My old cobber, Tom. I was lucky to get a whole week of the man's time between a busy work schedule, a busier holiday schedule, an even busier fell running schedule and a riotous craft beer drinking predilection. I was collected from Munich airport and we drove around Austria and did the following cool stuff:
Ishgl
Normally an up-market ski resort that tries to keep some kind of momentum going during the summer by attracting mountain bikers and hikers to the mountain. We took bikes up to the top but couldn't find any of the easier tracks we'd wanted to build our courage up on. It was pretty cold up there, so we made a quick decision to take a valley/forest route to the bottom, which ended up being pretty technical - tricky but fun. After lunch we made it back to the top and down the proper downhill track. I've never ridden that far without peddling before, but it meant I could complain about my arms being shaken out of their sockets rather than my legs failing. Tom lacked confidence in his skills on the steepest of descents, which lead to my surprise when he passed at pace and bolted over a massive fence stile and down into a gully. There was some skin lost, some nerves frayed but an invigorating time had by all.
Solden and the Timmelsjoch
We set off from Solden and took the west ascent of the Timmelsjoch - my first, proper alpine climb on the road. I didn't leave granny gear while grinding up the 2,400m pass, and I can see why doping and blood transfusions have been popular when riding professionally in these parts. The never ending stream of motorbikes heading to Italy, or the motorbike museum at the top, were a bit disconcerting as they screamed past and bobbed and weaved into the distance. The hire bike was great going up but it was unfamiliar enough that it didn't inspire confidence on the crazy descent back down, so I didn't really take advantage of hooning the hairpins. We decided to tack on a side trip, en route back to Solden, but had to take refuge in a bar when a fierce storm ripped through the valley, and caught the bus back home.
Innsbruck and the Kuhtai Pass
We headed out from Innsbruck and cycled along the river before turning into the valley and making the climb from the east. Another brutal slog to the 2,000m pass, but the quaint villages and impressive mountain vistas were a pleasant distraction from the aching legs. The descent on the other side was amazing fun, and this bike inspired the confidence to let rip. Unfortunately the legs weren't quite up to the remainder of the 100k round trip, which ended up being a bit of a grind, even after stopping for lunch to allow the adrenaline levels to lower.
March 2017
We decided to press the button on another OGR trip. The first was so awesome that we couldn't resist the temptation of another tour. And, when guaranteed another three days of blue skies, fun times and glorious west coast scenery, we'd have been completely mad not to.
This time we went with a full car from Wellington, caught the ferry south and stayed in Murchison (surprisingly home to the best French bakery to be found outside of France - in Murchison!?). It was great to catch up with the Chch guys again, but a shame not to have Ray along for the journey (we certainly missed his fat bike pack-horse capabilities, and I think we missed his remorseless rapier wit). Replacement, Dave made an immediate impression by realising he'd forgotten all his riding gear when swapping cars back home. He remembered his bike. The resulting morning mad dash to a bike shop in Westport gave the rest of us a good head start on the trail. There's not a great deal extra to report over last time: it's a really special journey through spectacular country. We stayed in different huts this time around, but still decided to take our time and go fully armed with the creature comforts of fresh food, booze and tunes.
Thanks to James for uploading his Strava data to Relive, which makes super-cool videos of his efforts and pictures. And a sterling effort it was, what with heart rates peaking at 175 and over 180 on a couple of hills. Good work fella!
One man's misfortune is another man's gold nugget of joy. Appropriately, Dave careened down a track at unnecessary speeds, meeting his fate - handle-bar gripped fist into stoic tree trunk - thus freeing up a place on the glorious quest to ride the Old Ghost Road, and, unfortunately for Dave, metacarpals from wrist. I snapped up the opportunity.
From Ray's man cave, the bike was reassembled and excitement built. The next day we met with the team, hit the road and headed west. Mid-afternoon saw packs loaded, wine stowed, steaks packed and anticipation unleashed.
DAY 1: A stiff climb from the Lyell end of Buller Gorge took us up into the trees, yet the 'baby heads' of lore (the irregular rocks that once reeked havoc on this ascent) didn't materialise, and the crushed quartz that greeted us felt like a groomed highway, in-turn being crushed by the massively fat tyres of Ray's ten tonne tractor. His pack-horse of a bike made the Lyell Saddle hut first, by a fair margin, thus proving the point: there's no 'i' in team, there's no team in Rai, and the old boy has still got an impressive amount of juice left in his tank. I got there just before dusk and was welcomed into the hut with a roaring fire, glass of bourbon and comfortable camp mattress.
DAY 2: Heading out the next day we set off further up the mountain, exiting the tree line to catch sight of the most crazy traverse I've seen. It's spectacular. It's spectacular that someone came up with the idea of smashing a narrow trail along the steep ridge of some mountains, joining two redundant mining tracks from Lyell to Mohikinui. It's pure genius in its conception, impressive in its engineering and jaw-dropping in natural rugged beauty. Adrenalin competed with excitement, competed with saddle-bound religious fervour at each turn and vista. The drop from Old Ghost hut, after lunch, was pretty darned challenging: steep, gnarly and acute switchbacks. The Stern Valley hut was well equipped, the curry delicious and a few glasses of red wine complemented the glorious after glow.
DAY 3: The morning comprised a lovely cruise through a beach forest, lulling us into a false sense of security. Lunch was had, eating tuna sandwiches as fast as humanly possible, so that the body would metabolise red blood cells faster than the sand flies could drain the same from your legs. Back on the bikes the trail joined the Mokihinui river, which is a steep gorged affair. The track was pretty high and, at times, unfeasibly narrow - raising the following two questions: Why did I chose a bike with downhill handlebars wider than said track, and why is mountain biking appealing when I'm so prone to sweaty palmed attacks of vertigo. The sheer drops from foot to river valley floor induced fear when pushing the bike and the swing bridges only added to the incessant mild panic.
We made it out of the trail, a few celebratory jugs at the Seddonville Hotel, a good deep fried feed and a couple of essential west coast community visits (Patricia and Em of Powerbar fame) before heading back east.
Massive thanks to Ray for the invite; Ross and Nigel for camaraderie, crass jokes and cool camera capers. It was the most impressive ride yet.
From Nelson, I glided up Whangamoa hill and belted down to Pelorus, met Dave for moral support in Havelock, and was back in Renwick within the blink of a swiveled eye (102km). I had a relaxing new year and an early start out to Picton, catching the first ferry to Welly (40km).
That's a total of 1,345km over 14 days of cycling, and the liberal amount of off-days I afforded myself turned the endeavour into a pleasure. Putting things in perspective: The lunatics that enter the Lake Taupo Extreme Endro event do eight laps, which is the same distance in one sitting. The current record holder completed it in a mere 55hours. When would the poor guy find the time to blog?! Tasteful pictures? Thoughtful prose? I don't think so. The defining characteristics that differentiate these freaky heroes from plain nutters seems to be their natural disposition not to sleep nor feel pain. There is not enough anti-chafing cream on this planet to tempt the nether regions into such a folly, but it would have saved on accommodation.
It's been a rewarding adventure, providing the opportunity to reflect, relax and take a decent amount of holiday snaps. I have been observed communing with nature, speaking with animals and arguing amongst myself.
Roadkill update: No animals feature this time - at least not directly. The amount of rubbish in the verges of most roads I cycled was pretty bad. It is voluminous and, unfortunately, speaks volumes. I suspect that eco-tourists and the locals who publicly pick their noses and flick into their foot-well don't see the irony of ejecting cans, plastic wrappers and glass bottles into hedges.
Thanks: I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my unofficial sponsors: All the amazing people that I stayed with - it was great to catch up; The bakeries of New Zealand for producing sufficient quantities of steak and cheese pies; The Cookie Time corporation for their fortifying One Square Meal; The cycle gods for safe passage and no punctures.
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.
