News – Page 4 – Jetlag Jon

Jan 13: RN40

Jon Andes March 28, 2020August 23, 2020 0 Comment

13th Jan 2020

Well today was just mind-boggling. I left Cusi Cusi around 10am. The first 20 km or so were really slow, as the roads were still wet. Large puddles filled ruts in several places, and there were stretches of mud, which, fortunately, didn’t seem to get picked up by the tyres too badly. The Valley of the Moon, turned out to be a bit of a damp squib, the grey light from a still overcast sky muted the colours, and the road was too wet to stop until I had passed the main visible (from the road) part. It was still quite a sight though, from the glances I had when not concentrating on the riding. Gradually, the road dried out, the sun came out, andthe road surface switched between ripio , sand, a mixture of both, very fine gravel, and some amazingly smooth bits where I topped out at 4000 rpm (no speedo, so I guess around 45mph?). The whole day was spent more than 10,000 feet above sea level. My altitude headache had pretty much gone, possibly due to the coca leaves recommended by the pharmacist in La Quica., which I was still chewing as I rode. There was very little traffic, though two guys on bikes passed me going north.

The scenery here was epic. Rock towers, ravines, vast plains, different coloured rocks, mountains that look like they have been made of modelling clay. Often hours of riding without seeing anyone else, though at one point there were a lot of trucks carrying rocks and gravel, this coinciding with a section of road that is obviously being improved. Signposts seem quite rare in these parts, so I was relying on Google Maps, which does not seem to be up to date. At one point Google sent me up a tiny steep rock and cactus laden track. I hadn’t gone far before I realised this couldn’t be Ruta 40 – I had heard bits were bad but this was getting ridiculous. While turning the bike round, I dropped it when the front wheel hit a rock. Picking up a bike at 12000 feet on a steep slope isn’t much fun. By the time I got under way again, I was sweating profusely. Google Maps kept trying to send me past a small hut where a dog actaully latched onto my boot, to sent flying with a kick. There was no sign of a road. Eventually I rode back to where I’d last seen proper road, and a track that didn’t appear at all on Google Maps seemed to head southish. Finally I joined an “unknown road” , and followed this until eventually Google and reality agreed again, I was definitely now on Ruta 40. The road continued through some of the most amazing scenery I have ever seen. In fact, I will go as far as saying its the best days riding I have ever had.

A long day, the 179km (112 miles) covered taking me all day, with a stop to fly the drone, buy dodgy fuel, and stop for many pics, and just to drink in the landscape. I saw Llamas, antelope, including a lone one shaped like a whippet, a fox, and alpacas.Fitting an ABS switch to enable me to turn the ABS off was definitely a good idea, it saved me twice today; once on a fast bit where a deep rock-strewn culvert suddenly appeared unexpectedly, and I locked the back brake, slid the bike sideways, and manged to lose most of my speed before hitting it. Cue decision to not take for granted that a long smooth bit won’t have craftily hidden obstacles. The second time was on a very steep, winding downward slope on gravel, a huge drop-off to one side where I kept having to lock up the back wheel. I think the ABS would have been a severe hindrance on that hill. The side-stand was still annoying me. It’s very difficult to park the bike on any sort of slope.Now I am in Susques Department, in a very nice hostel called El Cactus. It looks like its been raining further south so I am going to visit the police station tomorrow armed with Google Translate and see if they can tell me of the road conditions.

El Cactus

Church in Susques

Jan 12: RP65/RN40

Jon Andes March 28, 2020June 6, 2020 0 Comment

12th Jan 2020

I woke up in La Quiaca with a really bad headache. I had known it was a bit stupid gaining altitude so quickly. The receptionist in the hostel made me some coca leaf tea, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. I wandered into town and found a pharmacy. The walk was down a hill, and I wasn’t looking forward to walking back up it. The pharmacist, a tiny little lady who looked Asian in appearance, sold me some wild garlic tablets, and told me to go to the market and buy coca leaves. The market was almost opposite the hostel. There were a few people setting up stalls selling vegetables, and after making chewing motions and pointing to my head while grimacing, I was sent out the back of the market to a lady who sold bags of coca leaves. I bought quite a large packet, and was surprised that they tasted ok. When I came out of the market, I met a French guy I had spoken to briefly in the hostel, and gave me a largish lump that looked like Nepalese hash and told me to break a bit off and chew it with the coca leaves, to give more flavour. He also showed me how to break off the sharp bits of stalk so that they didn’t hurt your gums. Under his instruction, I stuffed a wad in the side of my mouth with a small piece of the hash-looking stuff, and started chewing. I thanked him, and went back to the hostel to get the bike. The coca leaves worked; by the time I left town, my headache was abating. Time now to find out if I could still ride on dirt, after a thirty year absence. I followed Google Maps to the edge of town, and found a dirt road meandering into the distance. Here goes, I thought. To my relief, I felt OK almost immediately- whether that is because it is actually like riding a bicycle, and you don’t forget it, or because of the coca leaves, I couldn’t tell; nor did I care. It felt great to be starting on Ruta 40, for so long just a dream.

RN 40

I started Ruta 40 by taking a wrong turning some where on the road to Santa Catalina, which you can see on the maps below. I blame Google maps, but the roads are also numbered differently. Instead of turning right onto RP 5, which is part of RN40, I took RP64. According to Google, RN40 only starts where RP 65 meets RP 64, at Oratorio. Whatever, RP 64 turned out to be pretty interesting, and the Himalayan turned out to be great on gravel and in sand. Before leaving La Quica I had reduced the rear tyre pressure to 25psi, the front to 22. The accidental road I went on had some very steep and twisty bits. Problem is I couldn’t mount my damaged phone on the bike. I only noticed I had gone wrong when I joined what was actually a much better road, which turned out to be Ruta 40, 19km south of Santa Catalina. I toyed with the idea of retracing my route for about 2 seconds. A huge thunderstorm urged me onwards. I also still had the altitude headache, and had to keep chewing coca leaves to keep it at bay, so I ate some more and carried on.

On the hairpins you can see on the map just before Oratorio, I ran into a Brazilian cyclist pushing his bike up a hill. He seemed pleased to see me, even though we couldn’t actually communicate beyond start points and destinations. With weather around, and not much hope of reaching a village today, this guy had balls. Over the course of the trip, I would come to really admire cyclists.

In the distance, the riverbed that RN40 follows for several kilometres..

After 20 km or so on RN40, I came across a very excitable guy with two companions, who had driven from Ushuia, all the way up Ruta 40. They were in a small van and a little Fiat. They informed me the road was very difficult, and gave me pointers on crossing a river a little further on. Excitable guy suggested I carry my luggage across first. Seeing as they had got both of their two wheel drive vehicles across, I didn’t bother. The river crossing was fine. A bit further on, however, the road follows a river bed in a ravine that obviously gets flooded in storms. With heavy clouds around, for the first time on the trip I felt slightly uneasy. I wouldn’t want to be caught in this gorge in a storm. I was here that stupidity caught up with me. A loud graunching noise, followed by a sudden lack of forward motion, had me thinking the worst. I thought the chain had come off, or, even worse, snapped. In fact, it was a fleece I had strapped to the back of the bike that had made its way into the chain. It had also pulled the chain guard into the chain. I had just finished fixing it and readjusting the chain which seemed to have gone out of whack, when two bikers from Tucuman (which so far this trip seems to produce many crazy bikers) turned up on street bikes. One was on a CB250 the other on a Chinese 250. They hung around to make sure I got going again. I crossed a total of 6 rivers, only one of them deep enough to get me worried. But figuring that two guys on street bikes had just crossed them, I decided I didn’t need to walk them first.

Leaving the gorge, the road now became decent gravel, with reasonable grip. For a while, I made good time. In the distance, I could see it was raining. It looked pretty likely I was going to get wet. I just hoped the road didn’t turn to mush and cake up my tyres.

Rain ahead

A thunderstorm hit me just as I was passing Paicone, a tiny little village. I took refuge under a metal awning projecting from a big square building. It carried on for about 40 minutes, during which I saw absolutely no signs of life in the village. When the rain stopped, the area where I had parked had turned into a pool of red mud. Immediately I set off, the tyre treads got clogged and I came off for the first time on the trip. The bike was on its side in a morass of pink clay. I took the large dry-bag off, pulled off the higher pannier, but I couldn’t get enough purchase in the mud to lift the bike. It and me just slid in opposite directions. I couldn’t get any purchase in the mud at all. I saw a woman across a field and walked over to ask her if there were any men about, and she seemed to understand me.

Rafael

Ten minutes later, I was the afternoon entertainment. A young dude called Rafael took charge, using Google Translate on my phone to ask questions about my trip. An older guy said I wouldn’t make it to Cusi Cusi that night, due to 3 rivers I needed to cross. After asking about the possibility of a bed in the village a car arrived from Cusi Cusi and the driver said the rivers were ok. I set off again, crossing the first river which was on the deep side of comfortable for me, and I wondeed how much it had risen since the guy in the car had driven through it. It turned out to have a solid track in though, and I got across with no problems. The other two rivers were really low. As I got closer to Cusi Cusi, I could see I was riding straight towards another storm. Would I get there in time? The only other option was pitching my tent., which, if the road turned to clay mush again, would be my only option. Luck was with me, and I arrived at Cusi Cusi just as the storm hit. The hostel was run by a very excitable little fat teenage boy, who kept pestering me for information about my motorcycle. How old was it, how fast did it go, how much did it cost? When I showed him Google Translate on my phone, he got very excited, and told me his life story. I told him I needed to make a call, and he directed me to the village square, which had free wifi. After calling Jackie, I had a quick look on Google Maps to look at the next days route. I already knew from my illustrated tourist map that tomorrow I would pass through El Valle de la Luna, the Valley of the Moon, with lots of multicoloured rocks. Cusi Cusi itself wasn’t a very pretty village, just a cluster of low-slung stone houses set on a few streets radiating from the main square. It is named after a spider o the Salticidae family, Polybetes pythagoricus, which is a jumping spider that resembles a taratula. When I got back to the hostel, the boy’s dad had turned up, and between the two of them, they rustled up a very decent dinner of steak, rice and salad. My first day on Ruta 40 had been a long and quite difficult one, and I was very tired. I crawled into bed in my cold room, and slept for 11 hours straight.

Jan 11: RN9

Jon Andes March 28, 2020June 6, 2020 0 Comment

11th Jan 2020

On the road again, after a day off to do laundry, buy camping gas and look over the bike. People here are super friendly. I’m finding that my lack of Spanish, in a land where only a small amount of people speak English, isn’t such a hindrance after all, especially if all the participants in a conversation have been drinking. Sign language, adding an a at the end of nouns, stupid grins and hand gestures, backed up with the occasional reference to Google Translate, all serve to make getting by here actually fairly simple, as long as you don’t want to discuss astrophysics or something.

The road finally seemed to be getting more interesting. For the first time, I realised I had been on the same road since leaving Buenos Aires. This was purely unintentional.

Temperature was 27 degrees, very pleasant, albeit overcast and threatening rain at times. After a few hours I stopped for a break. Like all filling stations so far, this YPF has free wifi. Wikipedia tells me I am following, in sticking to RN9, the “Camino Real del Perú” (Royal Road of Peru). This was once the main road to Peru, heading from Buenos Aires up to the Bolivian border at La Quiaca. In those days, before the railroad took over in the late 19th century, and it’s later demise in the twentieth, there were establishments to feed and water horses and their charges every 30-50km. Three empenadas and a coffee later, it’s time to hit the road. 170 miles done so far, 220 to go. I met a Brazilian parked next to my bike who had obviously recently had a big off in mud, and his radiator was leaking. His bike looked in pretty bad shape, and he was limping. I offered him some laundry soap (I bought a bar the day before). It was a trick I had actually used myself to sela a radiator once, many years ago, but he seemed reluctant to try it. He wasn’t having a good time, and told me he had come off about ten KM from La Quiaca, on Ruta 40, on the very last bit of dirt, in a rainstorm. He was heading for Cordoba, a long way to go on a damaged bike in this weather.

Not long after starting out again, the odometer/speedo stopped working. I found that as I opened the throttle and accelerated, it worked fine. But as soon as I reached cruising speed, or was slowing down, the indicated speed dropped straight back to zero. Sometimes I could play with the throttle to keep it indicating for a while, but that was futile really. So I am now relying on Google Maps for my speed. With the Argentinian sim card in my phone, everything had switched to kilometres, which is just as well. My brain had already slipped comfortably back into kilometres, to match the road signs, and the units of my youth.

At one point I stopped and took the pic above with my phone. About ten minutes later, something hit my leg, and after a quick bit of deduction and a visual check, I realised it must have been my phone. I hadn’t secured it in the phone mount after my photo stop. I hadn’t used the camera as it was inside a dry bag, and not easily available. Duh. I did a U-turn, rode back a few hundred metres, and I saw a guy who had obviously just picked up my phone. He must have scooped it up just before a passing truck reached it, judging by the horn from the truck. When he realised I was coming back for it, he waved it in the air. It didn’t appear to be working, so I think he wasn’t too disappointed I came back for it. I stuck it in my pocket, and the next time I stopped for gas, had a proper look at it. The screen was scratched really badly, a bit missing from one corner, but to my surprised, powered up. I needed to be more careful with my phone….

The next few hours were spent gaining altitude, with large doses of wetness and cold. I had the heated grips on, and a fleece under my jacket, and it really wasn’t much different than riding to work in Manchester, just a lot further. The jacket was a warranty replacement for one I bought that had leaked, and I hoped the replacement didn’t have the same issue. My winter gloves were buried in a bag somewhere, so I had very wet hands in my summer gloves, and I could almost see steam off them as the grips warmed my palms. Temperature dropped to 8 degrees, and it rained for two hours solid, including a torrential downpour with lightning flashes on all sides. When the lightning started, I started looking for shelter, but it was 20 minutes or so before I passed what at the first glimpse in my peripheral vision looked like a shop. I almost missed it in the rain. A quick U-turn, and I took shelter under an awning, next to a building that turned out to be an MC’s clubhouse, in the middle of nowhere. I walked across and knocked on the door, with visions of a warm room with beer and a fire, fellow bikers welcoming me in from the storm while feeding me Alpaca steaks. No-one was home. The large sign outside read “Resto Bar Chez Didierm Parrilla” just above where it said Inca Riders. I was pretty sure that resto bar probably meant restaurant/bar, but boredom and Google Translate and Wikipedia soon told me that parrilla was the Spanish word for torture using electric shock. Maybe they cook alpacas by electrocuting them, using the lightning from storms like the one raging around me, chanting as you watch. Maybe it just as well no-one was home.

Inca Riders Parrilla

I came out of the rain into a sunny patch for a while, and then raced a storm front for the last 40km. The sky was black in the mirrors. I got to La Quica at about 6pm, after 10 hours on the road. I had decided earlier to try get to La Quica in one go, 625km (390 miles), partly because of the weather, and partly because it’s where the interesting stuff starts. In retrospect, probably a stupid idea, as I had now ridden from 1328 feet (420m) altitude to 11,293 ft (3442mt) in one day. I had read enough mountaineering books to know about altitude sickness. Temperature today ranged from 34 degrees to 8 degrees. Scenery varied from flat straight stuff, to twisty green rolling hills, to river valleys that look like images I have seen of Afghanistan. Througout the day, loads of police checkpoints, but I was been waved through every single one. I had been following RN9 for 1979km, completing a transit of a road I hadn’t been consciously trying to follow.

I stopped and took the obligatory picture by the sign saying 5121km to Ushuaia, then had a quick look for a hostel on iOverlander. The Copacaban Hostel proved to be both cheap and comfortable. I rode my bike through reception to park it in an adobe courtyard right outside my room.

All south from here….

There was a very different feel to the country here, the locals all being descendants of the Incas, and it feels like a very olde worlde type of place, in spite of the modern breeze block buildings.

In the hostel, I met two Argentinian bikers, Ricardo and Samuel. They are on a week long trip from their home in Misiones. Tomorrow they are heading for Cafayate, but not via Ruta 40. They knew of a local restaurant, so we walked there in the gathering dusk. The altitude was palpable. You couldn’t walk quickly without getting out of breath, and it felt like walking on a planet with more gravity. Over dinner, Ricardo and Samuel tried to persuade me to join them. They seemed to think I was nuts to be going on Ruta 40 tomorrow, on my own. “Ripio, ripio!” they warned me. Ripio seems a particularly nasty sounding word for dirt roads, imo. Later in the trip, I started wondering if the sound of the word itself discourages some Spanish speaking riders to venture onto dirt. To be fair, Samuel was on a road bike, and he was planning a bit of dirt down in the salt flats. The local restaurant had a mixed grill, which included black pudding, steak, kidneys, chicken and tripe (yuk). It was actually I nice enough meal, and great company, but I was very tired and could feel a headache coming on. I was also still wondering if riding on dirt really is like riding a bicycle…..

“Ripio, ripio….” Dinner with Ricardo and Samuel. Pic courtesy of Ricardo Werle.

So Ruta 40 starts here. But no more rushing, I am going to slow it right down, I think, take more pictures, see more stuff. The weather might be dodgy tomorrow, and next 725 km is dirt, so I have no plans beyond getting to Santa Catalina tomorrow, which is only 39 miles away. Plus I can definitely feel the effects of the 3442 metres, or 11300 feet, of altitude. Or maybe it’s the beer….

A Himalayan in the Andes-Ruta 40-Part 1

Jon Andes, Uncategorized March 28, 2020March 28, 2020 0 Comment

A video of my first day on Ruta 40

Jan 9-10 : RN9

Jon Andes March 28, 2020June 6, 2020 0 Comment

9th-10th Jan 2020

I ended up waking up around 10 am. I’d been bitten by bedbugs, and hadn’t slept very well. I ended up leaving town around 11:30, after the obligatory breakfast of toast and jam in the hotel restaurant. I set off, unsure how far I was going to ride that day. At one point, I kept hearing a squeaking noise at low speed. Getting paranoid about wheel bearings, I’ stopped, put the bike on the centre stand and spun the back wheel, but all seemed OK. However, on finding out there was a Royal Enfield Dealer in Yerba Buena while consulting Google during a fuel and drink stop, combined with the thought of a shorter day, I decided to head to Yerba Buena. The interesting sounding name of the place (Yerba is the herb used to make mate tea) made up my mind. Of course, the squeaking noise could have been the heat, tiredness, and the hypnotic effect of 200 miles of straight road, distorting my senses. At one point, going through some scrubby salt flats, I saw a guy waving a huge snake at me.

1000km done

When I turned off route 9 towards Yerba Buena, on to RP321, everything instantly changed. Hills. Green stuff that wasn’t spiky. Trees. I hadn’t seen a tree for ages. So I parked under what I guess was some type of eucalyptus, took off my jacket, took a pic, then rode off. 10 minutes, later, I realised I had left my Camelback under a tree. When I got back there, identifying the exact spot from the photo I had taken there, it was gone. Shit. I headed in to Yerba Buena to look for a hostel. I found the Pura Vida Mae hostel on iOverlander. It wasn’t that cheap, but I got an air conditioned room in a very cool hostel. I neede a shower, and decided to leave Royal Enfield for the next day. The hostel told me of a shop in Tucuman that sold camping equipment, so I decided to go and find a new Camelabak too. I dropped off some laundy at a nearby laundry, ate a milanesa, and went to bed.

10th Jan 2020

After a really good sleep, I realised that by the time I had done everything I needed, it would be too late to get very far. I checked in for another night. I rode to the Royal Enfield dealer. It turned out to be a brand new dealer, open less than a week. They hadn’t yet got the workshop going, but after a conversation with two of the employees, and a play with the wheel, we all decided it was ok. I dajusted the chain and lubed it, and asked them if they knew anywhere that I could change US Dollars. They phoned a businessman they knew. He could change some money for me. One of the guys jumped on another Himalayan, and I followed him down to a big car dealership in Tucuman itself. The guy they introduced me to changed 200 dollars for me. I wish I’d changed more, because I never got such a good rate again.

Then I headed to a huge camping store in the city, Canigo. They also sell guns. Lots of guns. And knives, machetes; in fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised if they sold garottes. I bought a very capable looking hydration pack made by an Argentinian company called Waterdog. It looks the dogs bollocks, and is an improvement both design and functionality than the item it replaced. I also needed a spare gas cylinder, which they didn’t have in stock, but they sent me round the corner to a shop owned by a manic biker who chewed a huge wad of coca leaves while he rooted around for the one gas cylinder he had in stock. While there, Miguel phoned a friend of his who was riding to Cafayate the next day. Germán Guntern has ridden round the world on his BMW. I chatted to him for quite a while, and he asked me about my trip. He invited me to join him the next day, but I wanted to head for La Quica, and the start of Ruta 40. I would reach Cafayate about a week later.

Back at the hostel, I wandered to a local bar and ate empenadas for the first time (3 helpings, plus a beer, which here is served in litre bottles). When I got back to the hostel, it started raining. I stood outside in the rain for a while, enjoying the coolness of it. After plugging battery chargers in, it was time to sleep.

Jan 7: RN9

Jon Andes March 28, 2020June 6, 2020 0 Comment

7th Jan 2020

The flight to Buenos Aires turned ou to be very pleasant, after nearly missing the connection in LHR due to a delay out of Manchester. When I got on the B777 (still my favourite aircraft ever) I had 3 seats to myself, and slept about 8 hours. It’s actually probably he longest I’d ever slept on a ‘plane. As I had no checked in luggage, after an hour or so in a queue for immigration, I wandered out of the airport. A few hundred metres away I could see the gas station where I had arranged to meet Sandra and Xavier, of Dakar Motos. After a quick coffe, some instructions from Sandra just to smile all the time and leave things to her, we set off to get my bike, which had arrived the day before via Mexico City. I was actually feeling pretty ok for the 4 hours trudging around offices, signing bits of paper in front of bored looking people with computers, before picking up the bike. And, of course, people demanding money for all sorts of regulatory forms. I even had to pay for a copy of the waybill, despite already having one; they would only stamp the one that they provided. Luckily, Sandra is very experienced at importing bikes; I definitely wouldn’t like to try that without local help. Four hours later, after refitting the screen, connecting the battery, and strapping everything to the bike, I said goodbye to a Sandra and Xavier, and set off for the B&B I had booked through booking.com. I could tell that Xavier was somewhat sceptical of my ambitions. I suspect he thought I didn’t really know what I was doing. My bike was overloaded, I had told him I’d not ridden on dirt for thirty years, and I was an overweight 59 year old. on a cheap bike loaded with budget gear. I guess I can’t blame him for looking a bit sceptical.

I really lucked out on my choice of B and B in Buenos Aires. Federico is a really good host. For a small fee he even cooked me dinner, and we drank a few beers in the garden before I crashed out for the night. While at his house, I also decided to change the number plate fixing bolts; Itchy Boots lost her number plate somewhere in Argentina, and I didn’t want to lose mine. Federico had a few old bolts lying around that fitted, so that would hopefully be one less thing that could go wrong on the trip.

First day on the road today ended up being 369 miles of motorway, RN9 (Ruta Nacional 9 (I will include the road(s) I was on in the title of each days blog). It was a hot day, with the temperature up to 33 degrees by the time I reached Rosario. Luckily the bike turned out be pretty comfortable; my longest trip on it previous to this had been from London to Manchester. It seemed to like cruising at 5200 RPM, which gave me just under 70mph indicated on the speedometer. At this point, I was still thinking in miles. On the way to Rosario, I found that some tolls on motorways don’t charge for motorcycles, and some do. The clue is in the signs, though at one toll booth I followed a guy in a moped through a gap in a fence beside the road, and realised too late that he’d probably actually just diverted to avoid paying. I worried about it for a km or two, but when I saw no lights and heard no sirens, I thought I’d got away with it. I stopped for a coffee and to try to get my music working, but in fact it never worked for the entire trip.

I dropped in at the Royal Enfield dealer in Rosario, to get spare oil and chain lube if they had it. It was siesta time when I arrived, so the only guy there was asleep; but he heard the bike, and opened up the shop. He was really happy to meet me, and, even though his English was as bad as my Spanish, we had some sort of conversation. Then he sent me to their workshop, just across the road, where a cool young dude called Nihuel showed me round the workshop, and offered me a free service, which I didn’t need as the bike had only done 200 miles since the last one (courtesy of Bolton Motorcycles). Miguel then gave me a litre of oil and a can of chain lube. It’s fantastic, and perhaps unique nowadays, that Royal Enfield dealers everywhere seem very proud of their product.

After leaving Rosario, I decided to get as many motorway miles behind me before it was time to camp. I stopped for the night at Villa Maria, a quiet little town halfway between Rosario and Cordoba. I had three options from iOverlander for camping. The first choice was a good one, Parador Villa Maria, a very quiet campsite outside town, with only two other guests. However, I found out later I had undoubtedly been ripped off. It turned out to be the most expensive nights camping of the entire trip. The campsite was run by a very drunk couple who kept coming over to my tent to babble incoherently in Spanish at me. I’d been trying to learn a bit of Spanish before the trip, using an app called Duolingo, but it certainly hadn’t got me anywhere near understanding drunk Argentinians. I took a walk to the local shop, and discovered there is a hefty deposit on the litre bottles of beer. I drank one there and then, and took another back to the campsite with me. Luckily the drunk couple had disappeared, and I could hear then arguing somewhere in the main building, which was completely empty and partly derelict. After a shower in a bare breeze block room in the main building, I cooked some pasta, climbed into my sleeping bag, and fell asleep quite quickly, pretty content with my first day on the road.

Campsite in Rosario

The Andes by Himalayan-Preparation

Jon Andes, Uncategorized December 31, 2019March 28, 2020 0 Comment

So it’s less than one week to go before I set off for Buenos Aires, and I’m getting nervous. Bike is packed and shipped, it’s New Years Eve, and hopefully I’ve finished all the preparation.

The plan? To ride Ruta 40 north to south, and then see how much time I have left for the Carreterra Austral in Chile. The bike is a second hand RE Himalayan I bought from a Polish builder in London, for a very good price. He was heading back to Poland after suffering a stroke, and wanted to sell the bike before he left. Poor guy was in tears when I picked it up.

The last few months have been spent getting the bike ready. Heated grips, a USB port, pannier racks, engine guards, spotlights, tool tube, fender raisers, and switch for the ABS, wired through the fuse box. I also installed an INNOV 2 Power Hub. I was going to do some videos, in fact started to do so, but most of it would have been me swearing and looking for tools I’d just put down. I will try and shoot a lot of video on the road though, I’ve even bought a drone. The bike has been serviced, courtesy of Bolton Motorcycles (thanks guys!) new tyres, chain and sprockets, and I’ve got probably far too many spares packed on the bike. Luggage is all from Lomo, a Acottish company better known for wetsuits, but now making a very reasonably priced range of motorcycle luggage. They gave me a free bag, so thanks to them too!

So why Ruta 40? Initially, I wanted to ride to Mongolia and Magadan this summer, but, faced with having to leave a very good job to do so, instead I took the company’s offer of two months off at half pay in the winter instead. Then I needed a destination; initially, I was gong to Peru, but the idea of riding around aimlessly in the mountains for two months somehow didn’t get me excited. I wanted a journey. So where else can you ride in the southern hemisphere during their summer? Africa, been there, done that (I grew up in Botswana) Oz is too hot. South America seemed to tick the right boxes, so Ruta 40 it is.

A quick introduction for anyone who doesn’t know me, I guess… I’m an old fart of 59, not ridden dirt bikes for decades (had an XR500 in Botswana for many years), and my travels in the last few years have been mainly on a Harley Davidson Softail Slim, on which I’ve ridden in Qatar, toured Jordan, and ridden the UK north to south on B roads. My wife Jackie and me have been to many bike rallies in the last three years, her on her Sportster and me on the Slim, and last year we had two fantastic weeks touring around and camping, the first week in the Lake District, the second one in the Peak District (a bit of a wet week, but great fun nonetheless). I’ve also toured Italy on a Harley Road Glide with a group of friends from Qatar. I commute year round on the Slim,though lately have been using the Himalayan. When I left Botswana, my plan was to ride the XR 500 to the UK, but events conspired to scupper that trip, and it’s remained an itch , getting more annoying with time, to the point that I now need to scratch while I can still reach it.

A few people have asked me why I’m shipping a bike there and back for two months of riding. Well, rental worked out about the same, and this way, I get to ride the bike I want, set it up how I want, and keep it afterwards. Buying wasn’t a practical solution, as the paperwork would have eaten into my available time.

The plan is to camp a much as possible, stopping at a hostel or hotel when I need a shower, clean clothes, and beer. I’ll update the ride report as and when I can; I’m not taking a computer, so everything will be done on my phone.

Gonna miss Jackie like crazy, but glad she understands why I’m going. The hardest part of the trip will be missing her.

I will post regularly here, hope you all enjoy following my trip!

Ode to a Harley

Jon Blog January 7, 2019January 9, 2019bikers, bikes, Harley 0 Comment

Harleys seem to be the bikes everyone loves to hate. I have to confess, before I became a Harley owner myself, I shared some of these ideas. Let me know if any of them sound familiar….

Harleys can’t go round corners, can’t stop, can’t be relied on. They cost too much and leak oil everywhere. They weigh the same as a small armoured personnel carrier and scrape their saggy frames over the slightest dent in the road. Their engine is based on the power plant of a failed tractor. They can go quite fast though. 80mph on a good day. Eventually. In a straight line. They make so much noise they set off any car alarm within a half mile radius. Form replaces function in an orgy of chrome, spangly paint jobs with flaming skulls, panniers with half an inch clearance from the road. In many cases, the complete removal of the rear suspension and extension of the forks makes them even more unrideable. And then there’s stereotyped ideas about the people who ride Harleys….

Speak to most bikers, and Harleys are usually ridden by bank managers, executives, insurance salesmen or dentists, who want to look cool on the weekends. They like nothing better than to ride twenty miles to Starbucks, where they can coo over each others bikes while drinking caramel lattes and talking about exhaust pipes and awesome rides to the Harley dealer to buy T shirts. They all wear Harley branded gear, which means they can’t really wear any proper protection, and the really radical ones grow beards and wear large metal bracelets and bandanas. Corporate-branded bikers who can’t actually ride very well.

Or, there’s another stereotype; this stereotype is more commonly held by the general public, as opposed to other bikers. In this iteration, Harley riders are dirty, unwashed, smelly middle aged men with bloodshot eyes and beer bellies. They like making noise and leering at your daughter through matted facial hair full of bits of the last pie they ate , and battering strangers to a pulp for looking at them. They drink heavily, and refer to their girlfriends as “the bitch”. They never wash their bikes and ride around in gangs. They ride bikes that are held together with zip-ties and wire, scratched matte paint that looks like it was applied with a coarse brush. The rear suspension has been removed and replaced with a rigid frame, bought off Ebay or welded together by a mate, and they have chopped enough off the rear fender off to have a permanent stain up the back of their jacket. They like nothing better than terrorising traffic in huge groups as they thunder along the motorway. They rebuild wrecked and stolen bikes in cold sheds while drinking beer, with the assistance of a friend to chop lines, roll joints and keep Metallica playing.

As I said, I probably shared some of these ideas.

Then we moved to Qatar. It’s a pretty Conservative country. It’s pretty boring, unless you love shopping and sand. After a while, my wife and I met some bikers there. They seemed much more interesting than the weekend barbecue set. They also let us into a little secret; the Qatari people also like Harleys. In fact, they love them, especially blingy baggers. So, when you are on the road, disguised in your bike gear, the foreigners who make up the vast majority of the populace assume you might be a local, and causing you to come off your bike might result in them being flogged, imprisoned, fined a years wages, or deported. So they make sure they make way for you. Jackie had always wanted a Sportster; she actually had a picture of one on her fridge when I met her. So we bought two 1200 Sportsters. Both of us hadn’t ridden bikes for 20 years or so. Buying a new bike comes with automatic membership of HOG (Harley Owners Group) for one year, so we started going for rides with the local HOG chapter, and met some great people, many of whom actually were bank managers and insurance salesmen. Then one Friday, we went for a ride with a local MC. And these were actually really nice people. Not a 1% club, like the MC’s in the UK, but a group of very cool dudes who loved riding motorcycles and hanging out together.

After a year of riding with Wataweet, we both became prospects, and, eventually fully patched members. I started looking at bigger bikes. One day, I took my Sportster for a service and the dealer lent me a Softail Slim, no doubt in the hopes that I would buy one. I loved the Slim. Low seat, lots more power, great handling, and it looks pretty good too. The one I bought had been customised by a fellow pilot. He blacked the whole bike out, which was very attractive to me, as the idea of polishing chrome or even washing my bike doesn’t appeal.

Not long after this, Jackie got a new bike too, a Heritage Softail, which she loves as much as I love my Slim. It’s got some chrome on it, but she doesn’t mind the odd bit of polishing.

So, why do I love my Slim so much? Well, how many bikes make you grin like a kid every time you get on them? How can you not love a low revving, high torque, 1690cc motor? Pls, being a short-arse, it’s very low, so I can flat-foot it. The centre of gravity is so low it will almost stand up on it’s own. It is also very comfortable, though only since I made a few mods. When I first bought the bike, it already had the ape-hanger bars on it; I originally intended to replace them with stock handlebars. By the time I got around to looking for some, I had changed my mind. Although they look very high, when sitting on the bike my hands are below shoulder height, so no numbness or tingling of fingers after an hour or so in the saddle. I got rid of the stock seat (which is awful), replacing it with a Mustang seat with a backrest. The backrest actually transformed the bike. With the apes, the upright position is not conducive to fast motorway riding. Above about 65mph, it feels like you are hanging on for dear life. A 300km trip through a sandstorm at high speed in Jordan convinced me of the need for a backrest. Now the bars are very comfortable. What I have noticed the most with these bars, is how intuitive counter-steering is. In fact, there’s no sensation of doing anything else. I don’t have to lean; if I want to go right, I pull on the left grip. If I want to tighten the turn, I pull harder. It’s very controllable, and very simple. Moving around on the saddle isn’t go to do much on a 304 kg bike anyway. Footboards are so much better than pegs imo. You can move your feet around. The bike obviously won’t lean as much as a pointy plastic bike, but it is incredibly stable in corners. The slimmer rear tyre means it’s actually pretty nimble. It’s rare that I scrape the boards, as I know exactly when they are going to connect with the road. The engine has torque available in any gear and at almost any RPM.

Now we are back in the UK. We brought three bikes back with us., the Slim, the Heritage and Jackies Sportster, which we actually shipped to the UK while we were still in Qatar. We can’t wear our patches here, but we still meet up with Wataweet for a tour once a year. Last year was Italy, the year before, Scotland. We go to 5 or 6 rallies a year, favouring the smaller MCC rallies. I have done 3 trips around Scotland, one to Lands End on A and B roads, several trips to London, and I use the Slim year round for commuting. The bike now has 34 000 miles on it. I will never replace it. I am planning on getting a Royal Enfield Himalayan, but as an additional, off road capable, adventure machine. Meanwhile, the adventures continue on the Harleys.

I’ve recently put a windscreen on the bike; not a Harley one, but a generic screen off Ebay. I commute all year on the bike, so figure I’m allowed some wind protection, even though my club-mates say it looks wrong. The only other mod on the bike I have done since buying it is to change the front brake lever with an Oberon adjustable lever, which is easier to pull, and replaced the stock tyres with Michelin 888’s. These tyres really surprised me with how good they are in the wet, and how they don’t track tar-snakes. And belt drive…I just don’t understand why all bikes aren’t belt drive. No adjustments or servicing needed, super reliable, and they don’t get covered in dirt and need replacing every 20000 miles.

If you like rallies or camping, which we both do, then a Harley is definitely the way to get there. They can carry a lot of gear. Jackie and myself have been to several rallies the last few summers, bikes loaded up with camping gear and everything including the kitchen sink. Yep, really; a kitchen sink. How many of you take a kitchen sink on a camping trip? And a potty? My wife also has a bed; we have a table, 2 chairs, 2 mattresses, a twin burner stove; all the comforts we need for our large tent, standing room throughout, which was nicknamed “The Bungalow” at one rally we went to last year

So how does being loaded up like this affect the bike? To be honest, the only thing I notice that’s different, is that the fuel consumption goes up.(I am not going to pretend fuel economy is great to start with; my car is actually more economical). Performance seems the same. Comfort is unaffected. Handling is also unaffected, save that I am guessing the brakes must be a bit less efficient (though I’ve not noticed).

How about traffic? I often get asked how big heavy bikes like the Slim or my wife’s Heritage fare in traffic. Well, I commute on it, and I don’t get stuck in traffic. The bike is great for filtering. The bars are above the height of normal car wing mirrors (though in Qatar the bars were the same height as the mirrors on the standard vehicle, white Land Cruisers. I confess I hit a fair number of them). The low C of G means it’s very stable at low speed. The loud pipes mean I never need to use the horn; a blip on the throttle does just as well. To be honest, I couldn’t tell you if the horn actually works. The three lights on the front, and the size of the bike, means I’m pretty visible. On the way to a rally a few months ago, we got caught up in a huge traffic jam on the M62, during Friday rush hour. Jackie led the way, and we filtered for 20 miles or so. After a few miles, we passed a guy hunched in the foetal position on his Yamasuki Ninjablade, who was also threading his way through traffic. He slotted in behind me and filtered with us for twenty miles or so before giving us a wave as he peeled off on his exit.

The bike will cruise effortlessly at 85mph. Do I really want to go faster than that? Not on a public road. The Slim is great on any road that is tarmac, however twisty, narrow or steep it is. Riding it up Hardknott Pass was a total blast (Video is on YouTube https://youtu.be/NycaojqS7cY if). I can (and do) do 10 hour days on the bike without any aches. I often see people peeling themselves off their Kwakabusa’s, clad in their thin, cold, leather power-ranger suits, taking ten minutes to straighten out their bodies, like they have just crawled out of a Kinder egg after a lengthy gestation. Though, I have also seen guys getting off hard-tail Harleys looking like they need new kidneys. While I like form, function takes precedence. I am as bemused by 30 grand flaming skull choppers that look unrideable, as I am by seeing 200bhp bikes that belong on a race-track being ridden on public roads.

But who cares? I’m very happy with my bike, and, whatever anyone else rides, it’s their choice. At least they are riding. I can’t see me ever buying a different road bike, but I guess I am now a Harley guy. I’ve even got a beard.