WEEK TWO
I’m not sure how, but we’re two weeks down.
Week two came with four riding days, three days of indulgent rest in Wellington, and once again, an unexpected series of (fortunate) events.
I have had to have a look at my Strava record to remember where I was a week ago, it feels as if months could have passed since I was writing about the first week, the time warp probably explained by the sheer amount you do and see in a day on a trip like this.
After taking a few hours in a cafe in the morning of my rest day to write and do a bit of research into the Whanagnui to Wellington leg, I spent the afternoon running round town like a headless chicken getting ‘life admin’ done- you’d be surprised how much builds up when in theory all I have to do is cycle from A to B every day.
Sara and I went to get ice cream after dinner. Sitting out in the fading sun, we decided to follow the noise of a saxophone and a piano down the street and into a retro bar with a BFG-size poster of a Doberman in the corner. We sat and enjoyed Whanagnui’s jazz band in old cinema seats. I left after a couple of pieces and sadly missed Elizabeth, the church pianist, who Sara promises must’ve been the highlight of the set.
On Monday morning, I left small town Whanagnui, post rest day, feeling a bit groggy.
It was only a 100km ride to the campsite, but with 1700m climbing, and a very heavy bike, I’d mentally prepared for a long day on the saddle; in hindsight, it was a mistake checking the elevation profile as there was a 7 km climb looming at the very end of the ride, and it spent all day eating away at me mentally.
After an 11km gravel section where the uphill was far more pleasant than the downhill, I pulled off to the side, leant my bike against a fence and laid down in the sun, using my Camelbak as a pillow. Half an hour later, the sound of Dennis on an e-bike swanning up the climb and around the corner woke me up.
If I was feeling groggy before, after my post-lunch nap, I was groggy x2. A couple of hours later, after multiple stops following a huge bonk (a cyclist term for running out of energy), I was welcomed into the freedom campsite by Sara and Kirsten jumping up and down, waving their hands in the air, cheering and hollering. That saved me from the tears that weren’t far from falling.
I got one photo that day, of the view from my accidental nap spot.
The group of mountain bikers mentioned in week one now had names (Bevin, Brad, Mark and Shane) and were friendly familiar faces. They were sitting with two of their wives, Mary and Lynnie, who had driven their campervans to the freedom camp spot. When I crawled in, feeling a bit sorry for myself, they also gave a cheer. In true Kiwi style, they offered us food that night, followed by tea, toast and homemade jam in the morning.
The group were finishing their TA adventure the next day, in Pahiatua, where they lived. I cheekily asked Shane if he fancied having a couple of tents in his garden the following night and he one-upped me and offered us beds, and dinner (and when we arrived, a hot tub).
The next three days were a very different affair, I felt on top of the world.
I think my body is starting to remember what cycling is. I wasn’t afraid to put in a bit of effort up the climbs and on the flats. I think there comes a point when doing things like this your body adapts and accepts that’s what it does now, day in and day out. I reckon that will properly hit me next week, but we’re getting there.
Day nine was a bit of a cheat day. Mark’s wife, Lynnie, had taken pity on my sorrowful day eight and as she was driving to Shane’s house, where my ride would finish, she offered to take my bags with her. An offer I could not refuse!
I cruised out of camp the next morning, zig zagging through the central road markings, enjoying the feeling of an unloaded speed machine. Despite the threatening rain clouds in the dark sky above the fells in the distance, I felt elated.
I had my upbeat music on, and felt carefree in my approach to the day- all I had to do was get 76 kilometres down the road to a cafe, and then the next 30 would be a tour of Palmerston North’s finest backroads by our omniscient locals.
The ride to the cafe sped by, I was indulging in the light load and had fun testing myself on some of the gravel climbs.
At one point, I stopped in a patch of dry road a large tree was providing and Shane and Brad rocked up behind me to adorn rain jackets.
I asked Shane what the relevance of the piglet stuffed toy he had strapped to his headset was. He said something along the lines of “Nothing really, it’s just cute. Oh, and it’s a reference to the job.”
I gulped and cast my mind back to the previous night where, blissfully unaware she was in the presence of a traffic police officer, Kirsten had spent a while regurgitating everything she’d ever reversed into: a tree, a bollard, a wall; divulging information about the speeding fine; telling us how she had to shove her bumper back onto her car every time she went to drive it. (Dubious as to if she actually admitted to any real crime).
I became mildly conscious of everything I said from that point on.
The 30 kilometres post coffee were nothing but pure, childlike fun.
We were led onto the old main road that ran through a gorge, closed for seven years due to rock fall. Hauling our bikes over the barrier that said to not enter, one by one, we weaved in and out of concrete blocks designed to keep us out.
It felt dystopian, apocalyptic and I had a grin on my face the entire time. The road had been carved out of the gorge rock, the reason it was closed was obvious, I was swerving around landslides and cascades of rock fall.
Graffiti was splattered on the road surface and the railings. Green algae puddles would splash up at my calves, the rain began to lightly cover my glasses. Below, a gushing river looked menacing with the harsh headwind sending water over rock formations with violence.
It reminded me of The Last of Us, and was an interesting glimpse into what Earth might look like if humanity ceased to exist- I almost expected to turn around to a brigade of zombies coming for us.
After cuddles with Pip the dog, a big feed, and a big restful sleep in a bed, day ten began. My bike had begun making a nasty creaking noise the day before, and I had just added it to the growing list of chores I had to do when I got to Wellington in a couple of days.
Halfway up the first climb, I decided that was a stupid idea and turned around, making a beeline to the garage Shane had recommended.
Half an hour later, with a new chain and tightened spokes, I was re-ready to start the day on a silent and smooth bike. I had my eyes set on a detour from the official TA route, having been recommended Route 52 as a nicer alternative to get to Masterton- and I am so glad I took it.
I was on the road for about 3 hours, and saw one car. I had calmer music on than usual, I was breathing into my belly and absorbing the serenity of the isolation. The only company I had were the cows, heads down, munching, whilst warily keeping an eye on me as I cruised past.
The road was flat, and snaked its way through sandy golden dry hills dotted with the occasional farmhouse.
At one point, I stopped and stood over my bike, took my headphones out and consumed the silence of the landscape, watching a small black bird dancing in the wind in front of me. I felt totally at peace and extraordinarily grateful I was there to experience the moment.
A Dutch ultra cyclist caught up with me for the final ten kilometres into Masterton, the final ten of his 700-kilometre race. Not wanting to be the reason his average speed dropped, I upped my pace and we cruised on through, chatting about the beauty of New Zealand and the differences we’ve noticed compared to Europe. I find ultra racers hugely inspiring and the energy he gave me fuelled the final two hours of headwind into Martinborough, camp for the night.
The next morning, Kirsten and I set off with Wellington in 99 kilometres of sight. We’d left Sara at the campsite in Martinborough to complete a day of wine tasting, and partially regretted not joining when she sent a photo of a platter of cheeses, biscuits, grapes, and of course, wine, positioned in front of the plantations of a vineyard whilst we were munching on our bread and potatoes in front of a dairy on Highway two.
Before lunch, we’d completed the Rimutaka railway track, a gorgeous climb through the dense green land of Pakuratahi Forest, the vegetation looked tropical and it felt far more remote than it was.
The first couple of mountain bike-esque kilometres sent me right back to the dark place of the climb from Mangakino to the start of the Timber Trail. The promise of smooth sailing to Wellington felt like it was slipping from my grasp, and I was looking for a place to have a tactical tantrum when I appeared in yet another prosperous opening, where the path began following the railway trail, and things became a whole lot easier.
I was enjoying stopping to read the plaques on signposts explaining the history of the railway line, it felt good to engage with that rather than just riding straight past.
Now all that was left to do was navigate the remaining 40 kilometres into Wellington, mostly on designated cycle paths, featuring a close shave when I accidentally missed the turning onto the cycle path and had to TT my way down a (luckily, downhill) section of Highway two, racing cars that were not pleased I was there.
I’d absolutely loved the past three days of riding, but it felt equally good pulling into the YHA in Wellington, knowing I had three full days off the bike. I was getting really tired, my wrists were still sore and I was craving a bit of time to just exist and not be on the move.
Armed with cafe, bar and pub recommendations, I set off to explore.
After a couple of days of not doing much other than rehydrating with craft beer and refuelling with good food, with a few cultural visits sprinkled in between, including a trip to Te Papa museum where the war exhibit made my chest feel very heavy and indicated I needed a nap; a gig with other cyclists we met a few days ago; and a visit to a book store to revel in the low lighting and breathe in the smell of old books, I feel ready to get moving again.
I’m enjoying easing back into cycling, but I’m already itching to push myself, to ride longer days, further distances and to take fewer stops in the day.
I’m trying hard to fight this.
This trip isn’t about stupid long days and pushing physical limits. For now, it’s about giving myself time and space and exploring a beautiful country on two wheels.
Now and again, when I feel pressure to get to a certain place by a certain time, I have a talk with myself, I remind myself that these pressures are completely arbitrary and I would rather they not exist.
It’s hard work, fighting something so engrained- letting go of time pressure apparently doesn’t come naturally and it’s been a bit of fun figuring out why I struggle with that. I’ve not found a reason yet, but it’s something I’m going to continue to question until I hopefully learn to relax into a lack of control over where I end up when, because it really doesn’t matter.
Week 3 is looking remote, with plenty of physical and logistical challenges. I’ve gone against my usual bike-packing behaviour and have done some planning. It’s about 120 to 140 kilometres between logical camp spots, and it’s about to get a whole lot hillier.
I’m learning that every time you leave camp, a whole host of unexpected events are about to occur; my excitement to see what the next week has in store has been recharged.
Thanks for reading 🙂