On
The Road
I was somewhere in Patagonia, at night, in a
snowstorm, with my freshly crashed
motorcycle on its side at a 45-degree angle
on a snow bank. My right leg was pinned, and
my mood had taken a decidedly philosophical
turn. I was given to understand that this
sort of thing would never happen to me
during this-my thumping master-class of
travel. In fact, after some delicate
negotiation, I had earlier reached an accord
with Destiny, which stipulated that my life
would run a progressive course of heroics
until arriving at a teleological zenith of
deathless glory. On occasion however,
Destiny and I have been known to disagree on
execution. In my new role, as a sandwich
between machine and earth, I considered the
merits of delayed gratification, as my bid
to become a somewhat Norse, splendidly
bearded, Falstaffian organism had been
postponed. This was, at best, an overthrow
of expectations. During these very rare
improprieties of fate—-despite our previous
contractual agreement—-I customarily assume
a gracious calm that is the prevailing note
of my soul and begin the process of
assigning blame to others.
For three months, I had backpacked through
Ecuador, Peru, and Bolivia, and by the time
I had reached Chile, my love affair with
buses was officially over. In Santiago, I
purchased a motorcycle with the express
purpose of riding down la ruta cuarenta
(ruta 40) in Argentina, also known as
National Route 40 or, less flatteringly, la
puta cuarenta. Partly unpaved and crossing
20 national parks, this road runs parallel
to the Andean spine of western Argentina,
through Patagonia into the south, and
terminates at Rio Gallegos, where I would
continue on to Ushuaia, the world’s
southernmost city, on the island of Tierra
del Fuego. Ruta 40 is to bikers what the
Mile High Club is to frisky flyers. It is,
in fact no coincidence that those who ride
Ruta 40 suffer an uncanny augmentation in
length and girth of their metaphysical wangs
regardless of their genders, and the gains
in reproductive advantage over sexual rivals
are presumed to be substantial.
25
THE CONE - ISSUE #1 - SPRING
Travel Essay
But metaphysics be damned: sometimes one
needs an actual surrogate phallus to launch
a new adventure, and nothing dispels
inadequacy or proves one’s manhood more than
compensatory consumption. My motorcycle was
a used 2008 Honda NX400 Falcon, designed in
Japan, made in Brazil, and like any great
mythological sword, it deserved a worthy
name. I rode the Baron Magnus von Erectus
all around Chile—Valparaiso, the Lakes
District around Volcano Villarrica, the
vineyards of Colchagua Valley and Chiloé
Island—-as I waited for the bike’s paperwork
to be approved. But by the time I received
a padron (an ownership registration card)
from the Chilean Civil Registro and could
therefore leave the country, it was already
June.
Of all the topsy-turvical things in the
Southern Hemisphere, like penguins,
Vegemite, and Australians-—nothing strikes
me as more godless than its reversal of
seasons. I don’t want to spark a
theological debate, but as a devout
nonbeliever, I firmly believe it’s a
blasphemy to have Christmas in the summer,
and it seems hardly possible to imagine the
birth of Christ without snow unless you are
a worthless infidel. Winters from June to
September are even more profane. It was as
if the Southern Hemisphere didn’t even care
that I was on a motorcycle tour there during
the winter. It just goes to show that no
matter how well you’ve planned, you must
always be prepared for the unexpected.
Continued on page 39
My right leg was pinned,
and my mood had taken a
decidedly philosophical
turn.