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…
Just like my last motel night in Methven, I struggled to sleep. Maybe it was too hot inside; maybe I’d had too many calories too fast. Not long after 3am I gave up.
Strangely ennervated, I scoffed the last of the rolls and a bacon-flecked kumara salad before squashing my gear explosion back into bags. At 4.17am I rode into darkness, back to the main road and the start of a gravel path that was the Alps to Ocean route.
I loved this flat, silent ride beside the canal, through near-total darkness. The black wraps you up and all you know is a moving puddle of light. You listen more, and smell more. I rode in my jacket, the cool air welcome after yesterday’s scorch. Flat gravel felt so fast compared to the mountains. This felt fun again.
In the distance, strange lights sat by the canal. Eventually I realised they were fishing for salmon, perhaps farm escapees. The fishers seemed furtive but perhaps that was imaginary. I knew when I’d passed the farm by the wall of smell.
Nearing the shore of Lake Pukaki, the black was lifting to purple. I’d been going 2 hours, covering a pleasing 42km, when I stopped at a picnic bench. I bolted down some crisps and bathed in the sunrise. For the first time in days, I extricated my phone and took a few photos, trying to capture the beauty and joy. Even as I rode off, I kept glancing back to Aoraki, watching colour climb up her faces.
Sunrise at Lake Pukaki, Aoraki shining
Soon I crossed the main road, leaving the Alps to Ocean, and the route swung onto another road parallelling a waterway. The notes implied this would be bumpy but it was more benign that I expected and relatively quick. Not long after 7am, I crossed a river but decided to try for water at an upcoming campground.
But after the river, the rough gravel deteriorated massively. I felt like I’d misinterpreted the notes, which implied the bad bit was before the bridge, so rode along feeling confused and stupid. Looking back, I wish I’d managed this section differently, either by walking or standing more. It was mostly fist- to baby-head- sized river stones, making for a very bumpy ride. While standing was more comfortable, the scale of the stones made it hard to maintain momentum and balance. Dawn’s joy had ebbed. I can remember my left sit bone feeling tender with all the hard bounces, but just dismissed this like the other constant pains.
It was 5 heinous kms to the campground, where the few campers were starting to rise. I stopped at a tap festooned with warnings. I treated it, glad I’d brought so many aquatabs. Riding out of the campground, it was already warming up and I felt some concern about the hot day ahead. At least the road surface improved. There were a few 4wders out and I thought one was heading right for me without slowing. Then I realised it wasn’t even on the road, just driving parallel on the river flood plain.
Soon I was lakeside again – Benmore this time – before turning into the next section of private land. We’d been given the code to this gate. I remembered Brian saying he’d just vault over with his bike. But lifting my bike over gates was never easy and I was grateful I’d noted the code on my phone. Not long after I stopped for a break, already uncomfortably hot at 9.30am.
The route gradually climbed 500m up the valley, relatively painlessly, especially with music blasting away. When your headphones are physically connected to your bike, balancing it through gates is a challenge but I persevered. A sweeping hairpin marked the approach to the saddle – far quicker than I’d expected. I dropped my bike and took a few photos, so good was my mood, especially since it was downhill from here. There was a panoramic view of a lake, though I had little sense of where I was outside my small map tiles. From here to the Catlins, my mental map was non-existent, which would feel increasingly dislocating as sleep deprivation ramped up.
Not the top, looking haggard
I enjoyed the descent and started imagining lunch at Otematata. But my joy turned to irritation as several more saddles appeared. The route then sped down to the lake, but it was a drowned valley with many descending spurs. An angry study of the topo revealed yet another sharp saddle to come before I’d descend to the dam itself. Increasingly hot and discontented, I watched the lake as I rode, boaties enjoying themselves. I wondered how they’d got there. My torturous idea of leisure seemed totally divorced from theirs. I swooped past a tree-lined beach, boaties relaxing on it, then up another pinch grovel. Why hadn’t I stopped there for some shade? It was after 12, I’d been riding for 8 hours and I really needed to eat. The sun beat down as I dropped and climbed again, this tree-less country feeling more and more hostile.
When the route dipped close to the shoreline 15 minutes later, I didn’t make the same mistake. I scrambled down a bank to a welcome tree, to munch melting cheese and shapes. I waded into the lake, toes stirring velvety murk, and rinsed out my singlet. Otematata’s shops, surely not far away now, got me back up the bank after 25 shaded minutes.
It was now 1pm and I’d travelled 103km. Late last night I’d watched Pete inch up the Hawkdun range after starting from Tekapo that morning. Given I’d started so early, I knew I’d be able to get at least there, if not farther along the tops. I knew climbing that terrain would be better in the evening than the sun-blasted day. My current struggles with the heat would be recompensed later – and maybe I should stop flogging myself.
I rode around a big cove, a family relaxing on its beach. They looked at me strangely. Or perhaps paranoia was setting in. Rounding the back of the cove, the route naturally cut uphill towards a headland. A shirtless man was walking up the road, staring at his hands. It took a long moment for me to recognise Rob the film maker. We didn’t really chat as he was focused on not crashing his drone. But he did intimate that Chris and Bob weren’t far behind, which I found somewhat depressing given I thought I’d left Tekapo several hours ahead. Since the high of the first saddle, I’d sunk into a suboptimal state, driven by both the heat and my disappointment in the lack of descent. By now I knew there was yet another vicious hill around the corner, as Rob helpfully confirmed. I rode off, not sure if he was filming me and whether I should attempt to look competent and/or smiley. (He was and this clip made it into the film).
Finally I descended to the dam, pedalled across its flatness and joined the sealed road. A cycle trail paralleled the road and I stopped to check my written notes. Being exactly on the route had become a moral imperative; one of the only certainties in my sleep-deprived cognitive framework. But no, the notes implied the road, which concurred with the gpx line. So on I went, enjoying the speed of seal. Disconcertingly, there were people and cars.
Soon I turned left onto a highway and right into the Otematata shops, pulling up outside an icecream store. It was 2pm and felt like 30+ degrees on the tarmac. Inside the store, I waited zombie-like for some teenagers to make their selections. Eventually I ordered a double cone and the friendly woman scooped it with a generous hand. She told me my friend was waiting under a tree in the park. After a few seconds, I figured she must mean Dulkara, who hated the heat.
I sat outside to eat my icecream and Dulkara appeared, as did Rob. Chris and Bob pulled in at some point too. My memory of this stop is strangely vague, despite Ride with GPS telling me it was a scandalously long 1 hour. I definitely bought more supplies from the dairy, including 1.5 litres of welcomingly cold water, plus a powerade which I downed on the spot. And more crisps.
We chatted about the hilly hell we’d just covered, and the travails of yesterday afternoon. Rob filmed as we said random things to camera, some of which made the final cut. My words are a little slurred! Also sitting outside the shops were a group of older people very interested in my bike but I struggled to converse as I packed up, standing in what felt like a concrete sauna.
At least riding away brought some breeze. Chris and Bob were just ahead; Dulkara still in town mulling her heat strategy. I turned into Otematata station, riding right past the farm buildings before climbing the inevitable hill. I alternated half-hearted riding with pushing, collapsing for a rest after about 500 vertical metres, about 4pm. Dulkara caught me and we climbed the final stretch together.
The ridge topped out at around 800m, followed by a nice descent. I thought the next stretch might be slow but for once my misreading was favourable. The 4wd track down valley was fast and fun, requiring little concentration. Talking to Dulkara helped – it was the first time I’d had more than a snatched conversation since the race started, over a week ago. It was also first time I’d ridden with someone else since day 2’s dawn with Brendan. 20km sped by as we chatted about life and paths taken. We passed isolated huts in grassy clearings and I wondered, half longingly, about living there.
About 7pm, we crossed the river to the base of the Hawkdun ascent. We sat down on the lawn-like bank and I ate some tuna and shapes, and showed Dulkara my bruises. There was potentially no water on the range, and I swallowed as much as I could, camel-like. I filled both my 2L bladder and my bottle, as well as my now-leaking 500mL filter bladder (vowing again this would be the filter’s last trip). This would have been a perfect spot to camp, but I had mentally committed to the evening climb many hours ago. And the temperature was finally dropping to bearable.
So we started to push. This climb to the ridge was another 500m beast. It looked very steep from the base but I felt fine, aided again by conversation. Sometimes it was push bike – brake – step – repeat, but mostly just a trudge. About 8.30pm, near the 1000m mark, riding became plausible. As we pedalled, the sun burnt the sky red and Aoraki glowed behind us. I remembered watching sunrise on its faces, a million hours ago this morning. We kept climbing, more and more ridably, as darkness fell, inadvertently herding a large flock of sheep who appeared like ghosts in our light beams. They flowed over the landscape much faster than our spent legs.
About 10.30pm I was fading and wanted to stop. There was a small hut about 7km away, perhaps another hour. Probably it was already home to a sleeping Bob and Chris. When I stopped, I wanted to have some food and not feel bad about disturbing others, so the hut didn’t hugely appeal. And it was a perfect night to camp up here. Even though we’d climbed to 1400m, the weather remained warm with only a touch of breeze. These thoughts chased round in my head for a while as we ground on.
An intriguing “stone man” was marked on the topo and I kept glancing off to the right, imagining both a fantastic apparition and potential bivy spot. But my light only reached so far. I persuaded Dulkara I’d be fine and started to look around for a flat spot. Her faltering light edged ahead, as I continuing moving while scanning the terrain. Finding a place to camp took far longer than it should, my brain regressed to near-toddler cognition. I ended up riding another desultory kilometre, interspersed with flailing searches for flat, untussocked spots.
Intriguing but unseen
Eventually I pulled myself together, found a tiny clearing to the right of the track and pitched my fly. I rehydrated my BCC, sadly the square meat kind, Tekapo’s supermarket having been ransacked by previous riders, and slowly sorted myself and gear out. Then I sat curled in my sleeping bag, eating warm food, appreciating the peace and stars. While I’d stopped a lot (by racing standards) in this afternoon’s heat, I didn’t regret it. This night up and along the Hawkduns was otherworldly. And now I’d been on the go for 19 hours, it was time to lie down.
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.
Not just dot watching me!
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.
Not a happy camper
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.
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.
The heat is almost tangible. The bike and I were sitting under separate trees
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.
The worst night’s sleep so far. I kept waking up cold but my tired brain didn’t put the pieces together. Shining a light at 5.30am, I could see large wet patches on my sleeping bag. The still night and very low temperatures had generated significant condensation, soaking the fly. I’d been sleeping too close to its foot end and brushing one side. I resolved to try and dry my sleeping things sometime today, as I downed TBs and cold coffee. It didn’t really matter that my shoes remained saturated as I would head straight for another crossing. Rolling up the fly meant all my extremities were now deeply chilled.
My breath hanging heavy in the air, I reached the first crossing and was just about to wade in – when I realised my spare socks were back hanging on a tree. Thankfully this fell inside the “can I face going back” distance, which was now relatively short. I actually ran back to retrieve them, mindful of both time and my freezing feet and fingers. After that there were plenty more crossings, some requiring concentration. While the volume of water diminished as I rode and walked my way upstream, the channel narrowed as the gradient steepened.
While I felt pleased to reach the tramping track in less than an hour, I felt less congratulatory about overshooting it by 20 metres. Tyre tracks showed many others had done the same. Retracing my steps to the giant orange triangle, I ate a snack, rearranged my gear and steeled myself for difficult terrain.
But I found this section in the bush ok. Maybe because I had no expectation of being able to ride, or because it was considerably shorter than the Dampier climb or the Hope Kiwi track. There was plenty of awkward bike wrestling but I could push and lift rather than carry. Having most gear in the pack plus the sweetroll on my back helped. I’d taken the pedals off, so didn’t waste mental energy assessing whether riding was possible. I should have done this through the Hurunui – committing to pushing would have been quicker than continual on/off. Now, in easier sections, I just jogged beside the bike (much less risky with pedals off). There were some steep, rooty sections requiring dodgy lift-and-balance manoeuvres but I didn’t fall.
After about an hour of bush slog, I checked View Ranger – and the bridge across the Cass was just around the corner. From there it was less than a k to the hut. By 9.30am I was inside, writing quickly in the log book. A couple of tramping packs were stashed in the vestibule and I wondered how crowded it had been last night.
Not long after the hut, the terrain turned tussocky. These bike-repelling lumps made pushing futile. Other mean alpine plants fill the gaps between them. Not for the first time in this race, I wondered whether Spaniard would pierce a tubeless tyre. Experience confirmed it would pierce flesh. Compounding the challenge, my sweetroll kept swinging round to my front unless tightened straight-jacket-like. It was time to carry.
But I sat down. I flicked my phone live and messaged Richard. Then I cried for a bit. I knew I’d crossed the border from overtired to overemotional, and would probably stay there. Tears didn’t mean you were giving up or genuinely despairing, just that your body chemistry was skewed.
A sad monologue from Cass saddle
Alright, I said, probably aloud, and picked myself up. I did the awkward strap thing, hoisted the bike and trudged on. It was less than an hour to the saddle and after that the track quickly entered the bush, looking deceptively rideable. I stopped to reconfigure, reattaching the sweet roll to the bars, though I kept my pack on for now. At the same time I chatted to an oncoming TA tramper. She’d decided to tramp out via Cass rather than trudge along Coleridge road for hours, which made total sense to me. We talked about the nature of our journeys and what inspired us. It was only five minutes but afterwards I felt really uplifted, and hopefully she did too.
There were 20 metres of nice riding before the track became unfriendly, plunging steeply for a kilometre to Hamilton Creek. I walked all of this, feeling inadequate. Next came another 3+km of “fun singletrack” to Hamilton hut. Others rave about this section but I barely remember it. I do know I was riding.
I was aiming for lunch at Hamilton hut but there were contractors on its roof, hard at work in the shimmering heat. We exchanged waves but I didn’t stop, put off by the blasting stereo and sheer numbers. Just round the corner, by a swing bridge, was a sun-baked rock. I spread out my wet sleeping gear then jumped in the stream. I rinsed socks, spare shorts and singlet, and sat in the shade munching yet another TB. By the time I packed the bone-dry tent, sleeping bag and mat, applied sun block and finished eating, it was an unusually long stop but one I didn’t regret. While eating I studied the route and realised my initial instinct to cross the bridge was wrong. Instead, our route continued past my drying rock, down river.
Popping out of the bush and onto flats, my heart lifted to see DOC vehicles. If they’d been able to drive so far upriver, the terrain must be pretty rideable. And it mostly was for the next 20km, though there were many, many crossings, which slowed things down dramatically. I felt like my right arm was stretching as it took most of bike’s weight via the chain stay. Some crossings were deep and required care, though the beating sun made the chilled water welcome. Others meant wading through warmer, more stagnant water.
By the time I neared the braided Avoca river, it was 3pm and fiercely hot. This was one of the route’s potential dangers but none of the channels were more difficult than earlier crossings. Around the corner was a rare stand of trees, and I sat briefly in the shade. The open valley meant these had been visible – and I’d been promising myself a stop – for some time. I’d also been eying a 4wd drive track across the valley that negotiated a steep slope, really hoping the route didn’t go there. Thankfully not. I knew the track would soon be more road-like, and by 4.15pm I was lifting my bike over the last gate.
I wasn’t really in top thinking form: I should have pulled into the Trustpower campsite and topped up water. Instead, determined to make ground, I powered up an unwelcome hill. As I rounded a hairpin, I could see Chris and Bob below and behind me, which generated more momentum. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to chat to them but more about my struggle with being last. But commonsense kicked in and I did pause briefly to filter water from a dodgy stream.
I mostly hated this section paralleling the lakes. My instinct that it would be downhill was continually disappointed. This combined with an unwelcome headwind and too-fresh gravel.
Near the end of Lake Coleridge, I rounded a corner to meet a giant mob of sheep. Bad experiences with stock and horses on roads have left me extremely wary, so I dismounted and walked beside the shepherd. She was controlling a couple of dogs and we chatted about life in this beautiful place. Young and enthusiastic, she cheered me. As we approached a couple of gates, she realised she’d left the wrong one open and asked me to ride through the sheep and shut it. I felt lifted by this encounter, even though I could see Chris and Bob behind the sheep and I knew they’d pass me soon. And finally, as the route left the lake, there was a decent downhill.
After we joined the Lake Coleridge road, around 7pm, I paused for some snacks and a sit down. Chris and Bob finally caught me and stopped to chat. I seized the opportunity to semi apologise for our garbled conversation yesterday, which had played on my brain for hours. We talked about the many river crossings and the annoying headwind. When I set off they weren’t far ahead – but then I quickly stopped again to pump up my tires. I’d optimistically decided too-low pressure was slowing me down. The rear valve proved almost impossible to open and I wondered if something had happened in the wheel-damaging crash. When I finally managed to turn it, the valve core started unscrewing. I wanted this stop, only 100m after my last stop, to be super quick, so frustration levels were now sky high. Swearing, I dug out my tools, tightened the value core, then managed to open the valve and finally pump the tyre up.
Maybe I was a little faster. But the road to Rakaia Gorge really dragged in the headwind. At least I appreciated my aerobars rather than cursing their additional weight. Finally reaching the turn off, I enjoyed zooming down the zig zag, though this was tainted by the looming other side. It was 8pm by now and part of my brain was focused on tonight’s logistics. I passed the camping ground in the bottom of the gorge, and this sign of civilisation prompted me to stop and see if there was coverage. In retrospect this seems pretty irrational logic at the bottom of a gorge. But there were a couple of bars!
In my planning I’d identified a likely motel in Methven, so I phoned and sorted a room. I asked the helpful proprietor what food outlets might deliver. Pizza, he said, which I instantly craved. I told him I’d try and order some pizza to arrive at 9. Then I phoned the pizza place and ordered a couple of pizzas, thinking I’d have one for breakfast. This lovely planning struck a hitch when they wouldn’t take credit card over the phone. While they would deliver the pizzas to the motel, I needed to be there in person to pay…. And the latest they would deliver was just before 9. It was 8.10pm; I had 15km to go including the climb out of the gorge. I decided to back myself.
Sprinting up a hill at the end of a long day is never recommended. But this hill, after an initial grunt, was gentle and brief. I hadn’t studied this section much and fully expected the road into Methven to be gravel. But when I turned onto Mount Hutt road, it was both tarmac and downhill! And with dusk, the headwind dissipated. I cruised along at 35kph. It was soon obvious I’d beat the pizza, so I stopped obsessively watching the minutes. Instead I kept looking right, towards a range silhouetted in orangey pink. I loved this race to Methven, feeling only joy. Shelter and food were secured (and a big step up from the past nights’ dehy and fly). I’d made it through the first tough section in under 3 days. If I could do this, I could do the rest.
By the time I hit Methven’s outskirts, my lights were fully on, though the incredible sunset continued to play out on the ranges. I even thought about taking a photo, always a sign of extreme happiness given the hassle of extricating my phone, but prioritised logistics. I’d been in my motel unit only a couple of minutes when the pizza pulled up. Finally my metabolism had come right, and I was starving. I hoovered up the first pizza feeling it was the best thing I’d ever eaten. After I’d showered and washed out my dirt-laden clothes, I ate the second pizza too. With less relish, since it contained pineapple. Thankfully snack-undereating meant I had other breakfast options. I’d unearthened a bumper bar in my feedbag, along with many melted mini Whittakkers.
I didn’t sleep well despite the luxury of sheets, feeling hot and restless. This is normal for me in races and I’ve stopped stressing about it. It’s amazing how you can keep going hard without much sleep.
I choked down yet another Tararua biscuit while packing in the predawn chill, reluctant to leave my warm nest. At least the fly wasn’t too damp, though rolling it up still numbed my fingers. Geof and Ken left first, deciding not to bother with the shortcut Brian had mentioned, and I followed them soon after. Starting at 6.30am meant you could just manage without lights, saving battery and speeding up route finding – though it always left me feeling slightly guilty.
While I didn’t have a target for this race (apart from making my flight out of Invercargill on day 14), I had set a goal of riding 1 hour in the darkness both morning and night. But sometimes terrain dictates better decisions. I would end up doing all the challenging hike-a-bike first thing, as the sun rose.
After 10 minutes I reached the toe of the long climb into the Dampier Range, and turned off Ride with GPS. As usual, I’d been navigating using my phone, which charged off my dynamo. Most bikepackers would express scepticism about this arrangement so I didn’t exactly advertise it. I knew Pete was doubtful, having pointed out second-hand Garmins for sale then kindly offering to loan one. And I did think about it. But I’d also ridden hundreds of hours on my set up, and done additional testing ahead of TTW. I knew I could navigate using Ride with GPS for 14 hours in airplane and it would only use 50% of my phone’s battery. With a cache battery, I could manage 4+ days without any dynamo input.
For the first half of the race, I was cautious about battery management. During the tramping sections, which were easy for me to navigate given the conditions, I switched to ViewRanger and just checked it every now and then, using very little battery as I wasn’t live tracking. Using ViewRanger is like having a fully featured, zoomable topo and I found this amazingly helpful. You could easily see streams, count contour lines and identify marked tracks or features, with the route overlaid on top.
As I started to push up what Brian called “initially very steep grass slopes,” I saw Hana ahead. She’d found the shortcut, though there wasn’t much in it. Rachel and Chris were slightly in front. We were probably all surprised to see a tent off to our left. I waved to (the other) Chris and Bob (aka Brenda) but didn’t deviate to chat. We’d met at the holiday park in Puponga and from now on they’d be familiar friendly faces.
On a tough climb, seeing people strung out above isn’t exactly a mood enhancer. As the ground steepened, Hana tossed her bike on her shoulders with practised grace, increasing the gap. I very quickly realised “I’ll push where I can” was a misguided philosophy. While the ridge had a thin ground trail, it was pocked with tussocks. Pushing was painfully slow and involved a lot of lifting. I would have to carry much more than I’d hoped.
I dumped my bike on the lumpy ground and reconfigured it for carrying. This meant taking off pedals, strapping my sweetroll bar bag to my back and setting up a shoulder strap. I ran a simple strap through the sweetroll’s closures so I could wear it over my right shoulder, clipped diagonally in front of my chest. To carry the bike, I turned it rear wheel forwards, then ran another strap around the seat stay and stem. I put this over my left shoulder, so the bike was like a giant handbag.
This sounds confusing in writing but was even more unwieldy in reality. Since Pete gave me the idea, I’d practised a few times. Admittedly on the lawn. I had progressed to circumnavigating the house, including two steep, overgrown banks. But longer trials were lacking. The one time I unleashed it in anger, I’d got stuck in a bog. After that, I added quick-release buckles. Having the rear wheel first was a stroke of genius (thanks Pete!), giving much better ground clearance going uphill compared to previous “right way round” experiments.
Starting to carry involved leaning awkwardly over the top tube, threading my helmeted head under the shoulder strap, picking up the end that had inevitably fallen on the ground, mating the buckles and standing without falling over. The three things – backpack, sweetroll, bike strap – sat relatively well together on my back, and at least weight was spread across both shoulders. My right arm was over the bike, holding the chain stay near the bottom bracket. Usually I took some weight through that arm to reduce the left shoulder’s load. My left arm was helpfully free to haul on tussocks.
It actually worked ok, once you were moving. Unlike people holding their bikes upside down on their shoulders, if I fell I had at least one arm free to catch myself. But as the race wore on, I’d see the hassle of setting it up/down as a drawback.
The problem with carrying is you’re now fighting the full force of gravity. Instead of the ground holding your bike up, you are. I staggered up the ridge, wishing for a tramping pack instead of this unwieldy steel thing. While carrying felt faster than pushing, it generated a new level of intensity. I could still see the others ahead, which was comforting when they had mini rests. After a while, my lower back started to ache. More carry training would have been helpful.
While the climb wasn’t exactly fun, I preferred it to the rooted Hurunui. I focused on the ground trail, tracing it through tussocks and around Spaniards. Exercising this familiar tramping skill created a welcome feeling of competence, and I felt like I was back home in the mountains. As I climbed, the sun rose into a bluebird sky, with panoramic views back to Lake Sumner.
After we hit 1300m, the route sidled below the ridge crest. Brian described it as “a long sidle that will be awkward”. He’d elaborated at the briefing, saying it was narrow with a steep drop off. Part of my mind had visualised this as a ledge cut into a cliff face. I was relieved (if not really surprised) to see an easy track. I pushed along this, enjoying flatness after the 700m climb. Pushing proved much easier with pedals off, and I regretted again how I’d approached the Hurunui section.
The obvious drawback of no pedals was my inability to ride. I trotted down some nice, gravelly ground to the saddle and found the steep gut that accessed our next sidle. While this gut wasn’t the kind of thing you’d normally take a bike down, this had ceased to feel relevant. It also included a bit of bog for the unwary. I could see others’ tracks in the soft ground, and the wide array of options taken.
As the gut narrowed, I picked my way out and around to the next sidle. A few cairns marked the way as the ground trail threaded through tussock and over annoying little spurs. Staying on track occupied a welcome portion of my brain, which had lost its joy. I longed to leave this tussock and rock infestation.
I stopped as planned at the tarn to top up my water. Its murky depths were filled with strands of algae so I stuffed around using my filter, which always takes too long. Even more irritatingly, there was a clear stream round the corner. I could see the others ahead, cresting the descending ridge, and I just wanted to be there. The last push towards it was frustratingly lumpy. In retrospect, the climb/carry/sidle consumed a lot more energy than normal riding and my weariness was unsurprising.
About 12:15pm I finally made it to the top of the descent. I spent a few long minutes resetting my bike for riding. (The next day I’d realise my brain was so fried that I’d forgotten to check which pedal was which – but the 50% odds had fallen in my favour!) This was the first technical descent since the wheel incident, which still loomed large in my consciousness. I was reluctant to drop off anything. Combined with average skills, this meant walking a few rocky or steep sections. Brian had noted the ridge would be “quite exciting if you have the right set up”. I mentally edited this to “quite terrifying if you have the wrong setup”. Although there were times I was excited not to have crashed. I skirted the first clump of trees on the left, as instructed, but became confused at the clump we were supposed to thread through. Bush bashing with a bike is never recommended. The descent finally ended with a steep, dusty slide to the hut, which I scrambled down.
I took a peek at the hut’s derelict interior then sat down outside. Finishing the Tararua biscuit lunch I’d started at the tarn, I wished for saltier food. Most of my peanuts and peanut butter slugs were gone. At least I could congratulate myself for not sending a parcel to Tekapo, which would definitely have included TBs. I hadn’t sat for long when Chris, followed by Bob, bombed down that last slide, providing further evidence for my negative internal dialogue. We had a brief and incoherent chat as I repacked my bike for riding. I remember Chris looking at me in a seriously puzzled way as I rambled on about various mishaps. In retrospect I was shaken by the descent and in desperate need of more calories.
Leaving Chris and Bob to rest outside the hut, I went down to the river. As well as refilling water, I rinsed both pairs of socks and my shoes. They were full of grit that was grinding away both skin and brand new orthotic insoles. Putting on cool, clean socks and shoes felt blissful. As the hot sun beat down, I washed my legs and face, reapplied sunblock and felt ready to restart.
The next section was bliss. I loved riding again and felt strong. Thanks to obsessive topographical study and this awe-inspiring read, I knew vicious ups and downs lay in wait along the station road. Expecting them blunted their power. The river crossings were balm for heated feet and the uphill pushes welcome breathers, especially compared the tussock obstacle course earlier. Without the constant need to watch my path, I could appreciate the views. As the valley opened out, intricate vertical flutings, like a better version of the Wairarapa coast’s Pinnacles, glowed in the late afternoon sun. They were amazing. I felt privileged and I found some joy.
Towards the end of the valley, I rounded a corner and heard a loud mechanical noise. A digger was resurfacing the gravel. I made sure he’d seen me, and he moved to the side. We had a brief, friendly conversation, and he offered to help as I dragged my bike over the bund he’d built. I explained this was nothing. He’d seen a lot of riders and seemed pleased to hear there were only two left behind me. “You’re all crazy”, he said, half admiringly. I agreed. He also said it was “easy” from here.
Observations from people in vehicles usually need a large grain of salt. I kept thinking there must be a big downhill but instead found many small ups. Finally the road turned due west, into the next river system, and I zoomed down to Mount White station. Passing the homestead, I waved to a few people in high vis but didn’t stop. I started to encounter vehicles, weird after so many car-less days.
Crossing the Poulter marked the end of private land. It was just after 6pm, and I’d already decided not to stop at Andrew’s Shelter after previous sandfly-infested visits. Ironically I wouldn’t encounter any problems with insects on this ride. Stopping after dark meant sandflies had gone to bed, and mosquitos were weirdly absent – perhaps because I often camped at relatively high elevation. During training, I’d started carrying a headnet and worn it relatively often, but I didn’t use it once during TTW.
My plan was to stop as darkness fell, somewhere up the Cass River. I’d tramped this part of the route, in the reverse direction, many years ago. I remembered many boring hours along the flat, open riverbed – good camping terrain. Before the event, I’d played with several contradictory plans for where I’d end up on days 3 and 4. One involved making it to Andersons (or even beyond!) on the third day. Pete and I’d mused on what time you might make the Bealey hotel, an hour up SH 73, with me estimating 2am (and therefore ruling it out). Too much prep can generate magical thinking. This estimate was based on a spreadsheet I’d put together ahead of the race, breaking it down into short sections of like terrain and creating a time estimate for each (along with notes on water and resupply). Looking back, I’d underestimated the time from Halfway hut to where we left Lake Sumner by 1.5 hours. With another 2 hours+ of wheel remediation, and the fact I hadn’t actually made Halfway hut on day 2, that imagined day 3 had shifted from aspirational to fantastical.
The afternoon’s joy had dimmed and the remaining 20km to the highway dragged. I stopped at one of the last bush clad streams to refill. While I’d eaten better today, it was after 7 and I needed more substantial food soon. But I decided to wait till I stopped, knowing I wouldn’t want to keep crossing the Cass in the dark. While I could see the highway across the valley, I resisted speculatively flicking my phone out of airplane. I needed the motivation of that treat to get me to the road. All the afternoon’s riding meant my phone was back up to 70% charge, which really pleased me.
I cross the Waimak bridge and weaved drunkenly up the short gravel hill to the highway. As I waited for two thunderous trucks before I turned left, I wondered whether other riders had headed right, to the comforts of Bealey. I wasn’t tempted nor did it cross my mind to bail – that impulse was gone. While my mental game remained patchy for the rest of the race, determination at least didn’t falter.
I had a strong sense there would be a climb around the corner. During the 2019 Kiwi Brevet, I’d had a miserable ride from Arthur’s pass along here, wearing every single item I carried (including dishwashing gloves, which stayed packed all TTW). But soon after starting along the shoulder, I was delighted to see I was almost at the saddle, where I pulled in briefly to flick my phone into life. There were many bings as I descended towards Cass.
Some very eloquent replies from me…
I pulled into a side road for a couple of minutes, read messages and replied. Riders often have an ambivalent relationship with dotwatching but for me the sense of being tracked helps me stay in racing mode. Since Christmas, I’d struggled to complete planned 3 or 4 day training rides, coming home a day early a couple of times. While weather and boringly familiar routes played a part, my usually reliable drive had ebbed. Overtraining might have played a part. But during TTW, my will to ride stayed strong and if anything increased. The Hurunui despair proved just a blip.
Feeling buoyed, I rode the short distance to the Cass carpark. It was just after 8pm. I could see a 4wd parked with an open boot, and eyed it suspiciously. I was definitely fading. It took me several seconds to realise Nina and Katie were trail angels, patiently stationed there for hours, encouraging every racer. This wasn’t part of my mental framework so I unthinkingly declined their kind offer of food. The self-supported mantra had sunk in deep. We chatted for a couple of minutes and I realised it would be ok to change my mind. There were strangely welcome boiled eggs, buns and other nice things. I knew Nina by reputation and it was great to meet her and chat about the race so far. Hopefully I became more lucid as the conversation progressed. It was great to hear Pete and Brendan were doing well. I was happy and surprised to see Rachel there too, and we had a few celebratory photos. But after 20 minutes I was chilling down and needed to go.
Trail angels!
I powered along the easy 4wd track, trying to warm up. After a few fast kms, I hit the riverbed and had to cross. The Cass was predictably cold and swift, and I had little appetite for further crossings in the dark. As the river flattened out, I started looking for likely spots and found one near the bank. As I pitched my fly, Rachel rode determinedly past. I rehydrated my remaining BCC, half-heartedly washed, and tended my bike. I could hear trucks rumbling on the distant highway. While there was still coverage I resisted draining my phone with aimless surfing. I sat contentedly in the dark, tolerating dinner and happy with today. I would try for Methven tomorrow.
Starting just after 6am, I pushed for two arduous hours to Hope Shelter. Riding in the rooty, fallen-tree-filled terrain felt mostly futile.
But not futile enough. Soon after the hut, while trying to ride, I came to grief. The bike felt weird, I braked dramatically and half fell. A large stick was stuck in the rear wheel. An unlucky fluke had flicked it under the chain stay, where it was wedged against two, clearly bending, drive-side spokes. My first, urgent instinct was to get it out and release that pressure. This was relatively easy with one spoke but much more difficult for the other. After an endless couple of minutes, I wiggled the stick free. Then I tried straightening the spokes by hand. Much to my surprise, this partially worked. But the wheel wouldn’t turn, being enough out of true that the tyre was hitting the non-drive seat stay.
While half my mind calmly oversaw these problem-solving steps, the other descended into chaos. The wheel would fold like spaghetti; I would crash or have to quit; I should walk back to the Lewis Pass road NOW rather than risk going further into wilderness. But I also heard Brian saying at the briefing, “don’t give up if you get a mechanical – take the time to fix it and rejoin the course”. If I got to the Arthurs Pass highway, I could hitch to Christchurch. If I could get to Methven, there was a bike shop there. My mind shied away from quitting even while feeling its magnetic pull.
Stick removed, I was gazing down at the wheel and something caught my eye. My necklace was dangling around my shoulders, ends hanging free. I must have caught it in the almost-crash. While the clasp had sheared through, it was otherwise intact. I stowed it in my pocket before it fell into the similarly golden grass. This piece of random luck steadied me.
I racked my brain for the theory of wheel truing, which appeared to be locked in some kind of mental cupboard. Very carefully I played with a couple of spokes, counting quarter turns. But I was making it worse. I knew talking to someone would help me remember. Others must surely be close, given how long I’d been stopped now. I alternated looking despairingly at the wheel with hopeful glances back.
And then Geof and Ken appeared. Geof, despite initially disavowing expertise, said the exact thing I needed to hear. “Of course, the theory is: tighten the non-rubbing side and loosen the rubbing side”. It was now painfully obvious why I’d been making it worse. I’d been loosening the bent (drive-side) spokes because I thought the bend would be adding tension so was worried about them pulling out. But to true the wheel, I needed to do the opposite. It was really hard to know how far to go; how true was true enough without causing the damaged spokes fatal injury. By now it had been an hour and I was chilling down, the southerly still coming through, complete with light drizzle. The wheel could turn and I needed to move.
I pushed the bike, unwilling to risk riding. Reaching the swingbridge over the Hope, I felt incredibly reluctant to rerun yesterday’s nightmare wrestle. I decided to push horizontally, which surprisingly worked. Geof and Ken had mentioned Hana wasn’t far behind, and by the time I wrestled my bike off the far side, I could see her starting to cross.
A better bridge crossing. Photo credit: Hana Black
Hope Kiwi lodge came into view but the route did an infuriating dog leg first. I decided I’d have another, final go at truing there. It was 11am and in the past 3 hours I’d covered maybe 6km. I was cold when I arrived at Hope Kiwi, lack of food probably playing a big part. To my surprise, I’d caught up with Geof and Ken, and Hana arrived not long after they left. In this kind of terrain, there’d been little time advantage to riding, especially with the constant on/off. I should have walked the whole way, from the start, I told myself. Then my wheel would not then be in this shape.
I upended my bike again and set about fine tuning. At the same time, I tried to refuel. But all I could stomach were Grainwaves; luckily the bag was big. Hana left, and after 40 minutes I forced myself to stop tinkering.
Check out that wobble.
The next section up the valley flats was invitingly ridable. It was also too cold to keep walking on flat terrain. I got back on, tentatively. I could see Hana in the distance but she pulled away, because I would stop every few minutes to spin and scrutinise the wheel. We followed a horse route for a while before rejoining the tramping track through the beech. My checks grew less frequent as my trust in the wheel increased. I sent thankful thoughts in the direction of Oli@Roadworks, wheel builder extraordinaire.
Approaching the saddle, I was hoping the 6km descent would prove faster. But fallen trees were everywhere, along with steep pinch climbs and highly technical sections. While pushing, I broadsided a pedal with my swollen right ankle. The pain was electric. Then I mildly sprained the other. It was after 1pm but I hadn’t been able to stomach my lunch of Tararua biscuits. And while my concern about the wheel had slowly dimmed, I kept wanting to quit. It was like the mechanical had cracked open a mental door. I’d never felt like this in an event before. My ever-present song now competed with a circular monologue: “you’re not having fun; you’re incompetent and slow; your bike and setup just aren’t right for this race…” But I also thought about the time I’d invested over the past six months, all the training, all the organising and – especially – all the other things I’d compromised. I couldn’t face that being in vain.
By the time Chris caught me, I’d managed to swallow some peanut butter and I felt better. Naturally I related my wheel woe. I asked after Rachel; Chris said Rachel wasn’t far behind but had mentioned potentially pulling out at Lake Sumner. This surprised me as I knew Rachel was tough. Chris obviously viewed quitting talk as contagious, and had powered ahead. She said Brian and Nathan had pulled out at Boyle, which saddened me. I’d looked forward to some more Nathan banter. As Chris took off, I told her I’d keep going as long as the wheel held (and realised this was actually true).
Rachel wasn’t far behind and seemed pretty strong to me. We exchanged scathing observations about roots, trees and bridges, then she took off in pursuit. Chris had wished she was a better rider and I’d wholeheartedly agreed. Over the course of the event I would often wonder if I was the worst mountain biker in the field.
After innumerable bike lifts over trees, the grassy flats appeared. I could see Chris and Rachel at a gate, not that far away. I shadowed them up the flats, the wind biting. It was a relief to ride less technical terrain, and even though the dogleg up valley added indirect kms, I was grateful for it. I was still stopping every now and then to check the wheel but this was morphing from genuine concern into nervous habit.
When I neared the Hurunui, I headed first to the ford. Put off by its depth and flow, I rode upstream to the bridge. But when I got to the bridge, I wasn’t sure it presented less risk. Just getting on to the bridge would be a significant feat, with its access up a steep wire ramp with no side netting. I couldn’t face it, and rode back to the ford again.
This crossing, with a bike, looked borderline. If you were in a tramping party, you would have linked up. Instead I’d be on my own, carrying an unwieldy load that would catch the current if dipped. I picked my line and took wide, deliberate steps, holding my bike in line with the current. It wasn’t that deep – not far above knee – but it was powerful and relatively slippery. I was grateful for my Vibram soles. I remember thinking I wouldn’t have wanted to cross if it was any higher.
Now wetter and colder, I kept moving, enjoying easy riding back down to the lake. At the turn off to private land, I met Chris and Rachel again, and they stayed in sight up the steep climb. I almost welcomed pushing up here – it was a chance to get warm as well as a mental respite from technical terrain. In my training, I’d done a lot of pushing (but little carrying, which I’d come to regret).
I reached the top just before 5pm. I remember being confused by a conflict between the course notes, which referenced staying left of a fence, and the gpx track, which randomly vaulted it. Logic is not your friend in a bikepacking ultra. I’d already had mental debates about whether the sun rose in the east or west. I couldn’t remember if I’d originally thought Andersons, on the far side of the Dampiers, might be possible tonight. But given this morning’s adventures, I estimated I’d arrive at Deep Creek, where the climb started, not long before dark. Stopping there would be an obvious decision. If I’d arrived at 4 or 5pm, that would have been more of a dilemma.
Drawing level with Lake Mason, my mental tone lifted. It was deeply green and beautiful. I didn’t stop but I kept sneaking glances to the right. I felt like I was exploring new terrain, after so much familiar ground. The track became both more obvious and more ridable, which made a hugely welcome change. I paid special attention to gates, memorizing the configuration before opening and counting the number of links to the latch. We all knew woe betide any rider who stuffed a gate up.
Descending towards the Hurunui’s South Branch, I heard a weird mooing, more like grunting. I could see a bull up on the track ahead, pawing the ground in a cartoon-like manner. At first I wondered if this aggressive display was directed at me. But then I realized his movements didn’t sync with other bellows. Which were in fact emanating from the scrub behind me… I moved rapidly off course, sure Brian would forgive this deviation. As I skirted bull #1, bull #2 emerged from the bushes and moved rapidly towards its target. They locked horns and started pushing each other. Now well past, I didn’t stick around to see what happened next.
The river was easy to cross but gaining the opposite terrace was less straightforward. I crossed a bog, then had to retrace my soggy steps. But once found, the farm track proved good going, trending downhill and providing views of the cloud-shrouded Dampiers. I wondered who was up there and how they were going in these cold conditions. As I got closer to Deep Creek, the setting sun lit down-valley peaks and life felt ok. I’d stopped feeling sick, undoubtedly aided by the 2+ hours lost this morning, which had substantially reduced intensity. While my TB lunch remained uneaten, I had finished the Grainwaves.
I crossed the (much appreciated) road bridge and left the route to push up some zig zags to the hut, feeling glad I’d studied the aerial photographs. As I rode through the final paddock, I could see the others pitching tents. Despite feeling utterly alone since the Hurunui, Rachel, Chris and Hana hadn’t been far ahead. Geof and Scotty were a bit more settled in. We all commented on the novelty of stopping before it got dark – even on day 3, the race had become our world. It was great to chat while ticking off tasks. While we couldn’t use the hut, it had a welcome water tank and long drop. As the sun went down, I put on all my available clothing (including my GE rain pants, for the first and only time), though my feet stayed frigid.
Finally I was hungry, which I celebrated by rehydrating and loving my first Radix meal. Lighter, more calorie-dense and a better range of vegetarian flavours – the only thing not to like is their price. I then tried and failed to eat my neglected lunch. Sitting in the warm Boyle trailer hadn’t done the TBs many favours, and I recalled others’ tales of rancid cheese. I downed an electoltye drink and and tried to eat one of my far-too-many mini Whittakers bars. I’d be finding melted and remoulded ones for days to come.
I hopped in the fly, wondering if I’d make a mistake pitching close to the creek chasm, which was generated a gentle breeze. Getting into my sleeping bag, I kept on my leg warmers, downjacket and hat, and drew its hood up tight. Despite the sub-zero temperatures, I stayed toasty, though from now on sleeps would be increasingly restless.
We were moving by 6:15am, up the bushy Porika. It felt hugely easier than last time: Kiwi Brevet 2019 at the end of a long, insanely hot day. Pigeon Valley would go up in flames the day after. Dehydrated and nauseous, I’d done a lot of walking back then. Today I mostly rode. At the top, Brendan plummeted down, his squeaky brakes echoing up. I followed more cautiously, walking exactly the same 50 metres as in 2019. By 8am we were at the Rotoroa toilets, where I topped up with water, determined to manage today better.
Braeburn track and Mangles valley passed peacefully and we were soon sitting in Murchison’s Rivers Café enjoying a second breakfast. Whatever I ate was far more appealing than my 5.30am Tararua biscuits and cold Supreme instant, bolted down while packing up. I felt vague concern about the sugar-heavy food parcel waiting in Boyle. All I could easily stomach was salty stuff. It reminded me again how hard it is to match racing intensity in training, when that diet had been fine.
During breakfast I introduced myself to Geof and Ken aka Scotty, who would become regular, welcome faces. They’d camped just past us, up the Porika. Finishing quickly, I headed up the Matakitaki towards Maruia saddle. After a while Brendan passed and I don’t think I saw him again. Having super strong MTB skills would prove a massive asset! I chatted briefly to Olly and Matt, taking a break at the Saddle, then enjoyed the descent. The state highway section wasn’t too bad –I appreciated my helmet mirror’s warning of big rigs – and soon turned off into Dredgeville.
I’d wondered if this private land section might prove tough. But apart from a couple of bogs (one of which I predictably fell sideways into), it was fine. We rejoined the TA/KB route at West Bank Road and the annoying little hills felt minimal. It was weird feeling so much stronger and faster, yet still struggling! All this day I had trouble eating, not keeping up with rationed snacks.
At Springs cafe, Olly and Matt were still eating and I hoovered up some of their chips. The staff had deployed many anti-Covid measures, after a community case in Auckland the previous day. I felt little concern about this, the race leaving room for nothing else. This was the last shop till Methven and I consumed several rounds of unmemorable food.
While Lewis is a relatively painless transalpine pass, it was still 6:15pm when I pulled up to the trailer with our goody boxes. Deciding what to post had meant estimating time to Methven. While I was hoping for a bit over 2 days, I’d sent enough food for 3. Right now, even unhungry as I was, it felt risky to ditch anything, though I did add today’s unopened snacks to the growing discard box. Perhaps Boyle staff are still eating OSMs, bumper bars and Nuuns…
Planning for the Boyle food drop: “snack” is equivalent to about 500kJ (eg 1 OSM=3 snacks). I aim to eat 1 snack an hour. This list didn’t exactly match the final parcel.
Heading down the state highway to Windy Point marked the end of ‘easy’, as the route headed up the Hope on a tramping track. This began with a spirit-sapping swing bridge, which Ride with GPS reckons I spent 16 agonising minutes crossing. I did the usual vertical flip onto the rear wheel, and my seat-post bag immediately grounded out. My handlebars were too wide for the vertical struts, necessitating an awkward left-right jiggle every few steps, and the horizonal cable ran at exactly the right height to gouge my new grips. Half way, gravity entered the game and I was in serious trouble. I awkwardly released and abandoned the seatpost bag so I could tip the bike farther back and compensate for the slope. The rear wheel seemed irresistibly attracted to the junction between side netting and foot wires. I spoke out loud to myself in a desperately encouraging way. It seemed much harder than any previous crossing, including that infamous bridge towards the centre of the North Island. When I reached the end, rather triumph I felt a strong sense of incompetence.
Photo doesn’t really do justice to the large gouge in my nice new grip
Olly arrived just as I touched the far side, and as I went back to get my seat-post bag, he picked it up. My internal reaction reflected energy-deprived thinking. First, did this contravene the race’s strict self-supporting ethos; and second, how appalled he must be at its weight (I’d stuffed all 3 days’ food in there with the thought of sorting it later). But I smiled and said thanks and he made no comment.
That $%$# bridge from the far side. Photo credit: Brendan Pheasant
At Boyle, I’d got out my collapsible backpack but put inside only a packet of Grainwaves I’d intended to eat while repacking and a BCC for tonight. The rearrangement of weight should have happened now, at the bridge, which would have saved a lot of pain over the next few hours. But I’d underestimated this next section, perhaps because I’d tramped it before.
So I hauled my heavy bike, still optimsed for riding, up a near-vertical bank. Then nearly fell off a stile. And started along a misleadingly rideable section. Olly caught up and we exchanged choice words about the bridge. This reduced my imposter syndrome significantly, as would subsequent bridge-based rants by other riders. It was dusk and I should have stopped on this flattish, scrubby section with obvious camping possibilities. But the ability to ride lured me on and I headed into the bush, Olly and Matt pulling ahead.
Then came a miserable half hour travelling 1.6km. It was dark, rooty and much more up and down than the topo implied. After passing a stream, I decided to camp, and fruitlessly searched for a flat spot. I kept going, spraining my right ankle enough that it cracked. Then came another stream, with a cliff-like exit. I wrestled precariously with my bike but eventually dragged it up. More fruitless searching for a camp spot before I wandered on. But then, after another small stream, better luck and good ground off to the left. It was just before 9pm and I was definitely done.
I pitched my tent fly, rehydrated pasta carbonara, washed and rearranged my load. Despite the past diabolical hour, I was happy, at home in the bush. I’d achieved my goal of 400km. While my ankle was swollen, this was far from a new experience and I knew I could keep walking. I forced down dehy, enjoyed a hot electrolyte drink and soon lay down, back muscles exhausted. Again I slept ok.
Just getting to start of an event like this is huge. The training, the bike prep, the staying free from injury and illness. Quite a few people – including an unfortunate proportion of female entrants – pulled out in the weeks leading up to the race, because of injury, health or a perhaps a sense of inadequacy in the face of growing hype. I’d had a few conversations with other riders about the latter, as we tried to reassure ourselves that we too were athletes, even if not in the same league as the field’s starry names.
Many photos were taken in the dawn light as we waited for 7am. I leaned my bike precariously against a fence and peered into the void (which had unhelpfully swallowed a rider’s phone the night before). I tried not to focus on others’ lighter-looking rigs but to be at peace with decisions I’d made. I felt grateful to be surrounded by people I knew – especially Pete and Brendan – which reduced the usual pre-start intimidation. There was no briefing as Brian had spent an hour yesterday afternoon methodically running through the course, making clear the responsibilities that came with our access to private land. Everyone knew that how we behaved would determine whether the race had a future.
7am struck and we rolled off, me hanging towards the back. The start was neutralized down the hill to the main road, and it was cool to look ahead and see the mass of riders approach that left turn. I knew I’d never see many of them again! Heading up a small hill and down towards Puponga, Pete and a small bunch were in the distance. I didn’t want to catch them and risk getting cooked, so settled into my own pace. This was the only section of the course where drafting was allowed but I rode it all solo, wrapped up in my thoughts. My head started to play a song over and over, a pretty obscure song that I would become very familiar with during the race, especially these first 2 days where it literally played on repeat every minute of every hour. This something that sometimes happens to me during events and I’ve learned to embrace rather than fight it!
Some of the song’s lyrics, along with my surroundings, made me reflect on my near-obsession with this event over the past few months and how this had compromised other parts of my life, especially relationships. I crossed the Aorere and thought of Richard and my 13-day tramp to its headwaters in 2013; a bittersweet memory given we can’t adventure together right now. I’ve felt much more conflicted about time and energy invested in TTW than any previous events, including whether this was an essentially selfish pursuit. Something I’d think repeatedly about during the event, especially dark times!
But this first hour was one of my favourites. The early light on the water, the almost supernatural calm (from a Wellingtonian’s perspective) and the smooth, fast feeling of a bike running perfectly. Afterwards, when Brian asked us to itemise our most- and least-liked parts, this didn’t make the grade only because my list was already shamefully biased towards the flat and sealed.
After Collingwood, we rode along a beach. This had generated a few mutterings in the lead up, especially among the more mechanically minded: why introduce sand to your drivetrain right at the start, to grind away for another 1300+km. But the beach was much better – both harder and damper – than I’d expected, and it flew past especially when Brendan caught up for a chat.
Not a bad beach. Photo credit: Brendan Pheasant
While I was no longer thinking I’d want to rinse the drive train in Takaka, I did intend to stop. I had a plan for the first two days that included hitting at least the 400km mark. It made sense to clock kms on this “easy” terrain before we hit the tougher middle section of the course. This plan included taking opportunities to buy fresh food and bolster myself for undoubtedly poor choices ahead. Pete had previously suggested the café on Takaka hill might be a good lunch spot but I knew I’d get there after 1pm and, having had breakfast at 5.30am, buying a sandwich and topping up water in Takaka felt like a much better option. Waiting in the Wholemeal Café’s fortuitously short queue, I spied a fresh cinnamon scroll – my favourite. It felt like a good omen. Biting into it outside was one of the race’s few culinary highlights.
The route from Takaka to Tapawera covered new ground for me (having ridden from Takaka airport to Pupunga two days ago). While I met some other riders before the start of the Rameka, once the climbing started I found myself again alone. Traversing numerous switchbacks, I had that horrible sense of having lost all mountain biking skill, but maybe I was just pushing too hard. After the initial climb ejected us onto gravel, I stopped to polish off my cinnamon scroll, and Dulkara and Andy caught up. It was great to chat on the second, more technical part of the ascent, especially to Dulkara who I knew only by reputation. The climb passed quickly and instead of the technical downhill I was expecting, we were on a fast 4wd to the Harwoods hole carpark.
A few of us stopped there: me to eat my sandwich, refill my water, apply sunscreen and chafing cream. By the time I rolled out, the others had gone and I regretted how long I’d taken. A real sense of urgency pervaded the ride. Not just on day one, but every day, and it never diminished, even at “the back”. I wondered if I was now last (I was) and felt almost certain I would never see anyone else again. While this was the first time I thought this, it was far from the last. Similar “facts” proved a real mental challenge that I grew better at dealing with but never fully overcame. At that moment, it was hard to remember to ride my own race and have confidence in my strategy.
But I soon caught Hana, who’d been stung by a wasp (unfortunately not for the last time!). After checking she had antihistamines, I continued through the downs. This was one section of the course I’d really misread, despite hours studying topos. The next 5km were ups and I felt disproportionately aggrieved, which should have been a red flag. Eventually gravity kicked in and I zoomed past the café and down the main hill road.
I enjoyed screaming down the state highway and was lucky with traffic, not getting held up, until I hit the roadworks traffic lights just as they’d turned red. Part of Takaka hill was down to one lane and Brian had (so he thought) arranged for us to follow the designated cycle shuttle down. Soon Hana and I were joined by a handful of others. We took the chance to eat and do various bits of bike maintenance, as the timer ticked down its initial, dispiriting 16 minutes. Then the shuttle vehicle and a ute arrived, complete with unhappy personnel. Repeating what we’d been told proved infuriating to the guy apparently in charge, who’d undoubtedly heard and responded to it a number of times. Not on his watch would we ride down – it was too dangerous. So bikes were put on and into vehicles, and gingerly watched as we made our very slow way down.
I was pretty unhappy to see my rear wheel had been tensioned to the carrier around a spoke, putting it under a lot of lateral pressure. I’m always a bit twitchy about how my bike’s transported, and this fired up my anxious and (in retrospect under-fed) mind in a really unhelpful way. While I’d mentally laugh about this later (especially after day 3), at the time it became a big, brooding obsession all the way to Tapawera.
As we headed up West Bank road, I pulled away from the others and eventually passed Brian A as we shifted to gravel. It was warm, I wasn’t eating or drinking enough, and I was definitely not having fun in my mindtrap. I’d been reading about how to manage the mental side of endurance events but during this first day rather than recognise warning signs I just wallowed in negativity.
I also thought about how intellectually knowing I would be one of the slower riders was different from actually living it. While we were on the shuttle, Nathan had said something about us being the fast mid pack – which was how it felt compared to any other event. The shuttle driver confirmed that no, we were last. The selective entry for TTW meant normal second half of the field just didn’t exist.
As Baton Valley Road headed into the hills, we turned left towards the river. I remember stopping and suspiciously inspecting my rear wheel as Andrew S caught me. When I got to the river, a strange-looking truck crossed with some difficulty – and to my surprise I could see riders on the far bank, including Brendan. I forded and sat down to ring out socks and shoes, mindful they’d be cold next morning if saturated.
The first of many, many river crossings in TTW. Photo credit: Andrew Scott
After this, the route climbed to Baton Saddle and then paralleled the Moteka River to Tapawera – all now a weird memory blank.
I made a beeline for the pub, very conscious I needed to sort out food and hydration. One reason I was having trouble was a vague sense of nausea since the second half of the Rameka, which wasn’t unusual for me when pushing hard. I’d arrived at 5pm – about 2 hours earlier than expected. I gobbled down fish and chips and a ginger beer, followed by another ginger beer and quite a lot of water. This would prove a mistake. There were lots of riders gathered here – some I knew, some I didn’t, though my focus was more on my own problems and perceived inadequacies than introductions!
Speed eating is not always a good idea. Photo credit: Brendan Pheasant
The next 20km passed painlessly. But then we entered private land and started to climb steeply up an electricity pylon track. Very soon I feel incredibly unwell and had an unscheduled stop in the bushes. I walked a lot of the climb, feeling like a miserable, feeble slug. If I paused, I had to lean forward over the bars so I didn’t faint. But I was determined, and each slow step was another towards Slope Point. I knew it was just a conflict between digestion and aerobic activity that would eventually settle!
A bit farther along, Brendan passed me. But when I got to the top, he was waiting, which really boosted my morale. We continued together, passing Andrew S preparing to bivvy, and headed downhill into the dusk. I explained my idea of stopping at the start of the Porika, and we pedalled into the night along the state highway. While I was determined to reach that spot at a minimum, climbing the Porika tonight felt like a bad bad idea. We found ok bivvy spots by Porika Stream and tucked in for the night. Amazingly, I slept pretty well.
Four weeks ago, together with another 37 hardy souls, I started the hardest ride I’ve ever done. And it wasn’t over when I reached Slope Point, 9.5 days later. The past two weeks have been a massive sting in the tail. I start writing this hoping it will mark the beginning of my return to normal – and hoping that reliving the race will make it more prominent in my memories than what came after! (There will be a postscript if you’re curious.)
This morning I read a fb comment that some other riders’ (awesome) accounts make it sound easy (or at least relatively non-torturous). I’m aiming for more of a gritty vibe, and I’m definitely going to be more long-winded. For me, the challenge was just as much mental as physical, and I want to capture that pain and resulting hard-won thinking before it fades.
My stats for this ride are inexact. Ride with GPS thinks you’ve stopped when you push your bike too slowly, and from day 3 onwards I regularly switched between Ride with GPS and View Ranger for navigation so don’t have a full record.
I’m aiming to write a post reflecting on each day of the race and publish them as they’re finished.
