Month: March 2021

Starting just after 6am, I pushed for two arduous hours to Hope Shelter. Riding in the rooty, fallen-tree-filled terrain felt mostly futile.

But not futile enough. Soon after the hut, while trying to ride, I came to grief. The bike felt weird, I braked dramatically and half fell. A large stick was stuck in the rear wheel. An unlucky fluke had flicked it under the chain stay, where it was wedged against two, clearly bending, drive-side spokes. My first, urgent instinct was to get it out and release that pressure. This was relatively easy with one spoke but much more difficult for the other. After an endless couple of minutes, I wiggled the stick free. Then I tried straightening the spokes by hand. Much to my surprise, this partially worked. But the wheel wouldn’t turn, being enough out of true that the tyre was hitting the non-drive seat stay.

While half my mind calmly oversaw these problem-solving steps, the other descended into chaos. The wheel would fold like spaghetti; I would crash or have to quit; I should walk back to the Lewis Pass road NOW rather than risk going further into wilderness. But I also heard Brian saying at the briefing, “don’t give up if you get a mechanical – take the time to fix it and rejoin the course”. If I got to the Arthurs Pass highway, I could hitch to Christchurch. If I could get to Methven, there was a bike shop there. My mind shied away from quitting even while feeling its magnetic pull.

Stick removed, I was gazing down at the wheel and something caught my eye. My necklace was dangling around my shoulders, ends hanging free. I must have caught it in the almost-crash. While the clasp had sheared through, it was otherwise intact. I stowed it in my pocket before it fell into the similarly golden grass. This piece of random luck steadied me.

I racked my brain for the theory of wheel truing, which appeared to be locked in some kind of mental cupboard. Very carefully I played with a couple of spokes, counting quarter turns. But I was making it worse. I knew talking to someone would help me remember. Others must surely be close, given how long I’d been stopped now. I alternated looking despairingly at the wheel with hopeful glances back.

And then Geof and Ken appeared. Geof, despite initially disavowing expertise, said the exact thing I needed to hear. “Of course, the theory is: tighten the non-rubbing side and loosen the rubbing side”. It was now painfully obvious why I’d been making it worse. I’d been loosening the bent (drive-side) spokes because I thought the bend would be adding tension so was worried about them pulling out. But to true the wheel, I needed to do the opposite. It was really hard to know how far to go; how true was true enough without causing the damaged spokes fatal injury. By now it had been an hour and I was chilling down, the southerly still coming through, complete with light drizzle. The wheel could turn and I needed to move.

I pushed the bike, unwilling to risk riding. Reaching the swingbridge over the Hope, I felt incredibly reluctant to rerun yesterday’s nightmare wrestle. I decided to push horizontally, which surprisingly worked. Geof and Ken had mentioned Hana wasn’t far behind, and by the time I wrestled my bike off the far side, I could see her starting to cross.

Hope Kiwi lodge came into view but the route did an infuriating dog leg first. I decided I’d have another, final go at truing there. It was 11am and in the past 3 hours I’d covered maybe 6km. I was cold when I arrived at Hope Kiwi, lack of food probably playing a big part. To my surprise, I’d caught up with Geof and Ken, and Hana arrived not long after they left. In this kind of terrain, there’d been little time advantage to riding, especially with the constant on/off. I should have walked the whole way, from the start, I told myself. Then my wheel would not then be in this shape.

I upended my bike again and set about fine tuning. At the same time, I tried to refuel. But all I could stomach were Grainwaves; luckily the bag was big. Hana left, and after 40 minutes I forced myself to stop tinkering.

The next section up the valley flats was invitingly ridable. It was also too cold to keep walking on flat terrain. I got back on, tentatively. I could see Hana in the distance but she pulled away, because I would stop every few minutes to spin and scrutinise the wheel. We followed a horse route for a while before rejoining the tramping track through the beech. My checks grew less frequent as my trust in the wheel increased. I sent thankful thoughts in the direction of Oli@Roadworks, wheel builder extraordinaire.

Approaching the saddle, I was hoping the 6km descent would prove faster. But fallen trees were everywhere, along with steep pinch climbs and highly technical sections. While pushing, I broadsided a pedal with my swollen right ankle. The pain was electric. Then I mildly sprained the other. It was after 1pm but I hadn’t been able to stomach my lunch of Tararua biscuits. And while my concern about the wheel had slowly dimmed, I kept wanting to quit. It was like the mechanical had cracked open a mental door. I’d never felt like this in an event before. My ever-present song now competed with a circular monologue: “you’re not having fun; you’re incompetent and slow; your bike and setup just aren’t right for this race…” But I also thought about the time I’d invested over the past six months, all the training, all the organising and – especially – all the other things I’d compromised. I couldn’t face that being in vain.  

By the time Chris caught me, I’d managed to swallow some peanut butter and I felt better. Naturally I related my wheel woe. I asked after Rachel; Chris said Rachel wasn’t far behind but had mentioned potentially pulling out at Lake Sumner. This surprised me as I knew Rachel was tough. Chris obviously viewed quitting talk as contagious, and had powered ahead. She said Brian and Nathan had pulled out at Boyle, which saddened me. I’d looked forward to some more Nathan banter. As Chris took off, I told her I’d keep going as long as the wheel held (and realised this was actually true).

Rachel wasn’t far behind and seemed pretty strong to me. We exchanged scathing observations about roots, trees and bridges, then she took off in pursuit. Chris had wished she was a better rider and I’d wholeheartedly agreed. Over the course of the event I would often wonder if I was the worst mountain biker in the field.

After innumerable bike lifts over trees, the grassy flats appeared. I could see Chris and Rachel at a gate, not that far away. I shadowed them up the flats, the wind biting. It was a relief to ride less technical terrain, and even though the dogleg up valley added indirect kms, I was grateful for it. I was still stopping every now and then to check the wheel but this was morphing from genuine concern into nervous habit.

When I neared the Hurunui, I headed first to the ford. Put off by its depth and flow, I rode upstream to the bridge. But when I got to the bridge, I wasn’t sure it presented less risk. Just getting on to the bridge would be a significant feat, with its access up a steep wire ramp with no side netting. I couldn’t face it, and rode back to the ford again.

This crossing, with a bike, looked borderline. If you were in a tramping party, you would have linked up. Instead I’d be on my own, carrying an unwieldy load that would catch the current if dipped. I picked my line and took wide, deliberate steps, holding my bike in line with the current. It wasn’t that deep – not far above knee – but it was powerful and relatively slippery. I was grateful for my Vibram soles. I remember thinking I wouldn’t have wanted to cross if it was any higher.

Now wetter and colder, I kept moving, enjoying easy riding back down to the lake. At the turn off to private land, I met Chris and Rachel again, and they stayed in sight up the steep climb. I almost welcomed pushing up here – it was a chance to get warm as well as a mental respite from technical terrain. In my training, I’d done a lot of pushing (but little carrying, which I’d come to regret).

I reached the top just before 5pm. I remember being confused by a conflict between the course notes, which referenced staying left of a fence, and the gpx track, which randomly vaulted it. Logic is not your friend in a bikepacking ultra. I’d already had mental debates about whether the sun rose in the east or west. I couldn’t remember if I’d originally thought Andersons, on the far side of the Dampiers, might be possible tonight. But given this morning’s adventures, I estimated I’d arrive at Deep Creek, where the climb started, not long before dark. Stopping there would be an obvious decision. If I’d arrived at 4 or 5pm, that would have been more of a dilemma.

Drawing level with Lake Mason, my mental tone lifted. It was deeply green and beautiful. I didn’t stop but I kept sneaking glances to the right. I felt like I was exploring new terrain, after so much familiar ground. The track became both more obvious and more ridable, which made a hugely welcome change. I paid special attention to gates, memorizing the configuration before opening and counting the number of links to the latch. We all knew woe betide any rider who stuffed a gate up.

Descending towards the Hurunui’s South Branch, I heard a weird mooing, more like grunting. I could see a bull up on the track ahead, pawing the ground in a cartoon-like manner. At first I wondered if this aggressive display was directed at me. But then I realized his movements didn’t sync with other bellows. Which were in fact emanating from the scrub behind me… I moved rapidly off course, sure Brian would forgive this deviation. As I skirted bull #1, bull #2 emerged from the bushes and moved rapidly towards its target. They locked horns and started pushing each other. Now well past, I didn’t stick around to see what happened next.

The river was easy to cross but gaining the opposite terrace was less straightforward. I crossed a bog, then had to retrace my soggy steps. But once found, the farm track proved good going, trending downhill and providing views of the cloud-shrouded Dampiers. I wondered who was up there and how they were going in these cold conditions. As I got closer to Deep Creek, the setting sun lit down-valley peaks and life felt ok. I’d stopped feeling sick, undoubtedly aided by the 2+ hours lost this morning, which had substantially reduced intensity. While my TB lunch remained uneaten, I had finished the Grainwaves.

I crossed the (much appreciated) road bridge and left the route to push up some zig zags to the hut, feeling glad I’d studied the aerial photographs. As I rode through the final paddock, I could see the others pitching tents. Despite feeling utterly alone since the Hurunui, Rachel, Chris and Hana hadn’t been far ahead. Geof and Scotty were a bit more settled in. We all commented on the novelty of stopping before it got dark – even on day 3, the race had become our world. It was great to chat while ticking off tasks. While we couldn’t use the hut, it had a welcome water tank and long drop. As the sun went down, I put on all my available clothing (including my GE rain pants, for the first and only time), though my feet stayed frigid.

Finally I was hungry, which I celebrated by rehydrating and loving my first Radix meal. Lighter, more calorie-dense and a better range of vegetarian flavours – the only thing not to like is their price. I then tried and failed to eat my neglected lunch. Sitting in the warm Boyle trailer hadn’t done the TBs many favours, and I recalled others’ tales of rancid cheese. I downed an electoltye drink and and tried to eat one of my far-too-many mini Whittakers bars. I’d be finding melted and remoulded ones for days to come.

I hopped in the fly, wondering if I’d make a mistake pitching close to the creek chasm, which was generated a gentle breeze. Getting into my sleeping bag, I kept on my leg warmers, downjacket and hat, and drew its hood up tight. Despite the sub-zero temperatures, I stayed toasty, though from now on sleeps would be increasingly restless.

225km, 3000m+ elevation gain. 7:00am to 10:15pm

Just getting to start of an event like this is huge. The training, the bike prep, the staying free from injury and illness. Quite a few people – including an unfortunate proportion of female entrants – pulled out in the weeks leading up to the race, because of injury, health or a perhaps a sense of inadequacy in the face of growing hype. I’d had a few conversations with other riders about the latter, as we tried to reassure ourselves that we too were athletes, even if not in the same league as the field’s starry names.

Many photos were taken in the dawn light as we waited for 7am. I leaned my bike precariously against a fence and peered into the void (which had unhelpfully swallowed a rider’s phone the night before). I tried not to focus on others’ lighter-looking rigs but to be at peace with decisions I’d made. I felt grateful to be surrounded by people I knew – especially Pete and Brendan – which reduced the usual pre-start intimidation. There was no briefing as Brian had spent an hour yesterday afternoon methodically running through the course, making clear the responsibilities that came with our access to private land. Everyone knew that how we behaved would determine whether the race had a future.

7am struck and we rolled off, me hanging towards the back. The start was neutralized down the hill to the main road, and it was cool to look ahead and see the mass of riders approach that left turn. I knew I’d never see many of them again! Heading up a small hill and down towards Puponga, Pete and a small bunch were in the distance. I didn’t want to catch them and risk getting cooked, so settled into my own pace. This was the only section of the course where drafting was allowed but I rode it all solo, wrapped up in my thoughts. My head started to play a song over and over, a pretty obscure song that I would become very familiar with during the race, especially these first 2 days where it literally played on repeat every minute of every hour. This something that sometimes happens to me during events and I’ve learned to embrace rather than fight it!

Some of the song’s lyrics, along with my surroundings, made me reflect on my near-obsession with this event over the past few months and how this had compromised other parts of my life, especially relationships. I crossed the Aorere and thought of Richard and my 13-day tramp to its headwaters in 2013; a bittersweet memory given we can’t adventure together right now. I’ve felt much more conflicted about time and energy invested in TTW than any previous events, including whether this was an essentially selfish pursuit. Something I’d think repeatedly about during the event, especially dark times!

But this first hour was one of my favourites. The early light on the water, the almost supernatural calm (from a Wellingtonian’s perspective) and the smooth, fast feeling of a bike running perfectly. Afterwards, when Brian asked us to itemise our most- and least-liked parts, this didn’t make the grade only because my list was already shamefully biased towards the flat and sealed.

After Collingwood, we rode along a beach. This had generated a few mutterings in the lead up, especially among the more mechanically minded: why introduce sand to your drivetrain right at the start, to grind away for another 1300+km. But the beach was much better – both harder and damper – than I’d expected, and it flew past especially when Brendan caught up for a chat.

While I was no longer thinking I’d want to rinse the drive train in Takaka, I did intend to stop. I had a plan for the first two days that included hitting at least the 400km mark. It made sense to clock kms on this “easy” terrain before we hit the tougher middle section of the course. This plan included taking opportunities to buy fresh food and bolster myself for undoubtedly poor choices ahead. Pete had previously suggested the café on Takaka hill might be a good lunch spot but I knew I’d get there after 1pm and, having had breakfast at 5.30am, buying a sandwich and topping up water in Takaka felt like a much better option. Waiting in the Wholemeal Café’s fortuitously short queue, I spied a fresh cinnamon scroll – my favourite. It felt like a good omen. Biting into it outside was one of the race’s few culinary highlights.

The route from Takaka to Tapawera covered new ground for me (having ridden from Takaka airport to Pupunga two days ago). While I met some other riders before the start of the Rameka, once the climbing started I found myself again alone. Traversing numerous switchbacks, I had that horrible sense of having lost all mountain biking skill, but maybe I was just pushing too hard. After the initial climb ejected us onto gravel, I stopped to polish off my cinnamon scroll, and Dulkara and Andy caught up. It was great to chat on the second, more technical part of the ascent, especially to Dulkara who I knew only by reputation. The climb passed quickly and instead of the technical downhill I was expecting, we were on a fast 4wd to the Harwoods hole carpark.

A few of us stopped there: me to eat my sandwich, refill my water, apply sunscreen and chafing cream. By the time I rolled out, the others had gone and I regretted how long I’d taken. A real sense of urgency pervaded the ride. Not just on day one, but every day, and it never diminished, even at “the back”. I wondered if I was now last (I was) and felt almost certain I would never see anyone else again. While this was the first time I thought this, it was far from the last. Similar “facts” proved a real mental challenge that I grew better at dealing with but never fully overcame. At that moment, it was hard to remember to ride my own race and have confidence in my strategy.

But I soon caught Hana, who’d been stung by a wasp (unfortunately not for the last time!). After checking she had antihistamines, I continued through the downs. This was one section of the course I’d really misread, despite hours studying topos. The next 5km were ups and I felt disproportionately aggrieved, which should have been a red flag. Eventually gravity kicked in and I zoomed past the café and down the main hill road.

I enjoyed screaming down the state highway and was lucky with traffic, not getting held up, until I hit the roadworks traffic lights just as they’d turned red. Part of Takaka hill was down to one lane and Brian had (so he thought) arranged for us to follow the designated cycle shuttle down. Soon Hana and I were joined by a handful of others. We took the chance to eat and do various bits of bike maintenance, as the timer ticked down its initial, dispiriting 16 minutes. Then the shuttle vehicle and a ute arrived, complete with unhappy personnel. Repeating what we’d been told proved infuriating to the guy apparently in charge, who’d undoubtedly heard and responded to it a number of times. Not on his watch would we ride down – it was too dangerous. So bikes were put on and into vehicles, and gingerly watched as we made our very slow way down.

I was pretty unhappy to see my rear wheel had been tensioned to the carrier around a spoke, putting it under a lot of lateral pressure. I’m always a bit twitchy about how my bike’s transported, and this fired up my anxious and (in retrospect under-fed) mind in a really unhelpful way. While I’d mentally laugh about this later (especially after day 3), at the time it became a big, brooding obsession all the way to Tapawera.

As we headed up West Bank road, I pulled away from the others and eventually passed Brian A as we shifted to gravel. It was warm, I wasn’t eating or drinking enough, and I was definitely not having fun in my mindtrap. I’d been reading about how to manage the mental side of endurance events but during this first day rather than recognise warning signs I just wallowed in negativity.

I also thought about how intellectually knowing I would be one of the slower riders was different from actually living it. While we were on the shuttle, Nathan had said something about us being the fast mid pack – which was how it felt compared to any other event. The shuttle driver confirmed that no, we were last. The selective entry for TTW meant normal second half of the field just didn’t exist.

As Baton Valley Road headed into the hills, we turned left towards the river. I remember stopping and suspiciously inspecting my rear wheel as Andrew S caught me. When I got to the river, a strange-looking truck crossed with some difficulty – and to my surprise I could see riders on the far bank, including Brendan. I forded and sat down to ring out socks and shoes, mindful they’d be cold next morning if saturated.

After this, the route climbed to Baton Saddle and then paralleled the Moteka River to Tapawera – all now a weird memory blank.

I made a beeline for the pub, very conscious I needed to sort out food and hydration. One reason I was having trouble was a vague sense of nausea since the second half of the Rameka, which wasn’t unusual for me when pushing hard. I’d arrived at 5pm – about 2 hours earlier than expected. I gobbled down fish and chips and a ginger beer, followed by another ginger beer and quite a lot of water. This would prove a mistake. There were lots of riders gathered here – some I knew, some I didn’t, though my focus was more on my own problems and perceived inadequacies than introductions!

The next 20km passed painlessly. But then we entered private land and started to climb steeply up an electricity pylon track. Very soon I feel incredibly unwell and had an unscheduled stop in the bushes. I walked a lot of the climb, feeling like a miserable, feeble slug. If I paused, I had to lean forward over the bars so I didn’t faint. But I was determined, and each slow step was another towards Slope Point. I knew it was just a conflict between digestion and aerobic activity that would eventually settle!

A bit farther along, Brendan passed me. But when I got to the top, he was waiting, which really boosted my morale. We continued together, passing Andrew S preparing to bivvy, and headed downhill into the dusk. I explained my idea of stopping at the start of the Porika, and we pedalled into the night along the state highway. While I was determined to reach that spot at a minimum, climbing the Porika tonight felt like a bad bad idea. We found ok bivvy spots by Porika Stream and tucked in for the night. Amazingly, I slept pretty well.

Four weeks ago, together with another 37 hardy souls, I started the hardest ride I’ve ever done. And it wasn’t over when I reached Slope Point, 9.5 days later. The past two weeks have been a massive sting in the tail. I start writing this hoping it will mark the beginning of my return to normal – and hoping that reliving the race will make it more prominent in my memories than what came after! (There will be a postscript if you’re curious.)

This morning I read a fb comment that some other riders’ (awesome) accounts make it sound easy (or at least relatively non-torturous). I’m aiming for more of a gritty vibe, and I’m definitely going to be more long-winded. For me, the challenge was just as much mental as physical, and I want to capture that pain and resulting hard-won thinking before it fades.

My stats for this ride are inexact. Ride with GPS thinks you’ve stopped when you push your bike too slowly, and from day 3 onwards I regularly switched between Ride with GPS and View Ranger for navigation so don’t have a full record.

I’m aiming to write a post reflecting on each day of the race and publish them as they’re finished.