Depriving Villages

The following story could be used as a cautionary tale, and for reasons of preserving the dignity of the other players in this fable, they shall remain hidden behind the letters A, B and C.

The story centres around the Moonride in Whakarewarewa Forest, Rotorua a couple of years ago. A had cobbled together a team for the event. The team consisted of two of us who had ridden MTBs more than once, B who had ridden one once and C who had never ridden an MTB. Fitness was also a bit of a mixed bag. We were entered in the twelve hour event.

Logistics wise the team was well equipped with a horse float, marquee, two generators, fifteen hundred watts of lighting, a BBQ, large stereo, chilly bins and a reasonable amount of food and liquid refreshments. We had three sets of lights for the bikes. Arriving down on the Friday night (in two vehicles) we set up base camp and then retired to our hotel, for a plan of attack and some dinner. At the hotel we slept two to a room.

Race day dawned and out we went to the event, full of vigour. We had already decided that there was to be a compulsory beer per lap for each rider as they finished their lap. Additionally we had a handicap system in place, so that the rider with the slowest lap, every four laps, gained another beer. We also had some arcane rules around a cold beverage to be served immediately to the incoming rider.

Things were going quite well, until, as we were setting up, I was asked to put some music on. We did have a reasonably large and loud stereo. Unfortunately for the others, I had enquired as to what music I should bring and, given that no-one made any requests, I bought what I wanted to.
By memory the first song that popped out was La Via La Varquez by The Mars Volta, quite loud. Howls of protest, so it was replaced by Forkboy by Lard, and so on. Much disagreement followed, with me refusing to concede. In the end A found his iPod and plugged that in, with a mix of classic rock, easy listening and some horror electronic stuff that is normally accompanied by hands in the air, strobing lights, dry ice and party drugs. The other groups either side of our compound looked on slightly alarmed.

When the race started A went first, then I took the next lap, then C, then B. All went swimmingly, for a while. I refused to put up with A's music anymore and would switch it whenever possible, after a couple of hours of abuse and switching we hatched the cunning plan that whoever was due to ride the next lap could choose the music. In the meantime, one of our two generators, which we had sited as far away as possible, using a thirty metre builders lead, was starting to stink out someone else's camp. Complaints and a bit of lugging of generator fixed that.

The sun was out, the BBQ cranked up, steak and prawns and bread and much, much more was served and eaten, beer was drunk and much pleasant merry fun was had.

The sun started to sink lower in the sky, C realised that the lamp that looked like it had fallen out of a DC3 during a rough landing, and was powered by a lead acid motorbike battery, was simply incapable of being mounted on his bike using duct tape. This, he realised as I set out for one of the last day light laps. On that lap there was a bit of sunstrike in places and a light would have been handy in the deepest woods, but I wasn't concerned. C headed out next with a couple of things akin to fairy lights in the place of his landing lamp.

I was getting a little cold, so A, B and I decided that we should drink some wine and maybe a nip or two of vodka wouldn't go amiss. C took a long time, a little longer than anticipated. The bottle of vodka was consumed, B mixing his with jellybeans to fuel his upcoming lap.

Eventually C reappeared, and B wobbled out into the dark, vodka and jellybean fueled.

A longer wait followed, a little more wine and tales of bravado. Eventually two children appeared with the transponder, they had been asked by B to pass this one and been told to tell us to keep going. It was A's turn and A was tipsy, actually more than tipsy. C and I manhandled him onto his bike and slung him protesting down the race shute into the dark. It was like a plane being launched from an aircraft carrier, he was going whether he liked it or not.

C and I then went to find B. B was in the ambulance, "The drunk guy" as the ambulance staff called him, with a dislocated shoulder. He was quite cheery and was just annoyed that he'd crashed within hearing range of our, now wound up, stereo. C and I retired back to the compound to cook on the BBQ and drink a little more wine.

A was gone quite some time. Eventually he staggered in, still very tipsy, quite worse for wear and sans the transponder. I set out because I wanted to do one lap in the dark. I rolled around and eventually made it back. Only then did I find out what had become the transponder. A was so tired and emotional on his lap that he fell from the bike innumerable times, eventually falling a sleep for a while and also breaking a few ribs in the process. He was found by a marshall and escorted out of the forest. B reported the next day, that while lying in the ambulance, it was about to depart to take him to Rotorua Hospital, when the radio call came through asking the driver to wait, because a rider had been found in the forest who was too drunk to walk. B was quite cheered by this and told the ambulance staff "That will be A". The ambulance left shortly after without A.

A, C and I decided that we should stop riding and instead concentrate on enjoying the atmosphere. The team on one side of us scarpered, the team on the other side, from the Hutt Valley, thought it was amusing and started joining us for some hospitality after they rode their final laps. Some further destruction and mayhem ensued at the compound, before we retreated to the hotel at around two in the morning. The team from the Hutt Valley were so taken with our performance that they wanted to know when we were next fronting up to an event and whether they could camp beside us there.

B's night was far from over, the radiographers at Rotorua hsopital were on strike, so he discharged himself. Unfortunately he was without his clothes and his wallet was back at the forest with us. He walked out of the hospital clad in a blanket and hospital gown and flagged a taxi. Taxi took him back to the hotel, where he managed to borrow cash from reception to pay the taxi. As he got in the lift in the hotel a fellow guest asked him if he'd been to a toga party.

The next morning I was woken by a groaning, whimpering sound. It was A, who I was sharing the room with, and the full pain of his broken ribs was kicking in, he shuffled about whimpering and groaning for the day, but, unfortunately for him, that was a source of amusement for the rest of us. B was only good with one arm, the other he rigged a sling for. Like that the four of us returned to pack up Camp Destruction.

Our marquee had been egged and there was an abundance of empty bottles, cold steak, prawn shells etc. Not pretty, but the two able bodied of us did manage to pack up, assisted by the man with one functional arm. The broken ribbed one was truly broken and just whimpered.

The sum of alcohol consumed did surprise us all a little (and if anyone wants the totals email me), and we concurred that was the root cause for the failure of our campaign.

On return to Auckland we did all spend several days anxiously reading various forums, etc in the hope that we had passed unnoticed, and, after a week or two, that did appear to be true.

We have considered a return to the race, but next time we will have our own ambulance, because at least they will be more reliable than the local taxis, will be warm and the beds will be comfortable to lie in between laps.

I will keep you posted as to those plans.