Half and half is not a hole

Where does one wander? Where do the shadows go at night?
Actually, I don't have a clue. But least you think I'm going to get all deep and meaningful, you don't need to worry. Instead I shall proffer a few random thoughts from the week.

The road section of the cycling community could do well to take a leaf from the page of the BMX community. I'm not referring to the race scene, I am referring to the street/skatepark chaps.

My Underling and I went to the eastern seaboard of the Coromandel Peninsula for the latter part of the week. We camped at Opoutere, like outlaws, having the camp grounds to ourselves, with the wild weather sending most people home. Unfortunately he has inherited my stubborn streak, and I indulge it a little, so the elements were not allowed to prevail.

Once the weather eased a little, and stopped raining, we headed to the skatepark at Whangamata. There, the Kaos Kreator rode with local riders of varying ages and abilities, and I was banished to the park margins. What he enjoyed was typical of every encounter I have seen at any skatepark. The other riders all greet those who arrive, not in a formal, orchestrated chorus, but in a casual,and friendly manner. They chat, they ride, they encourage, they care, they show respect and are courteous.
There are no written rules, no authority telling them to do this. But, there is a very strong sense of community, of sharing.

Contrast this to the increasing rudeness of road riders, who will studiously ignore others, cut them off, fail to ask if assistance is needed with a roadside stranding, let alone actually assist, and commit any number of other anti-social sins, and you can understand my envy of the BMX scene.

Catching XXXXL sized Kahawai on light tackle is a sure fire way to place a grin on one's face.

Kaka sound like mischief.

Getting slapped by the tent wall due to a decent wind gust is a thoroughly unpleasant surprise.

Lastly, by way of a newt, something jawdropping...

Penguin Pants!

Let's take a little stroll.
At present I am harbouring a nasty little imp. This imp is gobbling all my creative spirit and leaving me longing. The imp has no name, he has no rhyme, he is just there stopping me, everytime I sit down to add to my mental meanderings. Damned frustrating creature he is.

I am still riding my bike, still enjoying the pleasure of rolling unhindered, the joy of familiar roads and new ones. I am still slack jawed in wonderment at the world and it's random moments of serendipity and synchronicity that it dishes up. I was rendered speechless, agog, the other evening as I pulled out of the supermarket carpark when I witnessed a shooting star, a meteor, of grand proportions arc across the firmament. It was as if I had been slapped.

I am still deriving pleasure from music, although some who know me, consider my taste in music to be, at best, eclectic or, at worst, offensive and unpleasant. Likewise food, literature, conversation still hold crisp. But creating, spinning words has been blocked, as if by an unseen and unbidden creature.

So, in an attempt to sidestep him, I shall recall a tale or two from my childhood. Not another story of cross dressing, or even learning physics the hard way, this is a collection of oddments from several visits to the Little River A&P show. First up I would like to tender an belated apology to any of the affected parties, but I'd wager they will never be aware of them.

The Little River Show, it was always in Summer, and typically warm to hot, in the sheltered valley, just off the Main Akaroa Highway. It was a permanent fixture in my childhood and youth, as a visitor and also competitor. My cousin and I ran free there, with twenty cents to spend and adventure to acquire. And adventure we did amass over several years, but we also caused amusement and consternation for others along the way.

Moment one. My parents had left earlier for the day, my uncle was charged with bringing my cousin and I home. He stopped, after the show, at the Little River Pub. We, my cousin and I, had to stay outside, in the carpark. My uncle had a company car, a Hillman Hunter station wagon, or maybe a faceless Vauxhall, I can't remember exactly, except it was a mustard colour. Two boys, time on their hands, soon roamed the carpark, what we found were preying mantises, and a number of egg cases. We collected the egg cases, a good number of them, and wandered the gravel carpark. After an hour or so, my uncle emerged from the bar, and we drove home, leaving the egg cases in his car, in the glove box. For the next few weeks my uncle was puzzled, then troubled, by an ever increasing number of juvenile preying mantises that keep appearing in his car, until one day, in desperation he opened the glove box. Words were said.

Moment two. I had a grey 12:2 pony who was fiercely intelligent and bloody minded. He would buck me off, then stand and stare at me, would bite if annoyed, could open gates and remove his halter. He was a terror, around 18 years old, but youthful in looks and attitude. One year, the Little River show, and I was standing holding the reins, while I engaged in polite conversation with a family friend. My pony, Tom, was standing behind me. After a short period there was muffled complaint and then louder protest behind. I turned to find that my pony had rubbed his bridle off, it lay on the ground, and had leisurely strolled over to a picnicing family. There he was standing on the edge of the blanket and nosing through their cake tin. I garbed him, and a hasty retreat was made.

Moment three. Another year. My cousin, yes the same one, had a golden labrador, Cass. Cass was entire, and quite a magnificent dog (the first and last time I shall ever apply that adjective to a lab). The three of us, dog and two boys, roamed free at the show. Running back from watching the woodchopping, Cass had to stop and leave his signature on a prominent spot. What he chose was a touch unsuitable, it was square between the shoulders of a chap sitting picnicing with his familiy. My cousin and I fled almost crippled with mirth, and I can still hear the yells from the chap today.

As an adult, a townie now, I am always a touch embarrassed attending shows, but I am also well aware of the traps and pitfalls that lie there, ready to lend laughter to small boys. I do hope that they still happen.

Little Wing

This is, in a most unashamed fashion, a post of love. Not just a mere tryst, a flutter on the heart strings, but a long, deeply held passion, that I hold dear, and central to my very being. It does make my every day brighter, and makes me realise that I am a very lucky man. I make no apologies for this out pouring, and, if nothing else, I want it to be a fingerpost.

The inspirations for this declaration are multiple, but were most clearly crystalised in two separate moments seven days apart.

Saturday week ago, Doris, Sid and I tackled a route of abject riding misery and pain, it was a diet of climbing, more climbing, descents and views. The climbs were invariably steep and included several feared roads around Clevedon, Brookby, Ardmore and Drury (Creightons, Jones, Ponga and West Roads amongst others, and in both directions). The day was beautiful with crystal sharp air and views to the edge of the planet.

As we descended Twilight Road towards Clevedon, I had eased ahead of the others on the winding, damp road, and as the road opened on the flat and I rolled along I was suddenly aware of a small flock of Kakariki immediately above me, travelling in the same direction and slightly faster. Maybe a dozen in number, an entourage for me for a brief period before they veered away and across a hedge, leaving me bound to the tarmac. Their cruciform, whirring vibrance in the sparkling air, they were winged emerald treasures.

Then, moment number two, this Saturday, I had to marshall at the Time Trial on the waterfront. Marshalling at the far end of the course, St Heliers, is not without it's benefits, in spite of the need to be there before 7 am. The principle one of those is a fabulous bakery in Kohimarama who have a selection of freshly baked goods and pastries, excellent coffee and staff with wit and manners. I am able to nip in and gain sustenance before I go and stand, with cone and flag, in Vale Road.

This particular morning, the sun was just over the horizon as I drove the waterfront, the harbour like a millpond, and the promise of a beautiful autumn day writ large. But, after some pangs of envy watching boats heading out (and realising that I get my fair share of on water time), when I rounded the point to St Heliers, there, in very close, was a reasonable school of kahawai chasing their breakfast in the shallows. It was a wonderful sight, there, within arms reach of the footpath, in front of homes, and unnoticed by the other souls out riding, driving and walking, I wanted to get out and yell and point at the small wonder of it. But I suspect people would think I was mad.

Instead, I held it close, a little guilty at that, and told others of that little wonder that I witnessed over the weekend.

But these two events, and many others are etched deeply in my mind, making for a place of retreat and repose, with deep sense filled memories, that tide me over in moments of darkness.