News
"I went for a bike ride and while I was away the whole world changed."
Posted 23 04 2020 by Ralph Johns
in Magazine, News
I asked my old friend Paul if he wanted to join me to ride the South Island.
“I’m literally on fire!” Paul beamed as he dismounted from his bike. By the time he arrived in Wellington he had over 1,500km of riding and 21,000m of climbing under his belt. We fed him up and washed his clothes and early the next morning I rolled down the hill with him onto the Picton ferry.
I had unfinished business to attend to. In 2018 I rode from Auckland to Wellington. At Mangakino I fell in with a some bike-packers who were cycling 3,000km from Cape Reinga to Bluff in an event called the Tour Aotearoa (the TA). I got a copy of the route notes, ditched my plans and took the path less travelled. It was one of the best things I’ve ever done, and I was reluctant to stop in Wellington.
I asked my old friend Paul if he wanted to join me to ride the South Island. Paul heads Camlins, a leading UK landscape architect studio; it’s where I worked before coming to NZ. We expanded the idea to ride the whole 3,000km together, but in the end I had to drop back to just doing the South Island. The Kennett brothers describe the TA as a “bike-packing odyssey”. This ‘long and eventful journey’ has fast gained a reputation as one of the best bikepacking rides in the world. Every two years the official TA brevet takes place. The rules are simple; carry everything you need, stay on the route, and complete it between 10 and 30 days.
The ferry docked and we were off! I struggled to keep pace with Paul and caught my breath at Havelock. Then we were off over the intimidating Maungatapu Track. We rolled into Nelson in the dark, thirsty and hungry, just before the burger shop closed. The next day we rode a solid 165km beside fast-flowing rivers (the Motueka, Buller and Hope) and over bush covered hills to Murchison, arriving in the dark again; the pizza oven at the backpackers was still hot and the first beer was free for TA riders.
A rhythm was developing. We rode all day, shared jokes and mused upon the meaning of work and life. Most of all we were immersed in the journey and the ever-changing landscapes. This ride was simple really - just move along a line, sometimes sealed, sometimes gravel, sometimes mud, ever southwards. And find food and liquid along the way. Everything else, the normal routines of urban life, just dropped away. Climbs were rewarded with downhills. Headwinds gave way to tailwinds. Rain was followed by sun.
Meanwhile in the background things were literally going viral. We’d check our emails in the evening before crashing to sleep. In the first week the corona was background news, something happening elsewhere. My parents in Wales had been advised to self isolate; the Italian situation was getting bad. Then, like a tsunami, the virus inundated my inbox; every email started with ‘Covid-19’.
Back out on the road, in the bush, the mountains and the rivers life was going on as it has done for millennia (with the addition of roads, possums and campervans). Franz Josef was overrun with tourists, teenage backpackers crowded into bars and dormitories. The smell of avgas filled the air as helicopters chased the tail of the retreating glaciers; last chance tourism.
We glided through the epic landscapes of the Haast Pass to Wanaka, all valleys, waterfalls and distant snow-covered peaks. Over the Crown Range and along fast clear rivers to the crowded bars of Queenstown where the backpackers were busy celebrating St Patrick’s day. But the net was closing. Paul tuned in to BBC live from London. “We are at war”, said Macron. Boris Johnson was trying to sound like Churchill. Jacinda and Winston were advising all kiwis to come home, now.
I thought we needed to get a move on. “Forget all that bullshit,” Paul would say if he caught me looking seriously at an email. We took a water taxi across Lake Wakatipu at 7am and rode through stunning Walter Peak station and across the river terraces of the Von; 100km of winding gravel with the sun dancing on the mountain tops.
We rode fast along quiet highways until we met some roadworks. The man with the stop sign told us that a) the weather was going to crap out soon and b) there were two cases of coronavirus in Invercargill. Soon enough the sky turned black and the wind swung around to a raging southerly. We struggled in the rain on a windy highway shoulder buffeted by huge trucks thundering past on their way to the port. Safely at Bluff we had celebratory beers and oysters, and accelerated our plans to get the hell out.
The next day we packed bikes into boxes at an empty Invercargill airport and returned to Wellington. Back in my garage I went online to buy Paul a flight to Auckland, but there were none. Damn, maybe the train, no, the bus! That leaves in 25 minutes! We said hasty goodbyes. Paul caught one of the last flights back to the UK before Singapore airport was closed. I returned to work on Monday morning and before we knew it we were into Level 3 and then Level 4 lockdown. Work and family came to the fore once again. My garage has become my office. The ride has become a distant memory.