( Ed -This was to be the first of our ‘From the Notebook’ collection, however given it would have been opinions based on experience. It would be wrong to discard either the opinion or the experience.)

Firstly, I should introduce the star of the show, the Carretera Austral, Chilean Patagonia. The Carretera Austral is a 1240 km stretch of road snaking from Puerto Month to Villa O’Higgins. In actor terms, imagine a worn and rugged male in late middle age. Whilst the route has been there for nearly 100 years, parts have dissolved, rebuilt and redirected though some of the most isolated, harsh and beautiful areas of South America. What is left is a figure of permanence that still lacks its full picture, still mysterious, still fleeting even in its final resurgent days. The Harry Dean Stanton of roads.
Of course that metaphor is easy for me to understand, I like Harry Dean Stanton and I recently completed cycling this road so it has a character which I can’t begin to explain. For most reading this it may make absolutely no sense. Enough mention of HDS, I’ll get to the point and that is the last few months of cycling. Something which has quite literally altered my being. (Something I am reticent to write.)

Shit introduction out of the way; I just spent 6 and a half weeks cycling 1240 km through Chile. I stayed in a tent with my girlfriend the whole way, we raised £1200 for charity and I managed to learn some Spanish. While that sounds like a gloaty little list of claims, it isn’t meant to be. Trying to summarise those 6weeks into a coherent price of writing is a challenge.

When I last wrote a travel article I was talking about the disappointment of Cabo Polonio. If I remember rightly; I felt cheated, there hadn’t been enough isolation, the town was a lie. In hindsight, these were fair points and as I sat writing them in Bariloche the week before we started this cycle, I had felt a sense of trepidation that all we had read about the Carretera Austral was wind and pish just as Cabo Polonio had been. Thankfully, it wasn’t.

We started in Puerto Month, where the road started. The week before we rushed around town buying everything; bikes, helmets, racks, camp stove, tent, dried food, torch, zip ties, etc. You get the picture. This was a stressful affair, we spent all of our remaining money on this stuff which was worrying enough but the fact that we were in Puerto Montt made it worse. It is officially the worst place on the route.
The plan was to cycle the whole way and sell the goods once we got to Argentina, taking advantage of the locals need for American bikes and the lack of import tax. (The Argentine economy is silly, find out for yourself.) However when you are thousands of miles from your home and you decide to spend your money (all of it) on something that has been little more than an occasional hobby and cycle off into the distance, you too will be stressed. Especially when you have no buyer lined up.
The day we rolled out of Puerto Montt all our stress subsided. The money shot.
As I mentioned, cycling has been little more than an occasional day out I the past, so to pack your life onto a bike and decide to cycle down one of the hardest roads in the world (for bike touring) and start your first tour was possibly rather foolhardy. There was, to that end, initial wobbles – mainly on our overladen, never before ridden cycles which as we left seemed more like Harley Davidsons rather than the Trek 29er mountain bikes we had each opted for. The liberating feeling of packing up and pedaling out of that town, which I had hated, is indescribable. I sound like a gushy american whore. But it is the truth, I was riddled with nerves and tingling with excitement. I also toppled over shortly after leaving, not used to the weight.
This high continued for our first few days, getting used to the bikes and flying down our first hill was as good as your first joint FAM. The feeling of freedom and isolation whilst cycling is as good as anything else. Instead of gritty comedowns there is a new satisfied feeling, knowing where you want to go and how you got here.
The comedown was to come however.
Enter Mr Mechanical Fault.
Third day of cycling and my mother fucking chain broke! Can you believe that shit?!
“Yes actually, its quite common on new bikes and given the 25-30 kg load you was carrying unsurprising.” Shut up.
I didn’t know this, the worst I was hoping for was a flat tire and so hadn’t packed no chain tool or spare chin links. Now, this seems foolhardy and humorous. At the time however, day three of our adventure, it was shattering. That is the closest I’ve been to tears since my balls dropped. (Discounting the fate of David Moyes). I was convinced that our trip was over before it had begun and we’d barley made it 50km. Plus I had to push my bike over the big fucking hill I’d just smiled my way down. Luckily, as we had left that afternoon I had noticed a shed laden with old cars etc and had the good sense to go back there. I showed a ‘mechanic’ the chain and we picked and pulled at it, determining the problem. He nodded and got straight to it, a picture seemingly in his head. I stood foolishly with my new bike, a silly European unable to fix a chain on a $1000 bike. Our saviour could fix anything even if it was as crudely done as is imaginable. This is his recipe;
Take one foolish European with expensive broken bike. Find one rusty nail which fits hole in chain. Find axle grinder which has been rewired and left on, find homemade extension cord and plug In axle grinder ensuring grinder is between feet. Jump and avoid self-amputation. Grind down nail carefully whilst shaking near expensive bike so as to make European nervous. Charge £3 and let them be on their way.
I’m sure you’ll agree that that is a delicious slice of irony. Expensive bike unrideable but for rusty nail and knowledge of poorer, superior man. Anyway, that cataclysmic hour or so was enough to have me paranoid of this mans workmanship and my bike in general for the next 500km until I bought a new chain. It wasn’t until much after that my next booboo took place, this time a broken spoke around 700kms in. Again, no ability or tools on my end, this time I had to rely on the know how and eagerness of a large group of collegiate north Americans. Something you can always rely on. ( Note – sarcasm does not mean I am not thankful.)
Generally speaking, the high continued though. Some days of ice cold rain, some days of being a fed up grumpy bastard but mostly I was aware that what we were doing was beyond the norm. I will bore you with details of the end of the trip before I have you piss. You will piss  because I will ramble a lot of garbage about the area we passed through, the people we met and how it has changed me and how I have recognised that changed. Firstly though, the boredom.
We finished the trip passing on the notorious border crossing between Villa O’Higgins and El Chalten. This is like no other crossing you are likely to come across, complete with rivers, an airstrip, glacier and a lake. We arrived in Villa O’Higgins with the intention of taking the ferry across the lake on a Friday, this wasn’t possible due to a mixture of poor weather and lack of passengers so on the Monday we set sail. Ourselves, myself and my sexy, hardcore motherfucker girlfriend (she’ll giggle if she reads that,) were joined by a zainy Austrian as the only bikers on the boat. The boat which we had to get up at 5 ocuntingclock to catch.
Earlier in the week, during a cold rainy day over a mountain my girlfriends (new) passport had gotten wet, this was playing heavy on our minds as we left the Chilean customs. (Read: Soldiers quad track/training with football pitch on lonely mountain lake farm.) What if we couldn’t get into Argentina?! What if we got refused and then couldn’t get back into Chile or there was no ferry back?! This was all wishful thinking. Contrary to rumour the Argentine customs hut wasn’t after the first 19km to the border (up a mountain on rotten gravel roads). In fact it was after the 6km rut after the border. What we should have been worrying about was that rut. Or stream. Or mud slide. Whatever it was it was horrible. Incidentally, my rack had broken 70km from O’Higgins, I had it fixed but some arsehole Spanish man tried to proven to me the impermanence of my fix by breaking my fix. So as I took on the worst part of the cycle I had a slightly broken bike. As I on it got worse, what a cunt. I realise that he was making a point about the demanding road doing worse things but still! So as we entered the rut, me, Mrs Hummels and our new Austrian friend my bike was already flagging. Then came the rain. We weren’t wearing dem waterproofs. Then my rack fell onto the wheel and it seemed really broken. Then I kind of fixed it. Then I had to wade through a river to save my bike as an underwater stick got stuck between spokes. Then it was no longer fun. Then it got dark. Then we made it and camped INA shed while the rain came down nd ate spaghetti and slept. The next day we sent our bikes across a lake on a boat while we walked for 4 hours round the fucker to make those savings. Then we cycled thirty seven km to El Chalten in three hours where we eventually found a free camp ground run by an ex cycler . then we sold our bikes. That’s the whole story more or less. Read on if you want to hear how it changed me, man.

Mr Hummels