Isambard would have loved the iron bridge leading to Viedma, although the road surface was rutted out. With the help of a friendly policeman, we are escorted to the municipal campsite on the tree lined banks of the Rio Negro. Once part of a utopian vision with its tables, benches and asardo areas cast in cerement, then painted chalk white to match the immaculately defined pitches with their white edging and planted boarder, top off with state of the art shower block and toilets. The Weeds now emerge from the cracks in the concrete, having long ago invaded the rest of the site, as the paint flakes beneath the graffiti, the shower block and toilets looted and smashed. Still a scraggy old mongrel befriends us; the caretaker lets us use his shower, as the water streams within inches of live wires and electrical sockets; a member of the local bike club, having picked us up on their radar, turns up with his wife and newly born baby to make us welcome, inviting us for mate – Argentine national drink – the following morning at the garage he works at. Add to two bottles of cheap plonk, some good old fashioned campfire cooking and the stars to stare at, it’s a pretty good night.

As we head for the “Peninsular Valdés” the scrub with it’s trampish beauty becomes even more arid as patches of sand and chalky gravel break up any plant life, which is never more than a couple of feet off the ground, creating that “big sky” affect, interrupted occasionally, as “The Orb” so aptly put it, by “little fluffy clouds. In Puerto Piramides we find some asymmetric cabanas – small cabins with a simple bedroom and bathroom – set on a sandy, eroded, hill side over looking a coved beach with the late evening sun glistening on water. I do a double take as I look through the window down on to the bay, as a whale leaps, not quiet leaving the water, and then crashes back down, sending white washes of water in every direction. At first I imagine it’s been pure luck that I looked out at that specific moment, but moment later again a whale hurls itself into the air, again not quite managing to leave the water, but flipping it’s body leaving only the silhouetted “Y” shape of it’s tale to remain visible momentarily, before disappearing into the sea. In the morning we arrange to go out on a small boat, it’s the mating season, so the annual pilgrimage of whales is taking place, as the depleted numbers of whales gather to woo a mate. The sea is like a mill pond, we head around the headland to a small bay, then the skipper cuts the engine, as he points out a black twenty foot whale with her albino cub, moving in out direction, spinning slightly as they approach so that on occasions a flipper emerges. Then suddenly there is an enormous a reverberating acoustic boom, which seems to echo slightly, as the mother spout water from her blow hole, it such a powerful noise it catches people unaware, bar the skipper who smiles. For a few hours we dart about in the boat from one group to another, watching these enormous creature play, with their young in tow, it’s really quiet something,

Ripio is a term Castilian term used to describe any road that is not covered in asphalt. The surfaces can vary with compacted earth, mud, gravel and sand, there’s an endless variation depending on the terrain and weather. If you have ever ridden a bicycle on gravel or sand, you’ll know the surface becomes fluid, causing the wheel to slip and slide, as the steering takes on a life of its own, pulling you off balance. The ripio mantra being, much like in snow boarding, “Speed is your friend”. You need to go against everything your mind is telling you as the course you were steering is suddenly pulled away, you want to slow down, but instead you accelerate hard to win back control, the back wheel grips pushing you forward again, not giving the bike time to sink or veer off in an altogether new direction. Most ripio is compacted by the constant stream of big trucks, so the deep gravel and sand is not constant, but you do need to get tuned into the road surface, loosening you grip, relaxed, ready to react.

As we head still further south across the Patagonian plains, there is slight wind, but nothing on the scales constantly described, with stories of people pinned down for days, unable to move, unable to walk forward standing upright. We stop for lunch at a truck stop and talk with a waitress who asks where we are from and we are going, she laughs when I tell her Ushuaia “….mucho viento, muy viento” – very windy”. Moments later she is talking with a truck driver who suddenly roars with laugher, as she explains where we are heading pointing to the motorcycles outside. The laughter subside, then he looks over at us again, letting out a deep hearty chuckle, which he keeps surfacing every time he clocks us or he bikes. Truck drivers here look like truck drivers anywhere in the World, rich in girth through lack of activity, facial hair seems de rigor, with nautical beards and retro moustaches. On the road though they dispel the stereotypical image of the stoic loaner, waving the palms of their hands from side to side as they pass in the opposite direction, on these otherwise deserted roads. The other image that will stay with me and breaks down further any stereo typing, is the way these big, rough, kings of the road greet friends at the truck stops, by kissing them gently on the cheek, it just doesn´t happen at the motorway services in Newport Pagnell.

Traffic becomes a less common site as we head into a much more remote stretch heading towards Rio Gallegos. You can go for well over two hundred miles before seeing any sign of a town or petrol station. Salt lakes are now a common site with pink flamingos standing in the shallow waters, occasionally taking flight. There are small groups of brown lamas, with black and white markings on the road side, they look more like deer than traditional lamas, as they spring to life on catching sight of the bikes, bounding over the fences that run along the road, occasionally darting in front of us. Slowly the landscape again changes with peat brown hills appearing before us, as the road again drops away into the distance, the twilight sun tingeing the landscape with an orange glow, I do believe that’s a WRAP Mr Coppola.