Argentinian empanadas are lilliputian compared to their Chilean counterparts. But catch them when they’re piping hot, straight out of the horno, and there’s little to beat them. Una docena – a dozen – sets you back $4. Perfect rocket fuel before taking to the road.

Despite my aversion to cars, my fascination for old Argentinian bangers continues. Compared to neighbouring Chile and its flashy new models, these old classics make up a large proportion of vehicles in Argentina, and reflect the different spirit between the two countries.

Leaving the fruity Torrontés of Cafayate behind. Fresh snow on the mountains… winter is chasing us.

Finally! After hundreds of kilometres of monosyllabic paving, Ruta 40 finally splutters into more opinionated ripio. At around 5,000km in length, the road spans the entire country.

Much better, thanks.

Thus begins a medley of geological, shadow-catching protrusions.

Dusty villages and their whitewash churches. Sunglasses required.

Bean-like, and occasional bendy Saguaro cacti sprout to either side. In my mind, each has its own personal character and flair.

Am I back in New Mexico?

Some cacti are more social than others.

Headwind = head down.

La Poma provides an abundance of opportunities for me to add to the banger montage.

Fords seem to be the manufacturer of choice in this sleepy little village.

As do ’80s Peugeots. Along with pre-millennium classics like Renault Fuegos, they hark back to the cars of my childhood. It’s strangely comforting.

We camp on the edge of a football field. But by 7am, a fierce sand storm and tent-crushing gale drives us out of our flimsy abodes and into the sanctuary of a half built building for breakfast.

If you like doorways, the old quarter of La Poma is the place for you.

One for the Antiques Roadshow.

Highnoon showdown. Ogre v Pugsley.

A landscape that could swallow you whole.

Splitting the climb into two, for the sake of acclimatisation, affords us an easy day and some prime picnic real estate.

A series of hopscotch river crossings mark the beginning of the real gain in altitude.

That night, we sleep in the storeroom of an empty dwelling. It comes complete with pendulums of meat and tempting morsels of dried skin.

Waiting for the sun to creep down the hillside, and infuse warmth into cold bones.

Breaking ice. More river crossings mark a toe-numbing start to the day.

Up, up and up, through a landscape streaked with minerals. Back into the high country.

Still smiling. Although the road surface is good and the grade reasonable, a crescendoing, post-lunch headwind forces upon us the ignominy of pushing our bikes, heads bowed humbly into the elements.

Wind doesn’t photograph too well. But it was there, honest, jostling our bikes from one side of the the to the other.

Finally, only one last switchback remains…

Cresting Abray del Acay, we’re greeted by a near tangible wall of wind, so we huddle behind rocks for just a few moments. Not the triumphant, lingering summiting we’d envisaged, perhaps.

Our descent into driving headwind means our day’s work is yet to be over. After losing over a thousand metres, the road levels out, reducing us to a grovelling crawl once more. It’s dusk before we eventually limp into San Antonio de los Cobres, faces caked in dust and grit in our eyes… But still smiling.