From here down to Clorinda looks like a comfortable two day run. There is the small issue of the Paraguayan capital city and an international border to circumvent. Even so, it’s a neat, two days work. So how come we’re checking-in to an hotel in Clorinda at the end of siesta on day one?
Sometimes the travelling travails conspire to bring all their troubles into one row. The first hour is downhill and I’m warned not to create an artificial head wind, cycling in a silent bubble that devours the kilometre posts like they were soft candy. The chipas that are warm fresh and the asphalt that is tyre-singing smooth. It’s a day when the bikes ride themselves. Weightless. Effortless. Painless.
Planned to stop in…somewhere, but didn’t immediately find a place, so rather than turn back and make an effort down it‘s only other street, we’ll try the next town down the road, it’s only an hour away. Through another somewhere, ’Did you see anything?’…’No’…‘No problem’ ….‘There’s bound to be something at the long bridge’, ‘the big junction‘, ‘the international frontier‘…nada, nada, nada.
Another two stamps in the passport, force-fed on contraband bananas, only to pass through customs unsearched, and into another small Argentine town. Found a place to sleep and scored a good mile ton on the odometer. Some days are just like that.
