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.