Looked at the bicycle, really looked at it. Dirt rust spots wear that at home would get immediate attention, just marks of movement press ahead and making do. Tired of my clothes so for the new year I buy myself a new shirt but find I can’t let go of the old one, thinking back to its being custom tailored for length in La Paz for a couple of dollars by an nodding with enthusiasm twenty five year old with a sewing machine, his hem perfect to the original.
These last days a break and collecting a few things mostly in myself and aiming for 1,100 cryptograph futures, days with people I care very much about. Then a Southerly transit, bike shaking in a bus on a truck ignominiously on top of a car, sleeping upright or skipping it altogether, lazily and removed from this scenery, perhaps will have to come back to it someday. Now in Bariloche for a last leg, bikepacking over the Andes again into fjords lands and lush lined gravel roads for a gallop to the end of the continent.