While in Whangarei I was reunited for the second time on my trip, with my wife Mel and for a couple of days and so I had a support crew of one. Apparently having a support crew means waving farewell to Mel in the morning while she buggers off to a cafe somewhere for the day. The ride between Whangarei and Kawakawa went quick, it was mostly uphill but I had an energy inside me, an excitement. I don’t know if it was being so close to the end that excited me more or being so close to my bed in Kerikeri, a pit stop on the way to the end. Kawakawa is only a stones throw from my home and so when I got there, Mel drove me home, to my home and my bed.

Being home was strange. It was another false finish of sorts. Getting to Auckland was like a false finish. A lot of people thought Auckland was the end when I got there. Being back in Kerikeri and at home, it was like I had never left, except the lawns were now six feet high. The kids were still away in Auckland staying with the grandparents, so it was just Mel and I, which was good, as if everything was back to complete normality, I might have freaked out completely. As it was I got to wear OTHER clothes and eat food from my fridge and sleeping in my bed was heaven. Being on the road and cycling all day, you are never usually picky about where you sleep. As long as the surface is flat and somewhat soft, you don’t care. But being in my own bed, for one night I really really cared, and I slept so well.

The next day Mel dropped me back to Kawakawa while she did her support crew-ing somewhere, and I resumed my journey back into Kerikeri and rode into town and that afternoon caught up with some friends and in general just hung out. I knew there was a danger in being in Kerikeri for too long. It might become too easy to stay at home in my own bed. When I originally planned the trip, one of the reasons to start from the bottom was due to the relatively close proximity of Kerikeri to Cape Reinga. Only three days ride, and if I started at the top by the time I reached Kerikeri, I would be three days in and feeling sore, tired and probably in shock. Starting at the bottom, I would still be forty days ride away from home so the only choice would be to keep going. So now being towards the end of my ride, the risk of being mentally and emotionally ready to quit when I reached home was minimal, but still, before I became too comfortable I again got on my bike and rode out of town. I had somewhere to be.

I was doing shorter rides of around 60km each day now, to try and linger a bit longer and enjoy the last few days. I was still getting faster and hit Mangonui before lunch and so enjoyed the afternoon feasting at the Mangonu fish and chip shop, which sits out over the water, and just chilling out thinking about things. Mangonui is one of my favourite spots. Quiet and beautiful. The town is on the harbour and has blissful views across the water. My accommodation was no exception, with large windows that let the sunlight on the harbour flow right in to the room. I relaxed enjoying the smell of salt air. In the morning I met some more people who had seen me in the paper and on TV, I was feeling like a bit of celebrity. It is great talking to people every day about the ride and hearing about all the impossible things they want to do, riding the country is on so many peoples lists.

The next day I moved on up to Houhora, one of the last towns before you run out of land running north. As I went, it seemed I was passing the last of everything. The last gas, the last hotel, the last pub and in general the last of every kind of convenience signalled by a big sign out front stating “Last “. I was good, I had all I needed to get to the top in two days, but I could not help starting to feel alone. With every kilometre I went north I was becoming acutely aware of how little geography was left. I could see the east coast as I travelled up north and the further I went, the closer both coasts came to me and at points could see both from the saddle of my bike. I was heading up the countries largest cul-de-sac, there really was no other exit.

On the penultimate day I made it to Waitiki Landing, only 20km till the top. I wanted to spend the Friday night close to the tip, so Mel and the kids could come up in the evening and spend the last night with me, and join me at the finish line. It was the first time we were all together as a family in almost seven weeks. We had a blast, despite the accommodation being one of the worst places I had stayed at my whole trip. Funny things happen when you get to the fringes of civilisation, usually you meet the most friendly people. However it would seem that the reverse is true when you head north. For our stay we were made to feel like we were a burden and a nuisance, and generally ignored. The facilities were non-existent and the staff were more interested in sitting out the front smoking all day. I have raved about all the great places I have stayed and not mentioned the rest, but this place was by far the worst I had been to, and as usual it was the people that made the difference. This bummed me out a little, as I was looking forward to having a night of fun with my family, instead we were hosted by a group of bad mannered, disinterested people. We had fun anyway, being together for the first time in so long far outweighed the bad mojo from a terrible nights stay. We laughed and played, much to the displeasure of all our hosts.

The next day was the last. The day was overcast, ironically after a week of perfect weather, the day I get to the end it was less than perfect. I didn’t really see it that way. Going to the cape for me is a spiritual experience. I can’t explain exactly why or what, it just is special to be able to stand at the very tip of our country and look north to the rest of the world, from the bottom of the world. I love visiting. And the cape has played a special role in Mel’s and my relationship. When we first met, young kids in love, we visited the cape, it was our first road trip together, and it was on that trip I decided all those years back to travel the world with Mel, leaving all of my life behind to discover a new one, and never looked back. The next time I visited the cape was just after last New Years, this time with Mel and the kids, some nine years since the last time, and this time I decided to do this cycle, to the complete horror of Mel. Now, on this visit, I was finishing my journey, almost six months to the day since I decided to embark on it. Since then I again become a different person in many ways physically and emotionally.

I set off on the rough unsealed road from Waitiki Landing to the end. I had forgotten how hilly it was heading up to the lighthouse, but with only 20km I would be there in just over an hour on the hills. I stopped frequently just to look around and soak it all in. When I started right back at the very beginning, each kilometre seemed insignificant compared to how far I had left to go. A couple of days ago it was 100km to go then suddenly I was only 10km, 7km, 5km, then 2km from the end. What would it be like to get there, the end? 1km to go. I was starting to feel very very weird. Only one hill separated me from the end, the very end this time. I would not be getting on the bike tomorrow and riding. I climbed it slowly then there it was, the finish line, I could see it. With both coasts of New Zealand flanking me, I rolled over the last stretch of road until the road ran out. Waiting for me on the kerb was Mel and the kids with pictures and signs the kids made. They were excited, they were going to get their daddy back. This was the end of the road, but not the end of the ride. Not just yet. I kissed my two girls and promised them I would be back soon, as there was one thing left to do. From the road to the lighthouse, right on the tip of the peninsular, was a walking track of about 400 meters. At the end of that was the real end, the lighthouse then the cliff that dropped down to the sea. As usual there was a constant stream of tourists visiting the lighthouse and I smiled and greeted every one as I rolled past. To some of them it seemed odd to be riding a bike down to the lighthouse.

Then finally 300 meters, 200, 100, 10 and then none. I was there. I had just cycled from as far south as I could go, right up to here, the northern most point I could cycle to, and it… felt… fantastic. I must have had a grin beaming from ear to ear, I just couldn’t stop smiling. Do you know the feeling where your cheeks feel like they are in permanent spasm? I got off the bike, and I sat on a small stone wall on the tip of the cliff looking out north, I closed my eyes and emptied my mind letting the wind and the waves filled my head. This was it, I couldn’t believe it. When I was last here I was not sure I would be back by bike. I thought I could do it, and I did. YES! I can’t actually describe what I felt. It was like a thousand thoughts, and a mixture of emotions all at once. It was like how I felt at my wedding, mixed with the feeling you had as a kid on your last day of school before the summer holidays, blended in with the feeling you get when you step out of a sauna, with a bit of saying good bye to a loved on at the airport and then, on top of that, imagine you have just heard one of the funniest jokes ever. It was all that mixed up and then more. All I can say is do it. Find it. It is one of the best feelings you can ever have.

I had done what I needed to to at the lighthouse. I could have stayed there for hours. I rode back up to the road and the waiting car. I gave my bike a well deserved rest and we drove slowly back to home. Again being in a car felt like such a weird experience. We went via the giant sand dunes by the cape, for some rolling and sliding down them for some family fun. Next to the dunes is a small stream that runs all the way out to the beach. Once we had our fill of the sand dunes, almost literally as our clothes hair and car were full of sand, I got into the dirvers seat of the car and sat behind the week and looked down the stream. I knew it lead to Ninety Mile Beach, and the beach was drivable down the coast assuming it wasn’t high tide. I had never driven on the beach for fear of getting stuck and the stream heading out looked like it could hold a few ruts that our mere station wagon would be no match for. “wanna go back down the beach?” I asked Mel. “Ahhhh, suuure” she hesitantly replied. “Okay then” and we were off. Hell what was the worst that could happen? We roared through the stream, with the water flowing over the bonnet and windscreen. The kids couldn’t believe it, what had happened to dad? First he disappeared on a bike for weeks and now he was driving down rivers. They were having a ball. Each small rapid we approached we all in unison went “Woooooooooaaaaaaah wheeehheeee” as we splashed through the water and onwards down the stream, over the ruts and banks. Then finally on the beach we were heading south with the waves on our right, the dunes on our left and the bike on the back. Crashing through small streams and taking the top of small dunes. It was an adventure, the first of many more to come.

Since then a week has gone by. Before I wrapped up my blogging on this fantastic adventure, I wanted to see what would be different in the week following my ride. Would it be like I never left, would I think about things differently? This is something that people always wanted to know as I went, was the trip changing me? Was I now a different person?

The day after I got home I went for a ride on my old training route. I had a few scores to settle with a couple of hills. I geared up, started my stopwatch and rode a route I hadn’t travelled for two months. It was funny, with each hill I came to on my old training route, and there are a few, I had the exact same feeling of apprehension as I approached the hills as I did when I first got on the bike all those months ago. What if I couldn’t ride up these hills again? My mind was being completely irrational of course. I rocketed up the first one, then the second then the third, then before I knew it I was almost home and facing Frank. Frank was strangely quiet, but still my legs felt like they were weakening, but I powered up and over and then I was home. I checked my time. I had shaved, no, hacked off a whole quarter of the time from my last ride on the route before I left. A whole quarter. I could feel Frank fading away. Sulking off to torment some other rider somewhere else. I was not going to put up with his shit anymore.

I have been playing at home dad with the kids for the last week. We have been on trips into town, puddle hopping, gardening and spring/autumn cleaning the house. It is hard not doing anything, and I have found that I am setting goals on everything I do and then take some reward when I do them, even if it is just doing the washing. I guess my mind is used to setting goals each day and then achieving them now. I wonder if this will wear off? I hope not because it feels good. I have pep in my step. I have been setting some new long term goals too. Some big and scary and some not so hard, but I have learnt that without a goal you have no reason to keep pushing you forward. When the goal is too big and too hard, then you just break it down into small achievable chunks. When I began thinking about riding the length of the country I started small. First, can I ride a bike. Yes, well can I ride a bike up hills? Can I do that without vomiting on every hill? Can I then ride for half a day non-stop? A whole day? Then finally can I ride a whole day, with gear on the back, and get up the next day and do it all again? As soon as I could do that then riding the length of the country was just repeating the same smaller goal over and over and over again until I got to the end. And that was it. If I had set out on day one with the expectation that I could just jump on a bike and go, I would have failed. Instead I filled my days with small achievable goals, that all add up to a greater goal. A life full of goals is a full life.

And so what else has changed? I don’t know. A lot, but I can’t put my finger on it. I am developing a dislike for procrastination, which is interesting. I am less self conscious about some things. I have less patience for time wasters. And probably a hundred other things. The journey was gradual and I have learnt a lot along the way. There was no bolt of lightning moments, but I know I am fundamentally changed as a result of my ride.

Would I do it again? you bet. I have missed getting up and riding everyday this last week. Will I do it again? No, not for a while anyway. I have some new challenges lined up. Some other things that are on my “impossible” list. I now want to see how may other impossible things I can do. How about you?

I had decided on a slightly longer route north, but one that would take me away from Highway 1 and the trucks and noise. I would head east more through some of the more quieter towns and quieter roads. I first had to get uphill through to Tokoroa and then it would be downhill all the way pretty much to Matamata. I was now heading into an area I knew well, as it was an area I frequented often as a kid. We had an uncle and aunt, and cousins that lived in Tokoroa, and it was common for our family to head south from Auckland to Tokoroa for Christmas, Easter, or to visit lake Ohakuri for a camping holiday. This was an area full of memories from my youth, a time that seems so very very long ago. Seeing all the familiar landmarks took my mind off of the hills and the infrequent shower. Coming into Tokoroa, I knew a good friend of the family, Liz was working at the golf course that day, so I popped by for a cup of tea and a chat before heading into town to find my Uncle who was hosting me for the night. Finding him was something which turned out to be pretty easy as I was barely in town when a grinning head, leaning out of a car window, began shadowing me waving. I followed my Uncle back to his house and caught up on things, rested well and then resumed the cycle. As I was getting closer to home my social schedule was starting to fill up, and there were beginning to be plenty of excuses to stop somewhere to catch up and have a cup of tea.

Tirau next for a coffee, then on to Matamata on the quest for Hobbits, without much luck. I decided to continue on to Te Aroha, a place that’s name translates to “The Love” in Maori. Just what I needed, some more good vibes to go with the improving weather. I was off of the main highways, following a network of linking side roads. On these roads you really get to appreciate the ride a lot more. Instead of being bombarded by the constant whizz and roar of traffic clearly in a hurry to get somewhere with little care for a cyclist sharing their road, you for the most of the time have the road to yourself. Zigzagging through the dotted centre line, talking to the cows and hearing the bird song as you pedal. This is what I had imagines the ride up New Zealand should be like all the way, and I seek it out wherever possible. Diverting off the main highways may add extra distance to your journey but that is very easily tradable for some peace. I was yet again making pretty good time, and the rain sometimes threatened but always passed by a couple of kilometres away as a grey blotch smudging on the distant landscape. Te Aroha is an old spa town, a place to go to relax and to be pampered. It is nestled into the side of the hills and as I got closer and closer I could feel a calming influence wash over me. Ahhaaa I was going to relax tonight. I had never been to Te Aroha, in fact I didn’t even know the place existed prior to a few days ago when I saw it on my map, so I was very excited to visit somewhere new, especially a place that bestowed magical love over everyone who vistited.

The main street was very pretty and retained a lot of its old world charm. The inhabitants seemed cheery, and as I passed by they smiled and waved. Things were feeling pretty good. The rain finally caught up with me, just lightly, not really much to even bother a moth, and as I cruised down the streets I was surrounded by smiling waving people clearly in love with life. I was feeling like I was in a surreal musical. The light rain queued the song “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” in my head as I rode. It seemed everyone else was hearing the same music and were too humming, if not singing, along. “duh duh da de da de da”. The mother pushing a pram smiled and waved and skipped off in step to the music down the road. The little birds were cheeping in tune and flying in formation above my head. A small dog did back-flips in a yard as I smiled and passed by. A young couple sat on a park bench gazing into each others eyes deeply in love, and the mechanics at the workshop were singing into their spanners. The young guy with dreadlocks in a V8 Holden waiting at the intersection stop sign smiled at me, head to one side as if to say “Isn’t life grand”. I smiled back, as I turned across the road and into the main street in front of him as if to say “You betcha buddy, it rocks”. The music continued “…no one ever stopped the rain by complaining…” . The music stopped. Suddenly the guy with dreadlocks had lurched out of the intersection in his grunting V8 and had screeched to a stopped only centimetres away from me. His smiling musical persona had suddenly metamorphosed into an evil demon and after nearly running me down, he was now disappearing down the road with tyres squealing. “That was odd” I thought as I cycled on, trying to restart the music. I only had 300 meters to go till my accommodation for the night. “Duh duh da de da… oh good the music is back…” then suddenly screeching from the side road beside me, and the demon was back, swerving a couple of meters in front of me. With tyres smoking, he disappeared off into a cloud of burning ego. This guy was clearly no longer feeling “The Love” that Te Aroha infected its inhabitants with. Perhaps after years of girlie love, spontaneous street dancing and musicals, mine rolling through town was the last straw. No amounts of magical mineral water spewing from the earth could cleans this guy, even with a all day anal enema. I checked into my accommodation and promptly hid my bike. That night a ventured out to town after dark, lurking in the shadows keeping a watchful eye out for any other repressed teenage angst struggling to break free of the love and kisses of Te Aroha.

The next day I snuck out of town, with no music, on the back roads with the goal of getting to Miranda, via Paeroa, where there are hot springs, a holiday park and not that much more, but that was fine with me as I wanted a soak in hot hot pools and to reintroduce some more calm. I had more flat roads, again mostly to myself and I was really enjoyed myself again. The rain followed me but always a few kilometres inland. We only crossed paths once, as I was coming into a small town, which allowed me to stop for lunch and coffee as I waited out the passing downpour. After more chatting to stranger and a few more tales, I made it into Miranda, and back to the coastline again, where I was reunited with water and waves. I got there in good time and promptly dunked myself in the hot thermal waters and generally floated about making “ahhhhh” sounds for hours.

I was now only two short days ride out of Auckland, and I was pretty excited. Auckland was yet another milestone, and I would be able to catch up with friends and family and most importantly my two daughters, who had come down to Auckland for the week to stay with my wife’s parents. It had been a whole month since I had seen my daughters last and I wasn’t sure they would even remember what I looked like. Being both under five, their perspective on time is somewhat, well out of whack. When I left home over a month a go, I said good bye to the girls and told them I would be back home in 7 weeks. I was expecting tears and carry-on, but they both just said “Bye Dad” and with a cursory wave resumed playing dolls. They were both used to me going away for a few days, perhaps a week at a time for work, but never for longer than five or six days, so for them this was just another one of those trips Dad made for work. Two weeks into my cycle I got the phone call from my eldest, Holly, in tears wanting me to come home. Being away from my girls had been pretty tough for me and them and seeing them again was going to be magic. But first I had to navigate the east coast heading into Auckland, the last day accompanied by a television film crew.

TV3 wanted to interview me for Campbell Live, doing a piece of my ride and how it had changed my life so far. I was staying at the Top 10 Holiday Park at Orere Point, and the crew joined me early Friday morning. Helen Vaughan, my interviewer, was going to cycle into Clevedon with me and interview me as we rode. I thought this was a grand idea, and pre warned her that my bike doesn’t like to go too fast, with all my bags on the back, so not to expect a race. They had scoped out the route into Clevedon and had found what they thought was a great stretch of road to conduct the interview. And so we were off, on our way into Clevedon, up hill, and the questions started. I was grunting and puffing up the hills and trying to answer as many question coherently. I told Helen that expecting me to multitask was a big ask, and doing three things, pedalling, thinking and talking all at the same time was impossible and doing it uphill doubly so, so she might have to settle for just pedalling and talking. We rode for over an hour answering questions, which all had to be condensed later into a few minutes. I wasn’t sure I was answering the questions well and as we left the hills behind the interview was over and I bid the crew farewell at Clevedon, where I refuelled my body and continued on. I only had a couple more hours left and I was desperate to get to Auckland to see my mother, who lived there, and my waiting girls.

I crawled into the suburbs. The rolling countryside was now suburban plaster palaces and three lanes of traffic. I had four days of rest ahead and I was going to spend as much of the time with my girls. I visited my mum, for coffee and long chats, and then we both went over to my wife’s parents house for dinner with my daughters and for all of us to watch the interview on TV that night. I was a little anxious about seeing my girls, what if they weren’t interested in me? What if they had forgotten me? As soon as I walked though the door I developed a couple of large lumps on my both my legs. Two girl shaped limpets had attached themselves to me, firmly, and didn’t detach for hours. They did remember who their daddy was. They told me all about everything they had been up to for the last month and that night we watched their dad on TV, laughing at my groaning and puffing. For the rest of the weekend I was smothered with cuddles. I rested my legs and tried to resume a normal life hanging out with my girls. We visited Kelly Tarlton’s, an underwater aquarium, went shopping and visiting and we generally, no, absolutely had a blast.

On the Sunday, there was a protest being organised as part of the 50 year anniversary of the Auckland Harbour Bridge, by a group who have for some time been campaigning for pedestrian and cycle access across the harbour. There is currently no way in Auckland to cycle or walk to or from the North Shore. As well as supporting the cause, a ride over the harbour bridge would be the perfect addition to my route though Auckland, which without would mean having to catch a ferry across. I cycled down to the bridge through the eastern bays on a beautiful beautiful Autumns day watching kayakers paddle the smooth waters harbour waters under a blue blue sky. Arriving at the base of the bridge a thousand protesters also congregated and we waited, smiling and excited. The Transport Authority was not going to let the protesters on the bridge, they couldn’t feel the love and their single representative there that day looked a little stressed and grumpy and clearly did not like us being there. This was not a random even ant the organisers of the protest had signalled their intentions to all the appropriate authorities. The police said they would be there to ensure the safety of the protesters and the public, but Transport Authority was not keen to engage with the organisers. So we didn’t really know if we would be let on across the bridge. The original plan was to close off two of the four northbound lanes for the protesters to use to cross the bridge, this way at 9:30am on a Sunday morning there would be little disturbance to traffic for two hours with it all over before midday. And so we waited and waited and then the answer was given by the single stressed and grumpy representative from Transport Authority. “No” was all he said. He even had to borrow a megaphone to say it. He didn’t say sorry, or that it would be nice to cross but unfortunately due to x and y… he didn’t handle things very well at all. They, being Transport Authority, had arranged to have the area fenced off days in advance, with fairly comprehensive, concreted in wire mesh fences, to keep the protesters off the bridge. There was a single gate, barricaded by six of seven police who looked fairly disinterested to be there on a Sunday morning, and this one guy from Transport Authority with his borrowed megaphone. They hadn’t completely fenced off an area of trees and dense foliage, and a few cyclists had found their way through, mounted cycles in disgust a couple of hundred meters up the motorway and defiantly cycled across the bridge, waving to the halted protesters as they passed. Can you guess what happened next? The protesters wanted on, and on they got. The police were never interested in preventing the thousand protesters from accessing the bridge, but was more interested in keeping everyone safe, and so after a few for show attempts to halt the swarm, they stepped aside, halted the traffic and ensured everyone was safe as the let the protesters cross. Carefully and civilly we all entered the motorway and began to cross the bridge. There were mums pushing prams, cyclists on unicycles, walkers and cyclists of all ages all with grins from ear to ear, celebrating, with just a little bit of civil disobedience, the 50 year anniversary of the Auckland Harbour Bridge, and with the vain hope that one day there would be a permanent pedestrian/cycle path for everyone to enjoy every day of the year. Just like a lot of my ride up the country, I got to see a stretch of road I had seen many times at high speed in a car, but at a more leisurely pace, soaking up the sights of Auckland City, which has a very beautiful cityscape, by a very beautiful harbour. I crossed the bridge feeling ecstatic. I was hoping this would not be a once in a lifetime experience.

Leaving Auckland and my girls again for two weeks, I wanted to escape the clutches of the city and reach Leigh to catch up with some more friends and supporters of my ride. It was going to be a long 80km day, with a few hills thrown in for good measure. After a coffee with @bwagy and caught up with my sister in-law on the way through the northern suburbs, I had lunch with some of the members of the charity, TASC, I am raising money for. It was a lot of social engagements to cram into an already long day. But nothing is impossible. But as I coffee’d and rode, I had something playing on my mind that worried me. There was one hill, a very evil hill, that has been haunting me the whole journey up the country. This hill was Frank’s deformed evil bastard cousin who had severe anti social tendancies. He was the hill that none of the other hills played with as a kid. This was a hill I had driven over one hundred times or more and it was the hill I had been using as the benchmark for rating all mad dangerous suicidal hills. Each time I planned a route and there appeared to be a windy, steep, busy and dangerous hill, going up or down, Frank’s bastard cousin appeared in my mind wheezing a coughing an evil evil deformed laugh, and hoped the hill was nothing like it. What made it so evil? This hill was steep, but I had done steep hills before. It was windy, that too I had done. But it also had no verge to cycle on, so I would be in the traffic. It also had a passing lane going up, that ended on a blind hairpin corner with a sheer drop. Lastly it was the first slow hill after the end of the end of the Auckland motorway, and everyone raced up it passing each other 8 cars at a time. I wondered if I was playing up the evilness of Franks cousin in my mind, and turned to my cycling guide book for their suggested route and advice on this route. Perhaps there was a safe passage. Where usually the guide book would have a three or four paragraphs of information, elevation charts detailing all the hills and route and details on points of interest, the book had one sentence. “Windy, busy, hilly, narrow and definitely not to be attempted by … sane cyclists.” My choice was to risk it, take a major detour inland 40-50 km to avoid the hill or to get over this dangerous piece of road by some other means. I wanted to ride up through Leigh and around the coast, so to take the detour I would have to double back considerably and add two days to my route. My wife was due to meet me in Whangarei for the weekend so I would miss her, and instead of stopping off in Kerikeri at home for a day, I would need to push on straight to the top. I clearly wanted to make it to Whangarei and having lunch in Silverdale with some of the chair bound members of the charity, I had my mind made up for me. Why would I risk winding up in a wheelchair, or worse, dead, for a few kilometres of treacherous road? I was kindly offered to be picked up in a vehicle before the hill for safe passage over and I decided not to take a risk I didn’t need to. When it came to crossing the hill later that day, as I sat in a car looking out the window I sighed a huge sigh of relief as, just like every other day, a mass of screaming metal boxes screamed up the hill in some make believe race, and as I looked out and down to the side of the car to the road beside, I couldn’t help see myself rather messily compacted onto the side of the road. It was a good call. I added 20km on to my overall route to cover off the ride up the hill and then some. I happily pulled the bike out of the back of the car and resumed my cycle, and pushed on to Leigh with the day quickly evaporating.

I escaped Highway 1 and the Auckland traffic turning off at Warkworth and headed for Matakana and on to Leigh. That night I was hosted by @gnat and the rest of Team Torkington to be fed and wined and to talk the evening away. We were joined by other Leigh area locals, including @stevemadefromnz and sat talking complete crap with a good dollop of intelligent conversation thrown in. It was a good laugh. As usual I began to fade at my regular time of 8:30pm but managed to go the distance but crashed and slept well that night.

The next day I cycled over to Mangawhai Heads, via a windy and somewhat hilly route. But first I had an appointment with the kids at Leigh school to talk to them about my bike ride. The kids asked me a hundred, all very good, questions and I gave them a tour of the bike and had a quick photo with the kids I was off again. I headed out of town and over what was referred to as “The” hill that took me to the coast and onwards. The hill was pretty mean. I ground it out, and had to shed a few layers as the day was a cracker and the sun beamed down on me. Under a heaven of blue skies, at the top I had fantastic views of the area and coast. I then descended onto gravel roads that lead me through a complicated network of back roads to find my way to Mangawhai. I was hoping to be able to go right through to Waipu Cove that night, and I followed a route on my map that led me to believe a small road would continue on to connect with the main road leading into Mangawhai. I rode over a high ridge and came to an intersection and continued on for ten minutes before realising I was heading for the sea when I should be heading inland. I must have made a bad turn so I turned around to return to the last intersection which must have been the intersection I needed to turn left at. Back at the intersection, the sign for the road which was the road I should have taken clearly stated “No exit”. I consulted the map. This definitely was the road that the map was telling me I should be taking, just a short two kilometres and it would join onto the main road. The map was wrong. I had two choices, continue on towards the coast through hills and through an increasingly complicated network of other roads that some more could actually turn out to be no exit roads also, or turn around and head back to a major intersection six or seven kilometres back and reconsider a new route. As much as going backwards hurts, it was the best option. Adding another 15km to the days ride I rode back up and over some hills that I didn’t need to rode, let alone twice. Well behind schedule now I decided to stop at Mangawhai Heads, where luck would have it I had been kindly offered the use of a holiday home and a comfy bed for the night.

I stopped by the local Four Square for my usual supplies, some milk, some bread and something to whip up for dinner that night, and as I paid I chatted to the lady at the register about my ride. She quickly said to me “I have someone you have to meet.” and abandoning the till, and the other customers still waiting in queue, and she lead me out to the back of the store. “Wont be a second guys” she called back over her shoulder to the waiting customers. Out the back she introduced to the store manager whom had walked the length of New Zealand, from the bottom to the top, almost ten years ago. We sat and had tea and biscuits and It was fascinating to talk to someone else who had done what was in most way a very similar thing to what I was doing. As he talked I kept saying “me too” and “I did that too”. The same highs and the same lows. He kindly offered to sort me out for some accommodation that night, but I already had a bed kindly offered to me. As we said good bye he said that he would like to do a similar trip again perhaps on a bike.

Friday morning, and I was heading for Whangarei. It was another cracker of a day and the start of the long weekend so I wanted to get into Whangarei before the mad holiday weekend rush hit the roads. I got up early and cycled out of town and over the Mangawhai heads, and back yet again to the beautiful coastline at Langs Beach. I wandered on up to Waipu and stopped for breakfast. Sitting in a cafe I was soon surrounded by a swarm of ladies having a regular Friday coffee get together, when one of them said “Your the guy cycling up New Zealand aren’t you?”. I joined their group and chattered away for what was probably an hour about the ride and the people I have met and why I was doing it. Rosemary, one of the ladies, bought me my coffee and I was given a donation by another. They gave me an alternate route that avoids Highway 1 for a while and buoyed by meeting more great people I was off with revived springs in my legs, pushing for Whangarei. The route they gave me took my through the quiet back roads but I eventually had to rejoin the highway. It was flat for most of the way into Whangarei and I made really very good time. I was full of energy and excitement, especially to see my wife who was driving down to see me. Then as I arrived in town, I pulled up to a set of traffic lights waiting to turn off the highway and to ride down towards the port. This was the route used my all the heavy vehicles, but was generally much quieter. I waited just a couple of meters in front of a truck also waiting, and I glanced around and smiled at the dirver, just to make sure he knows I am there and not to race off on the green light straight over me. He smiled back and revved the truck engine a couple of blasts as if to say “watch out” and he laughed. Just then the light went green and I took off, giving a cheeky glance back as if to say, “go on then”, and he did. The truck was off after me in hot pursuit. With a grin ear to ear, I knew I only had a few more kilometres to go so I gave it all I had, powering away from the lights and down a slight hill. I could hear the truck grunting a short ways behind me catching up, the truck being slow off the mark. I was having so much fun I was now laughing uncontrollably and tried to go faster, and faster and faster. The hulk of the truck ever so slowly came up beside me, toying with me, and we rode side by side for a while. The truck tooted its horn as we went, neck to neck. I had a little bit more left in my legs so I pedalled harder and took off again, laughing hysterically. The truck grunted, and inevitably he eventually caught up and passed me a few hundred metres down the road, horn going again as he disappeared off in front of me. Just another typical encounter with another typical kiwi character and I smiled all the way to my stop for the day.

I have found that kindness comes in many forms, whether it is a donation to the charity, a bed for a night, coffee bought by strangers, a chance to shoot the breeze on the side of the road, a race with a truck, or a lift over a dangerous stretch of road. Too often people get caught up in life, work and monotony and they forget one simple thing in life. The vast majority of people are good, decent and kind people who all enjoy the same things. A chat, a laugh and making each other feel good. That’s what life all really boils down to in the end. And laughter and a smile is all 100% free. All I have is a bike and a goal, and I have found that the most valuable reward every day is the chance to smile, and be reminded that it is each other that makes this life worthwhile.

http://www.3news.co.nz/Video/CampbellLive/tabid/367/articleID/105444/cat/221/Default.aspx#video

In Wellington I took three days out to relax, the longest time off the bike so far, but considering I was halfway I thought it was well deserved. My first duty on my days off was to rent a car and drive to Palmerston North to see my wife Mel. Mel is studying to be a teacher, and had flown to Palmerston North to attend a two day block course. I was on route to see her for the first time in three weeks. This was the longest time we had been apart since we were married, even before then, since we both left the security of our jobs in 2000 and ventured overseas together through South East Asia, the Middle East, the UK and Europe. Leaving on my OE back then was the last time I had a feeling like I was feeling now. That feeling of awe and excitement. Back then I shared the journey with Mel, this time I was alone.

Being behind the wheel of a car was a strange experience after three weeks on a bike. In a way it felt dirty. Decadent. Cheating. Each hill was painless, each kilometre so quick. I was driving somewhere in just under two hours that in a couple of days would take me two full days to cycle back to again. I found myself driving incredibly slow, I just could not get used to my new found speed. So my journey to Palmerston North took a little longer than expected. I shared with Mel my adventures so far, and we talked and talked and talked. Talking at great length was something I missed dearly. The next day I returned back to my temporary other life away from my family, back to the solitude of cycling alone, back down the road to Wellington.

On foot I became a tourist around Wellington for a day or two. I walked the foreshore, frequented cafes, went to a movie and visited Te Papa, our national museum. I had been gifted a ticket to the Monet exhibition at Te Papa by the museum through Twitter so on a day when the weather was not so nice, I wandered on down, in my dirty riding trousers and cycling jacket keeping out of the rain as much as possible, but failing. Getting wet standing at a intersection waiting for the crossing light to turn green I was surprised when suddenly an umbrella was hoisted over my head and a smiling lady asked “are you getting wet”. I thanked her for the kind shelter and as as we crossed the road I jokingly asked, “where are you heading, perhaps I might follow you?”
“Te Papa” she replied.
“Really? Me too, I am going to check out the Money exhibition. I was given a free ticket!”
“That’s great, I work there, at the exhibition.”
So she shared her umbrella with me all the way to Te Papa. The kindness of strangers never ceases to amaze me as does the realisation that it really is a small small world we live in.

At Te Papa I first had to check out the giant squid they had on display, woah and it was awesome. Visiting a museum by myself, although missing my wife and kids desperately, meant I could go see all the things I wanted to see, and nothing else. It was a strange pleasure I had not experienced in almost 10 years. So I saw the squid, stood in the earthquake simulator, watch all the movies and played with all the interactive displays. I hung out and watched people. On visiting the Monet exhibition I queued with what looked to be half of Wellington, and finally found myself at the front of the queue where I was greeted, once again, by the owner of the umbrella that sheltered me earlier.

“Hello again” she greeted me “Seeing as you are doing such a great thing with your ride, here, have an audio guide on me”. She presented me a giant cellphone like device that talked to me as I walked around the museum. I stood in front of paintings and admired art, listening to the history and meaning behind what I was looking sat. This was something I would never usually do, but today it was a welcome pleasure to be a little cultured.

Eventually my time as a tourist came to an end, and I had to yet again don Lycra and thermals. For the ride out of Wellington I was to be joined by Rowan and Lance, on condition (defined my Lance) that only if the weather was good, it was not too far and there were no hills. It was hailing, our route would take us out over the Akatarawa Saddle, a steep 440m climb, and the destination for the days ride was Otaki, some 90km away. Despite all that both Rowan and Lance were on the day still eager to be my wing men on the ride. It was set to be a challenging day. I don’t mind riding in the rain at all, as long as you keep warm. Once you are wet, you are wet. I had been lucky with the conditions so far, and only had three wet days out of 14. I was not too worried about the wet. The climb however bothered me, and that’s because all hills bother me. I have an unhealthy obsession with hills, and my bike, a touring bike, is not exactly built for speed and liked to go up hills at it’s own pace. Going up and up and up, grinding out each and every meter was a challenge. Rowan and Lance disappeared up ahead moving much quicker. With a kilometre to go to the top, Rowan reappeared, returning back after reaching the top to cycle with me. Over the last few weeks I had conditioned myself for stamina. Riding each and every day you discover you need to keep at a steady pace or else you burn yourself out. On my first days cycle from Bluff to Gore, with beginners enthusiasm I cycled 100km uphill pretty quick. A feat I found I could not replicate easily afterwards. So I slowly, ever so slowly ground out the last kilometre of the hill, one pedal at a time with Rowan counting me down in 100 meter increments. For me that was one mean climb. From the top, the three of us stood, tweeting with iPhones in hand, and looked down across the Kapiti Coast towards the last leg of our journey that day.

We raced down the other side and pushed on up to Otaki where we warmed ourselves with hot drinks and parted ways. I was thrilled to have covered so far, over such a steep climb and quicker than I would normally have done it. Something I would not have been able to do by myself so speedily.

The next day I began the journey inland and towards the central plateau. Bulls was my next stop. A town where they seem to be a little obsessed with the word “bull”. The local police station had a sign stating “Consta-bull”. A block of flats had a sign out front stating “Renta-bull”. The library “Memora-bull”. Every business seemed to have a witty bull connection in some shape of form, there was even a Trojan Bull out side the local council office, the use of which I can only imagine.

I proceeded on to Taihape, the quintessential New Zealand rural town, famous for gum-boot throwing, as well as other rural sporting endeavours. The rain had still not let up so each day was developing into a regular routine. Get wet, get somewhere, find somewhere to stay, dry my clothes, get fed, sleep then start again. The schedule was starting to take its toll on me. The next day I knew I had to climb up onto the central plateau, again in what looked to be less than ideal conditions. I was wet and looking for some accommodation. The only place in town available was the old pub hotel. I paid at the bar what was the cheapest accommodation on my trip so far and then made my way upstairs to my private room with a bed of springs that ate you alive, a space heater that took two weeks to heat up, and a small bathroom ensuite. I really needed a shower to warm up and in my brain frozen state I stood looking into the bathroom staring. “Damn it there is no shower” I said to myself out loud, for there was in fact no shower, just a big old deep and long bath tub. What was I going to do. Then all of a sudden my brain realised the significance of this discovery. For everywhere I have been, after every cold wet days cycling I have always sought out a place with a bath to soak in but had not had much success. And here I was, cursing the lack of shower when what I had was a big tub of nirvana. I soaked for over an hour then wrestled with the springs and fell away into a deep deep sleep.

Each day is its own little challenge in a way. Being alone on a bike for 5-6 hours a day can do some funny things to you. Once I was through the first 10 days my body was starting to be well adjusted to the daily challenge, but each day was still a mental challenge. Keeping sane doing the same thing every day when your body and mind would probably rather be somewhere else is tough. I have started talking to myself and singing as I go, which to observe must look like I have failed the sanity challenge, but each verse of each made up song, sung badly out of key, keeps me a little bit sane. It is one of my many techniques I have developed to keep me going, every single day. Another is my Sergeant Major, him I discovered on the climb up on the plateau. The forecast was for the weather to deteriorate before it got any better, and for it to be colder too. I knew I had to get up and over the highest part of my journey just incase the weather got really nasty. The day going up was wet, as usual, and a strong gusty head wind was waiting for me. That day heading out of Taihape and up to Ohakune was the lowest point of my trip.

It was uphill all the way to Waiouru, a climb up to an altitude of around 800 meters and the climb seemed to never end. Plus each gust of wind would literally stop me dead in my tracks. It was tough going and I felt like I was fighting a loosing battle, but I knew as long as I was making progress I would eventually get there, I hoped. The rain pelted, and the wind blew not just straight at me but from left to right as the trucks roared past me. I was buffeted around like a plastic bag in the wind. I started yelling at the wind. “Just piss off would you you bastard” I hollered into the sky. Half way up, I hit what they call The Wall. I was beaten. The sadistic wind had beaten me into submission, and the pelting rain did everything it could to freeze me. I stopped. I was ready to give up. Really really give up. Even walking the bike was uphill seemed like an impossible task in the wind. There just seemed so far to go. Then I don’t know what happened. My anger built up inside me, I knew there was no way quitting was an option and I climbed back on the bike and pedalled. A had a new voice in my head, it was Sergeant Major, and he just said ‘Left, right, left, right, left, right, left”. And that was it. I ever so slowly pedalled left then right then left and up and up and up. When I wanted to quit again my Sergeant Major would say “What, are you a quitter boy? Get pedalling” and I did. The day was getting on but I finally reached the top and I felt like I was the king of the world. Down below me I could see the landscape below from where I had come. The cows and bulls looked like ants. I don’t know if Sergeant Major was somehow connected to being so close to Waiouru, which is pretty much just one big army training camp, but I was glad he came.

I kept pushing on out of Waiouru, past the tanks on display, past the Army museum, past the big signs asking you to keep to the road or face being exploded in some exercise. I needed to get to Ohakune. The rain was getting heavy and cold and the wind was still trying to drive me backwards, but strangely just I laughed and I kept going. Looking back I think I probably was suffering from temporary insanity. I began to revelle in all the adversity at the time and I was on such a high, and natural high. Cheap and legal. I happily rolled into the Top 10 holiday park where I had a free nights accommodation in a cabin. Top 10 had a few days earlier offered me free stays in all their parks for the remainder of my trip. Yet another offer of great kindness from kiwis. After wrestling with the technology of the heat pump to dry my clothes I showered and slept listening to the sound of the river running past the camp. Bliss.

The next day was much the same, uphill, wet and windy, and I did it again but this time I decided on half the distance. I didn’t think it was healthy to meet with Sergeant Major on a daily basis, and the weather was still horrendous. With shorter days perhaps the rain might lift and I would get an opportunity to enjoy the scenery and catch a glance of Mount Ruapehu. I was really looking forward to this part of my trip, riding high in the tundra surrounded by a vista of peaks and snow. Instead I was surrounded by grey of varying shades. When I reached National Park for the next night, I could only see 50 meters down the road in the mist of grey. The next day was the same until finally I was climbing no longer. I was at the highest point of my trip. 950 meters, almost a kilometre up. I was lucky in a way for the rain as it was warm, and I was not having to deal with snow. But what I had planned as three days of exciting scenery turned out to be a miserable wet climb. I felt a little cheated but you cant have it all your way. One benefit that could not be robbed from me by the rain was that now I had to go down. The days ride from National Park was pretty much just that all the way down to Turangi. The rain and wind still tried their best to dampen my spirits, the wind blew and the rain stung my eyes as I hurtled down the mountain at 50+ kilometres per hour. The weather was no match for gravity. I didn’t sing that day and had no run-ins with Sergeant Major, I just went “Wheeeeeeee, splutter splutter, wheeeee” all day long.

Having made good time to Turangi I found some accommodation and continued my daily routine of showering, drying my clothes, finding food, and hitting the sack. Then up again the next day to cycle one last day before a break in Taupo. One hill to go till 3/4 of the way done. I felt a little sad thinking that soon I would only have a quarter of the way to go. It wasn’t like I would miss the rain and hills, but I wondered if I was achieving all I wanted to achieve out of the ride so far. I had achieved a lot. I had by now definitely proved that I can do the complete cycle, barring a major disaster like my bike exploding or one of my legs falling off. The fund raising had been going OK. We had raised close to $5,000 dollars, which was fantastic when at the start we thought even $50 would be something. But had I got everything out of the trip that I wanted to? What was it I wanted in the first place? I knew I wanted to complete the challenge, lose weight and improve my fitness. I wanted to inspire at least one other person to pick something from their impossible list and to do it. But I also wanted a lot of time to think. Think about stuff. Nothing in particular, but to think, you know, process random thoughts. I knew I was doing a lot of thinking, but wasn’t really sure I had come to any conclusions about any one thing in particular. Had I made any life changing decisions? I don’t know. I would say I have, but each one small and gradual as I have cycled through the k’s. Some thoughts have been reversed by other thoughts. Some forgotten. I wont really know what the final outcome will be until I have cycled around the lighthouse at Cape Reinga. I didn’t have an agenda to start with so what ever I would take away from the trip would be what it is.

On the way into Taupo I was joined by Carl, who had picked up on my cycle on Twitter and hearing that I would be passing thought Taupo had kindly organised some accommodation for me at the beautiful Beechtree Motel, where he and his wife used to manage, and offered food and company on the ride into town. He left Taupo to meet me the same time I left Turangi and it was no surprise to me to see him coming the other way after only a third of the way into Taupo. Now at a slower pace Carl kept me company on the return trip for him, and we shot the breeze. This was the third time I had been joined by someone else on the cycle, and it really makes things easier. You push yourself harder in a way but the company and conversation makes it so much more enjoyable.

And so with little fan fare, I was at the 3/4 mark. I had a quite party with a few beers, a pizza and Sky TV and was hosted by Carl for a roast dinner the next night. I also met up with Troy and George, two guys in chairs living in Taupo and whom TASC had helped out. Troy tragically fell while rock climbing, a simple miscommunication with his climbing partner who thought Troy wanted to abseil back down the face, let the rope loose and Troy fell. George injured his spinal cord while putting on his shoes. A ruptured disk that pierced his spinal cord. You will be surprised at how many people get spinal injuries doing some very common everyday things. Trampolines, falling from ladders, playing rugby. It was good to meet some of the types of people that the money raised would go towards helping.

I was pretty excited about the coming weeks. Next week I would be in Auckland where I would catch up with a lot of friends and family, and most importantly, see my two daughters who probably have forgotten what their dad looks like. Then after Auckland it would be the final stretch. I had been through a lot of highs and lows so far. Some physical, some geographical and some emotional. I knew that nothing would compare to the final high of reaching the lighthouse, getting off my bike and knowing that I did it. That was still just over two weeks away and I would have some more highs and lows between now and then. I am hoping the highs outnumber the lows, especially in meteorological terms. I am sick of rain.

Transit has reneged on it’s promise to open the Harbour Bridge to pedestrians for one day on it’s 50 year anniversary. I had planned to cycle across as part of my NZ long cycle, and I am going to anyway. As part of www.getacross.org.nz we will be crossing the bridge and showing our support for a permanent pedestrian crossing over the Harbour Bridge.

It’s an organised crossing, and it is safe. The police will be there keeping an eye looking out for us and the left northbound lane will be closed off for the crossing.

If you want to join us for a walk, cycle, roller skate or whatever then meet us:

9am Sunday 24th May

For full details read this

See you there in Lycra!

Less than a week ago, I had just hit Christchurch, exhausted. I rested well. I collapsed in a heap actually. Christchurch was a rest day for me so I got to see a bit of the sights. I wandered around the city for hours, walking is such a pleasure and I am not sure if it because it is NOT pedalling, or because my legs are now so energetic. I also timed my arrival quite well for a Tweet-up, a gathering of people you know on Twitter. With my new exercise regime, having a beer or two has slightly different results as to when I had 20kg of extra body fat hanging around the middle of me. Slightly swaying I was able to put faces to names, and got to talk to real people at length about my ride.

I stayed at the Hotel SO, courtesy of travelbug.co.nz who kindly gifted me a fantastic room for two nights. The hotel, I am absolutely positive, is built in what used to be the Christchurch Inland Revenue office. Seriously, I used to support some computer systems for IRD nationally in one of my previous lives, and it involved a regular trip around New Zealand visiting all the regional offices and sitting in air con frozen computer rooms, installing and upgrading software, usually at obscene hours of the morning or night. And this building was the one I frequented regularly on my trips to Christchurch. I couldn’t find the sever room thankfully, but I took great pleasure in resting in my king sized bed in complete comfort, all night, with the air con off.

I could have stayed in Christchurch for more than one night, but having a whole country to ride, and having had it pretty good with weather so far, I needed to keep making hay while the sun shone. Plus I had some other engagements further up the line. Also I knew the bad weather will most likely catch up with me later. So on Saturday I was off again, up the road to Waipara where I was to be hosted by @benkepes and the boys Yonni (9) and Omri (7). I first took a side trip to Rangiora to visit my cousie-in-law for a bit of a surprise. The surprise was she wasn’t home and so I sat on her door step for an hour. She luckily come home just as I was preparing myself for the onward journey, and I enjoyed a quick lunch, burping of babies followed by a gigantic milky vomit all over me. I have kids so am plenty used to such explosions and I didn’t mind as it helped disguise the strange odours that emanated from my week old clothes. Off again I made it to Waipara just before dusk, and with only getting a little lost before Yonni and Omri came to my rescue as I wandered up and down a rural gravel road looking for their house.

Ben and the kids welcomed with a fire place and a showed me to a hot shower and the two smiling boys who wanted to hear all about my bike and ride. I cleaned and ate and talked, probably too much. Ben and I sat up late solving the worlds problems, ben draped with two boys who just wanted to sit up all night despite the will of their eyelids. Mum was away for the weekend, so it was a boys weekend!

I bid farewell to my fantastic hosts then next day, and made tracks for Cheviot on the way towards the coast. There was not much eventful on the way, mostly SH1 and sheep and sheep trucks. I just kept spinning my pedals, something I was getting very good at now. Now I must point out again that I am by no means a bike geek. Before deciding to embark on my insane expedition I had not been on a bike for almost 20 years. My technique on the bike could be considered non-existent. I wasn’t even sure if I was pedalling the thing right. @ninefish gave me some pointers when I caught up with him over coffee in Christchurch and I had made a few adjustments to my seat height and position. Should I pump up and down, go in circles, stand when going up hills, sit? Who knows, I just make it up as I go depending on what feels right. I have tried a variety of techniques, as I have plenty of time on my hands and being keen to get any optimisation I can. Aside from the actual technique there are some other really useful things I have discovered. Here is one. Riding on the verge sucks.

On the verge you are as far away from cars and trucks as you can possibly be without going cross country, but it really sucks. The road is usually rough, and at times the verge evaporates. Riding on the white line or in a lane has the smoothest surface. On a quieter road this is fairly safe, as cars will just pull out and go around you. I pull into the verge when there is oncoming traffic so there is plenty of room for everyone. Riding on a smoother surface gives you so much less resistance and is far more enjoyable. It would be nicer if more consideration was given to the users of the verge when the roads are being resurfaced.

Back to my ride and I made it to Cheviot, a town where there is a disproportionate number of coffee and craft shops. The trees were all sporting their Autumn outfits, accessorised with mist and frost in the mornings. After an early night I was up early crunching through the iced up grass looking for any of the cafes that had smoke billowing from its fireplace chimney. One thing I really enjoy about the South Island is everyone has time and inclination for a good chat. You need no excuse or topic, the weather does just fine. A chat and a coffee later I headed for Kaikoura. A route that would take me over some hills, and I was just getting accustomed to the flats of Canterbury.

I had the hills all mapped out in my mind, my guide book has elevations of all my routes and I commit the peaks and troughs to memory each day. The first hill that day I didn’t even notice. Well I remembered going up hill a little, but after being concerned I was falling behind schedule I stopped and consulted my map to find I had powered over the hill 10 minutes ago. “Hah” I quietly chuffed to myself, and kept going. The next hill, twice the elevation, I noticed but pretty much powered up it. My legs were, well, happy. They were loving it. And instead of just quietly grinding out the hill at a reasonable pace, my legs wanted to power up them. So I let them. And the next hill and the next. It felt awesome. Then to top it off there she was again. The coastline.

Riding up the coastline towards Kaikoura was one of my favourite rides (with the bonus of powering over some hills). The spray from the sea created a fine mist, and the smell of the ocean heavenly. Huge waves pounded the rocks as I went and I stopped often just to close my eyes and absorb the sound of the surf and feel the salt on my skin. The toi toi waving in the breeze and the smoky smell wafting from the chimneys of the seaside cribs. I contemplated just stopping and staying there forever.

Kaikoura itself was also magnificent. I slept near the shore and drifted off to the sound of the pounding surf, dreaming of seafood. Again hosted by friendly South Islanders “Where did you come from luv?” is the usual question when they see the bike and this guarantees a good fifteen minutes of chatting. The inhabitants of the south are obviously madly in love with life.
“Looks like it will be another good day” I usually state, as each day seems as good as the last.
“Every day is a good one when your breathing” is more often the response, as if this was something they learnt to say at school, part of every South Island schools motto. The first time I heard someone say it, I though perhaps it was just a little sad to think that tomorrow you might not be breathing, and if all you were thankful of was to be alive then surely you must be missing out. Eventually I realised that I was missing the point. Every day IS a good day waiting to happen. The breathing bit lets you make it happen.

Breathing even deeper and fully the next day I was eager to get back to cycling up the coast. I knew it would not last and I would be soon heading inland yet again. I waved to the seals basking in the sun as I went and slowly the coast drifted away from me. I was climbing again and the day was getting away from me, again. The sun disappears behind the mountains early on the east coast and I had still a lot of ground to cover. I wanted to make it as far as Ward, a small pub and gas station town on the way to Blenheim. If I could make it that far then I was in good stead to catch the Thursday morning ferry to Wellington, some thing that was very important. Being away from my family for a few weeks is very hard. My wife Mel would fortunately be in Palmerston North on Thursday night attending a block course for her teaching degree. This would be the closest together geographically we would be for a long time. If I could make it to Wellington Thursday day, then I could rent a car and see her but I had to get to Picton by Thursday morning or my plan would fall apart. I would drive to Palmerston North, have dinner with my wife and then drive back to Wellington to resume my trek the next day. It was now about the time of day I usually stopped cycling and I was as far as Kekerengu. I had the option to stop there for the night, and I could set out before dawn the next day and do a big 90km day to Picton. I decided to push on now as the weather looked to deteriorate the next day and 90km in a day is long. 10km up the road in failing light I got my first puncture.

I was both excited and pissed off at the same time. I had gone almost the whole of the South Island without a single flat. I knew why I got it, that morning I said the ‘P’ word. For the whole trip I had avoided talking about punctures. I knew if at any point I made the comment that I hadn’t had one that would be it. I am not overly superstitious, but I was very careful about this one thing. I got too comfortable and after the mornings “every day is a good day” when I was asked if I had any punctures so far “Ha no I have been pretty lucky. To do the whole South Island with out one is pretty good.” I stupidly responded. I got what was coming to me.

So there I was on the side of the road dusk rapidly approaching. I hadn’t changed a tyre since I was 15 and then it involved two spoons, a couple of spanners and 60 minutes of fumbling. I set to work. I had the wheel off and the inner tube out in a minute. There was a gaping hole both in the tire and tube. I dug into the bottom of my packs to find one of my spare inner tubes, and had it on the rim in another minute. The tyre was back on and and back into the rim without the need of any spoons. My pump was out and I was inflating. I was amazed. I was back on the road in five minutes. Things have changed a lot since I was 15.

I was quickly back in the saddle and heading for Ward. I made it just on dusk and again went through my usual nightly routine. “Where did you come from luv”, Shower, change, eat, prep the bags for the next day then sleep. Living out of bike bags is not very exciting, and after all day riding I tend to fall asleep by 9pm, if I am in a bed or not.

Wednesday. Another big day of cycling to get to Picton. Again I had the option to stop at Blenhiem, but again it would mean an early start the next day to catch the morning ferry. The weather looked okay and I had a bit of a tail wind. I pushed off and kept my head down. More big hills to cover and I had to keep ahead of the bad weather that was coming in from the south. The weather inevitably caught up with me before I was even half way. I was quickly drenched through but I had one big climb and then rolling hills to get to Picton. I could do it, it would not be fun but I could do it. I was focused, a little too focused.

The last major hill before Blenhiem had quite a considerable drop to descend rather quickly. I went down like I usually did, gripping the handlebars tight, one finger on each of the breaks, and slowing suitably for the corners. Everything went fine, until about halfway down. There was some road works being conducted to fix a part of the road that had become very uneven. Coming around a corner I was confronted by a series of cones and large holes on the verge of the road that were in the process of being filled with bichumen. Regular traffic was little affected, but it meant my verge was no longer. I slowed considerably and hit the first lump of bichumen and I hung on for the rest of the rough patch. Unfortunately one of my panniers couldn’t. One of the clips holding it on gave up and I heard a thud followed by a skidding noise. Having lost the weight from one side of the back I veered to the left slightly. Looking at the quick route down the hill getting closer on my left I rapidly eased on both sets of breaks. The line of my path was pretty much locked in now and all I had to do was stop before the corner. I left the erratically sealed road and was now skidding on gravel. “Cool” I though as a barb wire fence appeared to be the only thing between me and the quick drop to my left. The bike had almost stopped with little room for manoeuvring for me, and I paused in space and time for a split second, perfectly balanced. I had the choice to fall off the bike to my right, into the lane of traffic, or to the left, into a barb wire fence. Momentum kinda had me going the fences way so as I slid past a post I managed to grab it, and by wedging my legs into the frame and grasping the post I came to a stop leaning over a rather weakly constructed barb wire and looking down a steep drop. One of the work crew, who were busily making fixing the potholes, gave me a hand and I pulled myself free. I quickly rescued my bag from the centre of the highway as another guy whisked my bike to the safety of the other shoulder of the road.
“That was a bit of an adventure” I said to the guy who pulled me off the fence.
“Too right mate, are you okay?” He asked in reply. I was. Not a single scratch to me, or the bike. My pannier was obviously a little worse for wear, but after some quick repairs with some cable ties it was secured back to the bike. I took the rest of the hill very cautiously. It turned out it was another good day, I was still breathing.

I had been pretty luck so far, but now I was worried my luck was quickly evaporating. If bad things were to come in threes, I just wanted the third to arrive so I could get on with things. The rain was falling harder still. I decided I could fear the worst of I could keep going. I kept going. Blenheim arrived and went. 27km left to get to Picton. I checked my bags on regular intervals to make sure they were still hanging in there and pushed thorough the wet. Then with one hill to go I realised this was it. Halfway. One last hill stood between me and the end of the South Island. I was so determined to make it, I realised I completely overlooked the significance of where I was and what I was about to do. Just over two weeks ago I was standing on Stewart Island, next to my bike, wondering what the hell I was about to do. Would I make it? Would I be able to cover the distances I wanted to cover daily? Would I be in pain? Would I go insane? And here I was, at the top of the South Island with 1,100km under my belt.

This was the end of the road for one part of my journey. SH1 doesn’t go any further. In a day or two I would start the next part of my journey in the North Island, on a new road.

“Thank you South Island hills, I will miss you” I said out loud as I push off down the last of them. I was so cold I wasn’t sure I would be able to loosen my grip on the handlebars at the bottom, but my eyes welled up and I laughed the whole way down, right to my accommodation for the night.
“Where have you come from luv” Asked the lady at reception.
“All the way from the bottom” I replied.

I had to get through Dunedin, cover 60km and climb three massive hills. The first two had a climb of 400m each and the third 200m. Mentally I was faltering and I was trying to find any way possible to avoid the hills, impossible of course. So once again I saddled up and pushed on. The weather forecast was for sun and heat and it was right. The day was beautiful, and as I grinded over the first hill I quickly went through half of my water. It was a Sunday in Dunedin so things were very quiet and knowing I had still a ways to go I pushed on through the city knowing that the hill out was going to be much worse.

It took me two hours to climb the hill out. I had to stop every 5 minutes and rest. I was cooking. To make things worse, a procession of Lycra clad cyclists were passing me every 10 minutes. Those bastards on their speedy road bikes, I was carrying 20kgs of bags, they just had their trendy bike shorts and sunglasses to deal with. I kept grinding and grinding. Then as I almost reached the top, a steady procession of cars containing the cyclists with bikes on the back came streaming the other way. It was obviously a common Sunday activity to park a car on either side of the hill and to cycle up and over then drive back. Those lazy bastards, I thought. From the top, I could see the appeal. A beautiful vista of the peninsular and Dunedin. I lingered for a while taking it all in, but I knew the best part was about to begin. Going down the other side.

I was giddy with excitement. This would be my first real downhill run. I checked my brakes, strapped everything down and prepared myself mentally. Then I started down. My speed picked up and picked up and I had the road to myself. The wind was screaming past as if in protest to my new found speed. I laughed, and laughed and laughed and zig-zagged through the dashed white centre lines. It was the most fun I have had on the trip so far, my eyes were streaming and bugs were constantly bouncing off of my face. I wound down the hill that had just taken me 2 hours to climb in 12 minutes. It was choice! For a split second I contemplated going back up and doing it all again.

I was reunited with SH1 and stopped at a roadside store for a drink and a bite to eat, and a sit down. I sat down next to an old cobber watching the ocean and shot the breeze for a while. I find myself talking to a lot of people wherever I stop. Most are interested in my cycle. Ron and I had a good yarn about life in the South Island while his grandsons ate their pies so as to not make a mess in the car. It was a nice break. Spending such long periods alone on the bike means any chance for a conversation is a pleasure. I said good bye to Ron and he shock my hand firmly, not in a thanks for the meeting kind of way I am so used to, but in a “It was really nice meeting you and chatting” kind of way. The way a handshake is meant to be.

I had one more hill to cross and it was steep, but my guide book had an alternate route around the coast that seemingly avoided the hill. I couldn’t face a 200m climb as I was almost out of juice, so opted for the coast. What the guide book didn’t make clear was that I would be trading a 200m climb and decent for a procession of plentiful but smaller hills. It was tough. The one big hill would have been the better option but the view of the ocean made up for it somewhat. It was slow going but I only had to get to where I was going, Waikouaiti, by night fall. I eventually crawled into town knowing that if I saw one more hill that day I would die.

I found a small motor camp and organised a bed for the night. I needed to organise some food, and had nothing in my bags. The motor camp was some ways out of town and I couldn’t face getting back on the bike again. There was a small pub attached to the camp so I fancied a beer and a pub meal. I sauntered in and took a look at the menu of deep fried everything. I didn’t care what it was I just needed food in me. Then disaster. I almost collapsed when the bloke behind the bar told me there was no meals today. The look on my face told him everything.
“Hold on a tick” he said and disappeared. Out came his wife who also ran the motor camp.
“Do you fancy some chops and potatoes love?” she asked. I just grinned.
“I have something in the freezer I could defrost for you”.
“Yes please” I replied, she was a life saver.
I ordered a beer, and sat out on the deck in what was a warm evening breeze. The stars were out and it felt like the middle of summer. Then it became clear to me how hot the day actually was. My beer strangely evaporated, so I ordered another. Then my angel appeared with a hot plate full of chops, mashed potato, peas, pumpkin and gravy! I devoured it and wondered if it would be bad manners to lick the plate clean. I thought perhaps on my way down the hill earlier I was actually hit by a truck and heaven was a seaside motor camp where you ate chops and mashed potato every night. I cleaned the plate, it was spotless. I hit the sack and slept soundly.

The next day had a prelude of rain overnight. This made the road gleary while it dried in the sun. My goal was Oamaru, back onto SH1 and not so many hills. Once again I had the option of a coastal route to avoid some hills and decided a view, even if it came with hills, was better that trucks and sheep. Pulling off of SH1 lead me to a road all to myself. It was not hilly and smell of the ocean spray that shrouded me was divine, and made a pleasant change from the smell of cattle trucks and silage. The road was so quiet I rode down the centre line. It was beautiful and thoroughly enjoyable. It felt great to be back on the coast. Off shore a tanker was slowly crawling up the coastline in an otherwise unblemished ocean. Oamaru arrived almost too soon.

Oamaru was a really fantastic town. Lots of interesting buildings and plenty of places to grab a meal, a coffee or something stronger. I realised I haven’t had a coffee in over a week. I thought perhaps this would be a good opportunity to keep off of caffeine for good. But I enjoy coffee, and I was quickly informed via those following my progress on Twitter that caffeine can provide a real boost when riding. So before I set off on my next days ride I was reacquainted with a hot latte from one of the many main street coffee shops, and they were right. I had a new spring in my pedal and things felt good. I made it half way to Timaru and stopped for another coffee, and then pow I was off again. The coffee fix was working.

Now, on the way to Timaru I noticed several inconsistencies with the road signage. Normally this wouldn’t bother me, but when you pass a road sign on a bike that says Timaru 18km, then 4km down the road another say the exact same thing, this bothers me. As I go from town to town, one of my joys is approaching a new road sign and seeing if I can guess how far is left to go, and feeling rewarded as the number goes down in large chucks. When the signs get it wrong they rob me of this pleasure. I kept going and noticed I was passing Half Chain Road, a road I passed some 50km back. I began to get worried. Perhaps I was going in a circle, or worse, perhaps there was some rift in the time and space continuum between Oamaru and Timaru. Perhaps Oamaru and Timaru are actually the same place. I am stuck in a never ending cycle never actually getting anywhere, destined to spend my days riding from Oamaru to Timaru. Then finally I arrived at Timaru and luckily it wasn’t Oamaru.

I made good time and was aware that the weather was about to pack in for the next few days so while the going was good I considered pushing on a further hour or two up to Temuka, also just incase there was a rift in space and time and could wake up tomorrow back in Oamaru. I had some energy left so I could make it by dusk. I thought I should ring ahead just to make sure there was a bed waiting for me, and luckily so.
“Oh you won’t be findin a spare bed in Temuka tonite” the friendly lady from the first place I rang informed me. “It’s the ploughing at the moment so the town in completely booked out”. The ploughing sounded like quite an event, and kind of spooky. So I decided to risk being lost in space and time and I stayed in Timaru the night. I woke up in Timaru the next day.

The weather had turned, and it was bucketing down. If I wanted to be in Christchurch by Friday I needed to push on so I piled on the layers and coat and ventured out into the downpour. I couldn’t rain all the way. It did. I stopped in Temuka, and not a plough to be seen. I did find great coffee.

I stopped for my regular coffee stops, and to thaw all the way to Ashburton. I was lucky to have a tail wind so I just had to put up with being wet. I got my layers right so being wet was not a miserable experience, in fact it was fun. Once you are wet you are wet so I took great pleasure squirting through the puddles. I kept moving so as to not get cold, because I knew if I got cold it would be the end. Not terminally, but it would be very hard to keep going. The occasional hot coffee helped and eventually I dripped into the Ashburton information centre and asked for the closest place with a bath, and after two more kilometres, defrosted in a deep deep bath of hot hot water. I couldn’t get to bath hot enough! So I discovered that I could ride in the rain, drenched, with a tail wind. At one point I turned into the wind and had to cycle a few kms into it. That was murder, and there is no way I could have cycled 80km in the rain into that cold frigid wind. The next day was forecast to be continued rain, and hopefully the same southerly behind me.

The next morning the rain had been reduced to a drizzle, and the wind had dropped. The temperature had dropped 4 degrees and although I wasn’t wet, I was cold. I found a good rhythm and made it to Christchurch in surprisingly good time. I wondered if it was a combination of a tail wind, one week of cycling under my belt, caffeine, getting my diet right or all of the above but things were generally feeling easier. My seat still causes me great pain and being cold on a bike in no fun either. My legs were feeling good though, and mentally I was in a better space. Having the stamina to go the whole distance is still to be determined but for now I was feeling pretty good about progress. Getting to Christchurch would mark one quarter of my trip complete, and this to me was huge.

Pulling into Christchurch I had the joy of city traffic and stop go stop go at the traffic lights. It made a change from the 600km of farm land to have city streets to ride on, and after constant consultation with my map found my hotel, the first and probably only hotel on my trip, a kind gift organised by Daniel from Trade Me’s Travelbug.co.nz. Two nights of comfort! I was worried about a hotel accommodating my bike, but as I rode into the reception at Hotel SO, the smiles on the faces of the receptionists told me this would be no problem. A bucket of cold beers awaited me at reception as well as a parcel from home. There was plenty of room for my bike, the bed enormous and the beer quickly inhaled.

I am in Christchurch for the next day or so taking my second rest day. I have caught up with a whole bunch of people I have met online or as a part of my blogging and tweeting about my trip already. I am attending a Tweetup tonight so am looking forward to meeting a whole lot of new people.

The donations have been coming through to TASC, thanks to you all. Next week I am starting a series of profiles on some of the people involved with TASC. All the donations will go a long way to helping them out.

I have some more video footage that I will edit and put up as soon as I can, and internet connectivity permitting. Thanks for all your tweets, emails and comments on the blog and FaceBook. It makes a huge difference knowing there are people out there giving me moral support. It would be a long long lonely journey without you all.

Riding with a partner is much more enjoyable. We took turns at leading, and just having someone to pace yourself with is fantastic. Although I think my exuberance meant I took on hills with reckless abandon whereas Tom took the sensible slow and steady approach.

We checked out the Invercargill information centre and the live Tuataras on display, Tom dragged me to the dispaly. He was fascinated by them. There was a Burt Monroe exhibit there, our very own World’s Fastest Indian, and a room full of crates that looked to hold archaeologists treasures, with one long man slowly examining the contents of one. I have no idea what was in the crates but it looked exciting.

I said good bye to Tom and insisted he travel to the North Island and stay with me in Kerikeri. I hope to see him again in a few months time. For now I was pushing on to Gore. A slight uphill gradient all the way, and an extra 70kms. It was going to be a big day. I was keen to see what I could do.

The going was pretty good. Cranking it out uphill all the way. The countryside is beautiful and the wind was cooling. I had to adjust layers a couple of times to get my body temperature right, but otherwise it was a good ride. I had two rewards on the way where the gentle incline became a steep decline. The first was an awesome drop for a kilometre or so (distance not altitude). I gripped the handlebars tightly and went wheeeeeeeeeeee. I could have turned around and ridden up the hill to do it all again, but I didn’t need to because in another 20ks was anther drop. Wheeeeeeeeee. If it wasn’t for those two awesome hills the ride would not have been nearly as enjoyable. I was screaming with joy, literally. It felt good.

I reached Mataura 15km short of Gore and felt like my tank was near empty. I had an option of accommodation in Mataura but was determined to push on. A quick stop at a petrol station for chocolate and I was off again, uphill some more to Gore. I hurt. I arrived just on dusk after a long seven hours pedalling. I covered 98km in one day and I was stoked. My legs didn’t hate me as much as I though they would, just a mild dislike. My arse was not my friend though.

The next day I dragged myself out of bed and packed the bike up once again, and departed for Balclutha. This day was a mission and almost broke me. I have a cycling guidebook that gives some detail on routes and gradients. It has elevation charts that show the hills, but it is taking me some time to figure out what a little lump on the chart translates to in the real world. The scale of the elevation meant little to me at this stage. A 100m climb vs a 300m climb all depends on the gradient. The route to Balclutha was up hill with a continuous series of bumps. Not just a few, but dozens of bumps. I though nothing of it looking at them on paper until the I arrived at the third one, then the fourth one then the fifth one and on and on and on. I was a never ending cycle of grinding up a hill, reaching the top to see the road disappear down into a valley then up another equally steep hill. And every hill I prayed that when I got to the top I would see flat road. It never happened. It was sole destroying, and I knew this was the work of Frank, the hill at home in Kerikeri that still insists on tormenting me. After such a successful first day Frank was knocking me down a peg or two. It all felt like some sick joke as I climbed and climbed and felt like dying. Then, I must have been halfway through the hills and it happened.

I got to the top of one of the hills and cried.

Not of sadness or pain. I cried out of happiness. It sounds odd, and I didn’t know what was happening to me. I was so so angry then I remembered where I was and what I was doing and I shouted, and I mean at the top of my lungs, “Yeah, I am F#@%!n doing this!” and put my head down and I kept going. My legs started moving easier and I found a new energy. I blanked the hills out and made it to Balclutha. That night I collapsed.

I was pleased I have nailed two pretty tough days but I realised I haven’t been eating properly and running out of gas. After a consult to the Twitter-verse it was clear that I needed to fuel my body better and continuously on the go. For the next day to Dunedin I stocked up on nuts, and energy bars to snack on all the way.

I departed in the mist from Balclutha after a large breakfast of carbs and found more of the same hills, some steeper and longer. I now knew I could do it and powered on. I took a lot of breaks and snaked often and it helped. Finally I broke out of the hills and found flat roads and I was thrilled until once on the plains the headwind hit. Right on my goddamn nose, I couldn’t believe it. I was cycling on flat road and it felt like I was still going up the hills, except there was no down the other side of the hill. So this was a new experience. I could feel my speed was not where I needed it to be to make Dunedin and had bursts of hard grind into the wind to pick up my speed. Then I discovered something very useful. If you position yourself the right distance from the stream of traffic screaming by, when a big truck goes by you can ride in the tailwind the truck pulls behind it and this gives you a fantastic boost. So I experimented with my gap to the traffic from close to the traffice and not so close to certain death and found a good spot. Plus I found that two trucks together gives you a better boost, however a truck coming the other way can also deal a blow of wind that will slow you. To take my mind off of my aching legs and backside I focused on this new reward. I had to keep my mind positive and so I listened out for trucks, and as they passed I hit the gas and waited for the tailwind. The boost helped me get up to a better cruising speed and I could go up a gear for a while. When you are 6 hours on a bike each day you look for every optimisation you can find.

I hit Mosgiel, the southern part of Dunedin, and then ventured up the hill into Dunedin. I knew this was going to be tough after three days of hard grind and mentally I was screwed. I had been fearing this hill all the way from Balcutha so much I was fixated on it in an unhealthy way. It was late in the day and I gave it a go despite my body saying “no”. A third of the way over I bailed. It was getting dark and my tank was dry again. I turned back to Mosgiel. I felt like such a failure. I had my rough schedule in my mind and knew that spending a full day on Stewart Island left me a day behind. Was doing the whole country in less than seven weeks going to be an impossible task for me? I hit the sack and slept an eternity.

The next day I consulted my schedule. Before I left I had three possible routes through the South Island. What would determine which one I took would be weather, my daily capacity for distance I can cover and possible accommodation options. These routes roughly told me where I had to be on what days to keep on schedule. Seven weeks will go pretty quick and I can easily fall behind if I am not careful. I have opted for the east coast so now my route is fixed. I then do a five day plan to map out my stopovers. I have to factor in where there is likely to be accommodation around where I am expecting to stop. My range is an average of 70km a day so this can be a little tricky, as you don’t want a day where 70-80kms leaves you 30km from any accommodation. I have a sleeping bag so if I have to I can find somewhere to crash in the wild should I need to. I use a variety of tools to find accommodation. First there is the vianet.travel network and retail sites like www.travelbug.co.nz and stayn.co.nz. The interactive maps makes it a real doddle to find accommodation in the back of beyond. I follow this up with a quick Google and these together give me a pretty good list of options for each area. Then I double check with the information centres as I pass through town to check for other alternatives. I amazes me how the information centres have so little information on surrounding towns and I always find more options online than the information centres are aware of. The information sharing from i-site to i-site is really non-existent which really surprises me.

I re-planned my route and calculated my stopovers up the east coast. I did it twice. I couldn’t believe it, I was a day ahead of schedule. I had originally planned to go from Invercargill to Balclutha via a more scenic route through the Catlins. By going through Gore and by pushing through some long days I had shaved off two days. I had to have it wrong I thought but no, it was right. And so I decided to take a rest day in Mosgiel. I probably should keep cycling as the day is beautiful and conditions perfect and I should get ahead of schedule while the weather is good. But heading though Dunedin there are three monster hills to get over plus I have to do my 70km to get to the next accommodation. It will be a big day and I need to be ready for it. Besides you have to be able to enjoy the beautiful days on your days off to My rest days are also planning days so I will sort out the next week ahead. I want to be in Christchurch by Friday to keep on schedule. If I leave on Sunday I will have six days cycling to get there and I can do it in five if the conditions are right. I attended the local Anzac Day parade and was amazed at the army of old service men that came in by the busload for the parade and it was another humbling example of why I shouldn’t complain about having to spend seven weeks on a bicycle.

I am expecting rain this week, so I had better get a raincoat! It is a shame Mosgiel is closed for Anzac day. Looks like it will be a day of forced rest.

Well what a day. I started at 05:00am Monday loading my bike into the back of the car and heading for Auckland airport. After carefully negotiating the bike through the oversized baggage check-in, I headed for the gate sporting my bike gear. I felt just a little out of place next to all of the commuting suits on the Monday morning red-eye to Christchurch, sitting there in my Lycra shorts. I could see that everyone was hoping not to be the pore sod sitting next to me. I couldn’t take the odd glances, so made a quick change into some trousers. The sign of relief was immediate at the departure gate.

Monday was to be one of my longest travel days, 12 hours on the go. The vast majority on planes, and only the last 2 hours cycling.

I hate flying.

It is not the fair of being in a plane or crashing or anything. I just hate sitting on planes. I have lost close to a year of my life sitting in a airline chair, I calculate. I normally nod off for a bit of a nap, but somehow I couldn’t. I was excited about getting to my destination.

I arrived in Invercargill at 11:30am, after a change of planes in Christchurch. My bike and bags safely came out then I put the bike back together, and rearranged all my panniers. The airport emptied and there I was, standing alone by my fully laden bike. Finally my journey was to begin. Yeeeahhhhh! I was off, tearing up the road heading for Invercargill, then straight for Bluff to catch the afternoon ferry to Stewart Island. After a while I realised the airport handlers had let out air in my tires, or else they explode, so a quick pit stop and some furious pumping and I was off again.

The ride to Bluff is fairly flat, which was good as it would ease me into my new routine. A head wind of 10 knots sucked, but I had plenty of time to get to Bluff so I took it a little slower. Trucks grunted past again and again. Besides scaring the bejesus out of me, they provided a temporary wind shield, and created a albeit short tail wind which only served to tease me cruelly for 2 seconds.

So the first two hours on the bike went relatively well. A cold snap had arrived to the south, and so after the first hour I found parts of my anatomy falling off into my bike shorts. I threw an extra layer on and things were more bearable. Then before I knew it, there was Bluff. I rode into town and straight out of it again by accident. I had never been to Bluff so knew not what to expect, I was looking for the bustling centre and found myself running out of road and looking out across the straight to Stewart Island. The sun was filtering through the clouds and a gentle rain was falling. Stewart Island looked like the island from LOST. Alone in a big ocean, with ominous clouds draping over it. I wondered if I was going to be one of the new additions to the Dharma Initiative and would find myself back in the 1970s.

I had now found my way to the ferry terminal, and warmed myself in the waiting room. I was two hours early, and had to repetitively listen to a promotional DVD repeating every 20 minutes. I wondered how the ladies working in the terminal kept sane listening to Dougal Stevenson’s voice telling the story of the island and wildlife. As I was the only one there, I was sure the ladies wouldn’t mind if I accidently unplugged the TV.

The ferry ride was awesome. It was an adventure in itself slamming over waves. The captain, as we departed, announced “Conditions are pretty good so feel free to walk around the boat. Just keep hold of something at all times. This must have been some dry Stewart Island humour. Walking was a distinct impossibility, even with a 2 meter wide gait in my stride. We were actually launching off of one wave and on to another. I am hoping my return trip would not be on a rough day. The sun was lowly setting, and the sky was clearing. Stewart Island is a fantastically beautiful place. The fishing boats in the bay, and the scattering of buildings hiding in the hills made it feel I was travelling back to a simpler time. The ferry pulled up to the wharf at dusk and I disembarked to be reunited with my bike. I only had to ride two hundred meters to get to my accommodation (or pretty much anywhere in the bay) and I wondered if I would appear to the locals as a bit of a knob wearing my helmet. There are not many people on bikes heading to Stewart Island.

After good nights sleep I took the opportunity to take a quick explore of the island before returning to Bluff. I rode back and forth and zigzagged all over Halfmoon Bay, up and over the hills, and that was it. I cycled as far south as I could, easily on good roads that is. It may seem silly to go all the way to Stewart Island to ride less than 10 kilometres of road. But if I wanted to ride from the bottom to the top, then I had to get to the start line. Besides I have never been to Stewart Island, but it was a shame to not have more time to spend there. I have less than seven weeks to get to the tip of New Zealand so every day will count. So reluctantly I boarded the afternoon ferry, less than 24 hours after I got there.

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Back to bluff again.

I cycled south through Bluff again, and found the start of State Highway 1 (why is it a “state” highway?) where a signpost of notable places indicated how far London, the Equator and other plus Cape Reinga, only 1401km in a straight line. Unfortunately the route by land is more like 2600, and probably longer with a few detours thrown in. I met an interesting Japanese guy at the Bluff backpackers who has been cycling around the south island for two months. It looks like we will head out together for Invercargill tomorrow. I may head on further if I want to keep up my goal of 70km a day, but we will see.