I really enjoyed hanging out at the backpackers with Pete, Mark and Hana. Pete and Mark cooked a great dinner while we shared stories, not heading to bed till after 10! Next morning, Rachel, Dulkara and Caleb dropped in to say bye before we all headed off, Pete and I gratefully cadging a ride to Invercargill with Mark and Hana’s friend Sier.
Accommodation in Invercargill was strangely scarce, and after a double-booking fiasco Pete and I found ourselves heading for the Holiday Park some kilometres from town. I scooted my bike there while Pete picked up our parcels from the post office. Sitting on my bike – or comfortably on anything – was still out. My whole body had noticeably swelled up, whether from dehydration or some other electrolyte imbalance, not unusual after events. While I was in pain, the post-event high was strong, and I didn’t feel concerned.
I brought my flight home forward, for an eye-watering $300 despite it being flexible, and packed my bike into my Tardis, which I had posted down. I felt extremely grateful for that decision, which meant being able to fit in a taxi rather than having to ride the airport. Flying home at an extremely early hour, I fidgeted constantly, unable to sit comfortably.
When I got home, I did a lot of icing with legs up the wall, and convinced myself the swelling was receding. But after a weekend catching up with friends, reality crashed down on Monday morning at work. After an hour at my standing desk, I realised I didn’t actually feel that great, and booked a doctor’s appointment. When your GP says ‘I don’t like the look of that’, followed by ‘when did you last eat’, you know it’s not going to end well. By 11am I was at A&E with a referral to the surgical ward. I couldn’t sit, so after a while they got me to lie on a trolley in the corridor, the very same place I had lain 10 years earlier after stick blending my finger, generating unfortunate deja vu. I briefly felt sorry for myself. But then I saw a distraught mother run in with a baby.
After a while I was transferred to the surgical ward. The next two days were spent waiting for an ultrasound and then a surgical slot. There were differences of opinion about whether the haematoma, as they diagnosed it, was infected, but the specialist deemed it so.
The worst thing about these 48 hours wasn’t the waiting. I knew other people with life-threatening injuries deserved priority. It was the hunger. On Monday, after a handful of almonds at 9am, I had no food till a single sandwich late evening. Tuesday was back to nil by mouth till a registrar thankfully said to me at 5pm that I could eat now. It was almost like I could feel my muscles eating themselves, and the starvation definitely didn’t help my mood. When they weighed me pre-op, I’d lost 2kg in two days.
Got my priorities right
At midday on Wednesday I had my first ever general anesthetic, which was less scary than expected. I remember having a discussion with a recovery room nurse about bike lanes, and was back home by 6pm.
The haematoma had indeed been infected and the wound was now packed. Over the coming days it healed well, and after two weeks I could sit down (I won’t say more about this period apart from it being painful and feeling endless!). After four weeks I was gingerly back on my bike, commuting, though it was several months before I risked a longer ride.
Everyone (including me) wonders how this injury happened, so they can avoid it (again). I remember riding over those millions of river stones at Haldon Arm and feeling tenderness on that sit bone. Perhaps that exacerbated an earlier impact I’ve forgotten. It was news to me that infections could occur without broken skin, and even travel around your body. I had a number of nasty scratches on my leg that could have been a factor. But after many hours thinking it over, there’s no clear answer.
TTW22 kicks off next week. I’ll be avidly dotwatching. Unlike other events I’ve done, it hasn’t seemed easier in retrospect. But my position has softened from ‘never again’ to ‘never again on that bike’…
My sleep was like a coma. Rachel’s rising didn’t disturb me till 5.45am, when I sprung guiltily into action. While packing up I choked down two gourmet cardboard grain bars purchased in Oturehua. Geof was giving away pizza from last night so I ate a slice too. Chris and Bob, also there, looked unsurprisingly surprised to see me. The others headed off bang on 6.30am but I wasn’t far behind, swapping in a fresh battery before heading into the southern darkness.
For the second time I crossed the one-way bridge against the red light, reflecting my internal disarray. The Clutha Gold trail felt bizarrely easy, a mild gradient rising to a tunnel. A rainbow briefly appeared before I started the downhill glide to Lawrence. I remember thinking how well my body was feeling, pain muted to a background hum, and how good this saddle was…
I caught Rachel and we chatted into Lawrence, finding Geof, Scotty and Dulkara outside a cafe that would imminently open. They’d fleetingly seen Chris and Bob, on a mission to the finish. But I found the idea of sitting down and catching up hugely appealing. We all ordered food and coffee, and I tried to down lots of water, increasingly conscious of my lingering dehydration. The last time I’d sat down for a meal was in Murchison, years and years ago, where I’d met Geof and Scotty. Dulkara filmed us discussing whether we’d ever do TTW again (apart from Geof who was not a fan of the camera). Despite the luxury stop, which included a phone call to sort out payment for last night’s bed, it’d been less than 40 minutes. My favourite memory from that final day. I also had a message from Pete, who’d finished last night, saying accommodation and food awaited at Slope Point, and felt grateful I wouldn’t need to grapple with those logistics.
We pulled out of town and up a hill, Dulkara, Rachel and I chatting. We talked about motivational mantras, mine being stuck on my top tube. Every time I got on and off, I would glimpse its aspirational taunting. After hundreds of dismounts from day 3 onwards, I hated it with a passion.
Be annoyed
Breakneck Road went up and down and up and on and on, but the rain stayed away. Along more pastoral roads, I enjoyed chatting to Geof about his Tour Divides and riding philosophy. As we crossed the one-way bridge at Clydevale, some of us nearly had a head on with a truck. I was behind, braking, watching with concern. But it stopped. More gravel zig zagged us to Clinton, clearly lunch time. Riding into town, I became conscious that one pain had risen above the background noise. My left sit bone felt very tender, and I was glad to get off.
We queued up to buy lunch and snacks for the rest of the day, myriad purchases holding up the roadworkers behind us. Less than 40 minutes later we were off. I’d chosen lollies to power me to the end, stowed in easy reach. I also wanted to remedy my dehydration, and would drink nearly two litres over the next two hours.
The main road out of Clinton was uncomfortably busy with blind, wooded corners. I hung back a bit, one eye on trucks in my mirror. But soon we were back on quiet roads, heading south towards the Catlins. The pain in my sit bone steadily increased. On the aerobars it was bearable, so there I stayed. Hills presented a problem. While today’s hills were nothing next to past giants, I was still reduced to walking up one. I tried hard to hang onto the others, knowing if left to my own devices the pain would make me stop frequently and long.
Country roads passed in a blur. I remember twice catching the others on top of a hill, kindly waiting. At one point Geof accurately commented that I didn’t look great and Rachel proffered a piece of pizza. While I ate it, lack of food obviously wasn’t the issue, though I’m not sure I even said that. Part of me was in denial, not quite understanding this injury. It wasn’t a saddle sore so it didn’t really fit into my mental set of ailments.
After climbing into the Catlins, we enjoyed an awesome downhill through forest. I’d drunk nearly all my two litres and wondered if I should stop at a stream to refill. But I couldn’t be bothered; the collective momentum drew me on.
I’d been to the Catlins before and my mental map reactivated as we passed Niagara and headed towards Waikawa harbour. I wondered if I should get water from the cafe but it looked closed, and we only had 25km to go. I looked back and couldn’t see Geof and Scotty anymore. I wondered if they’d stopped to check out the cafe, and kept going.
The end couldn’t come soon enough from a pain point of view. Being on the aerobars had become excruciating, while sitting up was nearly unbearable. I knew there was a hill just before the end and I dreaded it. I stopped to pee, letting Rachel and Dulkara get well ahead. I still couldn’t see any sign of Geof and Scotty though didn’t have mental room for concern.
Finally I made the last turn onto Slope Point road. It was gentle at first and soon passed accommodation where finished riders were staying. They’d come out to cheer us on. Someone took a photo of me and I remember thinking it couldn’t capture the pain that dominated that moment. Soon after the road curved up, climbing 100m. I ground up, grateful it was the last hill, then zoom down to where a track turned off to the end. Dulkara and Rachel had stopped and we had a brief discussion about waiting for the others. But all I could think about was finishing. For me, TTW had been predominantly a solo ride, though today’s company today had made a massive difference. It was 6.40pm and I wanted to finish before the clock ticked to 7pm and 9.5 days.
In the end, the three of us rode on together. When I got to the sign post, I sat down on the ground, rang Richard and cried. Coverage was patchy and he must have wondered what was going on. I was spent and overwhelmed. In that instant, I didn’t feel happy joy; it felt really different from my other race finishes.
I picked myself up. Caleb came down, kindly bringing ginger beer and crisps, which perked me up. We played around taking celebratory photos then, about 20 minutes later, Geof and Scotty rolled in. Scotty’s rear derailleur had eaten itself back at Niagara, and I felt mildly bad about riding on. But celebrating together made our achievement seem real, and my mood lifted radically.
But I knew I couldn’t sit on my bike again. I mentally prepared to walk back up that hill. But Geof’s wife drove Rachel and I back to the accommodation, which I was hugely grateful for. I coasted from that bach down to the backpackers, standing the whole way, and walked my bike up the drive.
Tonight demonstrated the benefits of a breeze compared to the previous two wet-fly nights. I’d stayed toasty by yet again wearing leg warmers, mid layer, down jacket and hat, with my sleeping bag’s hood fully cinched. But I slept fitfully, as I had for many nights now. My alarm split the darkness and I slowly went through my routine, two bumper bars definitely trumping OSMs for breakfast edibility, cold coffee again.
I started riding at 6am, lights cutting through grey. The ridge undulated more gently now, its surface friendly with only the odd stony patch. I felt totally alone and totally last, almost sensing the others speeding away at a million miles an hour. I would never see them again. That this had never previously proved true did not lessen my certainty.
But even though my last-ness seemed absolute, I was happy. So happy that I stopped at 6.45am, as the sun rose, and snapped a series of photos. I loved the alien rock formations in the dawn, backlit by a sky lightening from orange to gold.
Sunrise on the Hawkduns
Soon after, I reached the Wire Yards turn off but didn’t deviate. Beyond where the hut must lie, I saw the unmistakable shimmer of water. Word had gone round there was none up here but perhaps people just hadn’t seen it…
I descended to the saddle before Walking Spur, where the track threaded round rocky outcrops. Stopping to shed jacket and leg warmers, I thought I saw a rider behind me. They were quickly masked by a pillar, and took so long to reappear I became certain they were an hallucination. But a few minutes later, Chris and then Bob caught me. Apparently it’d been a crowded night: not just them and latecomer Dulkara, but Rachel, Geof and Scotty too in that small hut.
I pushed up Walking Spur. Every push seemed easy now, compared to Bullock Bow saddle or carrying. Only 3km long, this was almost enjoyable. When I gained the main ridge, I could see all the others ahead, the conflict with my previous world view generating only a vague mental ripple.
Next came a big drop off the Hawkduns to the plains below. At first descending was gentle and fun but it soon morphed into fear-for-life. While the 4wd track was well defined, there were lots of large, sharpened rocks, giant ruts, and the gradient was at times extreme. I could see where the track wound to flats far, far distant and I wished to be there. My rotors must have been red hot but I had eyes only for the least-reckless line. Several precipitous rock chutes required jumping off and walking. On less crazy terrain, I did an emergency stop to pick up a nearly full bottle, hoping to reunite it with its owner.
Finally my wish was realised and I sped along flat gravel to a road junction. I powered the 15km to Oturehua in 30 minutes, thinking only of morning tea. Outside the store I was surprised/not surprised to reunite with the others, along with trail angels offering peaches. I’m pretty sure I had a pie. I definitely had a coffee, not caring it would disrupt my sleep, perhaps sensing tonight would require overstimulation. Restocking with a random range of snacks (more Shapes, processed cheese slices, tuna, scroggin, a muffin), I said to the lovely shop guy, “you’re doing well out of us”. Unfortunately I think he took that as mild criticism rather than the intended expression of support for their local economy. Someone spent $72 earlier this morning, he said. That was Jeff, whose bottle I’d rescued in vain and now abandoned.
Back outside, Chris and Bob were deliberating about today’s destination. Lacking any filter, I decisively said Lawrence was too far. Soon after, they departed with determination in their eyes. I wondered whether Beaumont was too far too. I’d wing it, I decided, making no plan – uncharacteristic behaviour that showed my mental fatigue. The others trickled off, apart from Dulkara who was feeding her social media. I stuffed my snacks in bags but the very squishy chocolate banana muffin just wouldn’t fit so I had to eat it. One of the best things I’d ever tasted.
I scooted over the road to refill water from a tap on the Otago Rail Trail, which our route now briefly joined. It was 10.30am and already uncomfortably warm. The next few kms felt strangely straight as I pedaled along a baking, windless corridor. I felt alien alongside the rail trail folk, who rode upright, uncomfortable-looking bikes and sweated hotly in their cotton t-shirts. They clustered under rare trees while I powered grimly by. I tried to smile and may have looked happier than they did.
After only 13km, our route left the rail trail and plunged down to backroads. I knew this was a breather ahead of today’s (and the route’s) final test: the ranges round Lake Onslow. Every time I thought of this section, I remembered a flight to Invercargill where I’d wondered what the massive, barren hills below were like. Now I would know.
I turned onto a main road and knew there was a cafe of sorts ahead. It’d been only 1.5 hours since I last stopped but the heat was hurting. As I ate an iceblock, the adventure centre barman described Chris and Bob, clearly on a mission. But my mojo was lacking and I spent a couple of minutes laughing at Dulkara’s posts. The barman kindly showed me the water tapes in the backyard, carefully explaining one was a bore, one was roof and I could take my pick. I can’t remember which I chose, but I sculled some water and filled my bladder up, thoughtful about the lack of sources ahead. After 15 minutes, at midday, I was off again into the oven.
The next section while flat was painful. Heat smashed my energy and the plains were dull, though Rough Ridge loomed on the horizon. I passed workers scraping the road in preparation for a gravel pour, the denuded surface smooth and fast. I smiled, thinking Brian’s order of fresh gravel was just a day late. But this mood was fleeting. Only 10 minutes after the adventure centre, down a quiet road, I couldn’t resist a stand of trees outside Bonspiel station. The heat and fatigue were winning. Dulkara had inspired me so I composed a blog entry. And in the five minutes I sat there shaded, tens of vehicles zoomed past, mostly heading the same way as me. Two trucks got stuck right in front of me, one having to reverse. Bemused, I picked up my bike, keeping an eye on my mirror for more. But that was it. I’d literally sat out the traffic tsunami. Later I’d hear from others how unpleasant it had been.
Now I started the climb, initially gentle, weaving past weird rock formations. I decided to try some auditory distraction. Worried about missing traffic over music, I put on a podcast for the first time this event, my favourite one, and shed some over-tired tears halfway up when the hosts announced it was going on hiatus. But the 10km climb to Poolburn reservoir was much better than I’d imagined, slowly gaining its 400m elevation. It wound around sculptural outcrops, perhaps why the area been chosen for the Lord of the Rings TV series set, the traffic’s likely destination. There were a handful of oncoming vehicles as I climbed. One nervous car took a precautionary approach to potholes by scything diagonally across the road.
As I climbed, clouds miraculously covered the blazing sun and the temperature dropped back to bearable. After an hour I topped out at the reservoir, which was surrounded by tiny cabins. I’d planned to refill water from the lake but I still had some and couldn’t face filtering. I ate some crackers and processed cheese, which I’d normally disdain but had bought on Dulkara’s recommendation. Delicious. But just two minutes further along, someone waved to me from the side of the road: another trail angel! Cake was offered and accepted. I declined coke, thoughtful of caffeine, but filled my water bottle, which turned an unattractive colour thanks to morning coffee dregs. After five minutes of welcome conversation I dragged myself away from Don (I think?) and his mate, conscious of kilometres ahead.
The route wound round the reservoir before striking off into endless rolling ridges. But after the past week, anything rideable felt easy, and there was only one small pinch that I pushed. The sun stayed away, a cloud blanket stretching to the horizon. And a tailwind picked up. I felt so grateful. This stretch reminded me of the North Island’s Desert Road with added rocky outcrops. I started listening to a podcast about the menopause that proved diverting, slowly gaining more altitude. The climb topped out just under 1200m, passing the Lord of the Rings site on the way. This was made obvious by the security guard, sitting in a tent, keeping watching over the wasteland. He was friendly and exchanged observations about the riders he’d seen. Just one more, I said.
I turned towards the Serpentine Diggings without bothering to look at the small church, more focused on the blessing of downhill. The route soon took a sharp right across a stream. I could (and should) have got water here but it was pooled and probably stock polluted, and I just couldn’t be bothered making it safe. I still had some. I waded across the stream and through an adjacent bog, with another short climb before a welcome 5km downhill, pushed by the wind. The rough gravel road had long since deteriorated to 4wd and felt endless. I thought about how heinous this would be with the wind reversed and the sun blazing.
Descending, the track splintered down steeper sections. You picked a strand at the top and hoped it continued to the bottom. I enjoyed this, at least initially, appreciating how at ease I felt on the bike in more technical terrain. After hours and hours of riding, you no longer have the energy to tense up. You also can’t be bothered getting off unless it’s something like a cliff. I’d switched from podcasts to music and did a bit of crazy singing. But by the time the descent ended, my enjoyment had dissipated and standing on the pedals was sapping energy.
I looked forward to being back on a gravel road, surely soon. There had been many, many gates this afternoon, and I’d almost perfected the dance of getting through with headphones on. One final gate and I was back on a road, zooming down to Lake Onslow. While there was a stream at the bottom, it was surrounded by cows and again I didn’t stop. Round the corner, I spied another climb ahead and my legs seized. Time for ‘dinner’: Shapes and cheese slices.
I knew Dulkara couldn’t be far behind, and every now and then I would glance back. In some ways I’d welcome the company but I was at the same time trying to stay ahead. I was having trouble managing myself and that would become harder with someone else to consider. But as I ate my dry, crunchy meal, I wasn’t surprised when she appeared around the corner.
We set off together, up the unwelcome climb, where I initiated some walking. Dulkara could have powered ahead but seemed to be appreciating conversation. In the far distance, our next turnoff to private land was clearly visible, on a spot height with some trees. I knew Pete had made it there the previous night after starting that morning from the Hawkdun range. Matching that effort had been my unspoken goal for the day. How much farther was a blank in my sub functional mind. There was a second section of private land before the route dropped to the Mata-au and Beaumont, which meant no stopping, and I wasn’t sure I could make it through.
After the climb, the road swooped down to where the Teviot exited Lake Onslow. I knew I needed water, despite all the cows. We collected from a rivulet through the grass, in the hope it was cleaner, and I treated it. I should have totally filled up on water here rather than feeling a need to rush. I was too focused on getting through the first private land section before darkness fell.
We wended our way up a bigger climb, to the high point where Pete had stopped. The sun bathed the hills red and I felt a fleeting sense of progress, ticking off another section. However, the route onwards was my least-studied part of the course, which meant my mental map became vague, increasing my sense of disorientation. We turned into a broad, new-looking farm track, with expansive dusk views to our right. This was pleasingly easy. But then my off-course beep sounded. Somehow we weren’t on the route, even though there had been no obvious fork. Retracing 100m, we found a parallel road to our left, over a fence. Many tyre tracks converged where we lifted bikes over, and we felt less incompetent.
By now it was more dark than dusk, and lights were on. Perhaps one of the reasons Dulkara was keen to ride with others at night was her light situation, her main light having failed and her head torch unreliable. The ups and downs rolled on, with a long climb to where we joined a gravel road. We were at 1000m and the night began to cool; I put my jacket on. My memories of this section are vague, with no visual images or mental map to pin them to.
Next came a big downhill, and I managed my speed to help Dulkara see. I had plenty of charge left in both lights, plus a spare full battery for my CX. The route then circled around some buildings at a station, and I hoped we wouldn’t wake people, given it was now 10pm. I did know the next 30km were a wiggly gradient line and would not be fast, despite the final descent to the river. At about 10.30pm I felt really tired, and said to Dulkara I might stop before we hit the private land. But she was determined to make Beaumount, and tonight that inspired me, as did the lack of water sources. It would have been sensible to ring ahead and sort a bed – we could see a town (and potential mobile coverage) twinkling far below. But I felt like the world was asleep, along with my brain.
As we entered private land, the route wove down a valley. With plenty of charge, I was running Ride with GPS with the screen on, watching our painful progress along the elevation graph. I counted off the bumps to Dulkara, 100m or 200m climbs looming like mountains. During this grovel, both my lights flicked down to power-saving dimness but I couldn’t be bothered swapping the CX battery.
Finally came a big switch-backed descent to the Mata-au. I had nurtured the thought there would be a shelter on the Clutha Gold trail, which we now joined, that we could sleep in. However, the trail had no shelters. Or at least none we could find roaming round Beaumont just after midnight. We crept through the streets and checked out a church for verandahs to sleep under, and hedges. This roaming around only took about 15 mins but seemed a directionless eternity. I knew my brain was long past the point of reason, and even thought about just riding on, through the night.
Dulkara had the presence of mind to flick her phone on – and we had a message from the lovely Rachel saying there were beds for us at the camping ground. We retraced our roaming, crossed the bridge against the red light, and found the pub and the cabins. It was nearly 12.30am. I felt obsessively concerned about waking the guys, who I barely knew, so Dulkara let me share with Rachel. I saw Dulkara was having a shower so I had one too, despite the hour. So gorgeous after two sweaty days. I didn’t realise how dehydrated I’d become and should have drunk a lot more water at this point. Rachel said she was planning to get up at 5.30am – figuring I would definitely wake when she started moving around, I didn’t set an alarm…
