Argentina’s Ruta 40 gained it’s reputation as “the loneliest road in the world” for a reason. The barren, wind-swept Patagonian Steppe is the physical, natural embodiment of loneliness. The horizon stretches out of site, the land is brown and dusty with only flecks of green, the wind is beyond words. It shakes the car from side to side and ravishes your clothes and hair the moment you set foot outside. The landscape is largely devoid of life, except for guanacos (wild llama-like critters), choikes (something in the ostrich family) and, of course, sheep. When passing another car, it’s customary to flash your lights, a way of saying “oh hi, we’re driving the world’s loneliest road too.”

It was here, of course, on a particularly gravelly and desolate stretch, that we got a flat tire. It was bound to happen sometime. Sparky, our dutiful Chevy Spark, is not accustomed to the abuse he has been suffering recently. He’s supposed to be a rental car, for heaven’s sake, not the hybrid rally-race/off-road vehicle Macky has been trying to convince him to be. Shortly after fixing our flat, we met a German motorcyclist who had run out of gas. We tried to siphon gas out of our tank for him but this didn’t work too well. Luckily a passing pick-up truck pulled over to see what was going on. When you’re stopped on the world’s loneliness road everyone stops to say hi, partially to be helpful and partially because it’s the most entertainment they’ve had in hours. After some maneuvering we were able to get the moto into the back of the pick up truck.

Sizing up the back of the truck.

This didn't work.

Success.

We found out that our tire was beyond repair in Gobernador Gregores, a bleak little town a few kilometers off Ruta 40. No one in Gregores sold the right size tire so we patched up the destroyed one, stuck in a tube, and headed to Rio Gallegos where, we were assured, we could find the tire we needed. The drive was nightmarish, another 600 kilometers of wind and desert, this time with a car that shook and wobbled like a crack addict. In Rio Gallegos, we found out that the size of tire we needed is only sold in Chile. So we got back in the car and drove to Punta Arenas, Chile, the southernmost city on the American Continent. (Not counting the island of Tierra del Fuego.) Here, our luck finally changed. We got a new tire and went on an awesome bike ride with the local bike shop crew. We’re staying in a nice, cheap hostal with a crew of entertaining guests, including one kid who has ridden his bike all the way from Alaska and a wacky NYC artist who told us in detail about the guanaco skeleton he found on the side of the road and what this meant to him.