The road ahead was all new for me now, having riden a few kilometres further south last night than I had managed on my previous trip to Florianopolis. In fact, I was quickly out and away from the city, on a road that hugged the coast before cutting sharply inland at the first sign of a new range of hills.

Yesterday, the road had been dual carriageway for the most part, but now it was down to one lane in each direction - not that that stops many Brazilians from trying to overtake in the most unlikely (read: dangerous) spots. Nevertheless, with my extra acceleration and reduced width I was able to make good progress compared with most cars and certainly with the lorries.

The countryside changed constantly. Mangy seaside resorts and straggly beaches where roadside shacks sold the same beach towels and the same fast food; a hilly section, where lorries belching indescribable filth inched their way up then inched their way down the other side; areas of prehistoric forest that darkened the sky and offered a whole new kind of roadkill at the side of the road; open, grassy plains where the vast cattle ranches of the Deep South -- this is Brazil's cowboy country -- dominated an empty landscape.

Have you ever ridden a motorbike on a windy day past enormous, heavy, fast-moving lorries? Then you know only too well the incredible brute force generated as the turbulence hits you, like a sackful of wet coal coming at you and there's Nothing You Can Do to stop it.

Of course, with a better understanding of the laws of physics, not to mention common-snse, you might work out faster than I just what is happening. It took a few days to be able to second-guess when the turbulence would strike, given relative speeds and more importantly the strength and direction of the wind. Today, my second day in the saddle, I was still being taken unawares... or steeling myself for a blast that never came. I was quite perplexed.

Eating lunch in the restaurant attached to a huge petrol station I got talking to a young car driver heading to his parents' house from Sao Paolo. He had spotted me as a foreigner straightaway - long before he heard me talk -- and it turned out he had lived in Acton for three years. That's three miles from where I live in West London. Small world. He was very friendly if rather shy and timid: he had ummed and arred before venturing to say Hello.

Back out on the road I was riding quite happily when he overtook me at high speed, waving and tooting his horn, before executing a death-defying late swerve towards a side road and away. So much for the timidity of young Brazil.

Several kilometres north of Porto Alegre I faced a choice of routes. Just before the town of Osorio I could take a left, hugging the coast and travelling down a long spit of exposed coast to the southern outpost town of Rio Grande and beyond to Uruguay itself; alternatively, I could head inland, staying on the main BR116 through Porto Alegre to all points south. The coast road seemed the most exciting and in a freewheeling spirit of What The Hell I elected to go left.

I worried about finding the right turning - these things aren't signposted, you know, hell there aren't *any* signposts in Brazil -- but a friendly young family went out of their way to guide me to the road to Tramandai.

Did I say road? It was a dirt track, rutted and dry and empty and, to an amateur like myself, very uncomfortable riding. My speed dropped right down as the track skirted a lake to the right hand side before plunging ahead towards... nothing.

Mile after tedious mile I laboured to keep the bike upright, stopping for a self-congratulatory photo of the hellish conditions (a picture which clearly shows a well-maintained, level road surface which should have presented no problems, I freely admit!) and to catch my breath. I hated it. And, of course, this was exactly the kind of road that any self-respecting 'adventure motorcyclist' thrives on. Why, there are those who insist on avoiding 'real' roads at all costs. Me, I couldn't wait to escape and was almost tearful with relief when, a couple of hours further on, I spied road workers in the distance and finally emerged onto freshly-laid tarmac.

I had reached a small town, nameless, little more than a crossroads, where a roadside cafe offered sweet relief and a bottle of ice-cold water. The owner hooted at the sight of me and promised that the road ahead was even more exciting and just what a biker like me must relish. I ascertained that that was the road to our left, and when I left I most deliberately set off on the road to our *right* -- blessed asphalt that took me straight to Porto Alegre, back to the BR116 and civilisation (these things being relative).

That wasn't the end of my offroad riding... Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego would see to that... but it would have been if I'd had my way.

Porto Alegre is the last huge Brazilian city as you head south. One and a half million people live there, working in the port or servicing a vast hinterland of agriculture and ranches. It is also one of the three or four centres of football, with two of the biggest teams in the land, Gremio and Internacional. The former play in stylish black and blue stripes, and the shirt was one of the most common I had seen in Rip, in Curitiba and on the road. In fact, the one place in all Brazil where I didn't see the shirt was... in Porto Alegre itself. Maybe the locals had just got bored with it, maybe they were all fans and had no need to show their colours, maybe its simply that Gremio -- like Manchester United -- have no fans in their hometown. It wouldn't surprise me: Flamengo are the biggest team in all Brazil to the extent that they play 'home' games not just in Rio but in Brasilia and the north-east of the country, bringing the message to fans across Brazil.

True to form, I pressed on, taking the city head on and riding through the centre (relaxed, open, clean) and the port (dirty, confusing, heavy) and across the estuary of the Guaiba River on an impressively expansive series of bridges.

Out the other side, I felt like I was really in a new Brazil, on the fringes of the country. I managed to drop a kid riding a (tinny, tiny) 125cc motorbike who knew the roads better than I did and kept his throttle wide open. It was late afternoon now, and the traffic had again died off, leaving me, the road, the sky and the bike. We were getting on just fine.

One teenage petrol station attendent tried to impress upon me the need to stay at Sao Lourenco do Sul, a lakeside resort 200km south of Porto Alegre which was prominantly advertised on roadside hoardings, but I pressed on for Rio Grande, which had a great write-up in all the guidebooks.

I never made it. The sky turned a thunderous blue-black, the heavens opened and the road ahead was illuminated by a staggering display of forked lightning. Presuming that a bike presents an easy target for lightning - I didn't want to be proved right - I pulled off the highway at the town of Pelotas and looked for a place to stay.

When I did, bearings akimbo, I eventually tracked down a hotel just as the power cut hit. The entire town went dark. It took an age to negotiate a path for the bike through the crowded hotel car park. Don't forget - it's still raining and thundering up above. I'm soaked. My bags are heavy. The only room is on the top floor.

In the dark, I light a candle, take a cold shower (the water dribbles out of the spout) and brave the rain and muddy road to eat the World's Least Appetising Chicken in a cracked formica cafe with dogs wandering in and out, children screaming, and an unsteady TV blaring above my head.

Pelotas, may I never see you again.