jforbess.org

My last day of cycling. It was reasonably hardcore. 98 km or
something. One 400 m hill, one 200 m hill, and four or five 100 m
hills. I almost was killed by an empty logging truck on Highway 6 one
last time. Somehow I took it in stride. Or revolution. The last 35 km
were on Queen Charlotte Drive, not a main highway, and that was pretty
fun. Except for the butt chaffage and the numb wrists.

I was passed early in the day by an American bike tourist on a
mountain bike with just two little tiny panniers and a bedroll. I
think he had less stuff than Death on our California bike ride. He was
going at least three more weeks. I wonder how he travels with so
little stuff. I passed him at some town in the middle, and he finally
caught up with me as I was struggling up the last 100 m hill. He was
still chipper, and said, “This road is so good!” I stuck my tongue out
because I had no breath to say anything, and he turned around just in
time to see it. I think he felt a little embarrassed at his excess
energy. I was more enthusiastic about the ride when I caught up with
him at the hostel.

I had been chatting earlier with Death about hotels, and how I hated
upselling by the desk clerk. (My cousin does this for a commission.)
But looking at the weather, I decided to splurge on a room
instead of a tent site. And not only was I going to get a room, I was
going to get a single room. At a hotel, with wireless. Except that
there was no vacancy anywhere close in town, and I ended up in a
normal hostel room anyway. We’ll see if my tendency to downgrade or
Death’s tendency to upgrade wins the day in Vietnam.

What’s worse than having a logging truck pass you with less than a
meter to spare on your right? Having a parked car less than a meter to
your left at the same time. Eeee. I forgot about my paranoia of parked
cars. They’re eeeeeeeeeeevil.

When I realized last night that the bus ride from Motueka to Nelson
was only an hour, I knew I should be able to bike it. Verified with
Pedaller’s Paradise. Check. In fact, if I could bike a little
past Nelson, I could bike to Picton the next day, removing all
remaining bus rides. Sounded like a plan.

And the bike ride today was fine. A few hills out of Kaiteriteri to
breakfast. A decent shoulder almost all of the way from Motueka to
Richmond. A confused conversation with the Richmond i-Centre about the
various cycle paths in the area. I said, “Can you tell me about the
cycle paths to Nelson?” She said, “Oh sure. Let me get this straight,
you don’t want to bike on the main highway?” Except she repeated that
over and over again. What part of cycle path means on the main
highway?

Nelson had a bad vibe to it. Probably exacerbated by my lack of
bloodsugar. I only really went into town to swing by the secondhand
bookshop. I thought I would go to a cafe and a supermarket, but I was
overwhelmed by the traffic and the people and the thought that my bike
probably wasn’t as safe outside as I was used to. (Yes, Phnom Penh is
going to be a major culture shock.) So I continued on, planning to buy
stuff for dinner at the store a few km before the hostel. I was almost
there when I realized I had no cash. The hostel was low-key enough
that I suspected they wouldn’t take credit cards. I did a check
outside the store and discovered I had exactly ten dollars in
cash. Probably enough for a tent site. I wondered what I would do if I
didn’t have enough. Offer the five dollars American I had? Hand over
my cute little mp3 player/recorder? Ten dollars turned out to be the
exact cost of a tent site. No upgrading to a bunk for me.

The cicadas were screaming as I walked out to set up my tent. They had
been screaming on the walk to the Abel Tasman memorial the day
before. It’s kind of shocking how loud they can be. Every once in a
while when I’m Grumpy Von Grumperstein about loud music or diesel
trucks, I think about how the human ear didn’t evolve to deal with
noises that loud. But the cicadas really put that theory to the
test. Also, I think they would be great background noise for a horror
movie. I wonder if they’ve been used that way. Also, they remind me of
a movie I watched when I was little called Lucas. Something
about the cicadas peaking every 15 or 17 years. It was tied into a 15
or 17 year old coming of age story.

I’m tired of talking to strangers. They don’t really interest me
anymore. Well, that’s not quite true. The guy with the homemade wooden
saddlebags on his motorcycle was interesting to talk to. But somehow
his cycling partner wasn’t. I dunno.

There were oodles of white-faced herons in the wetlands along the road
today. How have I developed a taste for bird-watching? I don’t even
want to see them do anything special, they just look cool standing in
the water. At a distance, their skinny legs disappear, and they look
like they are hovering.

Oh, my butt hurts. It’s a good thing tomorrow is my last day of
biking. My numbed hands and chafed bottom are looking forward to
it. I hope I get a chance to do some yoga in Wellington. My body needs
it.

Today I only had to bike 33 km. But 11 of it was gravel. Over a 300 m
saddle. On the North Island a hill was noticeable if it was 200 m. The
South Island has been harder to gauge. They grade the roads less
steeply here. It’s like the difference between the East Coast and the
West Coast.

I girded my stomach with another huge breakfast including a very good
chocolate croissant, and stopped by the i-Centre to book a water taxi
from Totaranui to Kaiteriteri. It cost $35 for me, and $25 for my
bike. The highest bike premium I’ve paid. Usually it’s just $10. The
guy helping me at the i-Centre was a bicyclist himself, and was
planning on doing the same ride on Friday. So it was totally doable. I
just had that pesky 40 pounds behind me. I mean 20 kg.

The ride along the coast was beautiful as usual. I stopped to see the
Abel Tasman memorial, and get a view of Farewell Spit.

Everyone had kept telling me that I wouldn’t have a problem with this
ride, if I could do the ride to Whariki Beach. I’m not sure I’d put it
that strongly, but the gravel was a bit better on this road. Fewer
huge loose rocks. Mostly completely hardpacked. A bit of washboarding,
but not too much. The grade was fine, especially given my awesome
trailer-pulling low gears, which was lucky, since I realized I can’t
stand up to pedal on gravel hills, because my back wheel skids out
without my weight. This can make it a real bear to start on hills.

The real physical pain was on the downhill, keeping my speed under
control. With all the switchbacks I can’t go fast at all. And my load
propels me downhill with no help from me. My hands hurt.

The cars passing me were infrequent enough and slow enough to cause me
minimal pain, except for the cloud of dust each would stir up.

Yes, the beaches in Abel Tasman are as beautiful as advertised. The
color of the sand is really the stunner. I think golden isn’t quite
right. Red-gold is a better description of the color, at least at
Totaranui. They do lack the drama of the rocks up at Whariki Beach,
but if you just kayak around the bluffs, there are amazing rock
formations all around.

I am a bit sad that I didn’t try to kayak in Abel Tasman. It turns out
that mid-week in late February is off-season enough for me to enjoy
it. But I wouldn’t have gotten up to Whariki Beach, and done the
excessive biking I did, so it’s not like I wasted it.

I lay on the beach at Totaranui for an hour, trying to figure out how
I was going to get rid of my insane bikers tan. I’m not sure it’s
possible.

The water taxi ride was loud and full of people. One of the families
caught my eye, because the 20-ish son reminded me of a friend. And he
looked like he was fed up with vacationing with his parents. I was
struck with the urge to sit next to him and start talking to him in
French, to try to shake him out of the vacationing-with-my-parents
blues. Speaking in French would hopefully keep us from being
understood by his parents. But I didn’t follow through. I figured it
would be just my luck that he wouldn’t speak French but his mother
would. Also, I would feel a bit odd if he turned out to be sixteen,
not twenty. I only saw him from the back.

Kaiteriteri was listed as “arguably the prettiest beach in New
Zealand”, and I have to say, I was disappointed. Perhaps it’s the
prettiest beach you can drive on asphalt to. Otherwise, meh. The
motorcamp was across the road from the beach, and packed. I decided to
walk past it to see if it was less horrible than it looked, and got
into a conversation with a retired couple from Scotland. They had
spent four years driving an RV around Alaska, Canada, the US and
Mexico. It was a good conversation, and they recommended the other
motor camp down the road. Bethany Christian Camp. As I’ve said before,
the American media has made Christian a bad word, even to me, who was
born at a Christian camp. So I had dismissed it before. But on
their recommendation, I decided to head for it. Perfectly nice. Lots
of space. Trees to camp under.

I was re-reading Neil Gaiman’s Stardust and was struck with the
idea that Faerieland was actually New Zealand. Walking from October
into spring. Geography like the Debatable Hills. I think there was
something else, too. Anyway, I think it’s a great comparison. People
here often call New Zealand Paradise, but I think that is too
idealistic. It’s not Paradise here, but it might be Faerie. People
have different value systems, often wonderful, but still often
self-centered. Things here are dangerous, too. People just evaluate
the dangers differently. I know L. Frank Baum had a similar analogy
with Oz, but New Zealand seems more bucolic and truly fey. (Don’t tell
the All-Blacks.)

What’s the definition of hardcore? My own definition seems to be:
accomplishing something hard, made even harder by my inability to
decide on a fixed plan.

Today I biked 110 km, 12 of it over gravel, with my trailer, only to
arrive at the same place I started at in the morning.

The definite goal was to bike 50 km out to the end of Golden Bay, bike
6 km to Whariki Beach, hike around, and then return to some place to
camp. I was contemplating camping at the halfway point, Collingwood,
which would have made it an 80 km day, I think. I could have left my
trailer there on the way out, but I was there so early in the day that
I decided to see how it went. Also, the day before, I was so knackered
after 30 km (albeit a 700 m climb), that I didn’t want to end up dead
tired in Puponga with no tent.

So, onward. The tide was in along Golden Bay, and I got to see a black
swan. The curve of the neck echoed the curve of an unfurling fern
frond.

The road to Whariki Beach was hard, but only 6 km. The hike was a
pleasant change, and the beach itself was like the beach at Big Sur
except huge. Huge sand dunes, huge rock formations, huge lagoons,
etc. It was high tide, so I missed the arches one cove over. I did get
to see a dead seal, though. Unlike Christy, I didn’t run over to poke
it with a stick to see if it was worth carting home to
taxidermy. (From the stink downwind, I suspect it was too late.)

I would have stayed longer, but I was still unsure of where I was
going to spend the night, and my schedule was still so up-in-the-air
with regards to what I was going to see before Picton, that I couldn’t
just relax. Hopefully there will be more relaxing in Vietnam.

So I returned over the gravel road, managing to pedal up all of the
hills, though there was a bit of slippage on the steep bits. I arrived
in Collingwood just after 4, and decided to head back to Takaka,
feeling dumb, but happy to make my next day’s bike ride that much
shorter. Plus looking forward to the beer and wireless at the
Wholemeal Cafe.

I didn’t dawdle this morning because I dreaded Takaka Hill. No
sirree. I just needed to wait until the cafe and internet store were
open. That’s all. That’s why I didn’t leave Motueka until after noon.

Turns out the hill was long, but not that steep. It was reminiscent of
Bonny Doon Rd more for the smell of pine and the hot sun with little
breeze than the effort involved. Except for the false peak. When I
stopped to check out the view some motorcyclists asked me if I wanted
the good news or the bad news. I of course asked for the bad news, and
they told me I wasn’t finished climbing. That was after 11 km of
climbing, so I really thought I was done. The next 6 km of climbing
were just harder mentally.

I had enough hubris about halfway up that I thought perhaps I would
actually bike over it the other direction, just to be hardcore,
instead of taking a bus. By the time I got to the top, I was bored
enough with the hill (and my butt hurt) that I was glad to have the
bus option.

The ride down the far side was fun, but almost as taxing as the ride
up, for the braking required. The bad part about having a load heavier
than your brakes should have is that going down hills requires more
paranoia and slowness than otherwise.

I was looking forward to the 20 km slight descent to Takaka only to
discover that I had a headwind to deal with. No fun. I did come across
another herd of cows that ran towards me as I biked past. Only the
second one I’ve ever seen.

One of the owners of the campsite suggested I bike to Totaranui and
catch a water taxi back to Motueka instead of taking the bus. I had
thought of something like that, but hadn’t realized I could bike to a
place in Abel Tasman that a water taxi stopped. Of course, it’s about
10 km over gravel roads, plus there’s a hill. If I’m really lame I can
take a bus there. I’m still pondering my options.

A breakfast of canned rice pudding and mangoes, to avoid the sketchy
cafe in St Arnaud. Today was going to be a 110km day. Almost
completely downhill.

The day started with a blue sky, but I got a late start because I was
hoping the sun would hit my tent and dry out the dew. No such
luck. The incense burning in the site down the way made my nose itch.

As I biked further north, the sky clouded over. Depressing, when I
could bike anywhere, could have gone to the vineyards of Blenheim. But
there’s a hill with my name on it on the way to Golden Bay. I spent a
lot of the day (and the past couple of days) fretting over whether I
could really get over an 800 m hill. The weather made me second-guess
myself again. I’ll do it if it’s not raining, I swear. Takaka Hill
will not deter me.

Over the big hill (350 m gain) the sun started poking through
again. After a cake break I found myself in orchard country along a
clear flowing river. Apples, plums and blueberries, oh my. I tried a
few blackberries off the side of the road, but they weren’t quite
ripe, and I prefer the black raspberries of Wisconsin.

Motueka is a nice town. Good pizza. I missed the mom and pop motor
camp at the beginning of town, and ended up at the Top 10, which, in
my dislike of chains, I dislike.

A guy here in the TV room is talking about how he buys huge trucks in
the US and brings them back to sell here. Gah. He seems a nice enough
man, but he’s making NZ worse. Gah. Actually, it turns out he fell in
love with a girl in Granbury, TX, about 40 minutes away from
Stephenville. He broke up with his partner of five years because he
wants to go to Texas. Gah. And no one in NZ is buying his petrol
trucks. How smart of them. Now he’s thinking of bringing back diesel
trucks.

Another 60 km day. When it’s all uphill, it can be annoyingly slow.

The vibes were bad at the cafe/backpackers, so I went to check out the
DoC camping grounds. They had showers here, so I decided to go for it,
since I’d enjoyed the other DoC sites I’d stayed at. The tent sites
were sadly tightly packed, and I was always on edge when someone
backed their car up, wondering if they’d accidentally run over my
tent. I was a bit paranoid. But as you may have noticed, I don’t like
cars.

The lake was beautiful, just like the lakes down in Fiordland, though
surrounded by mountains, rather than fjords. The blue sky reflected in
the water, making it picture perfect. The wedding party being
photographed on the dock seemed to think so. The water was a bit
chilly, but I was warm enough that it was great to stick my feet in.

I wish I had spent more time by the lake, watching the sun set, but
the sandflies were destructive. Back at the tent site, the German
family on one side was chattering loudly, the Kiwi family on the other
was playing soccer too close to my bicycle, the American family across
the way was bickering over the snazzy mountain bike they had, and the
20-somethings at the end were playing the guitar and singing. And my
iPod was out of batteries.

I had some optimistic thoughts of going 120 km to St Arnaud today. But
it was all uphill, though gradual. By the time I got to Murchison, I
was ready to stop. I got a late start out of Berlins, because the cafe
didn’t open until 9:30am, and a group of supported cyclists came in
as I was finishing, and I chatted with them for awhile. They were
riding super light bikes made of carbon fiber and the like, and going
about 120 km a day. Considering I can go 110 km when it’s downhill
wiht my full rig, I feel a bit smug when I talk to people like
that. Though of course, they get to stop and see the scenery a bit
more than I do, probably.

The logging trucks were traveling both directionns on the road,
full both ways. That makes no sense to me. It was an edgy day for me,
as the construction trucks were out in full force, honking, cutting
close passing. Kill.

Murchison was just a small farming town on the Buller River, but due
to the beautiful weather, the very nice motorcamp (with my own
sheep!), and the rather nice cafe with great local beer, I found it
perfectly wonderful. It’s amazing how different motorcamps can
be. This one had plenty of space for the tent campers, and a sheep
paddock with a pet sheep right next to the space I took. I think the
little girls were calling it Raleigh. Or Rolly. The tree in the
breeze and sunlight over my tent sounded beautiful, too.

I teared up when I saw how beautiful the Southern Cross in its
nebula was. It was the clearest I’d ever seen it. I’m starting to
miss New Zealand in advance. Nothing like having a departure date on
the horizon to add a dash of bittersweet to every moment.

Why must it only rain when I’m camping? Why must it not rain when I
paid extra for a hostel? The weather god is mocking me. I told myself
I could stay in hostels if it rained on the West Coast, since this
region is known for its massive rain, but it looks as though I only
hit it right two nights out of eight. Eit. And one of those nights my
tent was still soaked from the dew. Luckily, while the mornings are
often overcast around here, they’ve been clearing up nicely by the
afternoon, so I’ve been able to dry my tent before sleeping in it.

This morning I was still a bit mopey, but the weka poking its beak
under my tent cheered me up. As I packed up my gear it was very
interested in the trash sack, and approached it from assorted
directions only to be scared off time after time. I don’t remember
exactly what it did to make me laugh delightedly, but apparently
that’s when it decided its work was done, and departed to check out
the next tent.

Today I decided to go 31 km to get to breakfast. I had an energy bar
at camp, and started biking. Only on the road did I remember that
Pedaller’s Paradise had showed two big hills between Punakaiki
and Charleston. And they were big. The second one had three peaks. I
hate those kind of hills. They kill me. Especially when I’m not
expecting it. Also, a big double trailer truck decided it had to pass
me at the same time as an oncoming campervan, and I had to stop on the
side of the road to cry hysterically for a bit. Later in the day,
similar events occured, but the carbohydrates in the system dulled the
effect of the adrenalin, and I just shouted at the trucks.

The bar/hotel/restaurant I stopped at in Charleston reminded me like
an establishment of a similar set of functions on the Dalton
(Dempster?) Highway on my way from Inuvik to Whitehorse. The same
half-restaurant, half-cafeteria ambience, punctuated with a faint
scent of old beer and cigarettes. Guys in overalls drank coffee next
to tourists in flipflops.

The set of older tourists who drove me crazy at the counter, because I
needed sustenance immediately, and they were poking around, trying to
figure out what they wanted, screwing up their tea order, paying
separately, came over and chatted, and then drove me crazy again
trying to help me with directions of how to get to Berlins, where I
was heading that day. All I had to do was follow highway 6. The guy
confused me by telling me it was before Westport (the turnoff was, but
the mileage was much further), and then told me to follow the sign to
Inangahua. When I got to the sign there was no mention of that tiny
town, just Christchurch, Nelson, and maybe Murchison. But I was a good
kid and smiled and said “Thank you” and smiled and said “Thank you”
again. A curmudgeon, moi?

I was officially a very bad tourist, because I didn’t stop to take a
photo of the penguin crossing next 5 km sign. Sorry. I did take a
photo of the Caution: Wekas sign, though. Someday I’ll post the
photos. Really.

The cafe/backpackers I stopped at in Berlins was kind of disappointing
because they weren’t allowing tent camping because the field was too
muddy. I clarified that I was just on a bike and the woman got super
defensive and wouldn’t shut up about why they weren’t allowing tent
camping, even after I started asking her about the dorm rooms. Gah. I
ended up in a dorm room for $8 more than the tent site, and it was
fine, except for the fact that there were no screens in the windows,
they were all open, and there were always three sandflies somewhere
nearby, no matter how many I killed. At least in my tent I can
eliminate the few that get in. My laptop is smeared with the brown-red
guts of sandflies.

A very civilized morning with all mod cons: a chocolate croissant,
internet with my very own laptop, and a used bookstore. Usually the
point is made that Hokitika is the first major stop on the West Coast
since it has banks. Pish posh. Banks are not necessary when you have
EFTPOS. (Electronic point of sales.)

There is a lot of pastureland between the road and the coast. Somehow
it smells like a combination of cow manure and Tootsie
Rolls. Disconcerting. Luckily, I haven’t liked Tootsie Rolls since I
ate an entire giant-sized one watching Fantasia in high
school.

For some reason I was in a horrible grey funk (I think I might be
getting sad about leaving New Zealand), but the blue skies helped
balance it out a bit. As did the incredibly cute alpacas. Wow. I don’t
really understand how they can be that cute. They look like a cross
between a Dr Seuss character and a Muppet. Candide was really fixated
on them too, in El Dorado. But all of his died.

Because of the grey funk, I started talking out loud to myself. Not
just occasional outbursts, but full-on conversations. I mean
monologues. Soliloquies. I forget the difference. According to the
Desktop dictionary, soliloquy is more appropriate: an act of speaking
one’s thoughts aloud when by oneself or regardless of any hearers. I’m
not really worried about how crazy I look doing it while I’m biking,
but I do need to control myself while I’m walking or sitting still.

I had a revelation about the big chipness of the road. Readers who
have been with me from the beginning may remember a comment that the
roads here have a very big chip size, meaning they don’t grind up the
gravel very small before they mix it with tar and lay it down. I
thought I had gotten used to it. However, now that I’ve pumped up my
tires to the full pressure I realize it was just that I was riding
with soft tires. Also, it’s the big chip size which is much to blame
for how loud the cars are as they flash past me. Which I hate.

Speaking of cars speeding past me, I spent some part of the day trying
to figure out how to best word a sign to say, “My rear end looks better at
low speed” or “Slow down to check out this sweet butt”. I thought that
I’d have a good shot at getting all the guys without women in the car
to slow down, and an okay shot at getting the female drivers to slow
down. It’s just the male drivers with females in the cars. Also, the
possible increase in honking, and the added distraction of reading
harming their driving skills.

There was a bit more shoulder today, but I was reminded that if there
is a shoulder cars aren’t driving on, there’s lots of broken glass on
it. New Zealand is losing points as a non-redneck country here.

The coast at Punakaiki is really beautiful. Very much like the coast
between Monterey and Big Sur, but with more layers of rocks. It helped
that the sky was blue, the sun was warm, and the tide was in enough to
get a few bursts in the blowholes. It had been awhile since I’d been
on a hike at such a touristy place. The path was asphalted for
wheelchairs. The signs were written for seven year olds. I think that
listening to the waves was the best part. I wished I could have sat
and relaxed a bit, but I was a kilometer from the campground and I
really wanted a shower, so I took a leisurely stroll around, and then
coasted gloriously downhill.