Buller to Tasman

Granity to Murchison, 130km

Hill - tree, tree - hill, hill - river, river - hill, river - tree, river - river. These are some of the permutations for the amateur cycling landscape photographer. It's easy to get excitedly distracted by a double river, but the keen photographers amongst us will always keep a steady nerve and aim for the trinity: hill - tree - river.

The Buller Gorge has been forged by a long river eroding the land over millennia to offer many such fantastic photographic opportunities. There's not much artistic licence on offer, but plenty of the raw ingredients to sink your teeth and zoom your lens into.

The road weaves it's way inland and, every now and then, crosses the quaint phenomenon of the one way bridge. In rural parts they are a common way of getting from A to B, taking advantage of infrequent traffic, and spending less on infrastructure. Makes sense. And, they are simple to use: give way in one direction, wait for car to pass, proceed on your journey. Simple. Unfortunately, such logic seems incomprehensible for the average tourist. First bridge: I was already cycling down the middle when dude in a car charged me. I incredulously pulled over to the side while he drove past, and I seriously don't believe the old git, staring into the middle distance, saw me at all. Second bridge: two hire cars full of younger holiday makers must have thought the sign that gave me the right of way was actually  the signal to ram me off the road. Humour was wearing thin. The third bridge: I was on it first again, held my line, but saw my moronic opponent enter late. This time, I lifted my hands in expressive WTF gesticulations. He did the same. I lost it and ended up screeching the road code through his closed window, accompanied with some thoughtful expletives to get my point across. His wife seemed more sensible to the finer details than he. For the next hour, I plotted the fate of the fourth imbecilic numb skull, who would highly likely see me have a melt down, whip off my cycle helmet, accelerate at full pelt into their bonnet, then proceed to smash my broken bike through their windscreen.

People hiring cars should probably have an IQ test before being allowed away with the keys. I even suggest police officers should be armed with intelligence tests as well as breathalysers. I also think that, should such a test result in an extremely low score (and I reckon my protagonists couldn't spell IQ) then said officer would also be allowed to perform a swift eugenic operation with plastic lunch utensils on the boot of their patrol car.



There wasn't a fourth bridge, and I've calmed down now.

Murchison to Mapua, 140km

Suddenly, state highway number six was full of people embarking on their summer holidays. The constant cavalcade of hire cars and caravans narrowly speeding past gives you ample time to reflect about your destination and mortal status. Trying to keep morbid thoughts at bay, I couldn't help but think of the most ignominious way to expire: death by caravan.



The day was so hot that the tacky melting tarmac held me back up the hills, and I was very thankful for some extra long, fast descents to cool down on the other side.

I arrived in Mapua and had a tonic of two very relaxing days with Tim and Julie. Tim kindly offered to take time out and finish the trip off for me, but I reluctantly had to kick him off before being able to saddle up and move on.

 






Mapua to Nelson 35km.

I turned down the offer to tackle the top of Takaka hill - something my knees will be eternally grateful for. I then took a quick trip round the bay to hang out with Trish and crew, for an evening of craft beer and a devilishly hot curry, before contemplating the home straight.

Solstice and Christmas

Solstice is a bitter sweet time of year; both signifying the the start of two to three months serious summer and the daily downfall back towards winter. The longest day is traditionally marked by a knees up on 9 mile beach that would make even the the most dour druid deeply happy. 

I spent a whole two days out of the saddle, which gave me the first sensation of this actually being a holiday. Many thanks to Roger for quotes, fine wine and great coffee.

I cycled 123km from Greymouth to Granity, up the great coast road. It was Christmas eve, so I decided to be kind to the under carriage and treat myself to a double ration of chamois cream - travelling in style.







I spent Christmas day with Lesley, Patricia and friends, and made a solid effort to replace the weight I've lost during this trip in one sitting. Thanks to Patrica for letting me stay at The Castle. Letting the pupils dilate into panoramas and relax in the most regal of rural locations. You can, too, now that she's listed it on airbnb.

 







Boxing day is typically celebrated by demonstrating a lack of will power and a penchant for hyper-consumption. Justifying credit card abuse through bargains that would otherwise render life un-livable. In Westport, it's celebrated with a few beers and a new tan line, down at the trotting club. It's that time of year when the ladies do their level best to look stunning in their race day regalia, while the chaps crack out the tried and tested singlet and short combo. To their credit, they had spent the last couple of weeks converting their ute into tiered padded seating or a paddling pool to cool off in - so give 'em a break! My luck was out and I didn't win a bean.





To restore spirits, I decided to visit a few pubs on the cycle home. First up was the incongruously pink painted Pig and Whistle that I've passed many times before. I met Graeme the bar man and Dan. In true west coast fashion, it turns out Dan helped build the house I'm staying in. Apparently, in lieu of a spirit level the local builders built the house by sighting the horizon to keep things horizontal. It's typical of a place where towns are hewn from coal, characters hewn from hills and houses from vistas - everything is inextricably linked. The guys then fell into normal discourse about loaders, diggers, differentials, axle damage and other automotive engineering banter. I nodded in stern, knowing agreement, then got on my push bike.

I popped into the Pines, had a pit stop with Pete, a quick bite at the Big Fish and a roadie at Charming Creek. All in all, a 76km round trip.



iPod update: the alphabet is the most soulless guide to a music collection I can think of. I may as well pay for Spotify to lobotomise me.

Road kill: the ubiquitous possum, unlucky pukeko, cheeky weka and unfortunate hawk (who was probably, ironically, trying to tuck in to one of the previous delicacies).

Coast to Coast

Sumner to Springfield, 80km

I cycled out of Sumner, through Christchurch, then out on the Old West Coast Road. It can still get cold at this time if year, so I caved in and broke out the knee warmers. The road is straight, flat, and the dreary weather ensured there was little to see en route. The famous Sheffield pie shop provided brief respite, and Springfield was selected as the last settlement before attempting to cross the alpine pass. There are no other distinguishing features.

 


Springfield to Otira, 97km

It's here where the serious hills begin. The weather cleared to reveal clear sight of the southern Alps and the first task was to crank up to Porters pass. It was brutal getting up the first incline, but rather than dwell on fighting hills with steely determination, or reflections about the sometimes masochistic nature of this enterprise, I just want to mention the majestic mountains and surrounds.







If art is how we decorate space, and music how we decorate time; cycling through this boldly beautiful panorama to the tune of bird song and wind whistling past your ears, must be the progenitor of both. Mindfulness be damned, I felt so connected I could have hugged a tree.

  

I relaxed upon the stones of Castle Hill, stopped off for a pie at Porters village, then headed down the steep descent to Otira. The very quirky stagecoach hotel is already a cult classic in my book - ran and frequented by some entertaining and eccentric souls. Otira gorge, where the town resides, is a narrow and vertiginous mountain affair, where sunlight is kept at bay and a constant supply of rain funneled up the valley. You would have forgiven the locals a pallid and dank demeanour but the rhythm of the train yard must have sufficiently lifted spirits until each decides it's time to leave. Bruce let me have a go on his penny farthing, but I was not prepared for a full time swap.



 

Otira to Greymouth, 103km

I love the West Coast and make no bones about it. People, scenery, ambience; the rugged beauty; the elemental cut and thrust of it all.

I cycled through hills, past farms and around lake Brunner to make it to 9 Mile, just in time...

Kaikoura to Christchurch

Day three saw a slightly grim start. It was raining pretty heavily and the strong, chilly southerly added to potential schadenfreude. I was fifty fifty about heading inland, seeing the sub alpine road weaving vigorously across the map, but thought it was a safer option than being slowly drowned by road spray from narrowly passing trucks along the state highway.

Even though the weather didn't play ball, the scenery suited the fecund clouds hanging around peaks and valleys. I avoided all but farm traffic and the odd tourist, rapidly making a bolt to their next destination - windscreen wipers metronomically setting a speedy pace. The road was very slow going and I didn't really make it much out of granny gear, grinding away up hills, frequently out of the saddle, tentatively turning down wet winding descents.

I made it to Waiau for a late lunch feeling pretty tired and slightly sorry for myself. However, the psychological impact of a good pie cannot be underrated. I inhaled various items from the café counter then headed back out onto the road, which from here cuts a straight line through the north Canterbury plains. Along the way, the most significant sensations and observations were olfactory. The rich smorgasbord smells associated with damp pine forest floors, a row of gum trees, wild fennel and flax are things you'll often miss when sat in a car.





Towards Amberley I started to hear murmurs of rebellion from my knees, the right one in particular. For the kneeologists amongst us that's only a double dose of dissent, I do not have four knees. I have a friend that used to pretend not to have knees and demonstrate how woefully inadequate mankind would be, even making it as far as the local boozer. I am writing this post from Mark's, who has new knees that don't seem to stack up to originals - who would have thought?





So, day three was put to rest after 158 kilometres. Day four, from Amberley to Christchurch was a slightly more straightforward 45 but the compound effects of hills and peddling hours still made it more of a struggle than it should have been. I awarded myself a well earned rest day and had the opportunity to hang out with awesome people in a flash, post-quake renovation and some old work colleagues (in both senses of the word). Many thanks to Rory, Mark and respective families for making me welcome. Thank you!





Road kill: nothing of note, apart from me being attacked by a magpie. The tables were nearly turned.

iPod update: Amethyst II, by Sainkho Namtchylak.

Picton to Kaikoura

It all has to start somewhere, and this trip began with a descent downhill from alarm to terminal. The weather yesterday was amazing, producing a millpond still harbour. This meant the crossing was nearly palatable for the most unseaworthy of legs.

I boarded the boat to find it full of bogans heading south from a tempestuous night of storms and ACDC. They all wore the four letters with pride on their standard issue black uniform. I feel more affinity with my erstwhile brothers of rock than the beige brigade that descends upon Wellington during summer. There are many more horrors aboard those cruise ships than any amount of Woody's bourbon and coke or pouting middle aged men in short trousers. Mine was the only bike.

Also on board, I noticed a strange phenomenon: GoPro cameras came into existence so that truly crazy dudes can outdo their mates by sharing progressively frightening aeriel stunts from their crash helmets. A couple of years ago they started to become popular for videoing you snow boarding really badly and quite slowly, without ever leaving the ground. Now, I witness the ultimate selfie stick generation lifestyle statement: people videoing from the prow of a ferry as it moves at 5 knots through a sound! That's going to be some exhilarating entertainment, for sure. Such is the democratisation of technology. People buy the brand for the possibility of creating daredevil YouTube hits, while falling towards an increasingly insipid ideal. "I think I can actually see that tree on the shore - moving!!"



I cycled 68k from Picton, along the very beautiful queen Charlotte drive, via Havelock, to get to my first stop at Rosanna and Dave's in Renwick. Dave was so concerned about my ability to complete the course, he decided to demonstrate his skills at riding my bike better than I, just in case back up was called for.





I managed to kick him off and cycle 143k's today from Renwick, coffee in Blenheim, lunch on route, then onto Kaikoura.

Road kill: two hedgehogs (nothing unexpected there), couple of birds, two rabbits, a few dessicated possum pelts (people need to be more conscientious, and run more over) AND! (Drum roll), a seal. A sorry sight, but who would have expected that?! Clarence has a big population of seals sunning themselves right next to the state highway.

iPod update: All Life Ends, by At The Gates. Swedish death metal - who would have thought? And it also means, that with some solid listening under my belt, I'm not even approaching the end of the first letter.

Top of the South Island Circumnavigation

With time on my hands and summer nearing full swing, I decided to organise a mini-adventure rather than sitting on my hands awaiting Christmas. Idle hands get up to no good, so this was hands down the best idea I've had since getting back from holiday.

After the last trip, enviously looking at Ollie's super light-weight luggage disappearing up hills decidedly faster than I, I made the case to follow suit. So, I'm borrowing his pannier box and complementing it with a small back-pack. This means I'll only be taking one of anything I might need for 20 days. Slightly risky, and probably frowned upon by the serious cycle touring fraternity that prefers to strap a full airport luggage carousel to their bike frame. I am taking advantage of not taking a tent, sleeping bag, cooking gear, nor carrying food. I find that steak and cheese pies and One Square Meal's are cheap, plentiful, and all the serious cyclist needs to sustain energy and spirit.

The roughly 1400km route will encompass: Picton, Renwick, Kaikoura, Amberley, Christchurch, Springfield, Otira, Greymouth, Granity, Murchison, Mapua and back to Renwick, with one or two side trips. It's a path well trodden over the years but mostly in cars and coaches. I am extremely lucky to have good friends and family who have assisted making this exercise possible and infinitely more enjoyable by offering board and lodging along the way.  A huge thanks in advance, and see you soon!

I plan a short series of posts after each significant leg of the trip, detailing: Blood loss to barbarous sandflies; Interesting road kill and other insightful observations; Distance travelled; and the latest song in the slightly more daunting task of listening to every song, alphabetically, on my iPod.

The South Queensland Circumnavigation (June 2015)

Young Ollie decided, when looking down the barrel of the arrival of his second offspring, that a week of tranquil and relaxing distraction was called for. What he actually decided was to rope me in to a week long cycle tour of the South of Queensland.

It made sense, when June offers rubbish cycling conditions locally, to aim for more hospitable climes. So, I confidently left the planning to the man with the inspiration and motivation without realising that he paid little heed to contour lines on maps when randomly picking the towns around our 650k, seven day circuitous route:

Brisbane to Toowoomba

We were credit card touring, so packed light and used our road bikes for the long haul. A delayed flight over the ditch, quick bike assembly at the airport, train out to Ipswich, and an heroic push to make Toowoomba by dusk - failed.

We couldn't find our way out of suburbia due to a Google Map ghost road, but found some helpful, yet bemused, bogans who directed us to carry our steads off-road and over streams to get back on track. Sense of humour failures aside; we made the bottom of the plateau at night and fought our way up a massive incline in the dark, through the stench of incessant, effluent filled cattle lorries belching out diesel fumes. Exhausted and traumatised, we awoke the next morning and lucked-out at an amazing coffee shop that offered redemption through quality caffeine and muesli.

Toowoomba to Kilcoy

Was a breeze by Comparison. The roads out here are well maintained, wide and have hardly any cars. The scenery is a constant scrolling, pastoral scene of rolling hills, quaint towns, big forests and lake vistas. We descended off of the plateau with ease.

 

Kilcoy to Maleny

Only to realise that Maleny was on top of the plateau and along a saw tooth ridge-line. It, being next to the Glasshouse Mountains should have been a giveaway. It's a lovely town full of artisans, retirees and new age therapeutic spas for the wealthy of Brisbane to unwind from their stressful jobs and find inner peace. But why pay top dollar when inner peace can easily be attained through sheer exhaustion and the mere elation of making it to your destination?

My marvellous God-mum lives here, so we included a well deserved rest day by the beach.

Maleny to Noosa

Here, we see the two protagonists hitting their stride, lapping up hills and racing along empty roads. I'd been to Noosa many moons ago but left with a hollow impression. This time round; the sea, beaches, bars, food and accommodation made me reluctant to leave. Before we did, we made a relaxing day trip up to Boreen Point and spent a long lunch at the super cool Apollonian Hotel.

Noosa back to Brisbane

We tried to make it all the way back in one fell swoop but were confronted with broken spokes, more random off-road action through forest plantations and a spate of punctures. Nobly knowing when to call it quits, we jumped on a train to finish off the trip before it finished us off.