Whoever gets the worst tan wins.
1000 kilometers down the coast.
Two days ago I woke up in my tent, soaked through with heavy morning dew, in the junkyard of the local fire station (called ‘bomberos’ down here) in a small unremarkable town just off Chile’s central highway. We pushed hard to cross the country from Concepción on the coast to Pucón in the south-eastern lake district. We did the crossing in four hot, windy 100+ kilometer days on busy highways with questionable shoulders. Despite the kindness of four different bomberos stations taking us in, the hard riding takes a toll. We were quite ready to reach our destination, where an Airbnb awaited to relax for a few days and explore the rivers and volcanoes around Pucón.
So, with this paradise town in sights, I ring out my fly and gingerly apply sunscreen to my impressively lobster-like left arm and leg – we are biking straight South so I’ve got a nice Harvey Dent vibe going on. I eat my oats and cherish my morning ritual of decent (read: not great but at least it’s not Nescafé) coffee. We load up and set out cycling down the main street towards the highway. We still haven’t nailed the ‘crazy gringos on bikes’ exit and as always, draw all eyes as we bump into eachother’s panniers in slow-motion in front of the supermarket.
Despite our unimpressive dozy morning antics, we’ve biked almost 1200kms in the past 25 days. As we cycled back over the coastal mountains upon leaving Concepción, I was thinking back to day one when we crossed the same range 1000 kilometers to the North. We did almost 90 kilometers out of Santiago that day, with 900 meters of elevation gain over one straight climb, and just about died. That is still one of our toughest physical feats of the trip, though since that scorching ascent we’ve become significantly better cyclists. Biking along the coast involves riding up cliffs, then down into little valley-dwelling beach towns, then back up cliffs on the other side and… you get the picture. A lot of hills. But from the tops of these hills, one can spot surfers bobbing in the point breaks and watch the sun light up the Western horizon every evening. In the valleys, livestock graze in emerald fields, vibrant fishing boats line the harbours and even more vibrant people smile in encouragement as we pass through their streets. In short, it’s well worth the sore legs.
After collecting ourselves outside the supermarket, we ride out to the highway and take the overpass that spits us onto the Westbound road. Today we leave the Ruta 5, the highway that runs the length of Chile’s central valley, and head towards the Andes. Almost immediately upon crossing the overpass, we are hit with the most incredible view of Volcan Villarica — our destination. It is a moment of elation, of pure satisfaction for our trio. We stand on the side of the road for a couple minutes, wooping with joy and pointing at the impressive snowy beacon on the horizon. I’m sure the eyerolls from passing local truckdrivers were equally impressive.
The first 20 kilometers of the ride, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. Every time we came to the top of a hill, there it was. This volcano that we had seen in photos, this 1000 kilometer marker of our journey, beckoning us towards it. As we rode, I started to reflect on what this first leg of our journey represented. A kind of salt-water baptism, those winding coastal roads are where we evolved from a wide-eyed shitshow on wheels to cycle-tourists. Now when I tell people that we are biking from Santiago to the tip of the continent, there’s more conviction in my voice. We’re in the middle of this journey and we’ve got stories to tell. Though they are mostly still told in cringe-worthy Span-glish. It hasn’t been THAT long, after all.
Over these first 1000 kilometers we have been constantly learning. Our daily routine is simple at it’s core — we have a destination to reach, we have to figure out what food is needed, where we’ll camp, how to get water. These necessities keep us busy and challenges arise for added fun. Through trial and error we’ve been forced to learn to understand elevation maps, how to patch punctured tubes, tweak brakes and camp on the beach without getting caught. But when we are not occupied with these daily tasks, we are simply absorbing our surroundings. Cycling every day provides a physical challenge, so our brains try to keep up with our legs through books, podcasts, watching locals, talking to people. Today I got a lesson on the process of roasting and brewing coffee from the owner of Madd Goat in Pucón. A week ago we watched a man collect huge strands of kelp that wash up with the tide. He hopped around on a sharp reef well into the night, and returned at sunrise to lay it out to dry. Last night we learned a game of dice called ‘Ambitious’ from a waitress, and ended the evening playing against the bar’s manager.
There is a website called Warmshowers that is essentially couchsurfing for cycle-tourists. I could sing endless praise for the kindness of this community, but the reason I bring up the site is because when you register, it asks for your reason for cycle-touring. A month ago in Santiago I wrote “I recently finished my undergrad and after 18 years of learning from books I am using cycle-touring as a means of learning from others and from the world around me”. While I probably thought this was very poetic and clever when I composed it with utterly no touring experience, I find myself growing into the intenion. I don’t have a title right now — treeplanter is a few months outdated and I can’t call myself a cyclist after just a month of riding, so when asked I’ve been saying student out of habit. I’m starting to think that it’s actually not all that innaccurate for the present.
The book I’m currently reading, Barbarian Days: A Surfing Life, by William Finnegan, begins with a quote:
He had become so caught up in building sentences that he had almost forgotten the barbaric days when thinking was like a splash of colour landing on a page
Edward St. Aubyn
At risk of sounding hypocritical as I spend three hours in the library writing this update, I believe this quote resonates with the transition from life at school to life on a bike. Cresting a hill, flying down the other side, screaming past bright green fields and crystal streams and pine forests, I stop hearing the podcast in my earbud, stop analyzing the pressure in my front tyre, and I simply exist in complete exhilaration. Blood pumping through the legs, tears yanked from eyes by the wind, lumber trucks whiz past giving a rush of adrenaline akin to what Finnegan might describe when he narrowly makes it over the crest of an impossible wave to safety on the other side. These ‘barbaric’ moments make the classroom of the open road engaging; lessons are learned through intense visceral experience.
I’m starting to develop a theory after which this article is named. I believe that the more absurd your tan lines are, the more fun you’re probably having. There’s the river guides with permanent white Teva straps on their feet, skiers with goggles etched onto their wind-blasted mugs, and cycle tourists with legs that look like a gradient of tan paint samples thanks to inconsistent shorts length. Getting outside, making recreation and time under the sun a central part of life, at least in my experience, tends to lead to a happier, clearer mind — one that’s open and invigorated.
Needless to say, we are loving life on the bikes and are excited to explore the volcanos and lakes of the South for the next week as we wind our way towards the dirt roads and howling winds of Patagonia.
May your tan lines be terrible and your coffee be not Nescafé…
Nick
