Two weeks before this event, I had low expectations. These reflected my lack of training over the past six months but also the uncertainty of Covid. It’s hard to mentally commit to an event you doubt will happen.
But at Labour weekend, Pete and I did a tough training loop from Stratford, taking in the Muster course from Ohura back to our starting point. We managed two long, ambitious days plus one shorter one, and my race confidence came back. I’d doubted this trip would happen Covid-wise, so pulling it off made me both more certain about and more committed to the Muster. I started to think about timings and where I might get to each night (including some retrospectively magical maths).
I also rushed to do necessary mechanical work on my bike, which had suffered in the past six months, where my energy was devoted either to painting our house interior or my intense new job. My fork was overdue for a rebuild, which I finally did, but the airside seal popped out a couple of rides later. After multiple visits to the bike shop, I hoped it was sorted. Reassembling your bike the night before leaving home isn’t ideal event preparation, nor had it been the restful, sleep-banking week I’d intended.
But come Friday 5 November at 6.30am, I was on Durie Hill with 40 odd riders. The turnout was amazing, especially minus Aucklanders. I enjoyed catching up with familiar faces but was mindful of those who weren’t there, hoping they were somehow still sane in this third month of their lockdown. Tahi gave us the usual briefing and we were off, into a fine day but with uncertain weather ahead.
Day 1: 210km, 3037m climbing
The first few flat ks, I caught up with Rachel and her post TTW adventures and plans. Then it was up a long up/down valley, which I knew from a training ride with Pete in July. That was when we’d reccied the first third of the Muster course, from Whanganui to Whakahoro. It’d been my first full day of riding since TTW and I’d been concerned about how my surgical scar would go (yes, I am going to finish the TTW write up!). We’d started mid morning and stopped for the night in Ohakune and I’d been shattered. The next day, riding a 175km loop from Ohakune via Whakahoro, Fishers Track and National Park, I’d ditched all my gear. And we didn’t finish till 10pm. All day I’d been pretty silent, struggling to stay the pace.
But today, I pushed those memories down. And the valley did feel easier, much easier. I enjoyed chatting to Richard the Sheriff and his young companion, leap frogging them. I’d earmarked a stream before Burma Hill to refill water but didn’t need to. And I managed to ride nearly half that hill before walking, a definite improvement on last time. After noon I stopped briefly to eat lunch, not having expected to get to Ohakune till midafternoon. But I made it at 1pm, more than an hour early. Speeding along the back road into town at 40kph felt amazing, thanks to a stiff tailwind.
There were heaps of riders there, fast ones, naturally also pleasing. Most left while I bought a drink. Not needing food, my stop was efficiently brief. I checked my phone and saw unwelcome news that Covid had been detected in Stratford wastewater. But endorphins from 6 hours’ hard riding muted any strong sense of concern.
I headed up the Old Coach road, remembering the dawn struggle up here with Pete. While it was still tough, it felt less like torture, though I was glad not to have a meal sitting in my stomach. The two riders who’d started with me dropped behind, and I amused myself by devising alternative routes around a potential South Taranaki lockdown. The gently downhill gravel roads that came next were happy, and the climb up towards the Mangapurua track relatively kind. John and Symon passed me along here, though when I pulled in for a snack at the trail head, John was resting briefly. So he got to hear heartfelt swearing when I saw the fork’s airside seal had popped. Obviously not fixed. I pushed it back in. The fork still held air, and the mechanic had previously convinced me the problem wasn’t an air leak (spoiler, wrong). So while I wasn’t happy, I wasn’t despondent.
John let me go first but I soon waved him past, conscious my deteriorating mood would be better managed at my own pace. This climb, which I’d actually enjoyed back in July (unloaded!), felt grimmer today. About two thirds of the way up I stopped, leaning light headed over my bars, then lying down. After a minute or two I sat up, steeling myself, and Symon rode past. I’d thought he was ahead but he’d stopped to check out potential accommodation along the way. Getting back on the bike, I felt better and soon topped out onto a plateau-like section.
Now it started raining. Looking off to the right, I could see massively dark thunder clouds, where we were headed. I imagined a downpour liquifying that evil Whakahoro mud. Jacket on at the highpoint, I descended thoughtful of my suspect fork and picked the easiest lines. The last kilometre to the shelter really dragged, and I was relieved to haul my bike up its steps, out of the now-pouring rain. As I ate my Radix dinner (Indian chickpea curry – a disappointing 6/10), I remembered my night here on Tour Aotearoa, thunder and lightning waking us at 3am and torrential rain all the way to the landing, which would leave riders behind us stuck and some helicoptered out. When I’d been planning this race, I thought I’d do well to make the shelter tonight. Recently that’d been upwardly revised to Whakahoro, and this morning to past there… I headed away just before 7pm into lighter rain, really happy with my pace so far.
Unsurprisingly the track was slow. It was muddier than our July effort, when we’d taken only an hour from the shelter to Whakahoro. I was pleased to arrive not long after 8pm, grateful that the mud, while thickening, hadn’t caught me. There were a horde of paddlers at the campsite – if I had been planning to stop, I would have changed my mind! I chatted briefly to other riders as we rinsed drive trains and refilled water. Having to pump the water meant my bike wash was pretty cursory. Before I chilled down too much I headed off into the dusk, lights on.
I wasn’t sure where I’d end up, and thought back to my satellite photo scouting of potential bivvy spots. I’d abandoned caution in favour of less weight, carrying my SOL bivvy, which guaranteed survival but not necessarily dryness. So had to find some form of shelter for my head at least. After a while, I passed two riders setting up a tent outside a community hall – Eileen and Andy perhaps. Maybe 15 minutes later (an hour or so after Whakahoro) I was starting to fade. I spied a very dry-looking patch under macrocarpas beside the road. After some bike wrestling over fences, I was laying out my window film ground sheet in a nice level spot slightly higher up the hill. By helpful coincidence, while I was fiddling with my bike, I started to hear little drops bouncing off the film. So I moved to the less-level spot I’d originally spied. And surprisingly, while it rained most of the night, I stayed dry under those dense trees. I didn’t sleep super well though, perhaps because my legs were too downhill…
Day 2: 192km, 3097m climbing
I was sleeping (finally!) when my alarm went at 4.20am. The next 25kms were a gradual climb that I barely remember, apart from when I started herding a cow. This must have gone on for 20 minutes, through the top of the climb, a plateau and another small climb. When the cow got too far ahead, it would wait, looking back almost irritated, making no effort to find other pastures. It left a liquid gift that I inadvertently rolled through, coating tyres then spraying legs with shit-encapsulated gravel for the next 10 minutes. As I picked up speed on the descent and approached some houses, I finally managed to slip past, having relocated the cow at least 10km.
About now I ran out of water. Originally I’d planned to stop at Owhango but rolled past that intersection well before 8am (when the cafe opened). Pondering this unfortunate situation, I glanced at the fork’s airside and damnit the seal had popped again. At least I was getting good at this awkward checking manoeuvre, which needed a leftwards lean to gain line of sight that could precipitate a steering veer. I pulled over in some lonely forestry, thinking about what I could do to make the seal stick (still adhering to the mechanic’s theory that somehow its fit wasn’t quite right). I cleaned the seal as best I could and ran some electrical tape around it to increase snugness, then shoved it in removing most of the tape in the process. I also pumped up my tyres in hopes of a miraculous speed increase (having let them down at the Mangapurua high point). A farmer must have spied me doing this, and pulled up in his ute to check I was ok. He was curious, having seen a couple of riders “on the wrong side of the road, in the dark!”, though friendly. I explained the race. “Do you enjoy it?” he asked. “Not always,” I said. This conversation, and his thoughtful interest and concern, boosted me significantly, right then being “not always”.
As I rode off, I was struggling to calculate time to Taumarunui. But it was that one time in a million, when I looked at my navigation, that there were far fewer kilometres left than expected – less than an hour. Water could wait and I felt better and better, speeding along. Heading through town I stopped at the main road, thinking about a cafe. And there was one right next to me, despite looking from the outside more like a Thai restaurant. Given my lack of Owhango stop, I felt justified in a quick rest. I leaned my bike next to an outside table and ordered two toasted sandwiches, having spent the last few kms picturing cheese and bread together.
Back sitting outside, a woman approached me. She had been sitting inside the cafe. I was focused on inhaling my toasted sandwich, so was a bit bemused when she asked “are you vaccinated?” My mumbled affirmation seemed to satisfy her, and she went back inside. A few minutes later, when I went back inside to request water from the kind person running the till, the woman, masked like I was, said “enjoy your ride” in a friendly way.
Briefly stopping at the service station for a powerade and two random types of crisps, I embarked on the masochistic journey to Ohura. I had again failed to predict hating on sugary snacks. They may be fine for training but as soon as I start pushing the pace, all I want is salty. The first big hill ground by, aided by not having overloaded my stomach with toasted sandwiches, with some saved for later.
I mused on the mysterious questioning woman and her motives. Perhaps she was concerned that I was travelling around and therefore a potential vector. Although if so, actually approaching me felt counterproductive in terms of her personal risk. I climbed on, enjoying the new mental puzzle, which was an improvement on fork or performance-related anxiety. Ironically, while I had sat outside that cafe primarily due to bike-guarding paranoia, I was also very aware that this region had low vax rates and was thoughtful about indoor exposure to strangers.
I’d been over this section of the route several times in Mega Grinds. Past me remembered three climbs before Ohura. Current me found this recollection annoyingful unhelpful, with at least another three hills sprouting up. But my three hours estimate was spot on. I gratefully rolled into town, anticipating my preordered wrap, which somehow exceeded expectations. I told Michelle I liked it so much I was tempted to eat the second (dinner) one right then . She looked slightly horrified (someone later described the wraps to me as giant and weighing at least 1kg). After stopping at the exquisite public toilets and refilling water, I was quickly out of town and climbing yet again.
When Pete and I had climbed this hill two weeks ago, just after dawn, it’d felt fine. But today, 100km already in my legs, it was grim. I knew objectively I was doing well, having left Ohura before 1.30pm, still at least an hour ahead of estimates, but my legs felt like lead. Putting on a podcast helped, and I settled into the climb, one eye on gathering storm clouds. I managed to top out before the heavens opened, pulling in under a hedge as a massive boom split the sky. I wondered, not for the first time in my biking career, about the odds of getting hit by lightning. But the storm was moving away, so jacket and rain-panted, I rode on. The rain wasn’t torrential for long. But I wondered what was happening ahead, especially on those mud-fest farm sections.
Downhill relief through majestic native forest sped by, with the route eventually turning up Kiwi Road. I stopped to refill water from a creek, unsure if I’d get any more today, then slogged up towards the tunnel. This is a beautiful climb, through bush-clad gullies, but appreciation levels were low. Soon there was a steep, sealed uphill that I’d blanked from my mind despite riding it both ways two weeks ago. This time there was pushing.
During this climb, I had some new thoughts about the Taumarunui questioner. I remembered when I’d first sat down, I’d coughed a bit, being prone to exercise-induced asthma. Perhaps the coughing had been alarming. This didn’t fully clarify motive though. Perhaps she thought that vaccinated people couldn’t get Covid and was therefore falsely reassured by my answer. But what if I’d answered in the negative? These types of mental puzzles grind hills away. On the good news front, Stratford did not seem to have gone into a lockdown as yet.
The zoom down a descending ridge was muted magic, my energy levels dropping. It was around 6.30pm and I knew if I didn’t eat soon, I would struggle. I was determined to make it to a little patch of mobile coverage and eventually slumped into the ditch where Pete and I had had lunch two weeks prior. Yet again I loved my bean wrap from Ohura. Looking at the tracker, I’d have company very soon, with Eileen and Andy just down the road. It’d been nearly 24 hours since I’d seen another rider! They caught up just as I was ready to go, and we climbed together for a while, chatting about the ride and random TTW thoughts. When we passed a potential water source they stopped, while I rode on, expecting to see them again soon, though I never did that night.
At the top of this climb, the route went through another tunnel, which deeply confused me as my mind had merged it with Moki tunnel. On the plus side, I was now at a bivvy spot that I’d been puzzled not to see back then, which I knew had a stream, so I hopped the fence and refilled my bottle. The next downhill led into our first farm section, which I hadn’t originally expected to clear on day 2. I wrestled my bike over the gate and continued along a 4wd track, more muddy now than in October. But the mud didn’t match my lurid imaginings, and even the cut-up bog across the river was better than expected. As the route doubled back to head upstream, I glanced at the other side, looking for Eileen and Andy, but they must have stopped for food. Aside from having to stop yet again to push the fork seal back in, the farm was pleasingly unmemorable. The fork was still holding air but perhaps not as much. I tried not to think about it.
Soon the track improved to a gravel road and, lights on, I started scanning for bivvy spots. One shed looked promising, only to be four-sided and locked. Leave no trace definitely did not encompass breaking and entering. I knew there were possibilities further on, but was uncertain whether they’d be too visible from surrounding houses. I rode past promising tree clumps, brain tired, reluctant to spend time investigating. I decided if the future possibilities didn’t pan out then I’d just keep going and find more trees. But in the end there was a nice veranda and I felt sufficiently unnoticed.
Not long after, one rider’s lights went past, then 10 minutes later, another. I had enough coverage to see they weren’t Eileen and Andy but Symon and Richard, perhaps aiming for Whangamomona. It was nearly 10pm now, and I knew that would be perhaps another 2 hours riding. I was happy in my sheltered spot, and enjoyed a hot drink and some incongruous crisps before a much better sleep.
Day 3: 167km, 2032m climbing
I rode off into another misty morning at 5.20am, glad of where I’d stopped given the terrain changed to bare farmland. Up a winding gravel climb, I came across Richard, camped on a bend, enjoying the sunrise. Then while I loved the sealed, bush-clad climb to Whanga saddle, on the soaring descent my fork collapsed. All the air gone, the stanchion totally compressed. Despite that, this descent remains one of my favourite race memories, misty dawn light revealing majestic podocarps. As I sped along the last few, very foggy kms to Whangamomona, the bike’s geometry was appreciably altered, with the front end a good 10cm lower. Ironically it made my aching lower back feel better, and I wondered about future experimentation with the stack height… I also wondered how much damage this was doing to the damper side. I started to think about Tahi’s promise to leave a box of tools at the aid station, and the remote possibility this might contain a shock pump. By the time I made my way onto the bach’s covered porch, this thought was a laser in my brain. I headed straight for the tool box (not really taking in the fact that little else, including my food parcel, could be seen on the porch, nor was Tahi’s van there). I opened the lid and bingo!
That problem miraculously solved, I started to think about my food parcel and whether anyone was actually inside the bach. It was just after 7am and I (correctly) assumed poor Tahi’s mum would have had a long couple of days, including a very late night yesterday. So I did a few jobs before any attempted wake up calls, including lubing my chain yet again and drinking a can of coke left temptingly by the door. Normally I hate coke but today the sugar and caffeine overrode the taste. Before I’d finished, Andy and Eileen arrived. They were now in the same boat re missing food parcel, and I felt better about waking Liz, who responded to our knocking very graciously. We stashed our resupplies, including awesome bonus treats from Liz. While Andy and Eileen headed off, I chatted with Liz in an attempt to legitimize imminent shock pump theft, then fired off a message to Tahi at the top of the next hill, receiving a thankfully positive response. (For some reason Whangamomona sits in a mobile dead spot, though the hills before and after are fine.)
My mood significantly boosted by caffeine, company and the shock pump, the climb towards the next farm section felt fine. As the road deteriorated to track, it remained surprisingly unmuddy, at least compared to my thunderstorm imaginings. I caught Andy and Eileen when we started the rougher climb to the saddle, then lagged behind to shove the fork seal back in again. I walked the steeper sections, grateful for some muscle variation. The sun was burning down, contrasting with the relatively cool past two days. Heading down the next valley, I stopped for sunblock and seal fitting/fork pumping (inadvertently abandoning the air valve cap here, I realised some hours later). At this point Richard passed me and we had a brief chat. The road improved and for a while Richard and I were able to open gates for each other, both picking up water from a cave-like stream, before he disappeared into the distance.
Passing the Bridge to Somewhere, I knew a climb lay ahead. This climb had grown substantially in brutality since October. I suffered. It was scorching, windless and not always fun. I started to hate it. I wished for a stream I could jump into but every splashing sound was metres down some sinkhole. Eventually I pulled off into a tiny shade patch, thinking a rest and lunch might help. But the Radix berry breakfast sat uneasily (doubly unfortunate since I had another for tomorrow’s breakfast). I appreciated its calorie/weight/volume ratio but not its flavour. Then while cleaning and lubing my squeaking chain, I had the massively unwelcome realisation I was nearly out of Squirt. Normally a little bottle easily covers 4-5 days so I couldn’t understand it. Had I inadvertently wasted some? Was the bottle leaking? Certainly I remembered the chain needing lube 2-3 times a day, instead of the more normal night/lunch routine. I berated myself for allowing this to happen, with hundreds of kms to go. I really hate the noise of a too-dry chain and the sense that it’s chewing through all other components. (Later I found out that other riders ran out too – perhaps the dust was just unusually fierce?).
Not exactly buoyed by lunch, I kept grinding up the hill, headphones in and music on. It was very hot and I was definitely hating it. I would stop for the night in Hawera, I vowed, in a nice motel. Running the numbers in my fuzzy head, I figured I’d get there between 7.30-8pm. Not exactly in line with my target of at least an hour in the dark, but not too shameful. Pātea, which had few accommodation options, would be at least another two hours further and I just couldn’t face it. Making decisions in mental dark holes isn’t a great race strategy but I fell into this familiar trap.
Eventually the hideous climb ended, though memories from last time (now proving unhelpfully accurate) told me there were several more hills to come before reaching the highway to Stratford. But I switched from music to podcasts, which proved more diverting. Finally I hit tarmac and time started to pass normally. I turned off towards Eltham and resumed calculating. It was about 6.15pm and now I would need to actually push to reach Hawera before 8pm. I had become obsessed with the idea of more chain lube and knew the service station there shut at 8, so picked up the pace, stopping only briefly on a hill to book the motel. The route cruised through Eltham before winding round backroads again, and I hit the Hawera BP at 7.58pm. I sneaked inside, though in vain. The days of service stations carrying puncture kits and other useful bike things seem to be gone.
Daylight fading, I navigated to the motel. The lovely woman on the desk appeared unfazed I would obviously take my bike into the relatively flash unit, even offering to hold the door. Pizza was my next priority, but between looking at the menu and placing the call I kept forgetting what I wanted to say. During the 30 minute wait, I enjoyed the luxury of showering and handwashing filthy shorts and socks. Then I managed to resist eating both pizzas, remembering past sleepless nights of digestion. Race determination returned, and I set my alarm for 3.30am. I wasn’t exactly proud of today but tomorrow could be better.
Day 4: 193km, 2366m climbing
The Radix berry guff was better with cold water, if not exactly delicious. I managed another few bits of pizza, then ziplocked the rest for the road. Fog blanketed everything, reducing visibility even when the sun started to rise after an hour or so riding. The route nipped on and off the main highway, seeking out backroads. Just before Pātea, Ride with GPS was insistent about turning right but I couldn’t see a road through the mist. Closer inspection revealed a farm track. That must be right. There were a surprising number of gates, slowing down a previously speedy morning. Eventually I emerged onto a Pātea back street. Only later did I find out everyone experienced similar puzzlement (some with added farmer beration) for what Tahi quickly owned as technology-generated course error.
When I hit the main street of Pātea, it was just after 7am and the service station was open. I pulled in for coffee, powerade and crisps. The cashier let me lean my bike on a fridge inside as I used the facilities – his kindness cheered me for the next hour at least. I wheeled across the road, balancing drinks, and sat down in a park for a couple of minutes. My back was increasingly sore. Sitting on the concrete, legs out straight with a wall to lean on, felt like luxury as I speed-drank my flat white.
After Pātea, the route left the highway but then was soon back on it. Somewhere around here, with an oncoming double trailer truck and another bearing down in my mirror, I jumped into the ditch, getting a friendly toot in acknowledgement. Rather than feeling at risk, this brightened my mood considerably. I really value having a mirror on highways like this and tend to take a precautionary approach to trucks coming up behind. All these hours alone meant any friendly interaction provided a huge morale boost.
Soon there was a longer off-highway section, parallel to Waverley. With caffeine coursing through my veins and an interesting podcast, I felt 1000% better than yesterday afternoon. I realised a lot of that anguish could be traced back to lack of training, which wasn’t well calibrated with expectations for this event. In the first two days, I’d overshot my plans. But for the third day, even though I’d written on my notes “?8pm” next to Hawera, I’d half been thinking I could make it to Waitōtara or even Kai Iwi, (another 7 hours riding by my own calculations on that same bit of paper…). Anyway, I now told myself, the important thing was I’d finish today, even if that wasn’t the “early afternoon” I’d picked out of thin air before the race. This course was substantially harder than last year’s eastern loop Mega Grind and I was substantially less trained.
The route wiggled inland again before Waitōtara, with a nice easy cruise down the river to the township, which I didn’t visit, deciding to tackle an upcoming hill before my energy faded. As I climbed on and then inland away from the highway, I kept getting passed by trucks. It was a narrow back road, and not only were they coming up behind, they were also oncoming. There seemed to be a truck every 5 minutes, which made for very unrelaxing riding. As I neared both the top of the climb and a junction, I wondered if I’d finally shake the traffic, but no, the trucks were going exactly the same way as me, which made little sense. I sat briefly in a shaded ditch, eating my pizza and watching a couple rumble by.
After a swift downhill I briefly crossed the state highway again, to dog leg towards the coast and Kai Iwi. Bizarrely the trucks followed, only disappearing relatively close to the sea, perhaps some kind of building site. It was hot hot hot again, and so dusty, my chain shrieking at maximum volume. I debated whether to stop in at Kai Iwi holiday park, which might have a shop but was slightly off route downhill. But it was only a small hill, and I was rewarded by an ice-cream sign outside. Struggling to have a coherent conversation or decision-making process, I chose the recommendation of the friendly campground manager, an extra large butterscotch trumpet, plus another uncharacteristic coke. Both went down well with my last pizza, and I re-sunblocked in welcome shade. I filled up my bladder from a hose and refused to think about whether it was drinking water supply. As I left, Symon appeared and we had a half coherent chat. I suspected I’d see him again before long.
Only 80km to go but that included today’s significant climb. I expected the ups to start right from Kai Iwi, so a flattish ride back to the highway was pleasing. Turning counterintuitively left, it was only a km or so before the route headed right. Weirdly I knew exactly where I was, this area memorable from recent drives to Taranaki. However, that car-driving part of the jigsaw struggled to fit well with the rest of today’s riding pieces. The turnoff right was signed Bushy Park, which I’d always been curious about. I hoped for some nice forest on the climb: it was past midday now and the day grew ever hotter.
Logging trucks used this road, though were less frequent than this morning’s bizarre parade. I passed Bushy Park, which looked like it merited a proper visit, surrounded by inviting forest. At least my road, gravel now, was better shaded. Like most climbs, once you got into it, this was ok. Not too steep, just a relentless grind in the sun. Eventually I found the first summit, followed by a swift sharp descent, but the second climb was again a good grade. Great views as we followed a high ridge, before plunging down towards Whanganui river. With my ailing fork, descents weren’t as fun as normal. I felt concerned something fundamental had gone wrong on the damper side; perhaps oil had been forced out during the Whangamomona hill collapse. Or maybe the fork just wasn’t holding air significantly; the pump had been used many times. But these worries were nagging rather than acute, and once I acquired the pump, I never doubted I’d make it to the end.
At the bottom of the descent, I joined another gravel road, along which four vehicles shot in quick succession during a well-timed rest. I lay down and looked up at the tree canopy for 30 blissful seconds. During the next stretch, Symon passed me and we compared manic motorists. It was just after 4pm – maybe they were heading home from forestry. He powered off, making me feel sluglike. The next stretch belied an overall downhill gradient, with many aggravating rises. I’d looked forward to this valley as a gentle, native-bush clad descent but it was not. I was still listening to podcasts, distracting myself from an increasingly sore right knee as well as the intermittently numb left toes I’d had for quite a bit of the event. My right lower back was hurting and topped the pain hierarchy. Perhaps moving my saddle back a pretty random 5mm the previous week hadn’t been an improvement.
The displeasing valley eventually ended with, of course, a climb. Not long after that I saw a familiar car and person beside the road – Pete had come out to provide a bit of welcome encouragement. It’s downhill from here, he said. But my tired legs felt the next hour or so had its share of ups despite being back on seal. Civilisation grew stronger and I kept looking out for the telltale tower on the river’s true left that marked my destination. A cycle path emerged beside the road, and I couldn’t figure out whether we were supposed to be on it, eventually jumping over, to wind behind buildings and pop onto the familiar bridge over the river. The steep street up to the tower had doubled in gradient over the past 3.5 days, and I walked. Then the confusing route to the top outsmarted my tired brain, and I ended up carrying my bike up steps, feeling stupid and having irrational fears of disqualification.
But at the end there was a lovely crowd to welcome me. Our post mortems continued in the pub an hour or so later, with a welcome shower in between. That’s one of my favourite parts of events like this, talking about it with people who know exactly how crazy we are.
The Renegades Muster is an awesome course with its native bush pockets and tiny tunnels. The farmland and MTB tracks spice things up and the tarmac is mostly a relief not boredom. Sounds like a rerun next year is highly probable! Thanks heaps to Tahi and Liz for this year’s awesome organising and support.
(Fork postscript: having fully rebuilt it (again), it seems miraculously fine. Potentially a defective o-ring on the airside and/or grease blocking the positive/negative air exchange…)
Great read and great effort all round😀Dad
Zip lock bags for pizza! That’s going on the packing list for TTW 🙂