an abundance of sexy Latino sheep, who can say, but they are here despite the relative harshness of the life. I only mention this as our dinner tonight in this country of gritty Marlboro men is served by an overtly camp waiter, and we get to thinking what life must be like for this fella positioned out here in the middle of nowhere. I keep thinking of the Welsh character Daffyd's catchcry from Little Britain as him being “the only gay in the village”.

Monday Jan 26th

START: 6288km

FROM: Bajo Caracoles (ARG)

TO: Gobernador Costa (ARG)

FINISH: 6773 km

Bajo Caracoles is a funny little town. With half a bottle of whisky, a jilted lover and a bad hand at poker I could go straight to Nashville and write a song about it, but for now it's a dodgy one horse town we are both keen to leave in our tracks.

Today is similar to yesterday in that it's more slogging along the roughest parts of Ruta 40 to a destination unknown. When riding roads like this, it's not a good idea to have destinations set in your mind – you simply make it as far as you can go and whenever you get to that place so be it. He who hurries in Patagonia is already lost, and with no destination, then what's the hurry?

Even with the most Palinesque (Sarah, not Michael) understanding of physics, it's pretty easy to deduce that riding these roads with 2 wheels is going to be bit more challenging than with 4. Every stone and rut you hit will cause the bars to shimmy, and with the wind you can end up in places you don't really want to be. The best way to ride them is to look far ahead to where you want to be, let the handlebars do their wobbling and gently feather the bike back on to the course you want to charter.

At Perito Moreno, we go and buy a hand powered replacement for our 12 volt tyre pump, but before we throw the old one out we tear it apart give it a test fire..lo and behold it now works! A faulty connection with the built to budget switch is to blame, but with lashings of cable ties and gaffa tape, the mainstays of all quality electrical engineering, we rig it up to have a second lease of life.

While at the shop an American guy on a Panamanian registered KLR650 runs in and comes to chat, recognising the Australian plates on our bikes. He is taking a very slow route down to Ushuaia, with 6 months and a very understanding wife in Panama City. Knowing the condition of most Panamian registered boats, it's a pleasant surprise to see his bike still with 2 wheels on it and most of its oil still in the engine.

After lunch and the gravel recedes into some semi-respectable asphalt. The 700km of surface beforehand is nothing beyond the capabilities of the average weekend bush basher, but the key word there is 700. Spending so long getting belted around on the bike is draining, to the point where miles on tarmac now feel like stolen ones. On these new sections of Ruta 40 with a hefty tailwind behind us, the bikes are happy to torch along at 120 km/h with a high speed slalom between the potholes taking place.

Butch looking clouds start clotting, conniving  and conspiring to shed their payload on us but through the gaps some amazing light is breaking through, spotlighting and showcasing the hills to our side and in the distance. Sun eventually appears before its bedtime, and with the the wind at our backs we roll into yet another forgettable town for the night. The only thing differentiating this dusty crossroads is the fact that our hotel room smells before we enter it!

Dinner and beers with a Swiss couple and a Canadian lad on big Long Way Down BMW's, and vindication that we have been on the right bikes for this leg of the trip. Reports confirm they are much less fun to pick up when dropped, and the big Bavarians still get blown about in the gusting winds just as much as we do.

Discussion and display of their expensive GPS units mounted on the bike also reassure us that our old school navigation method of maps and asking directions is the way to go for South America.

Tuesday Jan 27th

START: 6773km

FROM: Gobernador Costa (ARG)

TO: Bariloche (ARG)

FINISH: 7238 km

Pack up, leave town and start what will be a perfect day of mountain riding. Reminiscent of the opening driving scenes of Stanley Kubrick's The Shining, before Jack Nicholson and his family  get above the snowline, and well before Jack goes loco with the kitchen knives.

It could be the Colorado Rockies, and with bluebird skies and sun, wonderful sun we spend the hours weaving lines in the pock-marked tarmac with gorgeous mountains all around. First chance to use the sides of our tyres after 5000km! Temperatures are rising, so a chance to shed a few layers from our jackets and enjoy the feel of the breeze on our chests.

The only hiccup in proceedings is having a brand new Hummer heading straight for us on our side of the road, overtaking on double yellows around a blind corner. If anything good is to come of the imminent restructuring of the US Auto Industry, it will be General Motors going bust and leaving knobs like this stranded without spare parts for these obnoxious vehicles.

Off the main road we stop at Lago Epuyen for lunch, which is like a secret oasis from the furrowed paths of Ruta 40. As we move further north in the afternoon, sapphire lakes break up forests where every shade of green is democratically represented. Above the tree line, the tops of the terracotta mountains are lumpy boxers' knuckles, with charcoal skree streaking down the crags like 5AM Nightclub mascara.

Bariloche is our stop for the night - a big difference to the previous two in that it is a destination in its own right. With lakes all around, endless outdoor activities and a vast array of bars and restaurants it is a popular getaway for Argentina's families and students, and having seen the “beaches” of the country's coastline it is pretty easy to understand why. Combine all this with an architecture style straight out of Alpine Switzerland and it makes for something  quite special and well worth visiting.

For dinner we try the local speciality – cordero, or lamb. In all honesty it does not measure up to its grand billing as we are both from countries that seem to know how to cook a sheep pretty well. But we are compensated by what can only be classified as black belt tango, with a couple performing the most captivating and complex of routines on the restaurant dance floor. This really is tango at another level, and when done properly I can start to understand the fascination and regard in which this dance is held.

Tango mystique is however brought thumping back down to earth as the female dancer casts off her partner and scours the audience during one of the routines for a mysterious man to replace her cheating partner. I wish we had never taken the ringside table! Fortunately she is a true professional and does a superior job of carting me around the floor. Photos are in the album but suffice to say wearing the hat was my best move. So you think you can dance? Hell no!

Escape from the restaurant and the usual ritual of an ice cream before lights out. On our way home we are treated to some brilliant street jazz – 4 guys playing some old standards on the corner of the street. 1 violin, 1 accordion, an electric bass and a drummer. The accordion player is the engine of this outfit, and with his ragamuffin clothes and total immersion in the music it's easy to focus only on him. However the drummer is a joy to behold. The antithesis of modern rock, he creates a full rhythmic soundscape operating wholly within a 10cm radius from his snare drum. Compared to the big haired, leather trousered percussion theatrics seen on most music video clips these days it is a joyful study in the economy of motion.

Wednesday Jan 28th

REST DAY: Bariloche (ARG)

A rest day, and a chance to muse over some of the important issues glossed over so far.

What do Argentines make of Australians? I would hate to guess after watching breakfast television and finding 1980's re-runs of Australian game show It's a Knockout! playing on the country's main TV Channel. A younger Lisa Curry-Kenny is hosting, and as usual the bloody Queenslanders are winning all of the novelty team activities. That  northern state's population seem to have a genetic disposition for dressing up in baby outfits and paddling inflatable horses across swimming pools better than any one else in the world. The beer must be stronger up there.

What is it about mad dogs and Englishmen? I have been alerted by one of my Mum's friends that there are 2 older English lads cutting a route through Chile and Argentina reasonably similar to ours. On brand new BMW 1200's? No. KTM Adventures perhaps? Try again. They are doing a faithful recreation of Che Guevara's infamous journey down to the actual bikes (www.revolutionroad.com). A pair of 1940's Norton 500's have been purchased, shipped and are now rolling on the roads here. They are about 2 days ahead of us - instructions if we want to meet up are “follow the oil!”.

The Dulce de Leche / Nutella conspiracy. Dulce de Leche, a sweet caramel syrup that tastes a bit like melted down Quality Streets has somehow become the cornerstone of all Argentine diets. No breakfast is complete without lashings of this sugary gooey sludge inserted into all rolls, pastries, yoghurts and cereals...a position clearly endorsed by the Argentine Dental Association. This infiltration of the national cuisine bares striking resemblances to that engineered by Michele Ferrero in his ability to convince Europeans that feeding chocolate to hyperactive kids for breakfast (Nutella) is essential for a well balanced diet.

Computer is finally restored and rebuilt so that it loses its electronic anchor status, and with the best dinner yet in Argentina (Tarquino restaurant – a hobbit style wooden  fantasy building) where service and food were exceptional we hit the sack and get ready for a day of riding the Route of the Seven Lakes tomorrow.

Thursday Jan 29th

START: 7238km

FROM: Bariloche (ARG)

TO: San Martin de los Andes (ARG)

FINISH: 7434 km

Another perfect day of riding around lakes and mountains, this time on the designated tourist Ruta de los Siete Lagos (Road of the Seven Lakes). With forests of cypress, pine and sequoia nestling around sapphire blue lakes the scenery is gorgeous. Up closer, and looking from above the water is as clear as gin – you can see submerged branches and logs that, at our guess, are 10 metres deep.

One thing funny about driving on these roads is the amount of corners marked as “Peligrosa” (Dangerous) despite being of perfect camber with full visibility of entry and exit. Perhaps they know of the guy in the Hummer we saw the other day? Anyway, in an effort to prove the signs correct of their suspicions, a fuel tanker lies upside down on the other side of the road with the sidewalls of the tanker suffering some hardcore gravel rash. A scene from a Hollywood blockbuster stunt sequence, we scour the area for Keanu Reeves and the imminent “Speed 4” production crew to no avail. Happy not to have been here 20 minutes previous anyway.

But one can only take so much of picture postcard scenery. After the 3rd lake it's all looking a bit samey samey, so we put the cameras back in their cases and ride the dusty road in construction to San Martin de los Andes, a much quainter, quieter version of Bariloche with beautifully manicured private gardens and large public parks.

IN town for lunch and we meet a German couple on matching BMW's and start chatting about our journeys. They are on a round the world trip for a year, but having come from Australia and New Zealand their 10 days in Chile and Argentina are just about enough for them... the roads are too rough and cities such as Valparaiso are classed as too dangerous. Far from the efficient highways and drab security of Germany they are having to do a rethink of their entire American leg of the trip. Quite how you do adventure travel in countries with perfect roads and law and order being obeyed is beyond us and we hope it always will be.

Only 196km ridden today, and with this early finish we grab our shorts and head down to the lakefront for an afternoon gelato and a sunbake. How very civilised and unadventurous of us!

We guarantee that for the next instalment there will be less early ice cream softy boy breaks, and more of the ridiculously arid Atacama desert and Pacific coast of Chile.