Blood, Sweat, and Wine

(I know this post is epically long, but I think you'll find it worth the read)

My ass hurts. A lot.

So yesterday, with much anticipation, we went to Maipú, which is a well-known wine-producing region about 25km outside of Mendoza. I've been pretty excited to get here, as the wine in Mendoza is supposed to be some of the best in the world. After discussing our plans with Gaspar, our hostel host, we agreed to sign up for a deal that included door-to-door transportation from our hostel to a bike-rental place in Maipú as well as all-day rental of a bike, all for ARS$45.

Everything started off well enough, except that it was about 50 degrees outside (a negative 25 degree swing from the beautiful 75 and sunny of Friday). They gave us a map (this little town embraces tourists to the point of designing entire road systems for our benefit) that indicated all of the wineries and other factories (including an olive oil farm and an artisinal chocolate factory) along a 12km stretch of the main street through town.

Predicting the effect of a day of wine-tasting on our motor skills, Dylan suggested that we bike all the way to the end of the 12km road and start our day at the last winery, then work our way back up. I agreed.

Shortly thereafter, we learned that we had rented the worst bicycles ever manufactured. They seemed to be standard 7-gear hybrid bikes perfect for our purposes. However, we soon found out that, even at the highest gear, these bikes required an unprecedented amount of effort to cover ground. By kilometer 3, I felt as though I had been asked to race in the Tour de France without any preparation. I mean any. I don't remember the last time I was on a bike; it was probably at least a year ago when we rented bikes in DC during the summer. And while I have made going to the gym a priority once I get back home, I think it would be a stretch to call me "in shape" these days. Dylan was exerting himself as well, though not quite to my extent. He insisted on reassuring me every kilometer that we were "almost there", as if I had been so debilitated by the cycling that I had forgotten where we were in the world.

I suppose I should make at least brief mention of the scenery, which was quite nice once we got out of the town itself and into the vineyards. Despite the overcast, chilly weather, there were many picturesque stretches of roads and vistas across the fields.

By the grace of God, we made it to our first winery dripping in cold sweat and with my quads and calves filled with what might as well have been molten lava.

Carinae Vineyards is a lovely place with an even lovelier hostess named Noille (we think). She showed the two of us around their bodega, which is what we're calling the room with all the wine in it. Vats, barrels, and bottles galore, all explained in very good English (a trend that would continue in this town).

Then we sat down for our first wine tasting of the day. It was the two of us plus this other pair of guys from Britain. Together, we comprised the most unlikely of wine tasting audiences. Four straight guys from the US and UK, aged 23-27, each arrived via rented bicycle. As Noille poured and explained each of three wines, it was all I could do not to break into hysteria at the sight of us. After each one, she would look at us, waiting for our comments. All Brit #1 could muster was that the Malbec was "good". At one point, I commented on the viscosity of one of the wines, though I was later informed that viscosity is generally not considered in the evaluation of wine by anyone who has any degree of competence.

Having embarrassed ourselves enough for one place, we headed across the street for the next place, an olive oil factory named Laur. As I mounted my bike, I realized exactly how demonic these things really were. Having been previously preoccupied with simply managing to turn the pedals, I had neglected to notice up to this point just how uncomfortable my bike's seat was. I'm talking active discomfort - what many would call "pain". The lengthy ride to the end of town had ... bruised, shall we say ... my rear end to the point where any contact with the seat necessitated the same grimace one might use upon being struck with a hot cattle prod on the site of an open wound.

So we learned about olive oil production, tasted some olive oil, then started the ride back. We would eventually stop at a two additional wineries along the way, the first being a really cool, old place that's been around since the mid 1800's, the second being a really lame, old place that now also fuctions as a museum to old tools for all sorts of trades, from the look of it. There was no guide and no explanations in the museum, so Dylan and I were left to surmise for ourselves the meaning of all of it.

My ass pain was so acute on the ride back that I needed to stop and walk my bike for several stretches. Dylan would ride ahead and wait for me at the next spot. It was on one of these walking stretches that I was nearly killed.

As I walked along a wide earthen path between the paved road and the small houses that lined one side of the road (unending vineyards occupying the entirety of the other side of the road), I encountered three dogs. Those who have been reading along with Dylan and I know that stray dogs run rampant in this country, although we had yet to meet any that were at all aggressive. That all changed yesterday. The lead dog appeared to be a German Shepard, followed by two smaller, but still sizeable, mutts. As I noticed them, they were on a driveway to my right, about 80 feet ahead of me. As they noticed me, their teeth were bared and they were growling. I continued to walk forward, and then they started taking steps toward me. The dogs knew what was going to happen next as well as I did.

Mounting my bike seamlessly, I started my escape. The dogs bolted for me. Dogs accelerate very quickly, and the German Shepard appeared to understand geometry as well, as he was taking an angle to try to intercept me rather than simply chasing my current location. With my adrenaline in overdrive, my ass pain disappeared, and the lava in my muscles cooled. With the lead dog now less than 20 feet away and closing fast, I swerved left onto the road (no traffic as far as the eye could see, thankfully) and put everything I had into that bicycle. The two mutts having been outmatched, they turned back. Not the German Shepard. Now in full attack mode, he was barking and running at full tilt on a route to intercept. As he closed to within 5 feet, my chances of escape seemed to be about 50/50. I found an extra bit of energy somewhere in me and made a sudden lunge forward. Sensing his opportunity, the dog made his move. He lept on an angle for me, jaw wide open. He nicked the edge of my rear tire, but not enough to make me fall.

The intensity of the chase had left him without enough energy to engage in a full pursuit, and so it was that I escaped a dog mauling.