We lost Nicole

Día 40-41: Mik, Unai, desert centurions and Voldemort’s back story (268km)

Part of Chapter 6 Bipedal Therapy

Día 40 The European Charge

Cabanas los Horneros to Vallecito (GPX 163km)

It’s the final day of the season, a special one for any football fan’s calendar. And both our teams - Jack (Arsenal), Jake (Aston Villa) - have had much to relish this year.

Villa’s remarkable recovery in the latter half of the season has had me develop an allergic reaction to Jake chanting the phrase,

“IT’S THE EUROPEAN CHARGE”

at every opportunity. And I mean every opportunity.

After today, Europe will have been attained, and we can drop the football for a couple of months.

Thank the holy lord.

See love letters for Mik and Unai below.

---

Querido Mik Arteta.

This club has changed and the future is bright,

You’ve morphed our players into fearless rays of light.

Saliba a rock,

Martinelli a tenacious terrier,

and Saka a star destined for the stratosphere.

Guided by Granit, Alex and our Brazilian messiah,

And with an old head on young shoulders,

MØ8 as captain supreme,

An intoxicating mix that seemed previously,

but a dream.

You’ve bought joy, sunshine and happiness to our lives,

Sticking to the task through the most unstable of times,

Covid, strings of defeats and a pile of deadwood that needed shifting,

Consistency, dedication and trusting the process were the method of lifting,

this great club

whose horizons are now much further afield,

And whose trajectory is thrilling and seems destined to yield,

Yet more love, songs and trophies for our indomitable team,

Opportunities will come which they are sure to redeem.

A 5-0 win to cap it all off,

Super Mik Arteta, the righteous successor to the Prof,

North London is yours that much is true,

And I cannot wait,

to see what else you can do.

---

P.S. Unlike Jack, I'm a man of few words but Unai, peddling along whilst listening to commentary of the Villa dispatch team after team at the latter stages of this season has brought me such (rare) joy as a fan. The European charge is complete. UTV

---

Our own challenge today was the flattest of flat 100miles. A mental test harder than you think. With little visual clues to chart progress and the majestic forehead of Aconcagua glaring out at us across the plain for the entire day.

Given that this will be Jake’s longest ever ride, I splash the cash at lunch and buy two bottles of wine for a finish line celebration. Progress is good, but it still takes all the daylight hours.

As darkness falls we find solace in a sun-baked smooth ciclovía (cyclepath). Just in time, the pacy traffic was starting to drain our patience.

The celebration meal for our hundred miles of effort? A pizza advertised with cheese, olives and lomo.

“What’s lomo?”

*Vendor points out a huge block of processed pig.*

“We’re vegetarianos so could we have it without the lomo?”

“But lomo’s not meat,” complains the elderly mother, clearly appalled at our inexplicably meatless stance.

I hate to say it, but read our hundred mile legs and weep old woman.

I stay up late, drunk on the euphoria (and the wine) of such a distance.

This is a happy intoxication and there’s nowhere I’d rather be. I feel really, really good.

Día 40 The Chucuma Affair

Vallecito to Chucuma (GPX 105km)

I’m awake early still feeling the buzz of last night, lying roadside on the floor in a dusty, arid corner of Argentinian desert. I fucking love that fact.

There’s nowhere I’d rather be right now.

I leave a note under a wine bottle for Jake and Nic and go off in search of desayuno and a shady spot to write.

---

We’re camped near the Difunta Correa. A pilgrimage site that celebrates the life of Deolinda Correa, a popular national legend.

In the mid-1800s, She walked into this heat with her baby and limited food supplies in search of her husband, who had been conscripted into the civil war effort in Northern Argentina. Exhausted, dehydrated and without sustenance, she lay down beneath an algarrobo tree and died.

The next day she was found by mule drivers who discovered the baby boy was still alive and feeding from her breast. Imagine their surprise when they looked inside his collar, brushed away the dirt and recoiled in horror upon reading his name label: Tom Marvolo Riddell.

A cold wind ruffles the bone dry trees. Time to leave this cursed place to do some pedalling.

---

Ants attack our dropped crumbs and wrestle them into tiny holes. The heat is intense.

A desert fox picks it way across our path. A family of warthogs do the same further on.

Dust swirls around Marayes, this dead town which had thrived as a gold mine in the mid-20th century. There is little evidence of prosperity now. The railway line is no longer in use.

A store owner in a seedy blue tracksuit with an Argentina flag sells us sorbets then creaks shut the door and locks up for the day.

---

Later, we experience a bit of an issue.

Nicole had been working in San Juan and was due to drive past us at 5pm. But 5:15 arrives and there’s no sign of her. 5:30 passes too. Then 5:45. We have no signal.

Thoughts of the worst kind begin to fill our heads. We had been given mild warnings about San Juan.

We’ve set out with light setups and no warm clothes or sleeping gear as Nicole would bring it all later. No van means an end to the whole trip, but more importantly, a vital missing human.

At 6, we begin flagging down cars to see if they’ve seen her. I explain the situtaion to three drivers with no luck. She has not passed this way.

Tension rises. It’s hard not to think something bad has happened.

By 630 we decide the best option is to get off the dark road and hitch a lift to somewhere with signal.

We bargain our way onto a delivery van, levering bikes into the fridge, hooked amongst pizzas and frozen loaves.

Juan, the benevolent driver, agrees to drop us in the next town with signal, Chucuma. We forge ahead in the warm cabin, at least now rapidly approaching a place we can make calls from.

We needn’t have worried.

After 15 mins of chugging along, a familiar Daft Punk-graffitied camper overtakes us, and after flagging it down, all is well.

A mini-reservoir camp site, red wine and Jake’s loaded burgers smooth the concern. We’re reunited and stronger than ever.

I know how to captue this feeling: a unique blend of South African jazz roots with 80s disco and boogie.

Sipho Gumede sways from Jake’s birthday speakers. Good times restored.

✅200 hours of cycling in the bag

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The story so far

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

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