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.
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