The alarm on the Nokia had buzzed at 7:00am,…Mmm, that may have been a little overly ambitious? By 8:30am we’d slung our legs over the side of the bed and stretched and yawned ourselves upright. 30 minutes later and we’d given ourselves a kick up the arse and packed our kit, sorted out tank bags and were now lugging our normal heavy bags outside prior to heaving them onto the bikes.

With the bill paid for 7 nights (total cost 350 pesos, or £64, not bad for £9 a night) we were off, at last! We’d cut through the Mendoza traffic, with the bikes loudly releasing a few ‘good morning’ farts, announcing our arrival to the stationary cars queued at the traffic lights. The signs for the Ruta 40 were found easily enough.

It was sinking in…we were back on the road. Like previous times when we’d not travelled and then started again, the enthusiasm and excitement of all the possibilities which lie ahead is fantastic. What’ll happen today? What will the route be like, mud or asphalt? Where will we get gas? Where will we sleep tonight? The not knowing is a huge part of the ‘buzz’.

Smooth’ish asphalt made the 150 Km up to San Juan easy going and with a 20 minute break to down some coffee and check and inflate the tyre pressures we were back on the road, both of us grinning inside our helmets. The Sun was out, the road was stretching out as far as we could see and we’d ditched our clumsy thick winter gloves in exchange for our thinner off-road summer gloves. God, just to be able to feel the control again was reason to smile.

The 40 would lead us up to San José de Jachal and at long last we could breathe a sigh of relief. We were back in the land of dry and dusty, with arid scrub as far as the eye could see, this area is lucky if it gets 100mm of rain fall per year. It may not be your idea of heaven but after you’ve frozen your arse off for a few months in stunning but freezing Patagonia, you’ll appreciate the difference. Just not doing battle with our usual layers of thermals felt great.

With the miles rolling by, by late afternoon the landscape was becoming more and more impressive by the second. The setting Sun was accentuating the sharp edges of the ravines which had been cut into the mountain-side to our right. We’d swapped the asphalt for soft dirt and ripio and were now carefully winding our way up and over the ridge of mountains we’d been riding towards for the last hour. God, we’ve missed this. The few trucks we’d seen threw plumes of white gravel dust into the air, obliterating the view…it didn’t matter; we were back doing what we love.

We’d crested the top of the pass and simultaneously gasped as the view in front opened up and below us. A carpet of dusty crimson red and surreal lush emerald green, where healthy vegetation had taken a foothold along the banks of the waterways which were snaking out from the peaks. The sky was already turning a misty pink. And so it continued, and as the night drew in torch like beams of Sun-light cut the early evening sky as the light found its way threw the deep valleys of the mountains which were now to our right.

By 6:30pm we’d taken the small road up to Guandacol and after downing a cold beer for 50p a bottle at the local YPF gas station decided to make it home for night and threw up the tent in double quick time. It’ll be nice to be back in the tent…our home.

We’ll try to get an early start tomorrow.

The smooth hard asphalt seemed a total contrast to the landscape around us. Hewn mountain sides, stepped back into the distance on both side of us, gradually increasing in size, until the largest was just a dark silhouette in the horizon. Deep ravines cut by fast flowing water of the centuries, ran out from the roadside like bulbous viens. 20-30ft above our heads where the rock sides closed in we could easily see the smooth worn holes and surfaces where even faster flowing water had, hundreds or thousands of years before, chanellled and found a path, catching in places and creating the now visible holes.

“Something wierds just happened”, yelled Lisa over the intercom. The problem was easily spotted. Lisa front forks had compressed and the front wheel had come up and hit the cylindrical tool box Javier had made in Buenos Aires. It was now dangling, held on with only one clip. 20 minutes later and we’d un-jammed the tools and removed the tool box and found new temporary homes for bits. We’ll try to sort out another solution later on, maybe in Salta?

The day was warming up. It was great to be riding in summer gloves although as yet the day certainly wasn’t warm.

Small roadside towns came and went as the country side changed colour. Bright sunlight catching shady knolls that had been hidden from view. Mountains that had been hidden by the haze of the early morning were now slowly coming into sight. The ploom of beige dust billowing into the air a few kilometres ahead of us warned us of the oncoming traffic; it also meant the end of the tar. The long sharp, pot-holed bend ended abruptly, as did the asphalt. OK, time to let out some air from the tires. 15 minutes later and we’d reduced air pressure front and back to around 1.6 Bar, re-checked our bags, tightened straps and set off. Bloody hell we’ve missed this. As we clicked through the gears and picked up the pace the bikes squirmed beneath us. A few beaten up old trucks flashed their lights enthusiastically as they passed us and then covered us in a thick layer of road dust as we rode into their aftermath.

Soft sandy patches mixed with hard worn corrugations demanded our attention and all the time the coutryside became more imprerssive. We’d skirted deep gorges, which dropped away and skimmed cliff faces of fiery red sandstone. The whole sensation of country-side, dust, heat, corrugations and colours, transported us back to our first fantastic experience, travelling south in Morocco, Africa. The feel of the bikes underneath us was just making both of us grin.

By mid-day we’d stopped a few times for photos and video. Late afternoon saw more of the same. What a great day…this is what riding is all about for us.
Thousands upon thousands of cacti littered the landscape. Most 3-5 metres high looking like something from a spaghetti western movie. We’d seen them in photographs but up cose and personal these things are just fascinating. “Lisa, what do you think, the shapes are amazing”, I blurted over the intercom. “They all look like fingers, giving the bird”, was Lisa’s answer. “Not all of them” I replied, in between laughing. “No, no, that’s true, there’s a few over there that look like willy’s with odd small shaped testicles”.

Jerimiah the American biker we’d met on his F650GS back in Mendoza had ridden the same route months earlier and had cursed it, we’re guessing he’d ridden it ‘wet’, with water around this would be a friggin nightmare. The dusty earth we’ were now loving would turn to thick, slick clay, grabbing at the wheels and making the whole experience atrocious.

We’d seen little other traffic and by late afternoon we’d skirted the lunar landscape of Ischigualasto and Talampaya National Park, both famous as much for the undescribable natural beautey as for their archaeological importance. These are the only areas on earth that show the entire Triassic history of the dinosaur and the dramatic climatic changes the finaly saw their demise.

One of the few areas on earth where the history of the dinosaur from their first days on earth through to their last can been traced throught fosil remains.
We marvelled at the bizarre rock clouration. Greens, grey’s, orange and dazzling dusty red’s. A landscape of ‘geological eye candy’. We were in our element.

By 5:00pm the asphalt has made a return and we’d started thinking about somewhere to stop for the night. It took us all of 20 minutes to discover that all the campsites in Chilecito were closed, and so with a little more hunting around we found a small hostel with secure parking for 30 pesos (£7). What a great days riding. Sun, sand, views and phallic plant-life.

With a quick fuel stop at the Petrobras station back in town, we’d wound our way around the small back streets of Chilecito and with the help of the gps had managed to get our way back onto the Ruta 40. We’d ridden the first 100 miles (160 km) out of Chilecito with our necks cranned to the left as we watched the mountain transform from a grissly dark impossibly long range into dusty green. Ravines and gullies came to life as the rising sun cast shadows over the scarred surface. Thousands of cacti scattered from top to bottom had made this place their home.

We were making good time with the help of the good tarred surface but by late morning we’d had enough. Yeah, the tar was good but wow, so straight. We’d not seen a curve for over 115 miles. That was about to change. Like so many times before and without warning the asphalt simply stopped. Like yesterday we deflated our tyres. It was only now that we’d stopped that we were beginning to realize how hot the day had become. We were still wearing our thermal tops and our riding kit still had the Gore-tex liners in place. We were loving it. We were actually hot. A stiff but warm breeze was blowing. It seemed so long since we’d felt a hot breeze. Our thermals were wipped of and stuffed into roll bags and with the wind picking up we’d undone the large blue water-proof bag on my bike, rummaged around and found the goggles, which would replace our visors. This was more like it!

The small stream we’d have to cross, made a fitting start to this next leg of our journey up the Ruta 40. A small trickle of sweat was making its way down my spine. Oh, to be hot again…wonderful! It hit me quite suddenly, exactly how much we were enjoying this and more importantly how bizarrely lucky I’d been. With only another 1.5 mm of movement in my neck vertebrae after my fall in the Amazon, Lisa could so easily be transporting a paraplegic husband back to the UK right now, wondering what kind of life we were now going to have. A sobering thought and a bloody good reason to enjoy this sensation of riding here all the more. Take nothing for granted! remember the world owes you nada!

Stood on the pegs, we’d increased our speed and had found a rhythm. The mixture of Robbie Willaims, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Café del Mar chill out mix that was playing through our helmets just added to the mood. “Bloody fantastic…music whilst you ride”.

Canyons, valleys, towering cliff faces and barren, cactus laiden desert, by mid afternoon we’d ridden the lot. We’d been grinning for so long we now had cramp in our cheeks. We’d decided on an early stop. So many times we’d given in to the idea of gaining a few more miles and putting off finding somewhere to camp and as a result ended up putting up the tent and cooking in the dark. Not today. We’d found a small piece of firmish scrub, partially hidden and set back about 70 metres from the Ruta 40. Time to set up camp.

With the tent and bikes hidden as best we could we set about sorting tonight’s dinner. All-in-all a pretty great day.

Lisa had bought some spicey sauage, onions and cheap meat yesterday in Chilecito, with some hot sauce and some time to cook, Lisa cooked up a storm. Spicy sausage stew and rice. The sky had turned scarlet pink as we’d eaten. Mounains had gone from dusty green to dark purple before finally turning grey black as the Sun set behind them.

The wind had gained in strength as last night became this morning. We’d gone to bed last night with a stiff breeze but by 12:20am, I’d been out of the tent 3 times, hammered back in the tent pegs that had come loose and put in another half-a-dozen. By 5:00am we’d snatched 2-3 hours sleep maximum. This was getting a little scary. We’d had wind storms before; we’d experienced sand storms before in Morocco and the Sahara but this seemed to be somewhere in-between. The wind came in waves. From gale force “holy shit” to eerily still. The wind was kicking up huge clouds of sand and dust, which stung the skin.

Finally at 7:00 am we’d managed to doze…we awoke suddenly and a little claustrophobically. The tent had been blown in half, the tent poles had twisted and bent to such a degree that the tents roof was now compressing on to our faces. Getting outside was a mission in itself, nothing was where it was meant to be…”where the hell’s the door”?

Outside it got worse; bare skin was being sand blasted, most of the pegs had been ripped out and one of the tent poles had given up, snapped and torn through the outer fabric…shit. An hour and a half later and we’d somehow managed to collapse the tent (in-between it’s best impression of a parachute), haul out our bags and kit, donned our riding gear and with the help of some sodding big rocks had kept the tent flat and managed with a huge amount of swearing to roll it up and stuff it back into it’s bag. Finally our helmets and goggles provided sanctuary.

Back on the Ruta 40 the riding wasn’t the fun excitement of yesterday. The wind was punishing.

We found tar 30 km after setting off. In spite of the wind we’d made reasonable work of the 40 even stopping in the small town of ‘Londres’ for the mandatory photo of the sign before setting off again and riding as far as Cafayete, where we found the first campsite, set up camp and checked over our gear. Worryingly I’ve got a new fracture in my rear sub-frame. I’ll have to keep an eye on that and get it welded…shit!

The numerous colonial styled white Bodegas we’d passed on the way in had given us a clue. Next to Mendoza, Cafayete is one of Argentina prime wine producing areas. As well as one of the most stunning we’ve ssen…period. We’ve spent the last few days generally sorting. Two days ago I finally managed to get back up to date with the diary and even tackled the long overdue job of photo-sorting.

We’d planned to leave a few days back but I’d run into difficulties with the electrics of ‘Tinkerbelle’. Initially her lights had simply been playing up and then simply not worked. I’d had a poke around and seemingly made the problem worse. When I’d finished examining the switches not only had I not resolved the issue but now and more seriously Tinks wasn't starting and when she did it was intermittent.

Enrique a local bar owner and Transalp rider had taken pity on me over a beer and had taken me around to his ‘fix anything man’. Two hours later I was grinning like a Cheshire cat. The light issue had been a bad contact which had overheated and melted a plastic component of the high-low beam switch. It turned out that the starting issue was something completely different. The live feed from the green ‘engine start’ button had become trapped, dirty and was simply weak. With a new piece of wire soldered in and insulated, everything was now right with the world. Well, not quit?

The crack on the left side of my rear sub-frame is a little worse and now a new fracture is starting in the same place on the right. I’m going to have to get welded before heading into the Atacarma Desert. I’ve been putting the idea off, only because it means lifting the whole rear end of the GS.

Worryingly the old girls engine hasn’t sounded happy under medium acceleration either. In 2nd, 3rd, 4th and 5th she stutters and surges. I’ve tried convincing myself it was just a little bad fuel but I think I know better. She’s using a little more oil than normal and I’ve spotted a small oil leakage where the red right cylinder head meets the main engine body. I’m guessing the right hand piston rings are on there way out. I’m hoping to nurse her to Panama or Mexico, where she can get some expert attention. Well see.

We’ll head to Salta tomorrow, we’d not planned to but this morning whilst taking photos of the plaza, the Fuji S7000 decided to die. With a continuous error message of…’zoom error’. I tried the normal technical stuff of giving it a good wholloping and a firm shake but nada. Turning it off and on 20 times didn’t rectify the problem either, so we’re hoping to find someone in Salta who can fix it…fingers crossed