It was hard to think, but eventually I realised I had to do something. It was only three a.m., there were around four more hours in which it would be getting colder and colder. I was still thirsty as hell and needed to pee.
There were no options. I would have to make a fire to keep warm.
Trying to get out of the bivi was difficult without the use of my feet. As I finally got out I fell onto a spiky bush and couldn't get up. I started hitting my feet in a vain attempt to reanimate them, and felt stupid and powerless. I rolled over into the remains of the fire from dinner and bum-shuffled back over to the bivi, the sand around was deathly cold.
I stayed in the sleeping bag, and alternated warming my hands in my armpits with warming my feet with my hands. I had to be able to walk to get the wood to make a fire.
Eventually some feeling came back into my heels and I undid the zip at the bottom of my sleeping bag so I could waddle for wood. Annoyingly I'd used all the close firewood, so had to go much further to get more. It was enraging and frustrating trying to walk with my leaden feet, and falling over bending down to pick up wood was testing my patience.
I'm normally quite orderly when setting a fire, but this time I dumped some wood in a pile, sprayed some medicinal alcohol over it and flicked a match. It did the job.
I sat with my legs bent around the fire, my feet centimetres away from the flames, and my arms and chest hugging the tall flames. By now I wasn't bothered if I burnt a hole or two in my sleeping bag.
I nestled my metal Sigg bottle in the fire to melt the first of my water, and put the plastic litre-and-a-half as close as I dared. After an hour or so of rotating water, ice and slush between bottles and my cup I got scared about my toes.
The rest of my feet were in suitable pain, but my toes were still dead. And then I thought - 'How cold actually is it here?', 'How cold do you need to be to get frostbite?' and finally 'Are my toes actually dead?'
I was scared, but had to know. It was an awful feeling peeling all my socks off, and of course it turned out I was being paranoid. They were nowhere near the right colour, but they were still a part of my body and bloodstream.
I had run out of wood, so had to search further again, but promised myself a cup of tea and some hot oats. I could walk more or less like a human, but the cold sand was torturously painful. I vowed to warm my boots next. I carried on like this until sunrise, my toes slowly and painfully coming back to life, and my small fire getting bigger.
The morning was hassle, and lots of it. I've camped out around zero plenty, but this was totally different. It must have been way, way below.
My toothpaste wouldn't squeeze. I cut my mouth on a piece of chocolate that splintered. Cable ties on my moto snapped. Moisture in the zip of my sleeping bag froze it shut. My packet of baby wipes had frozen into a solid block. Nothing was simple.
Then I had to push my moto out of the deep sand into the morning sunlight to warm her up.
Back on the trail it was easy-going. A good job too as I was shattered. Mentally physically and emotionally. The ripio got sandier and sandier, until I realised it was the deepest yet by far. The gentle steering input and lazy leaning suited my battered state. Every now and then I'd have to catch a drift going to far, but I didn't have the energy to mess it up by panicking and stiffening my arms too much.
The bitterly cold morning wind kept me awake, and I found I was just as good reacting to the feeling through the bars as I was at watching the track, so lazily gazed over the scenery, which had become yet more green and full of alpacas. I drifted my sandy morning away in a daze.
There were a few houses, some dodgy river crossings and lovely views. Then, before midday I reached Ruta 701 - a graded ripio which led all the way to Uyuni, civilisation. I still couldn't believe I hadn't crashed, and stopped for lunch and marvelled at my tough little bike.
The only unknown was whether I had enough gasolina to make it there. Or so I thought.
As the undulations calmed and the ripio flattened out it became obvious that I hadn't quite got through scot-free. The back wheel was rhythmically wobbling out to one side, then the other. I absolutely couldn't ride her straight.
I aired up the tyres for the conditions, checked the wheel alignment, then spent nearly an hour trying to tune the spokes. Without a spoke key. Being careful I found I could manage with a monkey wrench, but one slip and I'd have a rounded spoke nut.
The spokes wouldn't come into tune, and it became obvious I'd buckled the wheel. So while I wanted nothing more than to blast to Uyuni as fast as I could, I knew I should take it easy. With the Salar de Uyuni (the worlds biggest salt flat) on my left, and the mountainous plains I'd just conquered on my right, it wasn't so bad. In fact it was a blessing as the fuel-guzzling sand would be offset by my gentle pace here.
I rolled into town unreasonably filthy, impressively smelly, impossibly tired and in no small amount of pain, but feeling more alive than ever. And invincible.
There were no options. I would have to make a fire to keep warm.
Trying to get out of the bivi was difficult without the use of my feet. As I finally got out I fell onto a spiky bush and couldn't get up. I started hitting my feet in a vain attempt to reanimate them, and felt stupid and powerless. I rolled over into the remains of the fire from dinner and bum-shuffled back over to the bivi, the sand around was deathly cold.
I stayed in the sleeping bag, and alternated warming my hands in my armpits with warming my feet with my hands. I had to be able to walk to get the wood to make a fire.
Eventually some feeling came back into my heels and I undid the zip at the bottom of my sleeping bag so I could waddle for wood. Annoyingly I'd used all the close firewood, so had to go much further to get more. It was enraging and frustrating trying to walk with my leaden feet, and falling over bending down to pick up wood was testing my patience.
I'm normally quite orderly when setting a fire, but this time I dumped some wood in a pile, sprayed some medicinal alcohol over it and flicked a match. It did the job.
I sat with my legs bent around the fire, my feet centimetres away from the flames, and my arms and chest hugging the tall flames. By now I wasn't bothered if I burnt a hole or two in my sleeping bag.
I nestled my metal Sigg bottle in the fire to melt the first of my water, and put the plastic litre-and-a-half as close as I dared. After an hour or so of rotating water, ice and slush between bottles and my cup I got scared about my toes.
The rest of my feet were in suitable pain, but my toes were still dead. And then I thought - 'How cold actually is it here?', 'How cold do you need to be to get frostbite?' and finally 'Are my toes actually dead?'
I was scared, but had to know. It was an awful feeling peeling all my socks off, and of course it turned out I was being paranoid. They were nowhere near the right colour, but they were still a part of my body and bloodstream.
I had run out of wood, so had to search further again, but promised myself a cup of tea and some hot oats. I could walk more or less like a human, but the cold sand was torturously painful. I vowed to warm my boots next. I carried on like this until sunrise, my toes slowly and painfully coming back to life, and my small fire getting bigger.
The morning was hassle, and lots of it. I've camped out around zero plenty, but this was totally different. It must have been way, way below.
My toothpaste wouldn't squeeze. I cut my mouth on a piece of chocolate that splintered. Cable ties on my moto snapped. Moisture in the zip of my sleeping bag froze it shut. My packet of baby wipes had frozen into a solid block. Nothing was simple.
Then I had to push my moto out of the deep sand into the morning sunlight to warm her up.
Back on the trail it was easy-going. A good job too as I was shattered. Mentally physically and emotionally. The ripio got sandier and sandier, until I realised it was the deepest yet by far. The gentle steering input and lazy leaning suited my battered state. Every now and then I'd have to catch a drift going to far, but I didn't have the energy to mess it up by panicking and stiffening my arms too much.
The bitterly cold morning wind kept me awake, and I found I was just as good reacting to the feeling through the bars as I was at watching the track, so lazily gazed over the scenery, which had become yet more green and full of alpacas. I drifted my sandy morning away in a daze.
There were a few houses, some dodgy river crossings and lovely views. Then, before midday I reached Ruta 701 - a graded ripio which led all the way to Uyuni, civilisation. I still couldn't believe I hadn't crashed, and stopped for lunch and marvelled at my tough little bike.
The only unknown was whether I had enough gasolina to make it there. Or so I thought.
As the undulations calmed and the ripio flattened out it became obvious that I hadn't quite got through scot-free. The back wheel was rhythmically wobbling out to one side, then the other. I absolutely couldn't ride her straight.
I aired up the tyres for the conditions, checked the wheel alignment, then spent nearly an hour trying to tune the spokes. Without a spoke key. Being careful I found I could manage with a monkey wrench, but one slip and I'd have a rounded spoke nut.
The spokes wouldn't come into tune, and it became obvious I'd buckled the wheel. So while I wanted nothing more than to blast to Uyuni as fast as I could, I knew I should take it easy. With the Salar de Uyuni (the worlds biggest salt flat) on my left, and the mountainous plains I'd just conquered on my right, it wasn't so bad. In fact it was a blessing as the fuel-guzzling sand would be offset by my gentle pace here.
I rolled into town unreasonably filthy, impressively smelly, impossibly tired and in no small amount of pain, but feeling more alive than ever. And invincible.
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