80km, 2000m elevation gain, 6:30am – 8:50pm
I choked down yet another Tararua biscuit while packing in the predawn chill, reluctant to leave my warm nest. At least the fly wasn’t too damp, though rolling it up still numbed my fingers. Geof and Ken left first, deciding not to bother with the shortcut Brian had mentioned, and I followed them soon after. Starting at 6.30am meant you could just manage without lights, saving battery and speeding up route finding – though it always left me feeling slightly guilty.
While I didn’t have a target for this race (apart from making my flight out of Invercargill on day 14), I had set a goal of riding 1 hour in the darkness both morning and night. But sometimes terrain dictates better decisions. I would end up doing all the challenging hike-a-bike first thing, as the sun rose.
After 10 minutes I reached the toe of the long climb into the Dampier Range, and turned off Ride with GPS. As usual, I’d been navigating using my phone, which charged off my dynamo. Most bikepackers would express scepticism about this arrangement so I didn’t exactly advertise it. I knew Pete was doubtful, having pointed out second-hand Garmins for sale then kindly offering to loan one. And I did think about it. But I’d also ridden hundreds of hours on my set up, and done additional testing ahead of TTW. I knew I could navigate using Ride with GPS for 14 hours in airplane and it would only use 50% of my phone’s battery. With a cache battery, I could manage 4+ days without any dynamo input.
For the first half of the race, I was cautious about battery management. During the tramping sections, which were easy for me to navigate given the conditions, I switched to ViewRanger and just checked it every now and then, using very little battery as I wasn’t live tracking. Using ViewRanger is like having a fully featured, zoomable topo and I found this amazingly helpful. You could easily see streams, count contour lines and identify marked tracks or features, with the route overlaid on top.
As I started to push up what Brian called “initially very steep grass slopes,” I saw Hana ahead. She’d found the shortcut, though there wasn’t much in it. Rachel and Chris were slightly in front. We were probably all surprised to see a tent off to our left. I waved to (the other) Chris and Bob (aka Brenda) but didn’t deviate to chat. We’d met at the holiday park in Puponga and from now on they’d be familiar friendly faces.
On a tough climb, seeing people strung out above isn’t exactly a mood enhancer. As the ground steepened, Hana tossed her bike on her shoulders with practised grace, increasing the gap. I very quickly realised “I’ll push where I can” was a misguided philosophy. While the ridge had a thin ground trail, it was pocked with tussocks. Pushing was painfully slow and involved a lot of lifting. I would have to carry much more than I’d hoped.
I dumped my bike on the lumpy ground and reconfigured it for carrying. This meant taking off pedals, strapping my sweetroll bar bag to my back and setting up a shoulder strap. I ran a simple strap through the sweetroll’s closures so I could wear it over my right shoulder, clipped diagonally in front of my chest. To carry the bike, I turned it rear wheel forwards, then ran another strap around the seat stay and stem. I put this over my left shoulder, so the bike was like a giant handbag.
This sounds confusing in writing but was even more unwieldy in reality. Since Pete gave me the idea, I’d practised a few times. Admittedly on the lawn. I had progressed to circumnavigating the house, including two steep, overgrown banks. But longer trials were lacking. The one time I unleashed it in anger, I’d got stuck in a bog. After that, I added quick-release buckles. Having the rear wheel first was a stroke of genius (thanks Pete!), giving much better ground clearance going uphill compared to previous “right way round” experiments.
Starting to carry involved leaning awkwardly over the top tube, threading my helmeted head under the shoulder strap, picking up the end that had inevitably fallen on the ground, mating the buckles and standing without falling over. The three things – backpack, sweetroll, bike strap – sat relatively well together on my back, and at least weight was spread across both shoulders. My right arm was over the bike, holding the chain stay near the bottom bracket. Usually I took some weight through that arm to reduce the left shoulder’s load. My left arm was helpfully free to haul on tussocks.
It actually worked ok, once you were moving. Unlike people holding their bikes upside down on their shoulders, if I fell I had at least one arm free to catch myself. But as the race wore on, I’d see the hassle of setting it up/down as a drawback.
The problem with carrying is you’re now fighting the full force of gravity. Instead of the ground holding your bike up, you are. I staggered up the ridge, wishing for a tramping pack instead of this unwieldy steel thing. While carrying felt faster than pushing, it generated a new level of intensity. I could still see the others ahead, which was comforting when they had mini rests. After a while, my lower back started to ache. More carry training would have been helpful.
While the climb wasn’t exactly fun, I preferred it to the rooted Hurunui. I focused on the ground trail, tracing it through tussocks and around Spaniards. Exercising this familiar tramping skill created a welcome feeling of competence, and I felt like I was back home in the mountains. As I climbed, the sun rose into a bluebird sky, with panoramic views back to Lake Sumner.
After we hit 1300m, the route sidled below the ridge crest. Brian described it as “a long sidle that will be awkward”. He’d elaborated at the briefing, saying it was narrow with a steep drop off. Part of my mind had visualised this as a ledge cut into a cliff face. I was relieved (if not really surprised) to see an easy track. I pushed along this, enjoying flatness after the 700m climb. Pushing proved much easier with pedals off, and I regretted again how I’d approached the Hurunui section.
The obvious drawback of no pedals was my inability to ride. I trotted down some nice, gravelly ground to the saddle and found the steep gut that accessed our next sidle. While this gut wasn’t the kind of thing you’d normally take a bike down, this had ceased to feel relevant. It also included a bit of bog for the unwary. I could see others’ tracks in the soft ground, and the wide array of options taken.
As the gut narrowed, I picked my way out and around to the next sidle. A few cairns marked the way as the ground trail threaded through tussock and over annoying little spurs. Staying on track occupied a welcome portion of my brain, which had lost its joy. I longed to leave this tussock and rock infestation.
I stopped as planned at the tarn to top up my water. Its murky depths were filled with strands of algae so I stuffed around using my filter, which always takes too long. Even more irritatingly, there was a clear stream round the corner. I could see the others ahead, cresting the descending ridge, and I just wanted to be there. The last push towards it was frustratingly lumpy. In retrospect, the climb/carry/sidle consumed a lot more energy than normal riding and my weariness was unsurprising.
About 12:15pm I finally made it to the top of the descent. I spent a few long minutes resetting my bike for riding. (The next day I’d realise my brain was so fried that I’d forgotten to check which pedal was which – but the 50% odds had fallen in my favour!) This was the first technical descent since the wheel incident, which still loomed large in my consciousness. I was reluctant to drop off anything. Combined with average skills, this meant walking a few rocky or steep sections. Brian had noted the ridge would be “quite exciting if you have the right set up”. I mentally edited this to “quite terrifying if you have the wrong setup”. Although there were times I was excited not to have crashed. I skirted the first clump of trees on the left, as instructed, but became confused at the clump we were supposed to thread through. Bush bashing with a bike is never recommended. The descent finally ended with a steep, dusty slide to the hut, which I scrambled down.
I took a peek at the hut’s derelict interior then sat down outside. Finishing the Tararua biscuit lunch I’d started at the tarn, I wished for saltier food. Most of my peanuts and peanut butter slugs were gone. At least I could congratulate myself for not sending a parcel to Tekapo, which would definitely have included TBs. I hadn’t sat for long when Chris, followed by Bob, bombed down that last slide, providing further evidence for my negative internal dialogue. We had a brief and incoherent chat as I repacked my bike for riding. I remember Chris looking at me in a seriously puzzled way as I rambled on about various mishaps. In retrospect I was shaken by the descent and in desperate need of more calories.
Leaving Chris and Bob to rest outside the hut, I went down to the river. As well as refilling water, I rinsed both pairs of socks and my shoes. They were full of grit that was grinding away both skin and brand new orthotic insoles. Putting on cool, clean socks and shoes felt blissful. As the hot sun beat down, I washed my legs and face, reapplied sunblock and felt ready to restart.
The next section was bliss. I loved riding again and felt strong. Thanks to obsessive topographical study and this awe-inspiring read, I knew vicious ups and downs lay in wait along the station road. Expecting them blunted their power. The river crossings were balm for heated feet and the uphill pushes welcome breathers, especially compared the tussock obstacle course earlier. Without the constant need to watch my path, I could appreciate the views. As the valley opened out, intricate vertical flutings, like a better version of the Wairarapa coast’s Pinnacles, glowed in the late afternoon sun. They were amazing. I felt privileged and I found some joy.
Towards the end of the valley, I rounded a corner and heard a loud mechanical noise. A digger was resurfacing the gravel. I made sure he’d seen me, and he moved to the side. We had a brief, friendly conversation, and he offered to help as I dragged my bike over the bund he’d built. I explained this was nothing. He’d seen a lot of riders and seemed pleased to hear there were only two left behind me. “You’re all crazy”, he said, half admiringly. I agreed. He also said it was “easy” from here.
Observations from people in vehicles usually need a large grain of salt. I kept thinking there must be a big downhill but instead found many small ups. Finally the road turned due west, into the next river system, and I zoomed down to Mount White station. Passing the homestead, I waved to a few people in high vis but didn’t stop. I started to encounter vehicles, weird after so many car-less days.
Crossing the Poulter marked the end of private land. It was just after 6pm, and I’d already decided not to stop at Andrew’s Shelter after previous sandfly-infested visits. Ironically I wouldn’t encounter any problems with insects on this ride. Stopping after dark meant sandflies had gone to bed, and mosquitos were weirdly absent – perhaps because I often camped at relatively high elevation. During training, I’d started carrying a headnet and worn it relatively often, but I didn’t use it once during TTW.
My plan was to stop as darkness fell, somewhere up the Cass River. I’d tramped this part of the route, in the reverse direction, many years ago. I remembered many boring hours along the flat, open riverbed – good camping terrain. Before the event, I’d played with several contradictory plans for where I’d end up on days 3 and 4. One involved making it to Andersons (or even beyond!) on the third day. Pete and I’d mused on what time you might make the Bealey hotel, an hour up SH 73, with me estimating 2am (and therefore ruling it out). Too much prep can generate magical thinking. This estimate was based on a spreadsheet I’d put together ahead of the race, breaking it down into short sections of like terrain and creating a time estimate for each (along with notes on water and resupply). Looking back, I’d underestimated the time from Halfway hut to where we left Lake Sumner by 1.5 hours. With another 2 hours+ of wheel remediation, and the fact I hadn’t actually made Halfway hut on day 2, that imagined day 3 had shifted from aspirational to fantastical.
The afternoon’s joy had dimmed and the remaining 20km to the highway dragged. I stopped at one of the last bush clad streams to refill. While I’d eaten better today, it was after 7 and I needed more substantial food soon. But I decided to wait till I stopped, knowing I wouldn’t want to keep crossing the Cass in the dark. While I could see the highway across the valley, I resisted speculatively flicking my phone out of airplane. I needed the motivation of that treat to get me to the road. All the afternoon’s riding meant my phone was back up to 70% charge, which really pleased me.
I cross the Waimak bridge and weaved drunkenly up the short gravel hill to the highway. As I waited for two thunderous trucks before I turned left, I wondered whether other riders had headed right, to the comforts of Bealey. I wasn’t tempted nor did it cross my mind to bail – that impulse was gone. While my mental game remained patchy for the rest of the race, determination at least didn’t falter.
I had a strong sense there would be a climb around the corner. During the 2019 Kiwi Brevet, I’d had a miserable ride from Arthur’s pass along here, wearing every single item I carried (including dishwashing gloves, which stayed packed all TTW). But soon after starting along the shoulder, I was delighted to see I was almost at the saddle, where I pulled in briefly to flick my phone into life. There were many bings as I descended towards Cass.
I pulled into a side road for a couple of minutes, read messages and replied. Riders often have an ambivalent relationship with dotwatching but for me the sense of being tracked helps me stay in racing mode. Since Christmas, I’d struggled to complete planned 3 or 4 day training rides, coming home a day early a couple of times. While weather and boringly familiar routes played a part, my usually reliable drive had ebbed. Overtraining might have played a part. But during TTW, my will to ride stayed strong and if anything increased. The Hurunui despair proved just a blip.
Feeling buoyed, I rode the short distance to the Cass carpark. It was just after 8pm. I could see a 4wd parked with an open boot, and eyed it suspiciously. I was definitely fading. It took me several seconds to realise Nina and Katie were trail angels, patiently stationed there for hours, encouraging every racer. This wasn’t part of my mental framework so I unthinkingly declined their kind offer of food. The self-supported mantra had sunk in deep. We chatted for a couple of minutes and I realised it would be ok to change my mind. There were strangely welcome boiled eggs, buns and other nice things. I knew Nina by reputation and it was great to meet her and chat about the race so far. Hopefully I became more lucid as the conversation progressed. It was great to hear Pete and Brendan were doing well. I was happy and surprised to see Rachel there too, and we had a few celebratory photos. But after 20 minutes I was chilling down and needed to go.
I powered along the easy 4wd track, trying to warm up. After a few fast kms, I hit the riverbed and had to cross. The Cass was predictably cold and swift, and I had little appetite for further crossings in the dark. As the river flattened out, I started looking for likely spots and found one near the bank. As I pitched my fly, Rachel rode determinedly past. I rehydrated my remaining BCC, half-heartedly washed, and tended my bike. I could hear trucks rumbling on the distant highway. While there was still coverage I resisted draining my phone with aimless surfing. I sat contentedly in the dark, tolerating dinner and happy with today. I would try for Methven tomorrow.