Desert Mordechai

Día 24: SPD falls, Patagonian Desert and Stars in Their Eyes (82km)

Chapter 4 Dale Dale Argentina (5/9)

San Martín to Junín de los Andes Komoot GPX (82km)

“Because in the end, you won’t remember the time you spent working in the office or mowing your lawn. Climb that goddamn mountain.”

Guess the author.* Beat. 

San Martín is a place to return to. It might even be my spiritual home. I’d always wanted to settle in a region with lofty mountains, copius running trails and a teasing expanse of kayak-friendly water.  

But I’d never predicted toppling from tourbike to tarmac, repeatedly, in the streets of said home.  

For years, close cycling friends insisted that I break my stubborn reliance on standard pedals and embrace the (free!) extra power available with clip ins. They did mention the falling off part. But I’d adapt to that quickly (apparently).  

Before I left the UK, I travelled up to LDN where James handed me a crinkled brown paper bag with some worn metal pedals in. His frustration creeping through after many years of good advice ignored…

“It’s so much easier, just put them on.”

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Here I was on Day 24 and that bag with the metallic goods was still stuffed in my pannier. In the early Días, I'd had too much gravel on my plate to consider fixing my soles to these mini human bear traps. But in the last 10 days it had been nearly all smooth tarmac. No more excuses. 

I bought cleats in town and cobbled them on with Jake's help, before nervously stowing the old pedals in the bottom of my pannier. Just in case…

The new pedals were incredibly tight.

Watching a 6ft5, lanky gringo keeling over ‘like a slowly capsizing ship’ (Hudson, 2023) must have been fairly amusing for morning commuters. Less so for me.

By the third crash landing on the road out of town, I’m wondering whether to switch back. A lorry thunders past and ejects a blizzard of sawdust, as if celebrating my toil. I could just sack this all off and hitchhike, I think, as I pick fluttering wood clippings from my eyelashes.  

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As ever, the landscape comes to my rescue. The scenery has morphed once more.  

“Argentina, what have you got for us today?”

“Tonight Matthew, I’m going to be Mordechai by Khruangbin, dressed as the Californian desert.” (Stars in Their Eyes, c1999)

This is big and broad country. The startling blues and effervescent deep greens have been replaced by something golden, burnt, and much more barren. Yet expansive and captivating in a different way.

Our thoughts have longer to drift down meandering rivers as the views sojourn all afternoon.

Despite the departure from the greens we knew and loved; we could still buy fresh empanadas by the dozen. Which we abso-bloody-lutely did.

The lady who hand-makes them for us says something about our chosen road ahead. I think it’s Argentinian slang because I can’t understand it. She pauses and searches for a simpler message. 

“Ay... como te digo... va a ser… buenísimo!” 

‘How do I say this… hmm…it’s going to be…really good!’  

Harnessing that pastry power, we lean into the winding road towards Chile once more. An Andean pass beckons. The volcano (and another!) that has punctured our skyline all day, now lies straight ahead. It seems the pass lies directly beneath it.  

We reach a camp spot, I fall off, the pope remains Catholic.

As we’re setting up tents on volcanic ash, the sunset turns mythical. Instinctively, we down tools and jog up the hillside for a better view.

As the orb dips below the volcano's edge, a sword of light dissects the sky in two creating a gigantic prism.

The Dark Side of the Mountain.  

Minds pleasingly blown, we return to camp and sway along to, 

That’s life

If we had more time 

we could live forever.  

Just You and I

We could be together

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(*)Kerouac would have loved this.  

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