Death is the road to awe.

It's a dull day, grey, raining, and the forecast for tomorrow is more winter.
I have fielded a couple of queries today as to whether we will still ride tomorrow, the Winter Solstice Ride and the answer is "Absolutely".

It's a celebration, damnit!

Here's something to distract you, lull your nerves, maybe inspire.

Snakes are just tales

On the countdown now for Saturday, the Winter Solstice Ride, the forecast is looking positive and that little surprise that lurks in the Waitakeres will be ready.

I mused as I rode today, and realised that I haven't thrown out a list of favourite things, places to visit, music to listen to, or anything similar for quite some time. Does this mean that I have mellowed and no longer want to proselytize and convert? Hell no! Does this mean that I have stopped seeking and learning? Not a dog's show!
It's more that I couldn't decide what to next inflict direct upon you.

So, to remedy this I have decided that I shall share some thoughts on my favourite New Zealand Fauna. Nothing makes me more excited, or satisfied, than seeing native fauna in the wider environment. Not for a moment am I decrying the role of zoos and museums in education, species preservation, research and their roles in giving access to fauna, but to me there is an unrivaled thrill in seeing fauna in the wild.

Without further ado here is a sample:-

Geckos (Various) - Jewelled forest dwellers, I have been lucky to see them a few times, and am certain that I have missed countless opportunities as I have walked through the bush.

Kingfish (Seriola lalandi sp.) - I defy anyone to not get a thrill watching these green, silver and yellow predators chase and harass baitfish, they are sleek, streamlined and voracious.

Puriri Moth (Aenetus virescens) - These big, green, bumbling moths are always a sight to behold in the dark of the forest. Normally I only see them when I ride Scenic Drive, but they always make me smile.

Fantail (Rhipidura fuliginosa) - That dancing flight, their inquisitiveness and their familiar kissing voice are always a trip straight back to my childhood.

And that is just a slither of what I love, I could wax lyrical and bore you witless, but will resist.

Instead, here's a blast from the recent past.

Winter Solstice Ride

Not long now, and the sun will start to climb a little higher in the sky in it's daily arc, and our days will start to lengthen. We still face the coldest month, July, but that knowledge can be tempered with the increasing day length and the lurking Spring.

To that end, it's time to celebrate the Winter Solstice and Matariki. Recent discussions with CTB and I have led to the following plan.

Meet Potters Park (Corner Balmoral and Dominion Roads) at 06:00 hours, on Saturday 25th June.
From there we will traverse the bikepath west and end up taking in the sheer hell that I described in my last post, the goal is to be on Scenic Drive to see, and toast, the sunrise.

We will follow that with a roll back and a civilised coffee.

Silent Running

I rode heaven then a section of misery last week. The misery, it was an eye-crossing piece of concrete torture that rendered me knock-kneed and gasping. Truly, I was savaged and spat out.
I am not sure which propelled me up this piece of wickedness more, fear or determination, but I conquered it.

What I am describing is a piece of road, that is a glorious climb, a near constant seven percent gradient for four kilometres, bottom half seal, top half metal, bush lined and quiet. It joins, via a short section of hike-a-bike, it's utter opposite.
Five hundred and sixty metres of concrete hell, averaging 15%, but with about 300 metres over 20% and hitting and holding 29%, it is several minutes of torture.

I rode it without stopping, but that was purely because I couldn't quite work out how to, without risking a skin/concrete interface.

When I got to the top, I had the world laid out before me, and I was spent.

Go and try it, but from my own painful experience a 39 x 26 is far too big a gear for that sort of stupidity.

Email me if you want directions.

And, with a finger prod in my direction, the friendly Amerikan sent this, something to render you agog!

Plains Milky Way from Randy Halverson on Vimeo.

Laminated Wolf

Another Kiwi first! On Saturday Kiwi, Jeff Mildon, completed the world's first BMX triple backflip in a public demo in Taupo. Watch and weep!

Jingle-jangle

Well, my pretty things, how have you been?
I have been immersed in a variety of things, everything from piscine pursuit to cycling feverishly. I have mastered the art of making custard squares, thus proving my earlier prediction to be ill-founded. The only drawback to making them at home, is that the need to be eaten in short order, and since they are ever present for me, I seem to fall into a consumption trap.

My riding, it has had a few wonderful moments. Last Sunday a few of us sallied forth, out west, in the sunshine, to allow me to introduce a few new souls to the delights of Kiwitahi Road. We rolled up to Helensville, via Old North Road, stopped for a damn good coffee and slice there, then rolled back down towards Woodhill.

Before Woodhill, off SH16, exists Kiwitahi Road. The first time I tackled this, many years ago it was summer, dusty and loose, the road was unsealed from the turn at SH16 until it emerged on the top at Old North Road. I suffered mortally that day, and even had a small moment off the bike in the cutting towards the top where it hits 16%. My 39 x 21 gear, just being too large.

Now it is sealed for almost the whole of the first part of the climb, up until the road pitches up in the cutting, then there are a couple of kilometres of metal. The climb itself is 1.5 kilometres at an average of just shy of 10%, the views are excellent and it is traffic free. It is a most rewarding climb, with a rolling top, where one can see miles up the mighty Kaipara Harbour, and right back to downtown Auckland.

Given recent weather the metal was close to perfect, smooth and easy to ride. All of my travelling companions gave it the big thumbs up.

Even Mikeal the Thundercat.

Naja naja

This change, the seasonal change, it eats me.
So, I figure it's about time I list of my three favourite sweet foods, then set out to either bake, or eat, them.
A couple will prove challenging, but that's life.

Donuts - Easy you think, but no. In the immortal words of a mystic in Tucson, Dunkin' Donuts are to food, what Charles Manson was to family values. Here in NZ we are somewhat deprived in the donut stakes, they can be found, but not easily. Kaiwaka, strange little town that it is, easily has the best donuts in the country. Making them at home? Maybe a Turkey Deep Frier experiment.

Eccles cakes - Not as common as I would like, but surprisingly easy to make at home, and oh so good with espresso.

Custard Squares - Readily available, but there are a couple of very good ones locally that are almost addictive. I can make custard, but I don't think I have the patience for these babies at home.

They will provide the necessary nutrition and ballast for my winter riding.

Oh, yes, riding. Well, three of us discovered a new piece of road on Sunday, and rode it with grins. No traffic, virgin hotmix, it was fantastic. I even sent a picture mid ride to someone, thinking, hoping, we were the first on it. He replied, with well earnt smugness, that he had ridden it three times already. Blast and damnation.

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.

Seeking Scar

This morning as I ambled back from school, after delivering the Spawn of my Loins to his place of daytime incarceration, I was seized by an idea. Actually, I need to go back a step and deal with a small matter. My son loves school, he positively enjoys it, and for more than just eating his play lunch and getting the odd ball colliding with his happysack. By his age, I had come to dread school, just the sheer boredom of so much of it, apart from my standard four year with Mrs Burke, when I was ten years old.

Mrs Burke, who had a severe, blonde bun, also had a husband who worked as a pilot for Air New Zealand. She was encouraging and could be extremely stern, but did have the wonderful idea for the school concert of staging Camelot. She modified the lines somewhat, and took a veritable chainsaw to the plot, but the highlight of the show was me, well for me and my parents at least. It was staged in the old Halswell Hall, a barn of a place, sort of both dusty and damp, drafty and heated by several inadequate bar heaters from the exposed rafters. But it did have an elevated stage and a curtain.

For Camelot the cast, drawn from my class, were in costume. I was in a red dress, made up like a harlot and with two black rubber balls stuffed down the front of the dress, I had more bust than Pamela Anderson and probably about as attractive as the murderous, red caped dwarf in Don't Look Now. I got to sing about three lines and had a peck on the cheek from a fair knight (who was a girl). It was stardom, and saved me in the class from my usual distractions of seeing how long I could silently hold my breath, whether I could master whistling with cupped hands or adding up the number of letters in other pupils names. It was a good year.

Anyway, my idea today as I sauntered home, was just how useful and wonderful it would be to have a prehensile tail. Don't scoff! It would be immensely useful. Think, it's raining, you are leading the dog and talking on your mobile telephonic apparatus. At the moment, as you are, a regular biped, you have to either cease one's conversation using the dispenser of radiation, or let the mutt run free. This is where a prehensile tail would be invaluable, it could hold either the umbrella, the phone or the dog and life would be peachy.

I can also see a use on the bike, no more crashes with one hand stuck rummaging about in back pockets trying to find that last morsel of food to stave off a whimper, with one's tail one could keep both hands on the bars and comfortably search one's pockets, or even more devilish, the pockets of others for sustenance.

I mentioned this idea to my minion after school today, he was mortified, mainly because, even though he had to admit it was quite useful, it would be damned embarrassing for him at school to be known to have a father who is slightly mutated and happy about it.

I'll flag the idea, as I want him to continue to enjoy school, and not rely on being in drag to make the school day interesting.

The monkey halo

Today I received a phone call from my twin brother. Oh alright, the man who should be my twin brother, but as some of you know, I have no fraternal relations, it’s just more that at various times he and I are more than a little alike, mainly mentally, especially in our love of things childish and our shared ability to irritate some folk.

Granted that one of us got looks and one of us got charm, it would be a damn well sighted mother who could tell that we don’t spring from the same hewn rock.

Anyway back to the phone call, without any preamble, Mikeal, my twin, tells me he watched a documentary on Cousin Jeffery this morning. It’s not every day that one gets a phone call to chat not every day that one gets a phone call to chat about serial killers and it was a reminder that I have been far too serious of late.

I was going to write about the company AquaBounty and their AquAdvantage® Fish, a frankenfish made by splicing trout and tilapia genes into salmon to produce a fish that grows twice as fast as non genetically tampered with salmon. But I would only make your eyes glaze over, so instead, do your own research and be mortified at what the future may hold in terms of food production. Oryx and Crake is upon us.

Instead, I shall dwell upon the miracles of the Turkey Deep Fryer. A friend had been given of these contraptions, by some friends in the States Initially he viewed this thing with contempt, but on Saturday night he decided to try it. He and I were both extremely leery of it, as it is a pretty rudimentary device, and we had both seen the videos of the frozen turkey put in deep fryer and what happens. It's a large contraption, and 8 litres of oil filled it about 1/4! So we donned welding gloves and goggles, and cooked potatoes, a chicken and some sausages. The sausages cooked in 3 minutes! The chicken and potatoes were done 25 minutes. They were crispy, brown and looked like a million dollars, and they were not greasy and very, very tasty. Now I want to use it to make donuts. mmmmm.

Squirreling

I need a handful of snatched summer memories to get me through the damp and dark of winter. Yes, I have a large number from this past summer, and also previous years, but this weekend just been dispelled the threat of the pending autumn and stayed my fears of the looming winter. I am happy in all seasons and weathers, but I do especially love the heat of summer.

On Saturday, with no Stunt Monkey to be accountable for, I packed my faithful furry friend into the car and went for an explore. I had limited time, and I wanted to see Destruction Gully. Nestled halfway between Huia and Whatipu on the northern side of the Manukau Heads, it's steep country with bush and views.

The track down rolls along a ridge, then plunges, the last thirty metres are steep with lengths of hose to hang on to. The bay itself is small rocky, with very deep water in close and a clear view of the Tasman Sea. It reeks of large water dwelling life forms and has that wonderful mix of beauty and danger. I shall return with more time to try and ensnare some of the underwater critters.

On Sunday, it was a glorious morning, windless, clear and sunny. Junior and I rolled out south, took in Hunua Gorge and then back via Clendon and the airport and a new route up into town. It was just magnificent riding. My legs, when I got home, were loaded and tired, and I was content.

One odd note was the prevalence of unfriendly, or ignorant riders. As we rode around the airport, and Mangere Bridge there were numerous riders, and inspite of us waving madly, saying "Good morning" and smiling, very, very few even acknowledged us, several making a studied examnination of their front wheels or the paddocks to their left. We did ponder our invisibility, but realised that we were visible after a warning toot from an impatient fat man in a Pajero.

What is with this new found lack of common greeting? Walkers will say hello, runners will smile, cyclists are just blank?

That minor grizzle aside, it was a great weekend, and one to store for those wet, stormy days ahead.

Backward apparatus

Sometimes the weather is just a damn aggravation, and today was one of those days. The grand plan was for the first of the long rides to kick in and a few of us venture out to Aka Aka. The last two trips out there, in the depths of winter have been wet, windy affairs, so an autumnal roll would be lovely.

It would have been lovely if the weather wasn't quite as hideous and all and sundry wisely called it off. So instead I rolled about out west. I was starting to feel a little complacent and smug about the conditions, until a decent squall hit me, soaked me and blew me up rises, and the wisdom of not venturing south was shown to be correct.

Maybe tomorrow, summer or even autumn will come back and riding will be back to a warm dry affair.

VCA 2010 RACE RUN from changoman on Vimeo.