“Ah fuckity” I say out loud into the frosty Patagonian air.
My gortex gloved hands grasp the frigid wobbling handlebars. The mighty force of the gale triumphs over my futile attempts to hold the handlebars from wobbling. The winds velocity slams me in the forehead like a hindi dot. My mind wonders to all things warm. Thoughts of spicy Indian dahl and chicken tikka massala pass the time as the Indigo Girls song '...Let's Make Peace Tonight' blasts into my MP3 player. The brittle plastic headphones are tucked into my warm ears under my fleece head wrap.
“Ah fuckity...this wind tunnel must lead to the looney bin!”
I begin talking to myself and dismount from Pandemic The Gale Force Magic Bicycle. My leg which has done more walking then cycling in the last 100km, flings high off the bike into the wind. My keene sandal and neoprene sock covered foot lands on the rocky dirt road somewhere near C. Sombrero, Terra Del Fuego, Patagonia. To test today's wind speed, I tilt my head back and spit into the now sideways wind, hawking loogies for distance is my new hobby.
“She shoots, she SCORES” I shout, my spit ball clears the two lane highway.
My eyes redden and tear from the cold wind. The puddles appear blurry, they are frozen over with ice and loogies. My cycling spirit flourishes as I lean down and continue to walk forward like a junkie looking for a easy fix.
“Donde es uno hospitale mentalite? Where is a mental hospital? Ah rehab is for quitters!..I am now losing the other ½ of my mind in 2 languages”
I say to myself as I push for the afternoon in a wind storm fit for the 'Nationa1 Geographic Edition of Morons Pushing Bicycles in the Worlds Windiest Places'. I call off the quest at 4:30 after 46km, 3- two lane loogies, 1- shoulder penalty loogie and 11- ¾ lane loogies to camp under the road at the first available form of shelter, a culvert.
“Where did it all go so wrong? There has always been a fine line between a bicycle tourist and hobboist” I reason, as I unroll my gorgeous helliberg tent. Surprisingly, it fits perfectly inside the dirty culvert.
“Who knew?..It IS named the (helliberg) Jannu...ah fuckity...I am a poet and I didn't even know it. A Kryptonite cockail...now that would help the cycling...This is where a junkie would sleep, I talk to myself too much. Ah, conversations with my self about talking to myself is definitely a side effect from winter cycle touring in Patagonia...rehab is for quitters...” I babble on, laugh and look around at the crack in the ice on the ground.
“I just finished my first solo tour across the United States! I found this blog before setting out and thought of it often during my tour. Ladies- We can soar like birds, traveling the world on our bicycle, embracing our independence, and making our lives our own.I'm so proud of all of us! Pedal on!” Heather Jones