There are some rare occasions in life where you can only look on in wonderment, doff your cap, bow, kowtow, salute and pay homage. A Christmas-eve amble along the shoreline of Ushuaia, popularly known as 'the end the world'. Arrive at the iconic but cliched money-shot spot, and chance upon half-a-dozen champagne-swigging revellers and a smallish, taught, rugged, ruddy man standing next to the 'you have arrived sign' and his loaded, long-distance bicycle. Intrigued, linger quietly aside, and try to unobtrusively capture the occasion with a photo or two. It is cool, in the late afternoon, and the tourist spot is unusually empty. One of the party approaches, and hesitantly at first in broken Spanish, then reasonable, thick-accented English, asks if I know who the cyclist is. "Not a clue." "He is very famous in
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