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.