With relief and smug delight in equal measures we breezed into Geraldine having defeated the Weather Gods on day one. It was probably the most comfortable 170ks imaginable on a bike.
After a grind in the wind up the other side of the gorge (above) we enjoyed a virtual tailwind which, combined with a slight downhill, had us sailing down to lunch at Mount Somers where Adrian and Pete (below) reminisced about their early career days in the oil industry on the North Sea.
With the wind mounting we sailed across the interminably long Mayfield straight and its numerous dive-bombing magpies and into Geraldine.
That evening watching Canterbury’s ITM Cup semi-final win at the local pub a Tyler Bleyendaal clearing kick from his own goal line sailed over the sideline on the Taranaki 22. If it was that windy in Christchurch, I was pleased to not be on the bike saddle at Rakaia Gorge.
Aeolus, Google tells me, is the Greek King of Winds and today he was heaving his lungs out.
Over lunch our spirits weren’t raised by a fellow diner having heard a weather forecast for six inches of snow on Lindis Pass that night.
We continued to get hammered riding passed the Tekapo Airport before turning south and being struck by dangerous side winds. We had to lean towards the road centre to avoid being blown into the ditch but with lapses in the gusts or momentary shelter from passing vehicles we swerved out alarmingly. Fortunately after crossing the Tekapo-Pukaki canal it became more of a tailwind and, as with yesterday, we got blown a fair chunk of the way home.
Suffering indigestion as well as fatigue, Pete nursed me into Omarama, which was a great sight, as was a plate of Aunty Myrna’s fine jam-smothered scones.
The rain finally relented around dawn and we set off nervously up the Ahuriri Valley. There was no indication that the pass was closed and in cool but pleasant conditions we began winding our way up to the final pitch to the top.
Meeting Team Management at the foot of the climb (above) it was apparent the snow hadn't settled on the road and with a big day ahead we carefully gauged our effort up the pleasantly gradual incline to the top.
It’s been more than 15 years since my one trip through here by car and I had forgotten the beautiful bush, pretty waterfalls and stunning views across the lakes to the most dramatically-sculpted peaks. With the southerly clearing, the fresh, white-icing tops contrasted with the dark blue of the late afternoon sky and lush green of the beech tree-clad slopes beneath.
Even discovering that our accommodation was 10ks further on than envisaged at Makarora West, not Makarora township, couldn’t take the edge off a great day of riding.
Two massive servings of Mum’s delicious lamb shanks, a hiding from Pete on the pub pool table, and the prospect of a better night’s sleep knowing we had two great days of weather forecast for our trip north through the West Coast rainforest.
Makarora – Fox Glacier
In the weeks scheming this trip, occasionally as I went to bed my thoughts turned to classic sections like riding through the towering rimu forests of the West Coast. This could lead to: A) a pleasant dream of idyllic riding under still blue skies; B) a nightmare about getting soaked by hours of torrential rain.
We slipped into Haast for lunch under a Gold Coast sky, the lightest of southerlies at our backs. The cafe owner told us they had experienced just four fine days in the past seven weeks. Dad, who has ventured here for whitebaiting for a couple of decades, recalled how he had been soaked scampering into this cafe from the carpark just across the road. Dream realised; nightmare averted.
The day had started chilly with a harsh alpine frost at Makarora. With 200ks ahead of us we were on our bikes by 7am and enjoyed virtually clear roads for the largely gentle climb up to Haast Pass (below).
Descending the steeper northern side I started to feel like a tourist in my own country, ‘ooh-ing’ and ‘arr-ing’ at the incredible scenery that has resulted in this area being accorded World Heritage status. You can experience this from a car but on a bike, at slower speeds, you see more. You smell the bush, and hear the waterfalls and birds before you see them. You don’t just experience it; you’re in it.
Winding our way down to Haast the coarse road surface robbed the bikes of momentum. We ended up pedalling down gentle slopes where we could have been saving precious energy. But this wasn’t a day for complaining.
A buzz up ahead and we spotted a chopper coming down the valley with a couple of deer stropped beneath. About 1k on, with the chopper departing from a roadside clearing, we found a guy gutting still-steaming deer carcasses. It’s not even 9am and already the pilot and his shooter have picked off and recovered seven animals from high up the Wilkins Valley. How many deer does he process in a day? “As many as they shoot.” He tells us the high-quality venison is all destined for export.
Heading up the coast after lunch we encountered all the iconic West Coast scenes. Pretty lakes with lush rainforest to the water’s edge, distant white peaks, windswept coastal communities and loud surf pounding on driftwood-covered beaches.
With vast distances between the little communities we were craving coffee. This 200km day seemed considerably longer than the earlier 160-180km efforts. Eventually we freewheeled down the hill to the little tourist town of Fox Glacier, its immaculate new holiday park, and a big feed of fish and chips.
For the fourth consecutive day, most of our afternoon riding – when our legs were most fatigued – had been with the benefit of a tail breeze. Very fortunate.
It was one of those calm, clear West Coast evenings. Pete and I hopped in the car for a drive up to the glacier. “These automobile things go fast mate!” A walk up to the glacier terminal face would have required energy stores that were long since expended.
Fox Glacier – Hokitika
Predominantly flat and sandwiched between 200km and 250km days, the 150km day up the coast to Hokitika was always going to seem somewhat of a day off.
For the first time ever I donned two pairs of well-padded bibshorts to counter the cumulative bruising below and keep an increasingly inflamed saddle sore from getting too angry.
A plump
tui on a roadside tree bade us a tuneful farewell on the climb out of town. It soon became clear that the ‘Map my Ride’ data for this leg was well out and we were in for at least 500 vertical metres more climbing than envisaged.
Two grunty climbs in quick succession were followed by a perfect bike-handling descent down flowing, gently snaking corners to the farming flats below.
This was a day of alternating between winding roads through stunning forest and long straights across soggy farmland cut from the bush. The odd solitary rimu stood in the pasture, its trunk diameter obviously bigger than the chainsaw bar.
More iconic West Coast scenes: rusty Ford Sierras and Hi-ace vans sitting in paddocks, a derelict glasshouse jam-packed with flourishing gorse, and plenty of weather-beaten weatherboards.
As with yesterday, the rain forest was stunning, especially around the day’s three picture postcard lakes. Massive rimus, their canopies almost connecting across the road, elegant tree ferns, and groundcover ferns capturing any of the sun’s rays that made it through the upper levels of vegetation. The small ferns grow so densely and uniformly on the roadside you could wonder if they had been planted by some post-war government initiative to induce tourists. On a bike you can also take in the huge range of mosses and other water-loving plants in the roadside swales.
At Whataroa, we took a break from the steady drizzle that had set in. At the General Store we walked past the conspicuous ‘Please remove your gumboots’ sign to the pie warmer and hot coffee. While thoroughly enjoying both the next couple of local patrons strode in, their muddy gumboots recording their paths around the store.
On up the road the drizzle relented for lunch at HariHari, we passed a working gold mine near Ross, and as the road veered back towards the coast we became reacquainted with our old mate the tailwind for the final few kilometres. Feeling surprisingly drained, we crossed Hokitika Bridge, with whitebaiters dotted up and down the river, and into town, which seemed a thriving metropolis after the small communities of the past four days.
Servicing our bikes early and setting a 5.30am alarm, the prospect of 10 hours-plus of riding tomorrow was very much on our minds, as was the forecast for heavy West Coast rain.
Hokitika – Christchurch
For a long time now I’ve wanted to ride the 250ks from one coast to the other in a day, just as I’ve wanted to ride a multi-day cycle tour. But why did I ever decide to take on the former at the end of the latter? That was the key question on my mind crossing the Canterbury plains with what felt like pinus radiata 4x2s for legs.
As is often the case either side of the main divide, today was a real game of two halves. The light rain as we rolled out of Hokitika turned heavy up the Taramakau Valley and was an absolute downpour by Aitkens. By the time we pulled into Otira we were soaked through. Complicating matters was an incident in a break at Jacksons where my bike had blown over in the strong wind, bending my rear derailleur hanger causing my gears to phantom shift at will.
In a far from positive frame of mind, I squelched my way into the derelict Otira Pub where the village idiot informed us that “small things like cyclists are frightening to encounter on the road ... You can’t expect drivers of big vehicles to stop before you if there isn’t room to pass.” “Then they shouldn’t have a licence,” I snapped back. If you ever want to meet the local idiot, just visit the local watering hole. That’s where they impart their considerable knowledge.
At the foot of Arthur’s Pass the dodgy shifting pushed the chain beyond the largest cog, wrapping it tightly around the hub at the base of the spokes. Just when I thought my day’s riding was over I managed to I wrenched the chain free, leaving me with coal miner’s hands. Particularly annoying was that Pete, who had begun the steep climb, doubled back down the hill to check on me. Glycogen molecules and muscle strength were in limited supply today. My misfortune had made Pete climb the one stretch of road twice.
The steep lower stretches of the climb were testing but higher up the pass the gradient was less extreme, with a strong westerly even ‘spinnakering’ us up at the very top of the viaduct. Less than helpful was the dangerously gusty cross-wind at the top of the pass. Arthur’s Pass village, just beyond the rain band, was a welcome sight.
After lunch we made good time across the upper Waimakariri Valley, backed by the prevailing westerly, through to the distressingly steep climb at Flock Hill. Just when we thought the westerly would be with us until Porter’s Pass it deserted us at Castle Hill, replaced by a cold southerly headwind, reducing progress to a crawl through to Lake Lyndon where it was great to catch a worried looking Mum and Dad for more sustenance and a change of clothes.
A crawl over Porter’s Pass and down to Springfield for our second pie of the day – and best of the trip – as the Yello Cafe was preparing to close. Running on empty we lapped it out across the plains, taking equal turns on the front with breaks every 10-15ks to relieve aching legs, backs and butts.
On a narrow section of the Old West Coast Road a truck driver too eager to get home misjudged the distance or speed of an oncoming car and flew by us dangerously close, cutting his big rig in on top of us. Although I couldn’t make out his number plate, I did spot a sign on the back of the trailer: ‘Please drive carefully’.
Pete got us focussed on getting to Yaldhurst on the outskirts of town, and sure enough from there the spin through the suburbs with the cycle commuters felt like a bit of a warm down.
A quick loop up and down Rose St to get the computer over the 250km mark and it was great to see welcome signs on the garage door and our families again. After six days of a simple existence concentrating on little but powering the cranks, ticking off the next milestone on the journey and pushing down enough nutrition, it was back to the complexity of modern lives.
On reflection....
A couple of days on with quadricep muscle tissue mending along with my nether regions, I’m reflecting on a great adventure. The wonderful and varied scenery; the roads, three-quarters of which I had never pedalled before; the company and support of Pete; and the outstanding back-up of Team Management. We had asked Mum and Dad to drive the car to each daily destination but they did so much more, and it was great to share the experience with them.
Would I do it again? Not that trip over that timeframe. We were very fortunate with the weather but with more headwinds or heavy rain the outcomes could have been very different. Also most days we did little but pedal, eat and sleep. I’m a passionate cyclist but after about six hours riding each day everything starts aching and I’ve seen enough of my bike. In any future tours it would be great to leave a few more hours of the day to enjoy these great locations.
But this ride was about taking on a wee endurance challenge, and a very enjoyable and satisfying one it was too.
