¿What's cooking, Chef Midd?

Chef Midd helps you plan the menu for your own cycling adventures. As with many things in life its a question of balance - you're going to be generating a terrible hunger but the more food you carry the heavier the bike will be and the hungrier you will become. Oh, and the more likely it is that your bike will fall apart. As with most things that are a question of careful balance Chef Midd has been a spectacular failure, which may be why his bike is now held together by wire and tape. Never mind, perhaps you can learn from his mistakes - there are plenty to chose from. Whatever happens, don't forget to pack the porridge...

Captain Beaky from Belsize Park asks: "I'm running a bit late for a life changing cycling adventure through South America and, having given my pals a three month head start, I'm going to have to go pretty quick to catch them up. What sort of equipment do I need to and can I buy it at Heathrow Terminal 4"?

Hola Captain Beaky! An easy one to start with this. The stove first: We use an MSR Whisperlight which has the advantage of burning just about anything, always starting and looking quite cool. There are some downsides. It always works because it is actually designed for use on a windy day on K2 and so, down at sea level, it burns gas at the same volume and temperature as a space shuttle on take-off. Thus cookery is a less than relaxing affair. The two available temperatures are 'off' or 'surface of the sun'. Anything resembling a simmer can be ruled out and all foodstuffs will be ready to eat after 30 seconds of cooking. The temperature can be varied by holding the pan further away from the jet, but this is a bit impractical when your pan handle is as effective a conductor of heat as ours. The only alternative is to stir the contents really fast. As regards cutlery and crockery it is essential to cut down on weight - one spoon, one small sharp knife, one fork, one plastic plate and one multi-purpose mug is all you are allowed. Making your life a misery by carrying only these items frees up space in your panniers for more essential items. Now when you can't decide between the Merlot and the Tempranillo you can take both bottles, throw in a Malbec to boot and crack your bike racks with the weight that way. Genius. I don't think much of this will be available in Heathrow Captain but please pick me up a Toblerone.

Colonel Montgoomeny writes from somewhere in Patagonia to ask: "It's six in the morning and I'm just about to set off pedaling up a mountain, round a glacier, through a gale and the such. Got a breakfast recipe Chef Midd"?

Another easy one! Cycling breakfasts couldn't be much easier Col. Montgoomeny as they all, without any exception ever, are based on porridge. A word on porridge - don't compromise on quality Colonel. For many people The Quakers is just a nickname for Darlington Football Club but their other important contribution to society is the perfect oat and we're all converts down here where, for once, the Quakers sit at the top of the table. So for a morning such as the one you're about to face I recommend: A litre of porridge, into which should be mixed 4 tbs honey, 4 tbs dulce de leche, 4 tbs jam, 1 fistful of dried bananas, 1 mug of sugar and half a mug of salt. Chase it down with two mugs of very strong and sweet black coffee and get on the bike immediately before the shaking becomes too violent. This way your pulse rate should be in the mid hundreds before you've even started up that mountain and not only will you not need to eat for the next 100 KM you probably won't be able to blink either.

Gerry Adam's Beard writes from somewhere in Neuquén to ask: "At the back end of last year my owner went for a boozy night out with his pals in Belfast whence some joker shaved me off and stuck me on the face of a passing youth, a certain A. Montgomery. As if this wasn't bad enough this clown then took off to South America where he now abuses me on a daily basis: In the morning I am smeared with porridge, in the evening by pasta sauce and between times I'm coated in jam and promptly set upon by horseflies. There's rice in here from Tierra del Fuego and we're halfway to Bolivia! Also, and I don't mean to be sensitive, but party to this assault is a man who is very orange... Chef Midd, is this a sectarian issue?

I thought I recognised you! Fear not, this is perfectly 'normal' behavior as A. Montgomery is a cyclist. After days spent biking up and down mountains and nights being kicked by his brother in a tent the size of a shoe box it's a miracle he can coordinate hand movement to get food near his head, let alone his mouth. Look at the positives - you store nutrients he can consume throughout the day simply by licking his lips, you filter out foreign bodies from soups and are a mobile ecosystem all of your own. His friend isn't orange but Strawberry Blonde and some people find it quite attractive. We can all come to the dinner table together and follow the roadmap to, erm, Venezuela.

Colonel Montgoomeny writes from somewhere in Chile to complain: "Chef Midd, why am I always last to finish my spaghetti and thus last to the biscuits? Is there anything I can do about it"?

I'm afraid not Colonel, it's historical geography at work. To explain: At the height of the Roman Empire Emperor Hadrian set out from his hometown of Sevilla to find land and people of comparable beauty. This he finally discovered in Teesside and, seeing things were going downhill rapidly by the time he reached what is now called Newcastle, he drew a line on territorial expansion, built a wall and called it a day. So, the Italian knowledge of how to use a spoon and fork to eat spaghetti never made it to your homeland of Northern Ireland. Your friend who is annihilating you on a daily basis in the speed eating stakes is simply more civilized being, as he is, from Adriano's 'Sevilla of the north' (Middlesbrough). Civilization might not be apparent given we're talking about eating 300 grams of pasta in under 4 minutes but it is so. Stick to Alphabeti Spaghetti in future, you'll probably have enough left on your plate to spell out 'Save me some pudding' while your pal's already on to the pealed grapes.

Marcus Sanderson writes from the northern outpost of civilization to ask: "Chef Midd, I'm also from Middlesbrough! Would I enjoy a cycling adventure in South America"?

Sandy?! Afraid not, no. There are no 'parmos' down here. I repeat: No PARMOS!!

Dr. A. Nosequé - Medaigual writes from a learned place to tell us: "Chef Midd, you and your pals were a disgrace. For thousands of miles the basis of your diet was Nestle chocolate, a disgusting 750 grams a day. Lining the pockets of this evil multinational was hardly the road to a post capitalist economy was it? A least you stopped this filthy habit at Puerto Montt you imbeciles. Well done for realizing the errors of your ways.

Crikey Dr. A. Nosequé, we only stopped cos it started melting north of this latitude. Col, do we still have the Nescafe? Chuck it out quick! Can we keep the Nestle powdered milk? It's the only sort we can get to dissolve... I'm feeling a bit unworthy and confused... Next question!

The Buntys from Battersea ask: "We are scientists Chef Midd and want to know if any technological advances have been made on your trip with regard to cookery"?

Phew, hello the Buntys. This is a yes! In the 1840s Charles Goodyear discovered the process of vulcanizing rubber. In December 2007 Chef Montgomery extended the process to Asparagus Soup. This discovery has many uses. Soup can now be carried in one's pocket, used to repair cracked tires and, in one of those accidents that mark the progress of science, when spilt it acts as a sealant for tent groundsheets, impervious to temperature changes. When he finds the right shaped pan he's going to make the worlds first asparagus bike tire.

British Customs ask: "Chef Midd, nearly all professional cyclists take interesting dietary supplements that send their red blood cell count strangely high. Do you use such supplements in your cooking"?

Dear sirs, absolutely not. If you can't get by on porridge what's the point? If the red blood cells still need a bit of a charge we recommend an evening eating only morcilla while reading some D.H. Lawrence, but it's not very scientific.

Colonel Montgoomey writes from the Fitz Roy Base Camp: "Chef Midd, something terrible or hilarious has just happened at breakfast and I need your advice fast. Let me paint the picture: I'm in a tent below the west face of Mount Fitz Roy in the Andes. It is tanking it down outside and has been all night. It is also blowing a gale and freezing. My idiot mate got up at dawn and, regardless of the conditions and the fact he only has a pair of plimsols for footwear, set off up the mountain for 'a view'. I think he gets it from his father. Anyway, he got back about 15 minutes ago defeated, drenched and desolate after 2 hours sitting under a rock in a cloud. To cheer himself up he started the porridge but, given there are penguins being washed past outside, he had to try and do it inside the porch of the tent. Predictably enough, just as it was ready, the biffer sent the whole lot over with his boot. The other climbers in the campsite were woken by some pretty choice Spanish and the stove went for a journey on its own out of the door. This was funny enough but, after stomping out, retrieving the stove and putting it all back together better was to come. To minimize time balancing the pan on the stove he made the porridge mix first this time, using the last of our water and food in the process. After going through this process he started to heat it up, only for the stove to immediately run out of fuel. He is now stirring the cold mix round and round in silence and I think he might be crying. It sits before him, an essay for a canceled supervision, a 48 slide Powerpoint presentation for a project that never got funding, a love letter to a girl who dumped you by email before you made it to the post box. I don't think he wants to ask anyone else around here for spare fuel cos they're all serious climbers and he's dressed like a cyclist from the 1970s. Chef Midd, my question is... Would this be a good time to 'do his head in' with some smart remark?

No. This man is obviously on the edge of some sort of breakdown and... hold on... this is all a bit familiar Colonel Montgoomeny...

Fiesta! Zapala to Mendoza

Continuing our journey, ever North, on the infamous Ruta 40, which stretches some 5000 kilometres from tip to tail of Argentina, we rack up some serious distances and finally get some maps for the road ahead!

The beard's are coming along nicely, but to be honest, they're each living on borrowed time. While they provide a low maintenance and permanent sunscreen, we're simply losing too much food in them and are at risk of starvation as a result. The only reason they're still adorning our ugly mugs is that we haven't found a barber who looks like he can handle the operation, but it can't be long now before a brave Argie steps up to the plate. The heat has turned us off Egg Day somewhat, but we're still committed to it so keep reading and give us your bets on total eggs down. Appetites in general are still going through the roof, and with a 1kg-of-dried-spaghetti-meal on the horizon, along with the absurdly low price of quality red meat, all the evidence points at them getting bigger rather than smaller. Maybe when the beards-come-food-filters are gone things will start to calm down. It's also the season for festivals and we've caught a few on our travels so we're hoping to get a chance to rope a calf or rodeo-ride a wild horse sometime soon...

Fame Academy, Day 63, Zapala to Las Lajas

Faced with the choice of making it to one of two towns, 59 and 227k away respectively, we wisely opt for the lazy option and make a late start to our day in Zapala. Even our best efforts to make a quick getaway are thwarted as we try to scoff a breakfast of 18 doughnuts down by the railway yard. Firstly, the only Pole in town, a nameless old lady who's still got a thing or two to say, latches on to us and tells us not only her life story, but that of every foreigner in town. She's rudely interrupted by the local television crew who descend on the scene and point a camera and microphone in our general direction. While the shy, retiring Montgomerys claim a very true inability to speak the relevant lingo for this operation, D.Middlemiss is only too happy to step up to give a rather lengthy interview on his thoughts on everything from the weather to South American politics. Whether Al and I should have told him that he had the larger half of a cream factura hanging from his beard all the while, is not up for discussion.

Finally rolling out of town in the early PM, we encounter a few unexpected showers, a minor climb, and a Belgian couple cycling into Zapala. Turns out that they've seen quite a bit of the continent, but rather than use their bikes in the conventional sense, it sounds like they're happy to use them as luggage only as they have hardly cycled at all. Watching them flinch at the side of the road every time a vehicle goes by makes what they're saying seem sensible: they're fleeing Argentina because of the bad drivers. Now far be it for me to suggest that they've made something of an error in deciding to cycle through South America but, hey... Anyway, they were a nice couple so I won't bag them too much. After all, they're not the only people we've met to give us bad advice on the road ahead...

With no further alarm we pile into the small town of Las Lajas and are quickly informed that it's the town festival this very night. Excited at the thought of candyfloss and fairground rides, we turn up at the allotted hour, in the field at the end of town, to be quite amazed by both the sheer number of people here and the lack of death-metal-talent on the big stage. The parents and grandparents seem quite unfazed by the kids on stage chanting destruction destruction destruction repeatedly, but we're much too prudish for this sort of thing so decide to comfort ourselves in a large bag of empanadas. The comforting is postponed by a few minutes as we rescue said empanadas from the ground when the bag breaks on the stroke of Dave exclaiming "quick, grab the bottom before the...". Checking out the outskirts of the feria, we find some childrens' go-karts and ponder how amusing it would be to do this same trip with all three of us on one of these babies. Some more traditional acts come on stage so we join the masses and enjoy the mood for a while before we need more comforting. Another Quilmes each, some Choripan, papas fritas and hamburguesas do the trick and we get to bed at a very respectable 3am or so to leave the rest of the town to their party.

The draw of a cold beer. Day 64, Las Lajas to Chos Malal

I wake, already knowing that I had one burger too many the previous night, and am confronted with a litre and a half of porridge for breakfast, lovingly prepared as usual by our AM Chef, D. Middlemiss. We have a choice today: a normal sized day or a record breaker. The late start is at odds with the latter, but with that much porridge and a good ol' tailwind behind us we fly past our first destination and onwards towards Chos Malal.

We're glad to meet Phil again on the road, the nicest motorcyclist from Nottingham since Michael Elphick's Boon, and he stops to share some stories and yet more good route advice with us. We share what we've been told with him: tonight is Chos Malal's festival. Phil tells us he'll have a cold beer waiting for us in Chos Malal and roars off into the distance muttering something about a couple of beautiful mountain passes he's planning.

Some long, but not too tough climbs are followed by a final 20k of downhill, during which hardly a pedal is turned. Even the expected climb into town doesn't materialise and we coast in truly knackered but satisfied by our trip record of 167k today. A quick spin around and we find the first bar which, for a change, isn't on the seemingly omnipotent Plaza San Martin. Before we can all dismount (a somewhat lengthy operation after such a long spell on a bike...) Motorcycle Phil strolls up and buys the beers - which are cold - just as he promised! Next stop campsite; tent goes up; showers had; back out and we frequent the only recommended restaurant where Motorcycle Phil has just got the first beer in. What a guy. A naive goat and a couple of innocent cattle are tonight's quarry, but they never stood a chance with the hunger we'd built up. I'm sure I saw Phil wretching as we polished off our food in 46 seconds flat. Apologies, Phil. Oh, and apologies, too, for passing on that dodgy advice about the town festival being tonight...

This is too easy. Day 65, Chos Malal to Buta Ranquil

Sore legs don't swamp our confidence, but a knowing raise of the eyebrow from Motorcycle Phil over breakfast brings us back down to size when he gives us brief details of the road ahead. He's not surprised we did a record day into Chos Malal, but when we hypothesize that it should be easy to do one hundred and something kilometres today, all he says is "you've got to get out of Chos Malal first...". Thankfully he wasn't inferring that he, himself, had some grisly plan for us, but we did soon find that 'missing climb' from yesterday.

37 kilometres were covered in searing heat and not-insignificant headwind, without so much as a hundred metres of appeasing flatness nor mollifying downhill. A good few kilometres of downhill followed, but we were only allowed to relax for mere seconds as the next major climb appeared at the bottom. The same happened at the top of this climb, and the next, and onwards, infinitum... Maybe Che Guevara had the right idea, after all.

On reaching the small town of Buta Ranquil, however, we were delighted to finally get our first taste of Andes cerveza - something Dave and I had been waiting patiently for over 4 years for! It turned out that we'd stumbled, yet again, on the town festival so we supped up and rode a couple more k's to the site of the festival. Unfortunately we'd missed the exciting rodeo events and such, and were instead subjected to some local girls who seemed to be in a bizarre competition to determine who could sing the most out of tune on the big stage. No matter; 3 more goats met their maker and we had a relatively early night before the staring gauchos took revenge for the goats...

The River Wild. Day 66, Buta Ranquil to almost Pasarela

We're now on a very, very dry section of our route (yes, I realise that's at odds with the title...), and despite upgrading our water-carrying capabilities, we're still woefully short most of the time. It's a tough, very hot day in the saddle and by the time the sun starts to set we're still well short of our only chance of any sort of civilisation. A quick meeting is held in the middle of the loose ripio road and we decide to stick our very limited lights on and try to make it the 15 or 20 kilometres to a rumoured kiosco just past Pasarela (just because a place is named on the map doesn't mean it has anything there!). After a couple of kilometres we realise it's virtually impossible on the loose surface and set up a hasty camp beside the road. We're almost out of water and need to cook, so in the complete darkness I head off to the river, which we can hear somewhere close by, with two bottles. In the almost complete darkness I thought I'd come across something akin to Niagara Falls, with a huge cliff leading down to a vicious rapid, so I decided to shelve the idea and return empty bottled. Our only 2 litres of water were used to cook a quick pasta meal and we hit our scratchers with thirst that could only be understood by the likes of M. Delaney and S. Forbes...

The Driest Campsite On Earth to Malargue, Day 67

'Waking' after a horrible night's sleep with our tongues stuck to our cheeks, due to thirst, we packed up and hit the road in record time - no water for porridge after all. I took a quick walk down to check out the massive cliff and rapids that had scuppered my chances of getting water the previous night. They had, somehow, morphed into a small hill and a trickling brook, but I'm sure it was different the night before...

Numerous cyclists had told us of the horrors awaiting us on, or rather in, the road to Malargue. The final 30k had assumed an almost mythical dread in our collective minds, but we consoled ourselves with the knowledge that we hadn't met a cyclist yet who had given us road advice which we would term as acceptable, never mind good or reliable.

For a couple of days Dave had been powering ahead on the smooth surfaced sections and Al and I were simply unable to keep up. We had no idea what had caused this amazing transformation into potential Tour-winning cyclist. Until we caught up with him in the small town of Bardas Blancas, that was. Turns out his, erm, toilet policy had left him with 2 full days to do on a full tank, so to speak, and hence his rush to get to civilisation!

We decided to do some hard drugs before the big climb, and so hit the coffee and Coca Cola in some style. The road wasn't great - classified as deteriorated pavement - but it was quite easy to cycle on if you kept your wits about you and tried hard to choose a good line while watching for traffic. Stopping after every 15 or 20k, we reached the bottom of what had been suggested to us would be a big, tough climb, and took onboard some food and water. About 20 mins later we were over the top of it and coasting down the long downhill. It really wasn't a climb at all worth talking about, but I guess we'd have been more upset had the advice and reality been in reverse.

Pint bottles of cold Andes awaited Al and I when we rolled into Malargue, and despite the town's name sounding like a disease colony it was actually quite nice and prompted us to stay for a day.

A rest day in Malargue, Day 68

Good job this was a rest day as we'd spent the entire night slapping ourselves, literally, every couple of minutes to attempt to kill the dreaded mozzies. A lot of lounging went on during the day and the only thing of note to happen was that we attempted the world's first suicide by manner of overeating mashed potato. Failing, we went to bed expecting to be eaten alive again by the mozzies but, amazingly, they left us alone. Maybe they don't like mashed tatties?! Quick, patent that someone!

Overcast, with Part Time Showers. Malargue to El Nihuil, Day 69

With an electrical storm closing in around us, we raced it to El Nihuil, won, and quickly found camping Club de los Pescadores. Faced with the non-choice of putting up the tent now or after a cold beer, we got 'stuck' in the bar as the rain poured down almost as fast as the Cerveza Andes. We sensibly shelved the idea of cooking and, after advising the staff that we were cyclists with huge appetites, asked them what their largest meal was. Chicken, came the confident replies, along with gestures of rubbing swollen stomachs and wiping sweating brows. Promptly delivered, promptly dispatched, were the said chicken dinners, along with an additional bowl of bread. The waiter looked scared as he wondered how we'd left such clean chicken skeletons on our plates (think of the movie, Predator...). After he'd consulted his friend, the chef, he came back with half a goat; we think partly by way of apology for getting the effective size of the chicken dinner so wrong, and partly to see how we would manage with the additional food. Two more bowls of bread please, and seconds later the half-goat was no-goat. G-l-oating in our success [sorry, that's awful...] at beating the chef, we left them in silence and put up the tent.

It was only then that we discovered that our questioning of the girl at the front desk should have been much more in depth and scrupulous in regard to the showers, and less so in regard to what she was doing tonight (it was Valentine's Day, she'd told us...). The showers were only open from 8pm to 10pm, and it was now gone midnight. Stinking. Unfortunately we were stinking, too, so a quick cowboy-wash by the dishwashing-sink was required before bed...

El Hihuil to San Rafael, Day 70

Cruising downhill into the Canon del Atuel in the morning proved just as beautiful as Motorcycle Phil had promised. Even the nasty climb out of it didn't dampen our spirits, about 40k later, and we hit the tarmac again towards San Rafael.

Passing the masses of stalls by the side of the road offering rafting and other white-water experiences, we narrowly avoided some nasty falls when the smarter operators pushed their bikini-clad hotties into the road to intercept us. Those obstacles overcome, the products on offer by the side of the road changed to homemade jams, cured hams, olives and locally produced wines. Somehow we avoided these also and eventually found the campsite, 6k out of town.

With various things to take care of each, we split up and arranged to meet at any bar by Plaza San Martin at 9pm. When Al and I reached town we were amazed to again find ourselves amidst the town festival. This time, though, it was a biggie. The harvest carnival was in full swing, with the most beautiful girls from each of the surrounding towns being towed, waving and blowing kisses, down the huge, wide streets behind tractors, on massive floats. Fantastic, we thought, as we ogled the girls who were, quite literally, on display. A short while later our thirst took over and we rode through the crowds to the town square. Which was closed for remodelling and didn't have a single bar within a 2 block radius of it. Hmm, best made plans and all that. A couple of hours of aimless looking amongst the crowds and we found Dave, who'd thankfully found more bars than we had been able to.

Next day the small Bodega of Iselin was visited and the resulting purchases were found to fit nicely into bike bottle holders. With the liquid taken care of, we decided to do our first asado (Argie BBQ) back at the campsite. Despite a huge electrical storm closing in around us again, we found a suitable butchers and went in. The absolute beast of a man behind the counter suggested what we should have and how much of it. He bellowed some joke about how he had sold the skinniest goat in the world to the the last Englishman through his door; we laughed and walked out with about 5kg of meat. The resulting asado was, and we don't say this easily, the largest meal of meat any of us had ever had. It was true carnage and probably lucky the sun had disappeared behind the massive storm clouds so no-one could see the animals feeding at the end of the campsite...

San Rafael to San Carlos, Day 71

Our day on the road started a brief spell of confusion after Al and I thought a couple of locals walking down the road were pointing and shouting to tell us that Dave had gone into a house by the side of the road. As Al checked out round the back of the private house and found a family enjoying their Sunday dinner, it finally dawned on me that the locals were actually telling us to get off the road and cycle on the cycle path!

The Romans have obviously been to this part of the world as the road to San Carlos is die-straight for the middle 100k or so. Once we'd hit the top of the hill, after climbing ever so slightly for a couple of hours, we were greeted by another electrical storm. A thorough soaking was only avoided due to the wind turning in our favour and we outran the storm into San Carlos. Finding the campsite wasn't too easy but once we had we were more than happy: it was basically the beautiful back-garden of a rich Argie with a huge house and a penchant for fast motorbikes. We pitched the tent under some trees and hung a large percentage of our clothes and equipment out to dry, cooked and went to bed.

About 30 mins later that electrical storm caught up with us and provided a light show which that-French-twat-of-a-musician-whose-name-I-can't-remember would be proud of. While no doubt amplified by being inside what amounts to a plastic bag, it was the heaviest rain and loudest thunder which we'd ever witnessed.

San Carlos to Mendoza, Day 72

Thankfully the sun was shining when we woke as all our gear was totally soaked and had to be stretched out over the tennis court to dry. When finally dry enough to pack the gear away, we hit the road for the final 110k into Mendoza, dreaming of a week off the bikes.

The first third was uneventful; the second quite beautiful as we rode past vineyard after vineyard, including the likes of Chandon and Norton; the final third somewhat scary. As we were forced back onto Ruta 40 to enter the city the road became a full-blown motorway with either non-existent or horribly potholed hard shoulder. The drivers refused to indicate when taking turn-offs, trucks flew by inches from our shoulders as streams of cars passed on the far side of them and every white-van-man in the vicinity seemed to want to hit his horn or shout at us from as close as possible. Dave and I hit the gas and stuck to the white line by the side of the road; Al took the seemingly safer route on the rough hard shoulder. We stopped to wait on Al and he soon appeared at the bottom of a small rise. Next time we looked around there was a build up of cars around the area where he had been so we got a touch worried, and this was made worse by a driver pulling up and telling us about some incident with our amigo back there. Sprinting down the hill (the wrong way on a motorway...) we seen Al emerge and were thankful as he seemed to be ok. What had happened was that two teenagers had stopped him and tried to steal his gear. While Al tried to slap one of them, who was holding an imaginary knife under his shirt, the other was trying to make off with the bike. Thankfully for all, imaginary knife boy decided to run off, leaving his mate alone and completely unable to manage the weight of the bike. With an angry bearded animal approaching rapidly, the guy chose to drop the bike and run off himself. By this stage some motorists had stopped, one of them being an off-duty cop, and the scene changed from attempted mugging to traffic chaos. No harm done, but we've been a touch on edge since getting to Mendoza.

Col

Over the Mountains: Puerto Montt to Zapala

Adios Huevon, hola Ché. We have left the Chilean Pacific and reached the Argentine Pampas, two different oceans both sweltering under the same clear sky. Summer is in full swing down here and from the bathers in the sea to the boaters on the lakes everyone is enjoying the sun. Even cyclists, sweating over mountains, round lake shores and across deserts have been doing their fair share of 'basking'. Between the coast and the dry interior we've passed through the Patagonian Lake District. Alpine-style towns bursting with families enjoying the school holidays make for somewhat strange but relaxed ports of call, accentuating the emptiness of the scenery of the final two days as we leave the crowds and push into the province of Neuquén. Pablo Neruda escaped persecution in his homeland and Ché Guevara pushed his motorbike in different directions across these mountain passes. Nothing especially momentous happened or will result from our crossing, but then again we did find a place called 'Chin Chin'! Bottoms up, here's to the return to Argentina and Quilmes at 4,50 pesos a bottle...

Day fifty four. Puerto Montt - Petrohué. January 30th. 85 KM

Where there's sand, there's a beach.

Why rush when the journey is the destination? Why is the world chasing itself around when we could sit back and enjoy the view? Hmmm, indeed, quite, muse, stroke beard... Cojones to all that, we've not seen a main road since 2007 and cycle out of town down the hard shoulder of a motorway. We pause only so I can stand next to the road sign for the aforementioned town. To stop childish idiots like me from doing exactly this they've put the sign in the middle of the central reservation. Check out Eddie Murphy crossing the motorway in 'Bowfinger' for a similar interpretation of the Green Cross Code. Off Ruta 5, through the town of Puerto Varas and round the metallic sheen of Lago Llanquihue. The perfectly conical Volcán Osorno looms over all. A day of tarmac ends with a new road surface for us. Sand has been blown down the route from our campsite for the night; the beach at the western end of Lago Todos Los Santos. We take the plunge - Col swims and I sink as normal. Al exhibits more reserve and is rewarded by not being bitten to bits by midges or sun burned.

Day fifty five. Petrohué, Chile - San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina. January 31st. 57KM

Three men in three boats.

The day starts with a two hour crossing of the lake, the crown of Volcán Osorno peeking monkishly out of a fringe of cloud behind us. Just when the day was shaping up to be easy going for a crossing of the Andes the ferry timetable made things a little more interesting. The second of today's three voyages left at 5 PM from a place called Puerto Frias, the other side of the mountains. Our fellow passengers had no trouble getting there with 40 minutes to spare, despite the 800m ascent in just 8KM on a surface of sand on rock in a humid 30 something degrees. However, they were in a bus. We found it a bit of a tighter schedule. Especially as we had to get off and push round the hairpin corners; surface, incline and bike weight trumping leg power and balance. Even Col had to dismount here and he can cycle over almost any terrain, his balance testimony to years of practicing sitting still. This combination of Tour de France mountain climbing and the Plymouth Navy Gun Run got us over the border and on to the next crossing with minutes to spare. Here we came a bit of a cropper with regard to the fare. Acting on the advice of the ferry company in Puerto Montt we had prepared for the crossing like the Owl and Pussycat, packing some money and plenty of honey. Is that right? Anyway, we should have gone to sea with more money than honey because we didn't have enough. The fee had disappointingly gone up in the two days since leaving town and competition in the marketplace was thin on the ground. The invisible hand of price had formed an invisible fist and punched us below the belt. Our plums hadn't been so bruised since the fruit bag joined me in the Austral pile-up. All four wallets were emptied and a combination of different currencies left us with exactly one US dollar to spare. We helped out with the currency conversion rates so perhaps the fit between total cost and ready cash wasn't quite so uncanny as it might seem. Note to the Owl and the Pussycat - just take money next time. Chilean customs are going to rob you of your honey anyway.

The final ferry of the day was reached without incident. It was full of tourists from Bariloche and the only reason we didn't pollute the generally refined atmosphere with our disheveled appearance was that we were diluted in a huge sea of North Face and Lowe Alpine clothing. I can't really get away with calling this a ferry anyway - there was a couple from Cheam, Surrey on it. It must have been a 'Launch'. They were very nice people though, and spoke to me despite the fact that I looked like a stowaway. In fact they would be far and away the most English people we'd met yet if it wasn't for our encounter with 'Dan' on a walk up to the base camp of Mount Fitz Roy a few weeks ago. Dan was easily identifiable as English from 200 paces as found him looking at a cloud. He was waiting for it to lift off the top of the mountain so he could have a view and I can't think of a more English pastime. When we went down from camp the next morning we met Dan coming back up for another crack at the view, despite having twisted his ankle the previous evening and it being cloudier than the previous day. He was so upbeat about the prospect of this cloud watching I'd nominate him as the most English man I'd ever met. When they carry him off Fitz Roy after 60 odd years of cheerful waiting in vain for the cloud to lift off the summit they should find a spot for him in Westminster Abbey. What a friendly bloke as well. Dan - we salute you!!

Oh yes - we then cycled to Bariloche amidst a complete lack of incident.

Day fifty seven. San Carlos de Bariloche - Villa La Angostura. February 2nd. Dist: 91KM

Hasta la Quilmes es muy barata siempre

The highlight of the rest day in Bariloche was our surprising effort in finding the local Marxist Youth Branch bar amidst a sea of mediocre expensive restaurants. A political statement to fit in was hard to come by - 'my father knew Lloyd George' seemed unlikely to signify anything in this place. Er, or century. What would 'he knows Hillary Armstrong' get you from a Marxist? A slap in the chops probably. We only wanted a beer so we just pointed to our beards and nodded friendly-like - the fridge door to the cheapest Quilmes in town was opened. Great party. The following day's cycle to Villa La Angostura was made easier for Al and his steed after the bike shop in Bariloche repaired the repair work done by the bike shop in Puerto Montt. The photos of Lago Nahuel Huapi speak for themselves, making this a nice short entry.

Day fifty eight. Villa La Angostura - not San Martín de Los Andes. February 3rd. Dist: 92 KM

La ruta de los siete Lagos. Translation: a right hard day on a bike.

This would have been a beautiful day on the bike if either the road was not the dustiest yet encountered or if not every man and his dog had decided to drive along it at the same time as us. As it was we floundered through a dust bowl for the first 50KM, during which time we saw next to nothing, and spent the remaining distance trying to resume breathing as normal. When we finally hit tarmac again I looked over my shoulder to see Colin emerging from the clouds -all he was missing was a lamp and he could have been emerging from a shift down Wearmouth Colliery. The restorative measures taken involved two lakes. The first was a swim in Lago Villarino which was a good idea. The second was a lemonade drinking session which wasn't. Movement of any sort after the latter was awkward - we only made it five yards back into the heat outside the cafe and we were asleep on the floor in the front garden. We got on with the cycling only after the owner turned the sprinklers on. With 20 odd KM still to go to San Martín and up high in the mountains we found a campsite run by a Mapuche family. We tossed a coin to decide between batting on or declaring. Col got out the double headed coin reserved for such occasions and we all cheered when it came up 'stop here'. Machismo preserved by the fall of a coin we had notable showers: the lads of the family were building the roof of the shower while we used it. They unfortunately nailed the tarpaulin on while I was in there, plunging the operation into darkness as they covered the window at the same time. Despite all indications there was no repeat of my Granddad's construction antics (Headline in the Express and Star: 'Wolverhampton Carpenter Falls Through Roof') so at least we washed one at a time. We ate the best empanadas of the trip to date around the family's campfire and watched the vastness of the night sky unfold above us in the clear mountain air, as it is wont to do round here.

Day fifty nine. Las Taguas Arroyo Culebra - Junín de Los Andes. February 4th. Dist: 81KM

There is only one barbers in San Martín de Los Andes and he's shut on the annual 'Día de San Martín de Los Andes'. Which is February 4th.

We thought San Martín de Los Andes the most appealing town in the area and enjoyed a half day loafing around, catching up with some reading on the beach etc. We then went for a haircut which didn't happen as, despite it's charms, San Martín has the lowest ratio of hairdressers to heads of any town in Argentina. Fact. The only one which we found was shut as everyone battened down the hatches for a procession to mark the town's anniversary. This seemed to consist of a number of military parades so we left in the evening cool for a fast cycle to Junín de Los Andes. This tranquil and shady town was bigger than we thought, a realisation we marked by losing each other. The second interesting demographic statistic of the day is that Junín de Los Andes has the most bikes per head of population of any town in Argentina, leading to lots of false alarms when searching for two other cyclists as darkness draws near. Once reunited relief overcame recrimination, which was probably a good job for me as I was the likely criminal, and we immediately declared a 'we're not cooking tonight night' and ate in a bar by the town square. Here we fell into conversation with 'The Bloke from Bahia Blanca' who we made an immediate connection with, his town's football team being the support act when we went to watch "The World's Greatest Football Team" (Pablo Villa, yet to see Wolves play) Boca Juniors play a few years ago. Anyway, whatever the reason, our man decided he should buy us water and leave it strategically placed on the road ahead tomorrow. We were entering the desert.

Day sixty. Junín de Los Andes - La Amarga. February 5th. Dist: 131KM

Flush that? With this? Are you having a laugh?

We set off at the crack of dawn. Two reasons: firstly, in December the Argentinean authorities changed the hour to increase evening light and reduce energy demands, putting dawn within reasonably easy reach even for the late risers amongst us. Secondly we never really got to sleep anyway as we'd pitched up in the world's noisiest campsite next to it's most irritating occupants. It was hard to resist waking up in the morning and returning the favour by disturbing their sleep by shouting out 'Hi dee Hi'! So we didn't. Disappointingly no one seemed bothered. We could have done with screaming chainsaw man from El Sordo!! We cycled off into the Castilian-esque landscape under a clear sky which promised a hot day. It delivered. Happily so did 'The Bloke from Bahia Blanca'. In an superbly humane gesture he'd left the 5 litres of mineral water where he said he would. More touchingly, the house he said he'd leave it in had been reduced to rubble so he must have back tracked to leave it with some workmen who, after Colin and I had idiotically charged past, managed to halt Al and deliver the gift. From Junín to Zapala there is no town and water is pretty scarce. Rarely has it tasted better. The day rolled on and the humidity rose. Long climbs across barren mountains. A thunderstorm loomed, making all of us nervous, especially Colin who was the tallest object for hundreds of kilometres around. We raced for a dot on the map called La Amarga which turned out to be a very pleasant dot indeed. The only house in the area provided essentials such as cold beer and a free spot to pitch our tent, sheltered from an imminent storm that never arrived. It also provided a truly remarkable toilet facility, the gruesome use of which required nerve and balance in equal measures. Welcome though it was we could be picky and complain about the moving floor of ants we'd erected the tent on. On a broiling night this meant we could leave only a small section of the zip open to ventilate the unshowered contents. A small window of opportunity, but one a large animal tried to take advantage of to break-in at about four in the morning. You can probably imagine, this led to 'not a little excitement'.

Day sixty one. La Amarga - Zapala. February 6th. Dist: 85KM

He was from Stockport; he should know a dump when he sees one.

We rose traumatised from the nocturnal scuffling and sized up likely culprits for the intrusion. A wonky-eyed hound looked pretty guilty - I wonder if his eyes were wonky before the night's rumble? We managed to get away early enough to beat a road blockade staged by local Mapuche at Puente Picún Leufu, a protest at local labor discrimination. An unlikely traveler we met coming the other way might not have been so lucky. Emerging from the desert haze, slowly he appeared. Nope, not Omar Sharrif in Lawrence of Arabia but Steve, a yoga instructor from Cheadle. He was lost but not at all bothered. He also cheerfully informed us that he had just come from our intended oasis for a day's rest and labeled it a "dump". At this stage we thought he was really from Stockport in which case he would know what he was talking about (je je je Mancunian amigos!). However, it later turned out he was from the 'posh end' and probably operating higher standards than us scruffs. We arrived in the middle of siesta with plenty of time to test his theory and checked into a hotel for military or police employees. Not quite sure how we managed that one, but the bikes should be safe.

So Steve was proved wrong and Zapala turns out to be a large but quiet resting place with a leafy square, a nice airy library for writing blogs and a population suitably bemused by our appearance, in both senses of the word. Not many people take their vacations in central Neuquén, but that's no bad thing for those who wheel up here, on the road to San Rafael and Mendoza.

D Middlemiss