AMERICYCLE '79

from Arctic to Antarctic

by Bicycle... 16,000 Miles in 488 Days

Story by Scott Hartshorn

"I don't think you boys are going to make it!" I remember how the old man's eyebrows rose in disbelief when I told him my brother and I were riding our bicycles 25,000 kilometers to Argentina. "You're crazy: This is Canada, ya know? North America, oh! Argentina? ain't that in South America, somewhere? And what about Central America? You got to go through that one too! No, you'll never make it!"

Who could blame the old man for not believing me? As I write this. almost two years after our journey began, I can scarcely believe it myself. But the proof lies on the table before me: my brother's journal. For 488 days, nearly l½ years. Doug diligently recorded sights, sounds, ups, downs, joys and pains of bicycling through the Americas. It is the story of an adventure.

10 July 1979 - Inuvik. Northwest Territories, Canada

As the sign says: "Canada's most northern city" and our starting point. We are 200 kilometers north of the Arctic Circle and just a few kilometers from the shores of the Arctic Ocean.

Inuvik is a small community in the midst of a vast tundra; population: 3,500, mostly Indians and Eskimos. We attracted a lot of attention as we rode into town. Little Indian children crowded around us, all talking at once, then reporters came, took our pictures and interviewed us. A young lady, Debbie, offered us a place to stay and that is where I am now, writing this at three o'clock in the morning by natural light in the land where the sun never sets. Tomorrow we begin. Our bicycles an d equipment are in good condition and we have packed enough food for several days. Argentina and the island of Tierra del Fuego seem a long way off.

Mom cried when her two boys left home (Boulder, Colorado, USA) ten days ago. But we're not boys anymore. I'm 28 and Scott is 26. So don't worry Mom. we'll be fine and we'll come home safely.

11 July 1979 - Just south of Inuvik

Scott and I awoke to a bright, cloudless morning - a great day to begin a bicycle ride. We waved good-bye to our Inuvik friends and started to ride away when I looked down at my front tire; it was flat. I patched it while everyone watched, then started to ride once more. Several meters down the road it went flat again. A new tube and it was fixed. Two kilometers later I heard a loud pssss'. My rear tire was flat. What a way to begin the greatest adventure of my life.

15 July 1979 - In the middle of nowhere, Yukon Territory, Canada

Very tired. I can hardly sit-up and write. The gravel roads are rough and rocky. Our bicycles and our bones are being shaken apart at every joint. Riding was painfully slow, only 50 kilometers today as sharp stones tore into our tires causing ten flats. We are beginning to worry that our tires and tubes don't last until Whitehorse.

The air is thick with mosquitoes and black flies, We must ride fast to escape them, but when we stop to camp they attack and bite hard leaving streams of blood flowing down our arms and legs. Our food supply is almost exhausted with still one or two days to go before our next pick-up. Tonight we will cook a little rice and gather some wild plants. It won't be enough to eat.

11 August 1979 - Stewart, British Columbia, Canada

Glaciers came tumbling from high mountain valleys to the very edge of the road to greet us as we rode toward Stewart today. At a small stream, we stopped to watch huge salmon fish struggling to swim in water less than 30 centimeters deep. They came from the ocean, thousands of kilometers away, battling flooding rivers, fishermen and each other, always swimming upstream to find their birthplace so they too could give birth, then die. Most of the fish we saw were near death, but still f ought desperately to swim on. Only the strongest would make it.

Scott said our own journey seemed easy compared to that of these magnificent fish. We both gained new confidence today and vowed to be strong all the way up our 25,000 kilometer stream.

25 August 1979 - Jasper, British Columbia, Canada

A bear raided our camp last night - yes, a bear: I was standing outside, Scott was in his tent, when a huge black bear stood up only a few meters from me. I tried to jump into the tent but Scott wouldn't let me in: Petrified, I watched as the bear took something in his mouth and scurried off into the forest. This morning our food packs were missing, we searched a bit and found them under a tree. They had been chewed and clawed. All our food was gone. We are fortunate the bear ate only our food and not us - keep praying for us Mom!

Within two months, we had crossed Canada; the first country of our thirteen country tour was now a vivid memory.

October 1979 - Pacific coast of the United States

We rode all day today through a cool, dark forest of giant redwood trees. These trees are so big, four people cannot hold hands and encircle their trunks at the base and so tall, one cannot see their tops, even while standing several meters away.

Occasionally the road veered out of the forest and brought us to the edge of vertical cliffs where we overlooked the blue Pacific Ocean. The waves crashed against jagged rocks and filled the air with mist. It all smells so clean and fresh here.

This country is beautiful and very dear to our hearts. but it is our own. and therefore, familiar to us; it holds few mysteries. Our thoughts wander southward. We are eager to ride to the Mexican border and enter the unknown worlds of Latin America.

Feeling strong and healthy, we rode along the coast of California to Los Angeles where we visited relatives and overhauled our bicycles. A short stop at the bicycle shop for more tires. and we were off once more, headed for Tiajuana and the Baja peninsula of Mexico.

14 November 1979 - San Diego, California.

Tonight will be our last night in the United, States for more than a year. We met a married couple from England, Geoff and Gwen Lund, who will ride their bicycles with us through the Baja.

We are all a little nervous about riding in Mexico and Latin America. What are the people like down there, and how will they treat us? What do they eat? Will they understand us and will we understand them?

Scott and I both studied Spanish in school, but we know the Spanish of our teachers and the Spanish of the campesinos are disparate languages. We are determined, however, to speak and to understand.

We must dive headfirst into Latin America gust as we plunged into icy arctic streams to bathe: a shock at first, but we grew accustomed to the water.

15 November 1979 - Rosarito, Baja, Mexico

The water is fine! As we rode south from San Diego I began to notice road signs written in Spanish. Then, just before the border,. someone whistled at us for wearing short pants, "mira, gringos.'" Suddenly, we were in the middle of Tiajuana - people everywhere, shouting, small shops and millions of cars clogging the narrow streets in organized confusion. Everyone seemed to stop and stare as we rode by. I felt very strange.

By midday, we were starved so we stopped to eat some burritos. The food was great I think I'll like it here. We got lost and had to ask directions. With a friendly smile, a young lady pointed-out the road to Rosarito and we left Tiajuana behind. So. the food is good and the people are friendly - we'll make it.

25 November 1979 - In the desert, Baja, Mexico

I'm sitting alone, writing this by the light of our campfire. Everybody is fast asleep in his own tent, but a billion stars, shining in the clear desert sky, keep me company.

Today was hot as a dry wind blew in our faces and parched our lips. We stopped at every little rancho and drank sodas and beers - whatever they had that was cool and wet. Pure water is hard to find and often costs money. We must conserve our water each day. The Baja is desolate country with long distances between towns and watering holes. I have just one bottle of water left, I would like to drink it now, but will taste better tomorrow. I am so thirsty.

14 December 1979 - On the ferry "Azteca" in the Gulf of California

I cannot sleep tonight; the third class salon is crowded and the air is hot and heavy. Tomorrow we will be in Mazatlán and on the mainland of Mexico. We will miss the Baja, it was good to us, but our road dived into the sea and disappeared under the waves at Cabo San Lucas. Now we must find our road again and follow it southward to new lands.

I have been befriended by Martin, a twelve years old boy from Mazatlán. He sits and stares at me as I write and I practice my Spanish on him. I can understand about half of what he says to me and he probably understands half of what I say.

25 December 1979 - Sierra Madres Occidentales, Mexico

¡Feliz Navidad! This is the fourth day of uphill riding since leaving Mazatlán. From sea level, we have climbed 2,500 meters and I see still more road above. We do not care though, these mountains and pine forests remind us of our home in Colorado. It feels as though we could turn around and pedal home in just a few minutes and be with our family and friends for Christmas dinner. But dinner tonight will be two boiled potatoes, onions and some beans. I'm very hungry after this h ard day's ride; I'm sure I will enjoy every bite.

1 January 1980 - Zacatecas, Mexico

¡Y un prospero año nuevo! We celebrated the new year by watching the fireworks light the skies over Zacatecas. I bought a small of tequila and I drank a toast to us and Tierra del Fuego.

9 January 1980 - Mexico City

I never would have believed it possible to ride a bicycle into the heart of Mexico City, but Scott and I just did it and we're still alive. As we approached this city of 12,000,000 people, the four lane highway began to fill with trucks and buses coming from every corner of Mexico. More and more roads joined our highway bringing even more traffic. A truck screeched to a halt just in time to avoid hitting Scott and the driver screamed a warning for him to get off the highway before he was killed. Then someone threw a banana peel at me and we decided to ride on a smaller road and just hope it would take us to the center of the city.

A friendly policeman directed us to Chapultepec park. We rested and calmed our nerves, then found a telephone and called our friends Sr. and Sra. Urias. Although the senores Urias had never seen us before, they kindly received us in their home and offered to help us in anyway possible while we visited Mexico City. Sr. Urias took us on a tour of the city and then checked us into a hotel close to his home "in case we needed anything". We will have much to keep us busy for the next week: vis its to the Anthropological museum, the ancient ruins of Teotihuacan and more. But we must not tarry long, it is important to ride through Central America during the dry season.

From Mexico City, we rode south in the central highlands, past the sister volcanoes of Ixtaccihual and Popocatepetl, past Oaxaca and the 2,000 years old Tule tree, across the windy isthmus of Tehuantepec and high into the mountains to San Cristobal de las Casas. Once in Guatemala, all of North America as behind us.

11 February 1980 - Guatemala City

It has been more than a month since hearing from our friends and family, so the first thing we did after arriving in the capital of Guatemala was visit the post office. How good it felt to sit and read and laugh and dream of one day going home. Good news: Our sister, Kim. will marry in August.

A man told us that if we tried to ride our bikes through El Salvador we would have a 30% chance of dying and an 80% chance of being hurt or robbed. I think we'll go through Honduras instead.

22 February 1980 - Quimistan, Honduras

I watched an old man die today. It began as a beautiful day for riding - the land was flat and green, the sky was clear and the air cool. Scott was far ahead of me and riding fast, but I chose to ride slowly and enjoy the day. Suddenly, I looked up and saw an old man run across the road carrying a bundle of wood on his back. I heard the squeal of tires and watched helplessly as a truck hit the man and knocked him sprawling. He rolled along the ground like a rag in the wind, then stopp ed and didn't move. I ran to him, "senor?" but he was dead. They carried him away, and I continued down the road.

28 February 1980 - Just across the border, Nicaragua

We are nervous being in a country which was at war with just a few months ago. Customs was filled with unofficial looking officials: young men with only peach fuzz on their upper lips. carrying guns and thoroughly searching our packs.

At a restaurant a young man with dark eyes and a beret cocked on his head sat at our table and asked how the "CIA and imperialist U.S. government" were getting along. Oh brother! He said the revolution would spread and "put the U.S. on the floor". But he smiled and bought us each a beer and shook our hands. We all agreed to be brothers. Scott told me he would like to ride quickly through Nicaragua.

Our road took us through the hot tropical regions of Costa Rica, then high into the mountains and the coolness of San Jose. From the top of Cerro de la Muerte, the highest pass in Central America, we could look out and see both the Pacific and Atlantic oceans. We then dropped out of the clouds and into Panama City where we boarded a jet to fly over the Darien gap to Medellin, Colombia.

26 March 1980 - Medellin, Colombia

Our last continent: South America. As we flew from Panama, I looked out the window and noticed the ground immediately below us. I thought the pilot was flying too low, but then realized we were high in the sky and just skimming the tops of the Andes mountains. And we're going to ride our bicycles down there?

6 April 1980 - Andes mountains near Popayan, Colombia

In Panama, a man told us that nobody going into Colombia ever comes out alive. But the people are very kind and generous; nobody wants to harm us.

Yesterday we asked an old man if we could camp on his land, but he insisted we come with him and stay the night at his house. Even though he was poor and had a large family, he fed us and made room for us to sleep behind his small hut. This morning, we drank "tinto" with the family and took their picture before continuing on up the steep road.

14 April 1980 - Latitude 0.00, Ecuador

We left Cayambe this morning and arrived at the equator a few hours later. Scott bought a liter of Coca Cola and we celebrated our crossing while sitting under a palm tree, viewing the snow covered peak of Mt. Cayambe in the distance. The sun will always be at our backs for the rest of the trip. We'll spend a week in Quito, then on to Peru.

18 May 1980 - Lima, Peru

Shouts of "Belaunde Presidente" filled the air as we walked the streets of Peru's capital. The first presidential election in over a decade has the people in this country excited and restless. Two gringos riding bicycles did not even attract much attention.

We called home last night. It was hard to believe we were thousands of kilometers away. Everyone sounded happy.

We shall buy more tires and clean the bikes again before starting the dreaded climb over the cordillera toward Cuzco.

10 June 1980 - Near Ayacucho, Peru

Too tired to write. Uphill all day today; tomorrow as well. The dirt road is very rough and our tires are wearing quickly. Don't know if they will last until Cuzco. It looks as if it will take us more than a month to ride from Lima to Cuzco - only 35 kilometers today

8 July 1980 - Cuzco, Peru

Up at four-thirty this morning and off to the train station by five. The train was very crowded and we had to squeeze to get into our seats. Indian women walked up and down the corridor selling bread, coffee, papa rellenos and sweet cakes.

When I stepped off the train at Machu Picchu, I noticed a tear in my bag. Someone had slashed it with a razor blade, but nothing was taken.

Machu Picchu was breathtaking; the most beautiful ruins I have ever seen. I'm glad the Spanish conquistadores never found this site, they would have surely destroyed all of its beauty.

We stayed nearly a month in Cuzco being tourists and recuperating from "la gripe", then we mounted-up once more. and headed for Lake Titicaca and Bolivia.

2 August 1980 - on the shores of Lake Titicaca, Puno, Peru

It is cold and windy on the altiplano as I gaze out over the lake. Reed boats line the shore and the smell of fish dances up the streets from the fish vendors' carts.

We heard news that they are fighting (again) in Bolivia, another military coup. We were looking forward to riding through Bolivia and visiting La Paz where our mail is waiting. Our plans must be changed, better to be disappointed than dead. We must ride back over the cordillera to Tacna, then south through Chile and the Altacama desert.

6 August 1980 - on the altiplano, Peru

I thought we were goners today. Just as the sun was coming this morning and we were huddled in our sleeping bags half frozen and shivering, we heard voices outside our tents, speaking Quechua.

We poked our heads outside to see five Indian men standing around our camp. "You can't sleep here" they said, "the army will come". We quickly packed our things and told them we were leaving. As we were walking our bikes to the road, one man threw a large rock hitting my bike. We hurried our pace a little and suddenly smaller stones came buzzing by our ears as fast as bullets. They were using slings to hurl jagged stones at us. Finally on the road, we jumped on our bikes and raced away, b ut one stone hit my rear wheel and almost knocked it off. We had to stop and fix it and feared the Indians would overtake us. gust as a car drove by scaring the Indians away. I fixed my wheel and we flew down the road toward Chile.

21 August 1980 - Antofagasta, Chile

One hundred ten kilometers yesterday to give us a one hundred kilometer per day average in Chile. At this rate we should be in Santiago by mid September. we no longer fear the Altacama desert where it has not rained in recorded history. The days are sunny but cool, the road is flat and smooth and we find plenty of water the way to keep us going. We even find food on the side of the road, mostly potatoes and onions, which we cook with our evening meal.

12 September 1980 - Santiago, Chile

Santiago is beautiful in the spring. Southern Chile is wet and green with millions of flowers blooming along the roadside. This will be the last major city we'll pass on the trip, we vow to come back and see more of it someday. Now only two months and 3,500 kilometers separate us from the city of Ushuaia on the island of Tierra del Fuego.

8 October 1980 - San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina

We rode all day along the shores of the blue, sparkling lake Nahuel Huapi. Two large trout lazily swam up to greet us as we stopped for lunch. Approaching Bariloche, a pretty Bavarian resort town, we had to remind ourselves we were in the Andes of Argentina and not the Alps. Argentina: Our last country.

It is still early for the tourist season, most of the hotels were closed, but the ones which were open were expensive and of our price range. Just as we were giving up hope of finding a place to stay, Ivan, a jolly. 45 years old proprietor of two dry cleaning shops. drove up and asked if he could help us. We told him our story and he said. "I was a cyclist once - follow me". Five minutes later we were resting in a room above Ivan's shop.

Later. Ivan introduced us to his wife. an Austrian born woman with an attractive smile. and his daughter. Patricia, who spoke English better than we, That night. we all went to eat "parillada" at a small. excellent restaurant, Later. Ivan told us of his days as a young cyclist, racing throughout Patagonia. "it will be cold and windy." he warned.

30 October 1980 - Tres Cerros, Patagonia. Argentina

Ivan was right about Patagonia. Yesterday we only rode 20 kilometers; the wind was so fierce it knocked us off our bicycles several times. I tried walking for awhile, but gave that idea up as we decided to stop for the day hoping tomorrow is better.

The roads are very bad again. I worry that our tires won't make it to the end. Will they have tires in Rio Gallegos? Ushuaia is so close but in this wind and on these roads it may as well be millions of kilometers away.

16 November 1980 - Ushuaia, Tierra del Fuego

As the sign says: "La ciudad mas austral del mundo." Scott and I embraced and smiled at each other as we looked across the bay and the icy waters of the Beagle Channel at Ushuaia. An old man came walking down the road and we asked him to take our picture with our camera. He did and then asked where we were going. "Here:", I said. "Well then," he said, "I think you made it."

Derick S. Hartshorn - ©2008
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