Rio Grande is a colourful little place but a lick of paint won't help it win any awards. And let's face it, if you are going to live on Tierra del Fuego, having got this far south, you should go the whole hog and live in Ushuaia?

Which, at 220 kilometres, can only be a morning's ride south of here, right? Wrong.

The day started well enough, a paved road hugging the coast with estancias dotted on either side of the road. There was more gravel - about 80km of which were supposed to have been asphalted by now. The road really threw up dust - I mean great clouds of the stuff when trucks went past, so much I had to stop to let it settle. And it was windy, just in case you'd forgotten the *constant* wind, and that was my downfall.

As I headed south the wind started to wane. In ones and teos, then in small groups, finally covering an entire hill, were the first trees I had seen in days. They had the effect of breaking up the wind so that, for once, I didn't have to lean into it the whole time.

I was coming round a righthand curve at about 30mph and hit the biggest gust of wind I've felt so far. It was pushing me to the centre of the (asphalt) road. There was nothing else on the road so I let the bike drift across as I slowed down... but I drifted just too far... off the edge of the road and into gravel. I wobbled, I hit the front brake too hard.

Result: topple. I was probably doing 5mph when the bike went over and was able to just step away as it went over.

The bike didn't get a scratch and nothing got bent or bumped either... except that some dust or grit got into the carburretor, which meant the engine wouldn't start. As you might imagine, I had no idea about this... I just knew it wouldn't start.

But a passing pick-up stopped to see if they could help... two old ladies... oh the hassle getting the bike into the back of the truck... heavy!... then 20 miles down the road to the nearest garage, in the small town of Tolhuin, where my new best friend Lucio got it all sorted... this all taking time of course, while my battered pride got over itself.

How can I explain my gratitude? Not in words. But let me record my thanks once more. I travelled halfway round the world and found people who would drop everything to help a complete stranger.

As for the bike, I was lucky it wasn't worse, of course, but also unlucky because I was doing the right thing. Lucky that I was able to step out and not feel a thing, unlucky that the dust got into the one part of the engine where it could do harm. Lucky the ladies took me in the back of their truck, lucky Lucio loved the bike and was happy to get cracking...

While he worked, I sat and watched in wonder (so that's what the bike looks like with various bits taken off!) and chatted to his small group of acolytes. Let me assure you, in Tolhuin nothing as exciting as Lucio's little workshop exists, and I can add that having an Englishman with a busted Brazilian Falcon was a bit exciting too.

We drank mate and talked about the Rolling Stones while the bike gradually took shape and, after an hour, the engine fired up once more.

I took it for a test-ride then made sure Lucio had a go too. He has a bike of sorts (make that, various bits of assorted bikes cobbled together) but it was clear this was a new experience for him. He'd saved my bacon.

The ride on the back of the pick-up had taken me from paved road to ripio, but also deep inton the southern forests, so the wind was now less of a problem.

It had also taken me past a group of travelling motorbikes, parked up five minutes from where I'd been stranded (and I like to think they would have stopped to help, too). So you see, I may have crashed on a deserted stretch of one of the least inhabited spots in all the Americas, but it would all have worked out somehow...

South from Tolhuin. Finally I arrived at the Andes -- there's no land left to avoid bumping into them -- and crosed the Paseo Garibaldi, beautiful and spectacular with *absolutely no* barrier between slippery road and the steepest of hills down to Lago Fagnano.

Snow-tipped mountains. Cold.

I was glad I wasn't doing this on a pushbike.

Shortly before Ushuaia the road is paved once more and the number of roadside dwellings, hostels and campsites starts to increase. For a peculiar brand of people, this is holiday heaven.

And then there it is. Ushuaia. Wheeeeeeee! The last couple of kilometres into town are a breeze, a relaxing downwards run with mountains to the immediate right, the Beagle Channel to the left -- choppy, grey, cold waters -- and the town itself ahead. Surprisingly large it is too, jerry-built houses, abandoned cars, grimy side streets, corrugated iron and unpainted wood.

Down, down into the centre of town. Stop-start around the grid of tight turns and steep hills. The people wrapped up warm. Tourists everywhere -- you can tell because couples wear matching fleeces and anoracks. Everyone - heads down against the cold.

Downhill at every turn and then all of a sudden there are no more turns possible because you're at the seafront. There is no more 'south'.

A small wooden sign. Ushuaia. The Southernmost City In The World.

Tears.