Finding Myself at the Edge of the World.
I went to Tierra del Fuego to ride gravel and returned with something much more.
Karukinka Natural Park, the largest protected area in Tierra del Fuego, showcases Patagonia’s untouched wilderness, home to ancient forests, diverse fauna, and thriving wildlife. | Photo by Rodolfo Soto.
When I signed up for my first gravel race, the Karukinka Gravel Race, a four-stage event in Tierra del Fuego, Chile, I thought it would be all about the ride. About windswept grasslands, scenic mountain switchbacks, and ticking off my top bucket list destination. I expected the usual physical fatigue from long days of riding and a gallery of epic photos. What I didn’t expect was for the land itself to challenge me; not just physically and mentally, but philosophically.
This wasn’t just a race. It was a revelation. It forced me to confront my limits, my fears, and my view of comfort and control. In Patagonia’s unforgiving terrain, I found more than pain and exhaustion. I uncovered strength in vulnerability, clarity when everything else is stripped away, and the irony of what “comfort” truly means.
Here’s how Tierra del Fuego nearly broke me but reshaped how I see myself and everything around me.
The landscapes change with every turn, from dense forests to rugged mountain passes, and from snow-capped peaks to glacial lakes. | Photo by Rodolfo Soto.
This remote corner of the world is less than 1,000 km (620 miles) from Antarctica. | Photo by Rodolfo Soto.
Through ancient lenga beech forests, Patagonia’s iconic trees, are resilient against the harshest climates | Photo by Rodolfo Soto.
Boyhood Dream
There’s something about the edges of maps that stirs the imagination. For centuries, explorers have been drawn to uncharted territories, testing their limits and chasing the unknown. As a child, I felt that same fascination whenever I opened a world atlas or flipped through textbooks. In school, geography was my favorite subject; one of the few classes that captured my attention. I often doodled my own maps, filling them with giants and monsters. It let me escape the classroom and dream about distant, unreachable, and mythical places.
That’s where I first learned about South America, a continent impossibly far from someone like me, born in Thailand and grew up in Australia. It felt like the end of the earth, the furthest point from anything familiar. Patagonia stood out above all. Pictures of Torres del Paine, glaciers, and penguins embedded themselves in my mind and they’ve stayed ever since. Tierra del Fuego, with a name straight out of mythology, this “land of fire” became my ultimate fantasy; a land I dreamed of discovering one day.
That obsession never faded. So when I heard about the race, I couldn’t resist. Impulsively, I signed up, refusing to let my subconscious talk me out of it. Organized by MTB Patagonia, it promised an intimate and raw experience; perfect for my first venture into the gravel scene.
I wasn’t fully prepared, mentally. Despite years on road bikes, I’d only started riding gravel a few months earlier. The transition was more stressful than I’d imagined. I knew it would be an epic challenge, but I hadn’t grasped just how monumental it would be.
The journey began in Punta Arenas, one of the most remote towns in the world. Getting there meant multiple flights, long van rides, and a ferry across the Strait of Magellan. By the time I arrived in Tierra del Fuego, I was drained; physically and mentally. My nerves were on edge. Doubts began creeping in: Was this too much, too soon? Could I really pull this off?
A brave smile tricks your brain into seeing past the discomfort, if only for a moment. | Photo by Rodolfo Soto.
The disturbing silence of solitude leaves you exposed and vulnerable. | Photo by Rodolfo Soto.
Magallanes’ Inhospitable Hospitality
Magallanes is as far south as you can go in Chile, barely 1,000 km from Antarctica. It’s a place where wild weather and stunning landscapes can be both brutal and breathtaking. The people here have a deep sense of independence, born from surviving harsh conditions. Life is tough, but they thrive on it. In this remote land, self-reliance is part of daily life. The mix of isolation, beauty, and resilience creates a unique character you can’t find anywhere else.
The flight from Santiago to Punta Arenas landed late, near midnight. Yet somehow, the sky was still glowing; a surreal sunset at almost 11 p.m. It was a humble reminder that this was summer in this part of the world. The serenity, however, didn’t last long.
Inside the tiny airport, I anxiously scanned the carousel for my bike bag. Passengers came and went, claiming their luggage, but my bag was nowhere to be found. Then came the dreaded news: my bike hadn’t made the connecting flight. I panicked! Without my bike, how could I even start the race? My mind spiraled, plotting rescue missions, imagining worst-case scenarios, and obsessively refreshing the airline app.
Stepping outside to clear my head, I was immediately introduced to Patagonia’s harsh elements. A frostbiting wind slapped my face and sent large suitcases skidding across the ground. Summer or not, this place didn’t ease you in. It overwhelmed you, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. My anxiety thickened as more worst-case scenarios came to mind.
But while the elements seemed inhospitable, the people were anything but. The ground staff patiently reassured me my bike would arrive on the first flight the next morning. The local driver immediately offered to help. We communicated in Spanglish, and he promised to take me to a bike shop to rent one or pick up my bag from the airport when it arrived. “Tranquilo,” he said. “In Patagonia, we always find a way.”
A warm but windy welcome from Villa Cameron, Timaukel. | Photo by Rodolfo Soto.
An intimate starting line in Magallanes’ remote frontier. | Photo by Rodolfo Soto.
It was my first taste of the region’s paradox: a place so unforgiving in its natural elements yet softened by the warmth of its people. That night, as I collapsed onto a hotel bed, I tried to let go of the panic. The bike would come, or it wouldn’t. Either way, I was here, at the edge of the world.
The next morning, the bike bag didn’t arrive in time for the 5-hour bus ride to the starting town. The race organizers and MTB Patagonia lent me a spare bike to use for Stage 1. It was a relief to know I could still ride. Meanwhile, the wind hadn’t stopped, the cold hadn’t eased, and the terrain ahead promised to be as unforgiving as the start of this journey.
I stood at the start line at Villa Cameron, more nervous than excited. I was on a spare CX bike two sizes too small for me, ready to face not just the race but Patagonia itself. As we rolled over the starting line, we faced a steep wall of 17% gradient. It was dusty and chaotic, with groups splitting almost instantly. At that moment, I realized there was no room for hesitation, just the reality of surviving the elements.
Surviving the Elements
The harsh subantarctic conditions made their presence felt quickly. An hour into the ride, icy droplets began hitting our gloves and helmets, soon escalating into a hail shower. Despite the punishing weather, the scenery was breathtaking: endless gravel roads winding through grasslands, framed by icy peaks on the horizon.
The terrain was no easier. Loose gravel slid under my rear tire, demanding constant focus. While it wasn’t as technical as the gravel I’d faced in Colombia, it still tested my nerves, especially on a rental bike. I found myself riding with a group of three Chilean engineers who had been cycling friends since college. Their positive energy was contagious, and I felt welcomed immediately. We took turns pulling at the front or hiding from the wind, building camaraderie as we rode.
The route threw everything at us: mountain passes with tight switchbacks, technical sections, and eerie ancient forests. I saw wildlife I’d never met before, from guanacos and beavers to king penguins, all in their natural habitats. The beauty was staggering; teal blue lakes hugged by rugged cliffs, flat plateaus rolling into sloping hills.
Yet, the silence and stillness were disturbing. They made me feel small and exposed. Hours of suffering pulled me into dark places, filled with illogical thoughts and constant self-doubt. Why am I here? Am I too ambitious? Will I even finish?
Lessons from the Wind
Tierra del Fuego’s wilderness doesn’t compromise. It doesn’t care about your plans, pace, or expectations. It simply exists, raw and relentless, and dismantling your ego.
Of all the elements, the wind was the most punishing. Consistent, persistent, and wholly unpredictable, every gust felt deliberate, as if it had a will of its own. My first instinct was to fight back, matching its force with sheer determination. I was churning out far too many watts, only to crawl along at 13 km/h. Frustration built with each stroke, every flat stretch feeling like an uphill battle. I clung to the fleeting hope that maybe, just maybe, the wind would ease.
But somewhere on a rugged climb, surrounded by jagged white peaks, the lesson began to reveal itself. The wind wasn’t going to stop. Fighting it was a losing game, draining my energy and feeding my frustration. It was time to let go of the fight and adapt instead.
Stories of the land and its people. | Photo by Rodolfo Soto.
That shift in mindset changed everything. In surrender, clarity emerged. The struggle wasn’t the obstacle, it was the experience. I stopped resisting and began to embrace the unsettling silence, taking each stroke as it came, moment by moment.
Gratitude crept in. I thought about the borrowed bike that saved my race, the strangers whose kindness carried me this far, and the sheer improbability of living a boyhood dream at the edge of the world.
Then it hit me. The struggle wasn’t something to conquer. It was the heart of the journey. Every gust of wind, every moment of resistance, and every small triumph weren’t just obstacles; they were lessons in patience, humility, and presence.
An obligatory moment with the local kids and my Swedish brother, Seth. | Photo by Rodolfo Soto.
The Irony of Comfort
Here’s the thing: I moved to Colombia to escape the chaos of cities like New York, Paris, Sydney, and Bangkok. I wanted simplicity; a slower pace where life didn’t feel like an ongoing race against time. I thought I was chasing comfort, but comfort has its own irony. It dulls the edges, blurs boundaries, and makes you forget what you’re capable of.
Signing up for this race was my way of recalibrating. I needed clarity, a challenge that would strip life down to its core. In the most remote place I’d ever been, with no luxuries or distractions, there was no room to hide. It was exactly the slap in the face I needed.
Every ache, every doubt, every ounce of pain hit me all at once. It wasn’t easy, but it was raw and rewarding in ways comfort could never be. Completing all four stages wasn’t just a physical triumph; it was a rediscovery of who I am. Resilience isn’t about being invincible; it’s about embracing vulnerability and pushing on. My fingertips were frozen, my nose windburnt, and my hands numb from Ulnar nerve compression. Yet, in that discomfort, I found exactly what I’d been searching for.
There’s a paradox to comfort. It soothes you into complacency, while discomfort strips life to its essentials, forcing you to face what truly matters. It uncovers strength you didn’t know you had. Discomfort isn’t the enemy; it’s the catalyst for growth.
Struggle was the only path forward. | Photo by Rodolfo Soto.
Timaukel locals, on a different kind of ride. | Photo by Rodolfo Soto.
What I Found Instead
Tierra del Fuego didn’t just challenge me; it transformed me. I went there expecting to battle the elements but gained something far more meaningful—gratitude. For everything, both tangible and intangible. The journey taught me to value gratefulness as the true reward of any struggle.
Even a forced smile became a lesson. It’s a silent gesture to combat pain, a tiny shift that changes everything. My wife always reminds me to smile through the struggle; it’s her way of finding light in the darkest moments. And she’s right!
Health and well-being stopped feeling like goals and became essentials. Riding alongside Erik, a 67-year-old Dutchman living in Bolivia, was truly eye-opening. He holds the Hour Record in his age group and his energy showed me what aging should look like; fit, curious, and capable. That’s the kind of future I want for myself.
Above all, I learned that growth is born from discomfort. Every challenge uncovers strengths I didn’t know existed.
I earned much more than medals and a podium spot. | Photo by Rodolfo Soto.
Returning from the edge of the world, I found more than stories. The struggle, gratitude, and resilience reshaped my perspective. Growth doesn’t come from comfort; it comes from facing discomfort head-on. And without discomfort, there’s no breaking free from complacency, no discovering a version of yourself you never knew existed.
That’s what I found.
