The Pequod

Call me Ishmael.

I was recruited into a band of three riders to set out for a riding encounter with some hills and grades in the verdant Waitakeres. I will attempt to recount the full comedic horror of bearing witness to the self sought destruction of the usual Author of this Blog, who for the purposes of this narrative will be known as Captain Ahab, at the hands of The Crocodile.

At the appointed hour, our vessel, the three of us, like a short-manned ship, sailed forth. Captain Ahab was still stinking from a night spent well in his cups, full of bluster and a will to impose his route upon the Crew. The passage chosen and the course was set. We traversed the bike path and Crows Road peacefully, uneventfully with little sign of The Captain's crapulous state of health.

On Wairere Road, as the road pointed skyward I, Ishmael, and The Crocodile left the grunting Captain Ahab lurching lonely and rudderless in our wake, The Crocodile continued to talk, not grunt out single words as he rode the grade, no, he proffered fully formed sentences in a conversational manner. This lop-sided chat continued up the climb, while the Captain drifted increasingly further rearward.

We stopped at the top of that skyward passage, before the plunge down the Duffy Road precipice, there Captain Ahab rejoined us gasping, red-faced and still smelling like the bottom of freshly drained barrel. After a rapid descent down to Te Henga Road, we, as a three man vessel again, faced the challenge of the Bethalls Quarry.

The Captain hung grimly to our wheels as the road ground upwards, but for only a short time, mind. His tenure as a member the crew of our vessel was terminated with the effortless pace from The Crocodile, who was now being reborn in the mind of the foul Captain as the author of his inner pain and suffering, veritably his own private Great White Whale, Moby Dick.

On the second ramp of the climb, The Crocodile continued with his infernal pace, without a trace of exersion. This required that I abate my rate of climb to preserve my diginity. Adjusted, I continued to climb steadily and quickly. The Captain, dragging an anchor, was lost from view. Eventually the triumvirate reformed when Captain Ahab appeared on the crest of the hill, to rejoin the rested and waiting crew.

On the next climb, Christian Road, the pace was civil and within the capability of the mentally deteriorating Captain. It was on the next climb, Coulter Road, that the Captain decided strike out at his nemesis, his fellow crew mate, who he now viewed as Moby Dick. The Captain set upon the climb with gusto, riding a pace that was madness given his less than devastating climbing prowess, The Crocodile and I hung there with him. After a short interval The Captain imploded, his legs and lungs betraying his unhinged mind and he was left, desolate as we continued apace.

After an indeterminate wait, the rapid plunge down Vineyard Road, we then we approached Forest Hill Road as a group, to tackle the final climb of the day. We climbed together bound as a crew, but as the final ramps were upon us The Crocodile set a steady, but not unreasonable, pace at their onset. His pace was like a flick from the flukes of the Great White Whale, destroying the Captain and his madness, sending him plummeting into a deep, private hell and a slow simpering death on those final dreadful ramps. I was left in the middle, watching The Crocodile glide away, while the Captain was left destroyed.

This be a recounting of last Sunday's ride written as the imagined voice of Junior, who was present, and who was the narrator for this tale of hubris and destruction.

This Sunday we are going to tackle a similar route, The Heart of Darkness this time, maybe?

The horror, the horror...