Conjuring Monsters

The following pictures tell a story. Firstly, to those who thought that this would be my next post, you are dead right, I'm not quite that perverse.

Back, earlier this year, I imagined this particular loop up, and was eager to ride it, but at the time of it's genesis the roads needed some rain to soften them and move some loose metal. Well, we have had the rain, so there really was little excuse for not tackling this loop, my Northern Hell loop. Not finding any other suitable excuses, I decided to tackle it on a fine day.

In planning the loop, I knew that most of the roads were back roads (major part of the appeal), that there would be little traffic, that there was a lot of metal, and a few climbs. I also factored in a shop or similar at about the 60 kilometre mark. I was right of two of those assumptions.

The loop is 125 kilometres and I had reckoned on about 40 kilometres of gravel and metal roads and about 1500 metres of ascending. It starts pleasantly out of Silverdale with a series of small climbs, all under a kilometre in length, with only one having a gradient greater than 10 %. The first lot of gravel is after 15 kilomtres and is a gentle descent, then down a valley, back up another, then a climb, then a steep descent, all pretty smooth, scenic and a little shy of 17 kilometres in length, good stuff, even though it's tiring like riding a windtrainer. One car and a truck in a that leg.

Then a few kilometres of quiet rolling seal before hitting a piece of road that both MapmyRide and a car trip about a decade ago made look quite smooth in profile and not too challenging. Wrong! It started with a climb from sea level up to 200m, the followed a ridge line, a very narrow, exposed road that dropped and climbed several times, before a long, steep, winding, rough and corrugated descent back to the seal at Kaipara Flats. No rest on that 16 kilometres and a bit of fatigue.

It was then that I found my assumed water station wasn't to be, so with a bit of a rationing process going on, I figured I could make the next 40 kilometres without too much hydration, although there was a small argument with myself that I could add about 5 kilometres on and detour into Warkworth for water. That would have been cheating I felt.

The next 24 kilometres were pleasant seal with the exception of one horrid little climb that hit 20%, the climb over Woodcocks hills was lovely, as always, and the descent was fun (first and, as it turned out, only sealed descent of any length in the day), all too easy I thought.

Turning East at Ahuroa to go over to Puhoi, more gravel. Ah, that was interesting. The valley was lovely and the metal spare, but the climb was stiffer and higher than I thought it would be and the descent was tough, rough, tight and damned hard work. Finally hit the seal after 11 kilometres of gravel and also encountered my first puncture, a pinch flat. Changed that and rolled into Puhoi and a well deserved shop stop.

Water, V and raspberry licorice on board and it was the final leg, up and over Krippner Road to get home. Krippner road is quite steep and is sealed halfway up, then the fun starts, it climbs up to 180 metres and includes one kilometre with a greater that 11% average gradient, hitting 16% on the metal, it was quite an effort. Across the ridge before I swept down Monowai Road and back to seal there was a lot of loose metal on the road, some quite large and a very rough surface. It was here I got puncture number two, front wheel this time. Another pinch flat.

Changed and the last push down, and as I hit the seal, after another 14 kilometres of gravel, I had puncture number three, another rear pinch flat. Luckily I was, for a change and partly out of preparedness, carrying three spare tubes along with some glueless patches. After that it was all seal, apart from about 600 metres of gravel descent on the Waiwera Road.

I got back to the car with huge satisfaction. It was a challenging ride, with little rest and some very hard riding at times. The majority of the climbing was on gravel, likewise the descending was a gravel, hence little rest there. My estimated figure for gravel was out a little, and was in fact 58 kilometres of metal/ gravel roads out of the 125 kilometre total. I was also a little shy on the ascending with a total of 2048 metres gained (remember K2 is approximately 2300m and over 190 kilometres). It is a very tough loop.

The flat tyres have an interesting observation. I was riding good quality clinchers (newish Vredestein Fortezza Tricomps 23mm), initially pumped to 115 psi with a standard tube in them. These are very much a favourite tyre of mine and have proven to be robust, but with a good quality ride. The tyres are unmarked from this ride, but the three tubes that punctured all show several small snake bite marks, as well as the punctures, I suspect that there were several impacts that pinched the tubes over the course of the ride, (certainly the second rear tube had less pressure in it due to the use of a hand pump) and it was the resulting thin spots from the early pinching in the ride that punctured after some time, as opposed to a puncture at the time of impact. Additionally the leakage was quite slow, and the holes quite small, compared to a usual snake bite type puncture. That both rear punctures happened within a few hundred metres of exiting gravel (and the transitions from gravel to seal were quite smooth), I think may just be coincidence. Next time I will ride 25mm Continental GP4 Seasons, hopefully that addition volume may save some wrist action.

So, who's keen to join me soon, when I tackle it again?

The loop.


The Profile

Self Attack

My cycling year has been a fairly interrupted affair, with a variety of things intruding into riding life. The two most painful intrusions were my lie-down mid crit in February and my human mortar act in April. Both of these I have recovered from successfully, and neither have really served to dampen my enthusiasm for bikes.

Looking back over my bike riding years I've been pretty fortunate with crashes that I have escaped largely unscathed, sometimes losing a bit of bark, sometimes a few bruises and, apart from the collarbone, no broken bones. I have broken bones in a number of other manner and activities, but the two sports that I have engaged in most, that also seem to carry a high risk of bone breakage (horse riding and cycling), have proven to just be bruising and skinning experiences up until April this year.

One of the most humorous falls I ever had, and also one of the more embarrassing after the event, was mountain biking after work one summer in Dunedin. I had parked the car near Signal Hill and ridden across town to meet the others and ride in the forest on the back of Three Mile Hill.

There were four of us, and it was a lovely, warm, dusty evening. We were ripping down a section of smooth double track and I was third wheel, sitting very close to the rider in front. There was broom growing either side of the track with grass down the centre. As we swept along the rider in front of me hit a low hanging branch of broom, served and the branch came swinging back and took me clean off my bike. I cartwheeled and slide in the gravel and grass. Apart from pride, and a small cut on my knee, one of those excellent wounds that leaks deep red blood, I was unhurt and laughing, as were the others.

I remounted as last rider and rode off. It wasn't until we hit the bottom of the hill and fanned out of the road that anyone was behind me. It was then that the true horror of my crash became apparent. I had ripped the seam in the back of my shorts, from waist to chamois, and a less than sightly, hairy bike stand was on show.

Never being one for letting minor details like that stop me riding, we carried on and had a great ride, but as we finished in the forest it dawned on me that I still had 30 minutes to wobble across central Dunedin to the car, with a less than stellar rear view showing. It was mildly humiliating and thankfully unwitnessed by anyone who knew me.

Saturday morning's earthquake in Canterbury was a pretty sobering reminder of the power of nature, and just how puny we are. Here is A decent bit of science explaining just what happened.

Not given prongs

With Spring arriving yesterday in an entirely appropriate manner, I could see no reason not to ride and that I did. Even though it is spring I still haven't had a ride since Autumn, except of the garage variety, that have been sans longs or knee warmers. Unfortunately even yesterday was still not going to buck that trend, but it was a beautiful day.

Somehow, as I headed out, a slightly odd idea formed in my mind. That idea was to go and tackle Mountain Road. For those of you unfamiliar with Mountain Road, just think greater than 11% average, some steep sections, some even steeper sections and no relief. It's a narrow winding wall.

It is sufficiently tough that it requires a bit of forethought and some testicular fortitude. Where the trap of it comes is that the first kilometre isn't too bad, gets up to about 10% and lulls you into a false sense of confidence. Then it steepens and gets narrow and windy. Soon it is just a bush-lined hell. It's relentless, and if you've been foolish enough to have gone too deep early, there's a terrible price to pay further up.

I decided I would ride it, and would take it as easy as I could, being unsure of form, and not having really done any climbing training recently. What transpired was some relative joy. The climb was not as painful as I remember, I didn't resort to my usual postman's weave and I judged the top correctly.

I emerged around the top corner relieved and happy, I still couldn't answer the question from the chap working on his verge, without fear of inhaling him. Actually I was surprised he even asked me, as I'd wager my head looked like a giant beetroot with dribble, sweat and snot, but then it is Mountain Road.

I'm aiming to go back in a fortnight, it was that good!

Here's some brilliant noise!

Croissant versus Naked Woman

The other day as I was grinding out time on the weapon of mind destruction in the garage my mind started wandering. I idled away passing of the mental desert by thinking about the sub-sects of cycling and how they can be drawn into stereotypes. From there it was a small and tidy step to lining those various factions up with dead musicians.

So without further ado here's my take on cyclists versus dead musicians.

Racing cyclists = Freddie Mercury. That whole prancing prima donna behaviour, the macho/camp effect is here in this group in spades. Sometimes it obscures the dedication and will to succeed, but there is talent and persistence galore. I'm just a trifle concerned that a quick straw poll amongst this group would find a reasonable percentage who fantasise about dressing as a housewife and pushing round the hoover.

Fixie riders = Sid Vicious. Hard to really add to much more, think Sid Vicious (Real name John Beverly) as the ultimate fashion victim, think that travesty of "My Way", think looked good, not original, playing bass badly. It's just like the whole skinny jeans, brakeless thing, just smack on wheels. They aren't rebels at all, just naughty children.

Modern New Bike Acquirees =Michael Hutchence. I talking about those mid-life crisis types who acquire a bike as part of the "New Golf". They typically have the latest and best, are competitive and are rebels, well in their own minds. Like Michael Hutchence they are successful in their careers and lives but I'd wager that cycling is a little like Michael's dalliance with a belt and a door. Auto-erotic asphixia anyone?

BMX = Darcy Clay, rebels and innovators, widely misunderstood, can be tragic. Jesus I was Evil.

Single Speed MTB = John Bonham. They are just louts, wanting to have fun.

Time Triallists = Karen Carpenter. Obsessive and dark, while appearing to be light and normal. The Carpenters sounded like some over sugared confection and looked as wholesome as white bread. The reality was Karen's inner demons and lyrics to make you afraid of unrequited love and bunny-boiling stalkers. Those who ride time trails are equally obsessed, and every bit as lonely. It's a special sort of pain.

Triathletes = Richard Harris. Really an actor but had a hit with "McArthur Park", couldn't sing, mumbled and slurred his way through a turgid mess of words. Sums up those strange folk who need to bookend a ride with swim and a run.

Knocked out a great ride with The Croc today, I'm not the man I was.

Of matters at hand

Last week I escaped the bonds of the city, an eastern migration that was a trifle too short. There has been a surfeit of precipitation in the Eastern Bay of Plenty, and I witnessed the effects as I drove - numerous slips, stop/go men, diggers scooping, water-logged paddocks and dirty rivers.

It wasn't all gloom though, the sun and it's warmth travelled with me.

At the top of the Maraenui Hill between Opotiki and Te Kaha was a particularly large slip dominating an already unstable piece of land. Today a decision was made by the appropriate authorities to close that piece of road indefinitely until a solution is found. It will return to single lane sometime in the near future, but will be sometime until it is fully opened. For residents of this area it is a major inconvenience, there is no other route than to go all the way around East Cape via Gisborne to get to Opotiki, approximately 440 kms. It's not a heavily travelled road, but it is a vital lifeline and the closure is a reminder of the remote nature of life in the Eastern Bay of Plenty and East Cape.

One of the pleasures, a guilty one maybe, is visiting Two Fish Cafe in Opotiki. It's always an unalloyed pleasure to visit. The coffee and food are as good as anywhere, and the service exceptional. As always I scoffed their Raspberry and Lemon slice, the perfect mix of sweetness and astringency. I also sampled their Ginger Crunch, extremely good, I'd wager that a Ginger Crunch expert would rate it highly.

Riding is challenging at best at the moment, this sodden August makes for a challenge, by my reckoning we have had 3 days in the last 30 with no rain at some stage of the day. Thankfully the instrument of terror in the garage has been getting a flogging, boring it may be, but it saves the outermost holes in my belt from getting worn.

As bad as we have had in Auckland, spare a thought for those who dwell in the Village of the Damned, Christchurch. On average both Christchurch and Auckland have a similar amount of sunshine hours in August (approx 110 hours). Auckland has had a miserable 83 hours, but the pasty thighed southerners have been cursed with 45 hours for the month, less than 2 hours per day. No wonder they relish being dour.

I'd recommend that they consider mini vibrators.

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.

Walking dogs.

First up, a sobering lesson as to why one should always have one's trousers tucked into one's socks when working with eels - The ass card

The little question I asked a few posts ago about the literary quotation was illuminating. Two responses, one from Mikeal, adamant that it was about sex, and one from Jorge, feeling his way around cartoon sitcom. Neither close.

It was from The Sheltering Sky, Paul Bowles' 1947 novel of beauty, death and desperation in North Africa. The quote was a death and what happened next, well you're going to have to read it to find out.

Well done CTB, yet again you have shown real metal, read about his grit in Tahiti here.

There has been an enthusiastic response to my post describing my failed parachute construction, I will post more of these type of misadventures from my growing years, especially when the demonstrate basic laws of physics.

Biting your bottom

It's been a long week for me, I've had this damned cold and that has proven to just be a drag. But the week hasn't been without it's moments of joy.

One of them was on Saturday, when I was lurking down at Mechanics Bay in the pre-dawn as part of the ACCC waterfront time trial. I looked out across the bay, and there was a pod of dolphins making their way up the harbour. As a consequence of my cold, my horrible runny nosed infection, I have stayed off the bike, so my tales of cycling for the week are limited.

Instead I reflected upon my life, I suspect having reached another anniversary of being thrust into the world made me a little circumspect also. I started to run through the years and the various adventures, mistakes, calamities and triumphs I have enjoyed and endured. I'm not going to share them with you all, the interior of that dark cupboard is best left unseen, but I will give you a glimpse of what's near the door.

Bailing twine and a chaff sack do not make effective parachutes. My cousin and I were very close, we lived about a kilometre apart in the area of small holdings, dairy farms and horse training tracks to the south of Christchurch. We tended to roam pretty freely, with haysheds, a creek, airguns, ponies, cattle, clod throwing and electric fences as sources of entertainment. One day, after we had tired of trying to make objects fly from the top of my uncle's hay barn, we decided that we would make our own parachute.

Only tools that we had were our omnipresent pocketknives, but resource wise we were rich. There, close at hand, was more bailing twine than we would ever need and a couple of chaff sacks. We set to, carefully knotting the twine into equal length loops off the corners of the chaff sack to form a parachute, measured carefully to allow maximum expansion of the sack as the lucky jumper descended gently to the ground with enough time to admire the view.

The parachute was tested using that venerable method, of running with the sack opening behind, it inflated and slowed the runner well. The important decision had to be made as to who had the honour of jumping and who had the lesser task of holding the parachute clear of the hay as the jumper jumped. Somehow, (and this wasn't usually the case my cousin being older, and although shorter, was stronger and tended to make my nose bleed) I was the lucky one.

We ascended to the top of the hay barn, there all was prepped, and I full of confidence, jumped holding two strands of bailing twine aloft. There was no floating sensation, and certainly no admiring the view. I jumped and the ground came up and hit me immediately, very hard.

After I'd regained normal breathing function and my head stopped pounding we discussed what went wrong, and I advocated a retry with a different victim. My cousin was distinctly unwilling, being quite certain, after seeing me plummet and hearing the thud, that our design was flawed.

I've never tried making a parachute again.

The neck I want

"His cry went on through the final image: the spots of raw bright blood on the earth. Blood on excrement. The supreme moment, high above the desert, when the two elements, blood and excrement, long kept apart, merge. A black star appears, a point of darkness in the night sky's clarity. Point of darkness and gateway to repose. Reach out, pierce the fine fabric of the sheltering sky, take repose."

Any ass with access to the interweb can use google, or similar to find where this passage comes from, but harder is to give context and meaning. As a quick test, as I know some of you will have read this novel, who can tell me what this passage is actually about, and what happened next. First correct answer will get a pleasant and interesting surprise. Use the email link and do your worst.

Enough of education, onto this cycling caper. This week has been surprising as to who bore witness to our grubby escapades last week. The week before I'd slipped through unnoticed and unidentified, second time around not so. Based on the enthusiastic response I will be running another roll in new territory in the near future and will extend the invitation a little wider. That particular route ridden on Sunday is a great introduction to the pleasures of riding metal roads on road bikes, with no traffic, no hazardous descents and several kilometres of flat fun. I need to get my thinking cap on.

I am planning on tackling my Northern Hell sometime soon, and I'm facing up to that with a fair degree of trepidation. I'm not sure whether it's the fact that there are 40 kilometres of metal roads in the loop, or that there are some very steep and nasty hills, or that there are a couple of sections I haven't ridden, or that it's perverse, but either way there will be a sense of satisfaction in getting around it.

One thing will be to try and get slightly better weather, although there is something of a perverse pleasure in getting filthy.

I will report back in due course

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.

Arthropod gravity traction

It is one of the blessing of the bike, the sheer freedom that it confers upon you, the freedom to go anywhere that your legs and mind will take you. The reality of the modern road bike is that there aren't too many places that you can't ride it, if you are willing.

I embarked on some pathfinding on Sunday, deciding that I was going to ride from Muriwai to Woodhill, via the forestry roads. There was some trepidation on my behalf, my Garmin didn't have too much detail for the forestry roads and I have borne witness in the past of paper roads showing up in various maps, that are nothing more than goat tracks fit for a sure footed ass.

I was also aware that Woodhill forest is quite a big place, and while there are no feral beasts that enjoy long pork dwelling in the forest, there are trees and quite possibly the hills do have eyes.

I did a little research, photographed the relevant topo maps and set out. Boldly to go where no road bike has gone before.

I had a brief taste of metal on the back road into Muriwai, then it was on Coast Road on a very rough hard surface past the golf club and into the unknown for me. I was waved through the gate into the forest by security, who were letting vehicles in with trailers and motocross bikes on board. I rode on, past a few bemused walkers, into the pines. As I continued I was passed by a couple of cars with motorbikes.

After a couple of kilometres, I was on a long straight through the forest, there deep in the woods was a motocross meet. Parked down both sides of the road for over a kilometre were cars and trailers, the revving of engines, the smell of two stroke and men in body armour. The track was firm and fast and I rolled along the narrow passage, met with a mix of looks, everything from disdain to wonder. The only near miss was a midget on a peewee 50.

After I passed through that, I had the forest to myself, it was simply sensational. I was on top of my world. After several kilometres I managed to take the correct turn and climb over the hill to meet the road into Woodhill MTB park. There, on the gate, was another security chap who was letting people in for orienteering, after he asked me where I'd come from, he was quite surprised at my method of transport.


All up it was a bit over 12 kilometres of forestry roads and no seal, and it was brilliant. I'll be going back in a heart beat.

Latitudinal Slippage

First up, an apology from me. Due to a piece of sheer incompetence and stupidity on my behalf in a technical manner this posting is been somewhat tardy in it's delivery.

At present, for the last few days, Auckland has had a complete reversal of fortune in the weather stakes. Gone is the wet and grime, and instead we have had crisp, clear windless days. Just glorious.

On Sunday four of us had decided to go around the coast. The Croc and I riding from our respective dwellings to meet Doris and Mikeal out south, then ride the loop and then home. The mileage was serious, so we elected on a pre-dawn start.
I headed out the door in darkness, with a little ice on the cars in the street, and as I rode through South Auckland to the agreed meeting point, considered it cold. But I was well dressed for the conditions, as were the others also. Maybe a little too overdressed in the case of Mikeal, who was looking like he was about to affect a burglary or armed hold up.


As we continued on, the sky lightened, but the temperatures didn't climb. Between Hunua and Paparimu I saw something I have never beheld in Auckland before, frost, grass crackling white frost that defied the sun for sometime. It was beautiful to behold, with layers of fog and and blue sky. However it was apparent it was crisp, as we rode through Happy Valley I went to take a drink and discovered ice in my drink bottle. After I announced this Mikeal proclaimed that I was a girl and was dreaming. However showing him the offending ice, and them him and the others discovering that their bottles were icing up, made up realise that it was a touch nippy.

The Croc took a couple of lap reading on his Polar HR which gave him the temperature, -3 degrees, and that's the air temperature!

The fast descent down to Mangatawhiri was the stuff of ice-cream headaches. Then we encountered fog to go with the frost, quite beautiful and surreal, reminding me of the lower South Island and the hoar frosts of Central Otago. Eventually just before we started the descent down to Kaiaua we cleared the fog, and frost and found sun. Over three hours in damn cold temperatures, a good test of gear.

While in Happy Valley, and part of a stop, Doris found this little deceased chap, covered in frost. The little vermin looks almost like a cuddly toy.


Further up the coast Mikeal punctured, the video below is a cautionary one, demonstrating several tyre changing sins, but also a method of using a mini-pump that will earn the ire of passing motorists as they make a very simple assumption with regard to your motions. I also suspect that Mikeal's use of the pump in this manner is mainly due to his sure handedness in this motion.




At kilometre 150 ish, my legs imploded and I whimpered my way home from there. All in all it was a great ride and certainly one to remember.

The Cobble Eaters

I know it's somewhat prurient to watch crashes, but sometimes I can't help myself. This is from that absolute carnival this morning that was Stage Three TDF 2010. These sound so much better with a Flemish commentary, even though I understand nothing, than listening to Dweedledumb and Dweedledumber that we are subjected to with the English commentary.

The Other White Meat

Here's something that is a fantastic community asset. Back in April, before I emulated a lawn dart, I was taken around this trail with Mikeal the Onanator. At that stage it was still bedding in and was in the dark. That notwithstanding it was great fun and a real blast, even when I made a nice little sideways departure from the trail and down through the pine trees.

Well worth the effort of venturing into deepest South Auckland. One just needs to watch for the cattle, as Mikeal found to his peril.