Month: July 2021

50km, 950m elevation gain, 6.45am – 7pm

While I stayed warm and slept much better than at Cass, again there was massive condensation on the fly. With no breeze, the temperature differential between outside and inside was just too high. Getting ready, I clumsily brushed waterfalls onto my bag and mat. OSMs for breakfast definitely occupied a lower circle in hell than TBs. Even worse, one was chocolate as Methven’s shelves had been stripped. 

Again I’d decided to start the next technical section in the light rather than get up early. At first it was pushable as I picked my way up the stream, following a vague ground trail. I’d assumed that being part of Te Araroa would render this track a highway. Totally wrong. The warratahs seemed spaced wider than usual, the next barely visible from the last. I played leapfrog with Chris and Bob as we mostly pushed, sometimes hauled, winding up the valley and crossing the icy stream a few times. I fell heavily, landing on my left leg, on a rock. One of those falls where you feel the bone to check it’s intact. The rear rotor must have crunched into another rock at the same time. Pushing was now problematic as the wheel wouldn’t really turn. But with steeper ground around the corner, it was time to carry anyway. 

The climb to Stag Saddle felt shorter than some of our other tussock missions. I scrambled up the true left of the stream, trying hard to follow the route, and watching Chris and Bob ahead of me go a slightly more difficult way! The last few hundred metres of the climb were shallower, though the tussock-and-rock obstacle course still made carrying essential. When I reached the stream headwater, conscious today would be another bluebird scorcher, I dropped my bike and scrambled to a clean-looking spot. As usual I tried to drink, camel-like, as well as refilling. When I starting slogging up again, Chris and Bob had disappeared from sight.

Just after 10.15am, I reached the saddle, where a lone bike rested on the sign post proclaiming this Te Araroa’s high point at 1925m. I recognised the bike as Dulkara’s and figured she was doing something extreme like climbing a nearby peak. Our route departed Te Araroa here, sidling untracked to a descending ridge. The sidle looked easy on the map but made you sigh in reality. I didn’t pause or put the bike down but kept carrying around the scree-edged basin, picking a line up and down numerous rocky spurs. I promised myself a rest and an attempt at rotor truing once I reached the ridge. 

Maybe 30 minutes later, just before I would move off the basin’s slopes onto the flatter ridge crest, I slipped. This time I landed on my right knee, which took the full weight of me, bike and gear. I extricated myself from the carry straps, and dragged everything the 2 metres to level ground. My main reaction was frustration that first aid was now another job i had to do. With the wound still mostly numb from impact, I flushed out grit with precious water and an alcohol wipe, then saturated it with hand sanitiser before plastering the deepest gashes. While this isn’t exactly recommended first aid practice (and is certainly painful!), these relatively deep abrasions would be looking amazingly good by that evening. 

Next job: the rotor, while simultaneously trying to eat lunch (shapes and peanut butter) and check my phone. The rotor was clearly deformed and I spent a while with the bike upside down rebending it. First using my flat, lightweight knife, soon slightly curved, and then my multitool. Not for the last time, I regretted ditching pliers to save weight. But eventually I bent the rotor flat enough for the wheel to turn. All this stuffing around had taken a frustrating 45 minutes. 

During this stop, part of my brain had been reflecting on Steve Halligan’s insta post about arriving here after midnight. He could see the lights of Tekapo but they proved 7 frozen hours away. I wondered how long it would take me – it was 11.40 now. My brain also recalled others’ posts about shredded sidewalls, which would not help my downhill inhibitions.

While some riders loved this descent, I just wanted it to be over. The rocks ranged from small to large but were always sharp. The sun beat down from the cloudless, windless sky. Spot heights provided unwelcome, unexpected ups. While views were magic, the lake’s blue unearthly and Aoraki majestic,  I was focused on survival, of myself and my tires.

Finally, after maybe an hour and a half, I neared the track to Camp Stream hut. A precipitous tussock maze stood in my way. I angrily wrestled through it to join the 4wd track. I knew the hut was close and resolved to check my brake pads, concerned the rear rotor damage was chewing them up. 

At the hut, I felt hugely disappointed at its lack of shade. The stifling heat felt overwhelming and I could hardly think. I leaned my bike in the tiny sliver of hut shadow and started to remove the brake pads. Then I slashed my thumb pad deeply with the retaining pin. Blood splashed everywhere. Cursing my stupidity, I switched to first aid. After cleaning and inspecting the cut, my initial concern ebbed along with the blood flow. I packed it with crystacide, put on a couple of plasters and added them to my mental Tekapo shopping list, which already included the panadol I was needing to sleep at night. Then i went back to the brakes. Both sets of pads were fine and I heartily wished i hadn’t bothered. These 30 minutes had not been well spent.

Swallowing a snack – one of my last – I started back into the relentless sun. I thought the 4wd track would continue through the next section. I was mistaken. Instead it was hell on earth. The heat, my now extremely bad mood and many vicious plants combined to make this my most hated section of the route. Later I found this sentiment was widely shared and Brian may remove it. 

The route dropped to the stream then wound its way down the true left. Some bits were temptingly ridable; at others the track totally disappeared. After initially taking my pedals off, I put them back on, and took them off again in less than 2km. Pedals were problematic because of that mean, thorned South Island plant that someone later reminded me was called Matagouri. During one of the pedals-on periods, I massively smacked my right shin on its protruding screws, and blood oozed all afternoon. The sun blazed down, uncaring, the temperature surely above 35. The Matagouri seemed to have a personal vendetta and I gained more scratches. The song Cauterise by Red, with all its burning imagery, pounded around and around in my head. It’s surprising to look back and see this section took only an hour.

Rounding a corner, the stream joined Coal River and I started to see the climb ahead. It was a goat track, heading diagonally up a cliff-like face. I could see a walker picking her way down; we intersected at the base. “How are you going to get your bike up there?,” she asked in a spirit of genuine curiousity. We wished each other luck. I felt an angry antipathy towards carrying, so awkwardly pushed up at the pace of a snail. After a couple of minutes it was clear I should have stopped at the bottom to put the  sweetroll on my back. Instead I risked falling by doing this on the narrow, steep path. 

As I slugged on, Dulkara breezed into view. She had indeed climbed a peak and looked quizzically at my struggles. Then she threw her bike on her back and gazelled away. I think I encountered some puzzled walkers before the top, though perhaps they were an hallucination. For brief periods I carried the bike under my arm, with difficulty without the strap, which I just couldn’t be bothered putting on. Why had I brought such a heavy bike? I was now in full agreement with all the people who kept telling me Ogres were too heavy. I was so in the moment that every moment lasted a painful eternity. The bent rotor’s metallic dings did not help.

Finally the climb topped out and I descended to the Round Hill skifield road. But instead of taking the easy right, the route continued along a mountain bike track. I’d been hanging out for this, knowing from  youtube it was well within my comfort zone. But crazy heat and growing hunger spoiled the experience. Trying to reduce bike weight combined with a now-normal appetite meant I’d undercatered this section, and my blood sugar was flagging. The track sidled for an eternity before I hit Boundary Stream and the real descent began. This too felt like forever, rather than fun. Twice I rounded corners to face a precipitous rocky shute. I walked these, and longed for the bottom.

Spat onto the road, I flicked on Ride with GPS but kept rolling, pondering tonight. The road sped down to a bridge and I thought of Rob, who’d wiped out here during a recon ride, putting him out of the race. I remembered looking at the photos of his day’s riding and my mind shying away from imagining myself there. Now it was done but my mood wasn’t exactly triumphant. As the road climbed out of the stream bed, I spied a layby with trees and beelined towards their shade. It was 5.45pm but the air remained oven like. 

I was over today, still too hot and even more hungry. Every fibre of me wanted to stop in Tekapo for the night. Winning this argument was easy: I needed to properly retrue the rotor, which at faster speeds was dring-ing in an intensely annoying way; I wanted to wash my clothes and have a shower. By the time I reached town and did a much-needed resupply, the extra couple of hours I might ride tonight could be substituted by getting up early. So I phoned the holiday park, listening to my defeated-sounding voice in a disembodied way.  

Perhaps I should have felt buoyant, heading for shelter and food, the most difficult kms behind me. Tekapo was only 15 kms away – I’d be there by 7pm. But a headwind beat me back and the temperature, rather than dropping, seemed to be rising. I flopped onto my aerobars and ground away, failing to appreciate the jewel-like lake or cloudless sky. The rotor’s metallic song sawed at my brain. I did retain enough logic to know lack of calories was driving my fugue. 

Approaching Tekapo’s outskirts, the route hopped on a cycle path. It was weird to wind my way among clean, slow-moving holiday makers. I passed the iconic church then rejoined the highway for the last few hundred metres into town, feeling relief.

Tekapo marked the end of the route’s wild middle, the section that we’d all obsessed over. It was easy to think the tough times stopped here. But if I couldn’t shed that mindset, the last third would be torture. There were still two big barriers between me and Slope Point: the Hawkdun range and the Serpentine area. Both isolated, long and packed with contour lines. Tonight I needed to refocus on the rest of the race.

I pulled into the shopping area just before 7pm and was overwhelmed. Far from being dead without tourists, this Saturday night Tekapo was humming, people everywhere. The fish and chip shop sported a massive queue. After 5 seconds in that crammed, humid space, I decided to source dinner from the supermarket. This large, beautifully cold building was not far away, uncrowded and full of choices. I repeatedly chanted my mental list to avoid paralysis. 

Exiting with my bounty, I sat in welcome shade, my back against the supermarket’s wall. I downed a Kapiti icecream like it was medicine, followed by a bottle of powerade. Normal people looked at me curiously but I didn’t care. I wanted to refill my calorie deficit enough to do some jobs before dinner. If I got to the holiday park reception by 8, I’d be able to get change for a washing machine. These are the kinds of thoughts that circle round a bikepacker’s brain.

After 50m on the busy main road, I turned off around the lake to the park. It appeared to be undergoing a mega makeover, and looked more like a gated community than your traditional kiwi camping ground. After successfully collected change, I ground up a rise and eventually found my luxurious cabin, complete with a deck, grass spot and picnic table all its own. The people next door eyed me suspiciously as I draped my sodden tent on the picnic table to dry. I remember checking the weather online and at 6pm it was still the day’s hottest temperature.

I showered and found the washing machine, picking my way along the gravel barefoot so both pairs of socks could be clean. Sitting outside my cabin, I ate my eclectic dinner: bread rolls and guacamole, plus pre-packaged pasta and salad from the supermarket chiller. Weirdly all the salads on display had contained bacon but I longed for greens so picked it out.

Some rationality returned. I realised how painful my left ear was, just where it joined my head. Obviously rubbed by my glasses, it was like a paper cut on repeat. But I’d only consciously noticed it now, though my subconscious confirmed it had been a constant for hours. I didn’t feel joyful or happy, and maintained background guilt for not going on. At least I didn’t consciously realise I’d only travelled 50km! I looked at where everyone else had stopped and judged where I might get tomorrow by Pete’s progress. At least Chris and Bob had also chosen to stop in Tekapo.

It was time for a serious look at the rotor and I watched a reassuring Parktools video. The deformed spot was made obvious by the giant rock scratch. I tried again and again to bend it straight, using the hinge in my multitool as improvised pliers. After about a hundred tries, on perhaps my tenth ‘just one more go’, when I spun the wheel, the dring was gone. It would stay true enough till the end. Having had to retrue it subsequently, i now realise how miraculous this was.

141km, 2500m elevation gain 7am- 9.00pm

Dampish but clean clothes felt like luxury. And hot coffee, rather than just shaking a Supreme instant sachet with cold water. Just after 7, I was at the Foursquare, stocking up for the next 2 days and focused on salty food. Cheese, Shapes crackers, packet tuna and peanuts were on the list, and a big bag of crisps. Stuffing everything on board and riding out of sleepy Methven, I decided to use these flat kms to catch up with Richard. With my phone on speaker, we had a mostly audible conversation, interrupted by truck noise and comments on bad driving. I ran through the past few days in an overexcited monologue; turned out he was taking notes.

Flat, easy riding continued across the plains, with little wind. Going fast felt amazing. I’d stopped worrying about my wheel enough that I wasn’t prepared to wait till 10, when the bike shop in Methven opened. If it had got me this far, over that crazy terrain, it would probably make it. As I turned onto yet another long straight, I saw a rider in the distance. I tried to catch them. It took 15 minutes to realise they were a tree. Like yesterday, and the days before, today I’d ride alone. When I prepare for events, I always imagine myself solo. If I end up riding with others of the same pace and mindset, it’s an unexpected plus. The mental challenges of TTW made it easier to focus on your own ride, making decisions to suit only yourself. But it did reduce fun.

After crossing the Rangitata near Arundel, the route turned north. At a washout,we diverted onto the stony riverbed, the day already heating up at 10am. To my delight, the café at Peel Forest (a mere 5km away) would now be open. I’d intended to buy cabinet food and quickly head off but there was nothing savory. The friendly person on the till assured me something off the menu wouldn’t take long. As I sat down, some hardbitten locals expressed the usual mixture of curiosity and amazement  about the race. I’d bought a weird carrot/turmeric bottled drink – the same unfamiliar type I’d drunk in Murchison what felt like 50 years ago. Its reappearance seemed a good omen. I smiled reading Richard’s 90% correct blog entry, buoyed by a sense of reconnecting with the world. By the time I’d filled up with water and applied sunblock, the eggs benedict arrived. 

Not long after, someone waved from the opposite side of the road: a trail angel. Turned out he was a regular Te Araroa trail angel and had a bedraggled-looking tramper in the car, who’d spent a very cold night under a hedge. As we talked, the hiker edged out of the car and closer, intrigued by discussion of the TTW route. The trail angel said he’d started seeing riders and realised we were just as much in need of angeling. I appreciated the cold coke in the baking heat but drank and talked quickly, unwilling to stop for long. 

The angel mentioned a hill ahead but for once it was nothing. In retrospect it’s obvious that getting the calorie equation back in the black helped me feel so strong and happy that morning. That and not battling a dry norwester. Apparently this section would be torture in the wrong wind, with its subtle uphill gradient. Lifting my mood even more, I put some music on. Till now, I’d been very cautious about phone use. But charging was going so well that I could be less conservative. It was great to change my mental song soundtrack.

The heat intensified as morning ticked into afternoon. Yesterday and the day before, it’d been dulled by river crossings; today was endless, shadeless gravel. This weather system had proved remarkably stable. Before I left home, I’d seen temperatures would rise above 30 near Tekapo on the second weekend of the race. Today was that Friday and the forecast still proved true. Wellington’s summer had offered little acclimatisation to these temperatures.

I spied rare trees and pulled over for lunch. It was 1:15pm and insanely warm. I enjoyed my melting gouda and crackers so much more than previous days TBs. I was sitting by anglers’ access to the Rangitata, and while the view was nothing special, I was so happy with this morning’s riding and life in general that I took some photos. But after 20 shaded minutes, I knew I had to move on. 

• 

• 

For a while I’d been experiencing geographical confusion when looking across the Rangitata. Where had I come from? When I’d emerged from the Harper, was that just over there, on the other side of this river? This didn’t seem right but it teased at my mind. There were similarities, with an island-like range on both rivers, though a look at the map later on revealed the many miles between them.

The heat felt even more relentless as the afternoon wore on, eased only by my speed. Because there’d been so much crawling in the past few days, even 15kph felt fast. It was a psychological upside to difficult terrain that I’d noticed during my training, which had featured a lot of pushing (if too little carrying). But I knew this speedy section was drawing to a close. 

I crossed some flats and looked left up Forest Creek, headwaters crowded with pointy heights. I knew the route went somewhere up there and kept glancing at what might be Bullock Bow, like you can’t look away from a car crash. Most riders think in segments during events like this. Only the next part of the route exists in your reality; the rest is theoretical. My next milestone was the start of Mesopotamia station. Then it would be High Terrace, then Bullock Bow Saddle etc. 

Reaching Mesopotamia, I was back at square one and any sensation of speed was gone. Only a kilometre down the farm road came a vicious climb that my legs just didn’t want. I was hot, sweaty and sick of the beating sun. Just before 3pm, I reached a stand of trees, flung my bike down and collapsed in their shade. I lay there for 20 minutes before summoning the will to go on. There was some method to this, in terms of avoiding the upcoming serious climb in the baking sun. Having watched others’ dots last night, I was pretty sure I could reach Royal hut mid-late evening and planned to stop there, not wanting to do the Stag Saddle carry exhausted in the dark.

I left my shade and ground along the vague farm track. I came to a complicated sequence of gates and double checked my notes. When I’d determined the right gate, I noticed it had a ribbon. And then there was another at the next gate. I realised someone had thoughtfully marked our path (though I still doublechecked each time!). The ribbons were bright pinks and purples, like you’d wrap a present. This kindness really moved me. Perhaps it was designed to make sure we didn’t blunder and upset stock, but it felt like we were welcomed, not just tolerated, and that gave me heart despite the heat. 

After a while the route rejoined a more-defined track. Reaching a stream, I waded in to cool my legs and rinsed my merino singlet, in an attempt to lower my core temperature. Back on the bike, I could see High Terrace looming ahead. I made the top at 5pm then nearly wiped out on the first corner’s loose gravel. Unfortunately we descended significantly before regaining that height and much more in the day’s real climb, up to Bullock Bow Saddle. I stopped at Moonlight Stream for water, and looked back to see Chris and Bob rounding High Terrace. I knew they’d catch me soon. 

The descent wound all the way around the tight stream gully before levelling out. A hut sat on flats to the left and I wondered if it was Felt Hut, even though I knew that hut was hidden in a stand of trees. When what you see doesn’t match your mental map, it creates a weird mental dissonance that’s amplified by fatigue. As I entered a stand of trees, gravity assistance ceased and the real climb began. I packed my backpack on and slung the sweetroll over my shoulder. I was at 900m elevation and Bullock Bow sat at just under 1700m. But I knew this was merely a push (as opposed to a carry!) and felt undaunted. First there was a short, sharp grunt over another spur, then a deceptive easy bit before the real climb came intimidatingly into view. 

The temperature dropped as I gained height and the evening deepened. I pushed and pushed, motivated by loud, shouty music, but singing silently as Chris and Bob must surely be close behind. There was a blessed, rideable sidle before I was dumped at the base of a straight that climbed 300m in perhaps 1km. My sweet roll kept swinging round annoyingly till I tightened it to just-breathable. But it was so much easier to push with the front wheel unweighted. I’d micropause every couple of minutes but I was feeling fine and so glad to be here now rather than in this afternoon’s oven. 

Looking back, down and out to the tiny Rangitata, I saw a solo rider slogging up. They were alone and slowly gaining. I wondered if it was Mark, who I’d seen on the tracker leaving Methven late morning. But it was Chris sans Bob. We exchanged views on the day (good!) and the heat (heinous!). Bob hates pushing, Chris said. Just then she came into view far below. We moved on, Chris surging ahead. Finally at the 1680m contour, the gradient eased and I rode the last few hundred metres. I sat down in triumph and soaked in a new view, the dropping sun casting long shadows. 

I hoped to make the hut before full dark, so quickly moved on. I dropped diagonally across steep scree slopes. Where the scree devolved into larger, jagged rocks, I walked. I remained thoughtful about my rear wheel, though I’d stopped worrying. Maybe half way down, Chris and Bob barreled past. I didn’t try to keep up, though they stayed in view. We passed some alpine lakes but I was too focused on the descent to appreciate the scenery. As we neared the valley floor, a few rises punctuated the descent and my tired legs hated them all. This descent was right at the edge of my riding ability, and I wondered yet again whether I was the worst mountain biker in the field. I was glad to reach Bush Stream and the Te Araroa track junction, even though rideability radically decreased.

Now all I wanted was to make the hut, though I knew there wouldn’t be any beds given the others ahead. Some of this tussocky track was ridable, some of it wasn’t. I kept getting glimpses of Chris and Bob ahead as the light dimmed. Finally the hut came into view, on a terrace on the left.  It was exactly 9pm and well into dusk. Even though today was probably my easiest TTW day – and definitely the happiest so far – I was still glad to stop.

There were bikes and tents everywhere. I saw Geof and Scotty first, eating dinner. Rachel was here too, and Hana, and Jeff who I’d not previously met, along with Dulkara who I’d expected never to see again! The hut was taken up with TA hikers, with some of them also in tents. I scouted around, wanting to get the fly up before true dark, and found a good spot away to the left. Rachel and I chatted as we filled up with water – we’d all suffered in that heat through the station. After a brief wash in the dark, I sat in my fly, wrapped in my sleeping bag. The temperature was dropping dramatically and another subzero night seemed likely. Dinner was the emergency potato mash I’d been carrying since the start, mixed with tuna. I enjoyed it immensely, the warmth welcome. 

As I settled in, the dampness problems at the Cass played on my mind. I made sure I lay closer to the higher head end of the fly and during the night was careful when I turned over. About 11pm there were some confusing bright lights, which I later found out was Mark arriving. I awoke abruptly at another point, startled by my own snort-like snore. My hayfever, normally bad but controlled, was insane. Too much mouth breathing, pollen and extreme temperature changes were a toxic combination. But it wasn’t just me, snoring echoing around the valley, its 1300m altitude affecting everyone.