Trucks apart, I hadn't seen anyone for hours. I left Viedma early in the morning in the company of another bike, a large Yamaha that had spotted me filling up with petrol and circled round to meet me. The rider, a local man, was heading to a Bikers' Meet inland at the delightfully-named Choele Choel and was I going there to? Sadly not. Time was not on my side. We rode in mini-convoy for an hour heading due west -- I fear I was slowing him down more than he admitted -- until our paths uncrossed.

I stayed on the coast road as it turned from west to south. From San Antonio Oeste all the way down to Tierra del Fuego, the road now runs more or less straight south. That's the next four days in the saddle, more or less in a straight line.

So I was getting into the swing of things and eating up the miles when I saw them, two creatures from another planet. In tight spandex and carrying about three kitchen sinks amongst a multitude of baggage were two bonkers Canadians... riding through Patagonia on bicycles.

I circled and approached them, parking the bike at the side of the road as another lorry thundered past. The wind was pretty strong coming in from the west, so we were at least upwind of them.

The cyclists, a man and a woman, were as happy as I was to talk. I suspect they were happy in the main because talking gave them a chance to stop and catch their breath. They had spent months coming south from Quebec, but Patagonia was proving tough because of the wind. They had just spent three days laid up in their tent because the wind had been too strong to even contemplate riding.

In the time I had taken to ride 150km that day they had managed 17, from the 'eco friendly' beach 'resort' of Las Grutas.

I'd past it minutes earlier, in the blink of an eye.

My target for the day was the town of Comodoro Rivadavia. They expected to get there in three weeks.

- But you're racing, she cried. Why go so fast?
- Aren't you going to stop in Valdes to see the whales?, he pleaded.
- Can't stop, says I, toodle-pip. Too many kilometres ahead of me. Good luck!

I made an effort not to accelerate too easily or quickly as I left my new chums. I didn't want to ruin their entire day. We were at the base of a long, gentle incline that must have have looked to them like the rest of the morning.

	Welsh Patagonia: Buenos Aires needed white settlers in the south to reinforce territorial claims. The Welsh sought freedom from the English. It was tough - the bleak land gave no respite and farming was hard - but it's a land of the greatest beauty. A worry: that retaining their culture becomes a tourist trap and nothing more.

But what I sacrificed here meant I could get to Ushuaia... and Santiago... and Asuncion... and a thousand points in between. I may never get to the Peninsula Valdes or see those seals (or those hippies) and that's a shame. But I didn't have years to do this. Just weeks. I don't need to go halfway round the world to see Welsh towns or eat teacakes - I can just go to Wales for that. Or Sainsburys.

And -- thank goodness -- I had 400cc-worth of trustworthy Japanese motorbike beneath my saddle.

It's 370 km from Rawson to Comodoro Rivadavia. I had already come 475 km since setting off this morning. (Maybe the crazy Canucks were right?)

But it's not often you get the chance to ride this far in a day, and with plenty of daylight left I decided to plunge on. It's 370 km, but there's b****r all inbetween, and certainly no beds.

	Garayalde: You don't have to be too cosmopolitan to earn an entry of your own in my candidate for World's Most Anoracky Website).

A couple of hours past Garayalde I was dreaming of being back there. The Pampa de Salamanca is soooooooo windswept I was almost *crying*. I could go on and on about it. I won't. Just promise me one thing. If you *ever* consider riding a motorbike down Ruta 3 contact me first and I'll tell you how horrible it is. (I will also tell you how wonderful it is and insist that you go!)

When you don't think you can go on you sit and work out the alternatives. That gets you going again.

The final miles were the worst, a high, barren plain over which the road twisted from left to right, like water snaking off a shelf. One moment the wind is in your face - you slow down to nothing. Turn and it slams into your side, threatening to turn man and bike over in an instant. The road is empty and that is no surprise. No-one could live here.

But eventually the road finds a gap in the plateau and spills through craggy hills to the coast and the city of Comodoro. That descent, out of the wind at last and on the smoothest of roads, is right up there on a list of All-Time Great Rides. Mainly in contrast with what has just gone before. Heavenly. Now I was *laughing*.

We're about to spend a few days in Comodoro, so I'll leave any descriptions for another time. I leave you with this thought.

Comodoro proudly calls itself 'The Capital of Wind'. 'Nuff said.