Butterfly on a wheel

On Sunday I made people swear at me, and think unholy thoughts of me.
It was the second Race of Six Friends, and the evil triumvirate of my brain, spring weather and the local council came together to cause adventure, misery and satisfaction.
You can read of my course creation thoughts on the R6F blog, this post is more around my day out in the boonies with five other tolerant souls and a crack support person.

Tristan Thomas had flown up from Wellington to be team Ox and super tow for the day. The rest of the team was a mix of old and new, Mikeal had blagged a spot that was vacated by Paul Pendry, and Damien Kearney stepped into the unknown at the last minute as sub for Junior who was unavailable. Rounding the team out were The Worm and The Croc.

The weather looked okay on the radar, with a rain band that would go through, then happy times. That wasn't quite the story as we did get some decent precipitation for a while, then drizzle and rain in the later part. I had forgotten that up here in Auckland we tend to be a bit soft about the weather, and I did scoff when all the softies got excited about the big snowfall of 2011, but I realised that I have grown soft in reading Tristan's post of the weekend, where he described the weather as drizzle. It was a fitting description.

We started with Tristan and The Worm setting a fine pace and example on the flats towards Port Waikato, that Mikeal and I then failed to match. In Mikeal's defense he may have still be suffering from the pre-start nipple gripple I gave him. He did get his revenge later.

Things went in a peachy fashion for the flat, and the climb and descent of Klondyke Road, until The Worm suffered an explosive pinch flat, for the rest of us a small wait and watch, then off again, all was good, then suddenly "What the hell is this?" as the road that was fast and smooth two week prior was now a mudbath with loose metal either side of the ruts from bike tyres. Turns out that the local council had opted to grade and remetal the last couple of kilometres at the end of Klondyke Road. Cue many, many punctures. Tristan was afflicted by two in quick succession, and Mikeal exacted his revenge on me while Tristan effected his repair.

Mikeal's revenge consisted of a quick flick to the end of a delicate part of my person. The sound was meaty and the pain was quite sharp. Much amusement to the assorted crowd and the Jackass road show carried on.

The rest of the ride was a set of movements by various team members to come up along side Tristan for a bit of finding one's place in the scheme of things, while he rode tempo and strong.

When we hit the final flat section, Tristan told us all to hop on, and on the train we scrambled, or in my case dangled. The last little rise, loomed and turned me into a whimpering shell. Finish couldn't come fast enough.

Then the pleasure of dry clothes and shelter. Nothing like clambering out of wet gritty clothes, into dry clothes on a small country town's side street, it bought back a raft of deeply repressed memories.

As a team we did very well, and thanks to my team mates for putting up with me, thanks to Doris for being in the right place at the right time with all the good stuff. Well done team, we (or at least I) will be back for the next one.

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.

Entropy, a measure of my uselessness

A long time between drinks for me here. If I could supply adequate reasons as to why I neglected my online spawn I would lay them out now, but I don't have any, apart from a sheer creative block and an enjoyment of summer.

Sunday just been, Doris and I knocked out a close to perfect point to point ride, Auckland to Leigh. The almost part comes from the section from Warkworth to Leigh, but I'll come back to that shortly.

The section from Auckland to Warkworth was just magical. The weather was perfect warm, windless and high overcast. Traffic was negligible, and the roads superb. I would rate the road through Woodcocks, from the SH16 turn off at the Kaipara end to Warkworth, as good as any other road in the Auckland region. The seal is good, the scenery pleasant, traffic light and it has a climb and descent combo that take some beating. The only caveat to this part of the ride is the section from Kaukapakapa is tough riding with a couple of solid to steep climbs, dead seal and a feeling of a slow leak. This is mitigated by what was behind, what lays ahead, and a magnificent view over the Kaipara.

The less than perfect part of the ride, was the section from Warkworth to Matakana, no shoulder, seal that abrades your nether regions and erogenous zones and lots of traffic, there's little to recommend here. The last leg from Matakana to Leigh is slightly better, but punctuated by short, leg stealing climbs.

The bright side is the reward of some of the best chips and donuts you can find from the Leigh fish and chip shop, eaten on the grass under a pohutakawa.

Takes some beating, thanks Doris for the company, it was a wonderful ride.

The Hedge Sparrow

Use of profanity is sometimes an artform, recently I was pondering this and decided to do some research. I quite like Goodfellas, the Martin Scorcese directed epic. The word "Fuck" is used 422 times in the movie, quite spectacular, and far more, even on a cuss per minute basis than most other films.

But for sheer damned cussedness, Steve Martin, in Planes, Trains and Automobiles takes the biscuit. Fuck or Fucking 18 times in just over a minute. I think that was quite a tirade.

This run of weather is eating my soul, I knocked out a very pleasurable ride with Mikeal and Doris from their castle in Sud Auckland. We rolled around the excellent roads of Karaka, Waiau Pa, Clarks Beach, Patumahoe, Pukekohe, etc. Avoiding the worst of the weather and enjoying the ride.

For a while Mikeal and I traded names ornithological. Everything from Albatross to Chinstrap Penguin, Royal Spoonbill to Knot, Crested Grebe to Swallow, most amusing, especially when Mikeal named the Jabberwocky. I'm certain that Lewis Carroll was most proud, but his fearsome beast was foul, not fowl. Minor malapropism, it was a Jabiru that the Onastic One was meaning.

Then we passed time with the name game, famous people, Doris is a whizz at this game, and soon Mikeal was suffering from an "E" blockage and I was stumped by "H". It certainly passed the miles well, but I must say it is a poor second to telling bad sex stories.

The Northern Hell still beckons, but this weather is just too unreliable.

Beating a path

To celebrate the anniversary of my first breath, I coerced others into repeating my ride from last Sunday. Only this time, the weather didn't play ball, and as we entered the forest the heavens opened.

I could write endless verbage about how much fun it was, and how truly grubby we got, but I'll let the pictures do the talking.

After we had cleared the forest we rode the gravel road to the Woodhill MTB carpark to nab a coffee, there we were treated to odd looks, bemusement and wonder. But we were grubby and very much alive.

Thanks Mikeal, Doris, Greg and Tony.

Il Falco

The length of time between last post and this one is a reflection in the difficulty I have typing accurately with my left hand. Actually, my left-handed typing speed and accuracy is purely symptomatic of a variety of life's tasks that are slow and challenging for me, due to my inability to land a jump out of the bowl (saucer would be a better description) pictured above.

Pictured also is the offending cycle with the rider, who can jump and land things.

CTB disclosed his name for foolishness, it came from two people mishearing a comment of his, and stuck from there. The rules for the recipient are as follows:-
They must crash by themselves and through their own ineptness.
The name stays with them until they can find a suitable new recipient.
The name that CTB came up with was The Evil Homo. This came about when he was riding with DB and Gael. He mentioned about descending like Il Falco from Como (Paolo Salvodelli, who was reknowned for his descending prowess), somehow the others misheard this and instead heard CTB announce that he was descending like an Evil Homo. Much laughter ensued.

Given some stiff competition a couple of weeks a go from Mikeal, Junior and Del Woodford, I was a little confident that my crash might not quite be the ultimate bicycle handling debarcle and that I may avoid the pain and ignominy of the title. On reflection I ranked as a deserved winner.

However I am saved, by quite some margin in fact. I'm fortunate that by the time I'm back on the road, the new owner of the title will be used to wearing it and will be looking to pass it on.

Last week, I endured Mikeal enquiring as to how I was coping using my non-dominant hand for lavatory purposes. I had to file a daily wipe report. On Friday night Doris came and took the Spawn of my Loins and myself in to the Auckland Domain to see the archival Anzac film footage being screened on the outside of the War Memorial Musuem. As we drove, she asked if I'd heard about Mikeal's accident with a Nifty Fifty. No, I replied, it was news to me.

What transpired is last Tuesday (the very week that he is giving me grief about showing off and being useless) Mikeal had a friend visit (would that be the two of them in the masturbatorium?), said friend had a Nifty Fifty. Mikeal jumped on this and made to ride up their cul de sac. The mighty 50cc engine was too much for him, and he wheelied it, lost control and then lost his dignity and a reasonable amount of skin of elbows, hips, and hands. All less than fifty metres from his front door. On a Nifty Fifty no less.

He kept this a secret, and I suspect that he was hoping his wounds would heal and he'd be able to avoid humiliation. Unfortunately, not so.

The honorific is all yours Mikeal, thanks for saving me.

Being Boiled

Some more outstanding riding results to hand. Mikeal, he who pulls his own trigger, and Doris took part in, and completed, the Wellington to Auckland cycle tour. The tour is organised by Steven Cox, and having taken part in some of his races before, I know that it would have gone up every sodding hill between rhe start and finish cities, as well as any bit of road with a good cross wind.

Anyway, these two raced the event and turned in a brace of good results. Doris was second in her age group and third woman overall, Mikeal was fourth in age group and twentieth overall. Well done both of you!

I did wonder through the week, how many times Doris told Coxy, or someone similar in a position of race power, that she hated them, or F$%%# HATED THEM, or that they could orally clean something delicate.

Well done both of you!

Larus dominicanus

First up, an update of sorts from Sunday's ride.
Here's the route, Doris's Day of Destiny . I've taken it from the Lincoln Road, Universal Drive intersection in Horrenderson and finished it at the end of the new motorway at Maioro St in New Windsor.
Here is the profile, it is from Balmoral, back to Balmoral, so includes the NW Bikepath, etc.
I have also discovered today, that one of the riders on Sunday is a scavenger, like a seagull. On arriving in Titirangi, said rider raced over to the Hardware Cafe where Warren and Serge sat,
and grabbed the portion of brioche that Serge was yet to consume. They then, in their own words "Scarfed it". Interesting behaviour, I do hope that they don't adopt other seagull like habits.

I raced tonight, in the bioSport Crit. I rode B grade. It was great fun, and I had a blast. Thanks to Greg and co for organising these races. A good size field, fifty eight riders, reasonable pace, and thoroughly enjoyable. Unfortunately, I also proved to be inadequate for a member of the female sex.

I had mentioned to Gael, from Solo, that I could lead her out for the final sprint. Gael is a damn good rider, and had won the previous week in the face of some stiff competition. So, tonight I rolled around the race mid field, comfortable and happy. With two laps to go, I made the move through a lap to get much closer to the pointy end of the race. As I passed Gael around the start of the final lap, I told her to jump on board. All good, so far. Turned into the finish straight, position, not bad. Gael yells "Go, Go, Go" and I mentally respond, my body doesn't. I was completely tapped out, and going a speed that wouldn't be out of place at a Senior Citizen's Zimmer Frame Race. It was appalling.
Faced with that handicap, Gael did very well to get around from behind the lumbering behemoth that was me, get up to speed and run it very close to finish second.

Well done Gael.

Mental note to self, be gallant with things I can manage - doors, puddles and seating.

Doris's Day of Destiny

Last Sunday, I enjoyed several minutes of being hated by a woman. She told me that she hated me, she even used a very strong modifier to the sentence as she told me that she hated me. It was good.

Mikeal, he of the self imagined donkey punch, and Doris are going to race the Wellington to Auckland next week. As such, Doris wanted a bit of an up tempo hit out to gild the lily. She had asked for a roll around the BCL with Junior and I. I am always happy to oblige these sort of requests, but had added that I wanted to add a couple more hills into the loop.

And this I did, adding in another three climbs of reasonable length and some little pinches to cause pain and suffering in between. All of this tacked onto the tailend of the BCL and giving an Eighty kilometre loop with Eleven hundred metres of climbing.

Then I spread the invitation wide. Come the day, we had a group of ten, perfect weather and a morning of fun ahead of us.

Unfortunately our group was thinned to nine on the first climb with the quiet drift off the back of Mr Parker, the result of some slightly up tempo pace which did stretch the group a little. Up the next climb, again the pace was strong, and three of the males were adrift at the top, but Doris, who is made of stern stuff and has great form at the moment, was still attached.

Over the next couple of climbs the pace was sensible, with a couple of stragglers. The group lost another member, after the Glengarry Road pinch, who had to head home to complete domestic duties. That left eight of us.

On Konini Road Wayne Hudson started the fireworks, Mikeal (who was definitely not Sid Too that day) then attacked. That sparked Junior and The Crocodile to warm their engines a little and leave us mortals alone and battling it out for the minor placings. Doris was firmly attached to my rear wheel and may have muttered a few epithets at Wayne for his insolence on the slope.

Serge and Warren opted out of the final and opted for the coffee stop at Titirangi, before the final plunge and the last two climbs. That left six of us. Some fresh and some less fresh. As we pulled up Victory Road, with it's 1.7 kilometres at an average of 7.5%, the group was split by Mikeal, Junior and The Croc going ahead to do battle. Me riding tempo, because I didn't have any other option, Wayne altering pace a little, and Doris attached firmly to my wheel.

It was here that Doris started to tell me how much she truly didn't care for me, and that she wasn't feeling kindly at all to me. There were several sentences with the F word and hate in them. It was good.

The final climb was just tempo, as I suspect that a few of us were a little broken. We made Titirangi to see a smiling Serge and Warren, who were promptly told by Doris how much she hated me.

This was a gratifying result.

In the afterglow, all was smiles and forgiveness.

I'll post the directions and profile for the loop shortly.

Well worth doing, and even better if there's some emotion shown on the road.

A dew drop on the face of humanity

So, my posting has been a bit sluggish of late. I can blame a variety of things, seasonal silliness, fatigue, a four day trip to The Village Of The Damned, more fatigue, writer's block, the list of reasons are endless. So, now back behind the keyboard, I feel guilt, guilt that I have left a gap of several days with no outbound missives and no inward correspondence.

Tonight is the shortest night of the year. As a quirk of the earth's orientation the sunrise times are already later than last week, but the sunsets will continue to draw out, with the latest still another four weeks away. Good news for the evenings, bad news for my morning riding.

Tomorrow morning, Mikeal (he of the quickdraw), Doris and myself will set out in the pre-dawn darkness, to reach the high point of Scenic Drive in time for the sunrise. It will be glorious riding through the growing light, with birdsong as company in the bush clad walls of Scenic Drive. I can't wait. With the mixed cloud we have had today, I'm picking the dawn to be spectacular, a great way to welcome in the slide to the winter solstice.

The trip to The Village of The Damned was fun. Yet again I realised how fortunate we are here, in the upper North Island, weatherwise. On Sunday, while down there, a Southerly front came through and ripped a good ten degrees from the temperature in the space of minutes. The next day it was still barely in the teens temperature wise at midday when we left, and it's supposed to be Summer. It was a relief to get back to sub-tropical Auckland.

The plus side of the visit was that the Kaos Kreator got to do some good, old fashioned country things, played in hay, rode horses and quad-bikes, learnt to crack a stock-whip, had his first go on a motor-bike, played in the creek, caught cockabullies (although he was a little underwhelmed by the size of the fish there) and got to see his yours truly rid the country of one pesky possum. Positive stuff for a small boy, that is pretty difficult to provide in a city.

Only real drawback to all of this, is that he now wants a motorbike, some cattle and a pony. That's going to be easy to accommodate on a small suburban block.

Thin White Rope

People are strange. I'm living proof of that, but frequently I get affirmation of this immutable fact when I look at the search engine data for this august Blog.

Terms that have led people here include the following:-
Naked Boys Riding Bikes (Okay, there must be a site devoted to that, but I haven't gone looking)
Naked Women Wearing Rubber Gloves (That was interesting to follow, although how they got here after some of the better places to go is beyond me)
Fizik Antares Deepest Point (Complete mystery to me, but if it's anything like Jorge it will involve the inappropriate use of not just the saddle, but the seatpost as well)
Pumpkin Hill Artefact ( At first I thought this might have been a commentary on my K2 performance, but no, they seemed to be looking for something really crusty)
Naturist (Maybe I can capitalise on this one...)
Miss Junior Naturist (A trifle weird)
Flowery Rubber Gloves (There's a market segment I'm missing)
My Doctor Rubber Glove (This rubber glove thing is starting to weird me out a little, but maybe it's a new blog I could start. Only rubber gloves, and naked women, and fixie hipsters getting beaten by women in rubber gloves)
Defy by Doris (There's a fashion designer in Hong Hong who has that label. Well, I never! I wonder what the real Doris here will think about that when she finds out).

This week I have suffered from a little temporal dislocation, my weekday morning rides are confusing me. I had gotten used to the long darkness of the early morning rides. Now that K2 has been, gone and broken me, I've eased the pre-work mileage back a little, but still getting out early. I just find it strange to be riding in glorious sunlight before the commuting traffic starts to build. In a week or two I'll get used to it, but this week, it's been a strangely pleasurable discomfort.

Bands cover songs, some well, some better than the original, and some so badly that you wonder just what they were thinking.
Here are a few covers that I'd recommend pursuing vigorously.
Ministry - Under my thumb (taking that staid Rolling Stones drone and making it something nasty. Opens with synth that wouldn't be astray in a gay nightclub, then just builds and gets hard and heavy with it. Pure angry pleasure)
Ryan Adams - Wonderwall (Inspired cover of the Oasis anthem, takes something truly banal and turns it into a heartwrenching piece of humility)
The Revolting Cocks - Do you think I'm sexy? (This is how Rod should have done it, funny with plenty of bump and grind)
Johnny Cash -Hurt (Trent Rezner of Nine Inch Nails has openly stated that the Man in Black's version of his song is just brilliant)
Wilco - One Hundred Years from Now (just a riot of The Byrds song from Sweetheart of the Rodeo)
The Byrds - Hey Joe (Pure nerves and edginess, a creditible counterpoint to Jimi Hendrix and his definitive version. Jack White has built an entire career copying the style of this song)
1000 Homo Djs - Supernaut (Industrial stomping on the Black Sabbath classic)

And in that little line up there's something for everyone, even my Chief of Staff.

The Canal

I came, I saw, I was broken.

K2 2009, it's come and gone and I am a spent man.


Here we are about to embark on the sortie. There are three here, two looking like lean cyclists, one in lycra with a little extra padding. For this small group mixed fortune awaits.
From left to right, Junior, The Crocodile and yours truly.

Junior would go on to have a sterling day and achieve a great result. Certainly one to be proud of.

The Crocodile was truly set to be a weapon of bunch destruction, but his plan of being the bringer of misery to bunch 1A was curtailed by a puncture on the Thames Coast. Even so, with a slow tub change and a bit of dicking around he still turned in a very good time, impressive when it's put into the context of a very long, angry solo ride. Well done that man.

Me, well that's a whole barrel load of pain, indignity and suffering.

As can be seen here, with my resting heart rate, prior to the start I was a bundle of nerves, nothing usual. I've been on the start line of this event a fair few times before and knew what I was in for.

This year was a little different, I'd loaded myself with an expectation, and signed up for the fastest group. Prior to the gun going off I was confident, especially in the context of a good ride a couple of years prior, and arguably a better training regime this time around.

I was, even though the picture above lies, carrying less weight and was climbing better than in the past. Until the end of September I'd enjoyed a very good training run and was ticking off the goals.

October was a bit disrupted, but nothing to worry about. The day dawned and I was ready.
Now, just a casual aside about pre-event nutrition. I'm not too wound up about what I eat, and enjoy a very catholic diet, but I do like to enjoy a decent, quality meal on the evening before the day of the gallows.

With that in mind, Junior and I, who were sharing a little shack in deepest Whitianga, planned our meal ahead. He provided spinach and chicken risotto, and I made pasta (from scratch, you know the whole egg, flour, olive oil, hand crank thingy) with a chorizo and tomato sauce. As always there was more than enough.

Doris and Mikeal (you know, the man who malices his chalice) came to join us, Doris had also conjured some kitchen magic and was happy to share. Mikeal had other ideas. Here he is, below, wobbling his way through an Exxon Valdez special from the local fish and chip shop. On the positive side, he didn't get quite what he ordered, some one else will have opened their newspaper parcel and found a handful of chips and a dick on a stick. Mikeal got lucky and scored, by accident, someone else's oysters and more fish than he could scoff.
Back to the day of misery. It started well, but soon, by climb two, Mynderman's Hill, changed into an outing that veered from the script. Tactically, I made a bad decision lurking down the back of the bunch, and as a consequence found myself just off the back over the top.

Plan B was dug out, it worked in a fashion and I was picked up by the second part of the second bunch at the top of Whangapoua. This bunch seemed to disintegrate around me and I was left with one other chap, riding in no man's land. So we cruised, only to be picked up by a group of eight riders at the foot of the last climb before the coast. A nice, easy climb over, then when we hit the flat, with the cross head wind, the hammer went down.

A rapid rolling bunch ensued, but smashing into the wind took it's toll, after twenty five kilometres I was spent, so sat on for a few laps. Eventually I rejoined the paceline, and then about five kilometres on we caught the bunch ahead. Too late for me, I was useless, and it was only just over halfway. Plan B was not so cunning.

From there it was just a grovel, riding twenty kilometres with one other rider after the bunch buggered off on me on the Kopu-Hikuai climb. The two of us, we collected by another bunch just before Tairua and Pumpkin Hill. There I saw yet another bunch wave me goodbye. Near the top I spotted a Tandem.

I dug it in quite deep and crested the hill to catch the tandem before the descent, here was my ticket home for the final thirty five kilometres. I am eternally grateful to them. The team was a couple of local guys from Thames and they were, by the finish line, the winning tandem. They provided me with a draft for miles, put up with my inane chatter on the rises and were a life saver for me. Thanks D Donnelly and M White, I still owe you that beer.

Post finish, Junior and I had shown the foresight to pack, in a chillybin, beer and salt and vinegar crisps. It was heaven.

Of our collection of riders we had ridden with up to the event, we had a fifty percent attrition rate. Doris DNF'd due to a small logistical oversight of one tube, two punctures. Serge and Sid both decided to exit stage left on the first descent of the day. They committed their land surfing separately, but it was on the same corner. Serge lost bark, some finger skin and clothing damage. Sid did more and managed to lose bark and break his collarbone.

I'd like to wish them both a speedy recovery, and since Sid still hasn't disclosed whether he's left or right handed, I'm waiting to set up his toilet buddy roster.

Lastly, in the post race scoff of bambi, potatoes and asparagus, excellent faire provided by Mikeal and Doris, The Crocodile ate his first potato in months.

Doctrine of Misery

Sometimes it's the little things that count.

Mikeal, he of the glad-handedness, devised a plan of subversive suffering. This plan of his was fermented from the cosy warmth of his automotive and not while on two wheels. The plan was in equal parts sublime and stupid, as such it grabbed my attention. He proposed that we venture down to the Coromandel, ride the Tapu-Coroglen Road, then The 309 Road and ride back down the coast to the start point. A brilliant plan, with metal roads, the highest road crossing of the Coromandel and then one of the few roads in New Zealand that rental cars are banned from (along with The Ball Hutt Road and Skippers Canyon Road). This had my sort of silliness all over it.

A day was set, and we had a company of four, Doris, Mysterex (who was soon to go trans-gender and, additionally, suffer name reassignment), Mikeal and myself. Apart from Mikeal, who was on his cross bike, the rest of us were on road bikes.

The plan was that Mysterex would be collected by me, he and I would drive to Thames and then ride at pace the twenty kilometres to Tapu, to meet Mikeal and Doris who had driven to that point. We would then ride the loop and Mysterex and I would then ride back to Thames, leaving the others with ninety kilometres under their belts and Mysterex and I with one hundred and thirty.

The day dawned a little damp, and started, for me, inauspiciously, as I arrived to collect Mysterex in the pre-dawn to find him still deep in his scratcher. He arose, pronto and was shambolic. As we drove down the southern motorway I endured the soundtrack of clanking spoon and ceramic bowl and the stench of milk and weetbix as Mysterex inhaled his weetbix.

Arriving in Thames did little to assuage my concerns as to Mysterex's powers of organisation. There we met Mikeal and Doris, who were collecting packs and bottles from us before motoring on to Tapu. In very short order Mysterex had a pile of clothes spread across the road outside the Thames police station, was a half-dressed man, had a cell phone in the gutter and, horror of horrors, was going to ride a road bike with a saddle that could have served as a wharf buffer for the QEII. The saddle was round, white and had a cut out, it looked like it should have been bolted to a posh toilet.

At that stage, with a large and serious riding day, with no short cuts, Doris, Mikeal and myself all looking on bemused, Mysterex jumped aboard the bike with the plushly upholstered ring cushion, rode it in a couple of quick circles to test that it was up to the task and realised his seat was too low. Promptly he was renamed Sid, as in Ice Age, the enterprising sloth.

Sid was also concerned about the hygiene of the bladder of the camelback that Mikeal was lending him. Mikeal assured him that he'd cleaned it carefully with his bare hands. Sid was dubious. A quick reset, both bike and mental, a tidy up of the tornado strike and he and I set off up the coast to met the other two, who were motoring up to Tapu.

Thankfully things passed well from there. The climb up the Tapu road, through soft rain was the equal of any road I have ever ridden. Winding up through the mist, it was a road that is without equal. We stopped to visit a massive kauri, a short walk up some steep stairs, it did require a footwear change. It was here that we gained witness to, the now renamed, Sid's second satorial disaster. He had, in his rush, taken his wife's jandels. Let's just be kind and say, that apart from an urge to cross the gender divide, no man would ever slip those particular jandels on.
The kauri was magnificent, and well worth a visit, I would strongly urge all to go and visit it, it's majestic beauty made me all too aware of the things that I forget when I am in cities.

From there, we rode on climbing to the day's highpoint, and started the gradual, fasr descent towards the eastern side of the Coromandel. It was part way down this descent when we were witness to a moment from Doris that I thought was going to result in toy throwing. She was uncomfortable with descending the long metal section and not enjoying it one bit. Her face, when she caught up (Sid was still there with her, so not completely slow) was like she was chewing wasps, and petulance hung large in the air. Thankfully, it passed and the road flattened out. As always Doris soldiered on , and she did a helluva a lot better on the truly horrid descent of the 309 Road, which I hated.

After a small interlude of sealed road we were back on metal, and the 309 Road loomed. The valley is long and climbed gradually, then suddenly it pitched up and climbed in earnest. The surface, unlike the previous metal road, was soft and sapping. It was a damn hard climb up to three hundred metres. The descent was a little less fun than the last, and required a modicum of caution.

A brief stop at the cafe at the watergardens, letting Sid raid the cake cabinet and dispense knowledge to Canadian cycle tourists as where to purchase sheepskin saddle covers, and we were down to the coast again. Two painful climbs later, and a tail wind laid up nicely for us made the flat coast pass easily.

We all witnessed Sid's well developed grasp of technology. On the descent of the 309 Road, he suggested he ride ahead and take a video of Mikeal and myself descending the metal. Here are his three efforts, unedited and in full.







The upside of the ride is boundless, it was a challenging route that I'd recommend with a couple of caveats.
We were, to the best of my knowledge, the first to ride road bikes over the Tapu-Coroglen Road and the 309 Road. It is a hard ride, and the climbing on soft metal roads is sapping, but the rewards are well worth it. The caveats concern the amount of metal (45 kilometres), two long metal road descents and the lack of shops, provision or bail out points. It's not a ride for the unprepared, apart from Sid.
Like most metal roads, they are best to ride in spring, as the loose gravel has been pushed into the surface of the road. It's also not a ride for the unfit.
As such I can thoroughly recommend it, and truly hope that others will ride it, as well as follow Mikeal's lead and create, and share, damn interesting, well thought out rides.

Thanks Mike for the brilliant day out.

What makes a good ride (part two)

A couple of weeks ago a group of us went for a ride through the BCL (Butter Chicken Loop). The ride was a reunion for a group that went around East Cape late last year. The ride around East Cape was sensational, as a group of comparative strangers that started in Whakatane, we worked together well, got on without exception and enjoyed four days of excellent riding.

Altogether we covered five hundred and eighty kilometres in those four days and suffered no punctures, no meltdowns, only fifty kilometres of headwinds and no road rage. What came out at the end was a pretty cohesive bunch of riders with a shared sense of humour.

One benefit of this ride is that the photo at the top of my posting "Avoid the Clown" was taken out somewhere on SH35. This picture has been the most downloaded of my blog so far, and I'm now fielding requests for further modelling work for the ladies pictured. Additionally one of these woman, Doris, is now a disciple of mine.

The visit of Tristan, wheel building genius from Wellington, provided the necessary reason for a regrouping. Unfortunately Cynthia (the other glorious model in the bunch) was unwell with pericardiasomethingarather after Warren and I had dragged her around through various metal roads a couple of weeks prior.

Most of the group were unfamiliar with the BCL, so it was a pleasant surprise outing for them. The pace was good and the conversation civil, until Doris suggested that we stage our nudie photo. She had suggested it when we rode around East Cape, and in summer that was taken as a valid idea. Her choice of setting that day was the end of the Tologa Bay wharf. Unfortunately when we got to the end of the wharf there were several parties fishing who may have viewed a nude group in less than favourable terms. So, now on the BCL Doris struck again.

Much nervous laughter followed, not the least because it was winter, cold and damp.

Up at the top of Carter Road Doris stated that she would disrobe for the shot, me being a gentleman, couldn't let her do it alone so also stripped off (arm warmers, knee warmers, gillet, thermal top, etc). The rest chickened out. Photos were taken, and unfortunately, while Doris looked quite glamorous, I've come out looking like I was channelling Gollum.

In my defence it was cold and about to drizzle, and no man ever looked good naked fresh out of damp lycra. The fact that I was hunched, white and grimacing didn't help.

After dressing and letting the others compose themselves we rolled off to finish the loop. Much laughter ensued on the rest of the ride.

Thankfully I have the only copies of those images, and I'm practising my photoshop skills. One day I will air the photo and people will wonder why Doris was naked with a man who has a passing resemblance Viggo Mortenssen on the BCL.