Cycling with the Poor

We are spurred on our way this morning by news from Alex Nutt at MTB Tandems USA that in recognition of our efforts they are giving US$250 towards the children in the Born to be Free projects. It’s a spine tingling encouragement for me. If only more people would see the desperation of this need coupled with value of World Visions work and give to these children? It’s hard for consumers to believe, but it’s still more blessed to give than receive.

We set off along the track from Penzance to Elaine Bay revelling in the good riding available on the walking track around the little bays. The benching is wide and the roots and rocks are less intrusive than on the Nydia section two days ago. Tana’s chain drops off a couple of times so we stop to tighten it up. We catch glimpses through the trees of the calm waters of Pelorus Sound below us. They twinkle and sparkle with glee under the morning sun. The nikau palms and ferns thin and we break into a clear felled forestry block. Ben and I had been in this area on our single mtb’s about a year before when the track had been blocked with a huge jumble of felled radiata pine trees. We clambered through some of the mess at the time but turned back after half an hour of shin bashing torture and precarious log balancing. Our spirits leap today as we see the way clear and easy. Pete motors ahead and disappears around a bend. Moments later he returns muttering ‘Bugger’. His downcast face tells the story. “They’re felling the trees in the next block’, he says, “The track is impassable’. We ride on up to take a look and see a nightmare pile of scythed timber stretching ahead of us. The land looks as chaotic as a Baghdad market after a car bomb explosion. The team decide to portage the bikes up a steep cleaner looking spur and pick up a trucking road through a stripped block higher up the hill. Sweat pours off us as we grind and grunt upwards to a logging platform. We are relieved to discover that a track winds off it to the French Pass Rd above Elaine Bay. A short climb is followed by a cooling downhill blast. Brakes are slammed on at the end as some ‘to be avoided at all costs’ asphalt swings into view once again. Thankfully it’s only a short section so we push the verge until we pick up the gravel again.

Croftie and Steve meet up with us as we are eating up the well graded gravel on the French Pass Road. The gradient is gentle and steady and we sing the praises of the engineer who designed it. French Pass swings into view in the distance below so we stop to have lunch together and soak up the scenery. The Pass is a narrow sea water passage between headlands on the South Island and D’Urville Island. Massive amount of waters back up on the rising and falling tides here and rush through the gap in spectacular turbulent fashion creating powerful whirlpools. The currents can reach 2 metres per second and many a ship and boat has been wrecked while seeking to sail or motor through. Pete tells us he once paddled across in his kayak at slack water when it was as calm as a dozing lion. Needless to say we have no plans to ride the bikes over.

The Port Ligar turnoff swings into view shortly after lunch and we snake down it to sea level before a long climb up. The sea waters below us flaunt their shades of blue and green and continue to ripple in the wind and sunlight. Mussel farms intrude into the bays. Their rectangular fields of roped black buoys become the next hot topic of discussion among us. Pete describes them as ‘visual pollution’. Steve reckons the clear felled forest blocks are more visually appalling. We wrestle briefly with the array of commercial and conservation issues until our lungs demand the conversational oxygen.

Tim Shand from Port Ligar is waiting for us at the gate to his property along with Pete’s brother in law Stewart. The Hilux ute Tims driving looks like it’s been dragged out of a wreckers yard. The windows and doors have gone from the cab, the bodywork has more dents than a boxers face and the chassis and tires are caked in mud. “It’s my motorised wheelbarrow” Tim tells us. “She’s done over 290000 kms and has a few more in her yet”. He coils his lean angular frame into what remains of the drivers seat and sets out to show us the way to Clay Point. The hillsides are steep here and the narrow 4WD tracks cling airily to their faces. Tim tells us he’s seen stock stumble and fall off and plunge all the way into the sea. Steve decides prudence is a better choice than valour. He parks up the Landrover and jumps into the Prado with Croftie who is twitching and salivating at the prospect of real off road country.

Pete and then John and I ride the bikes down a steep fence line with the sea in full view below. I’m feeling the fear and doing it anyway. John hangs his bum a couple of inches above the rear wheel to maintain balance and rear end traction as I haul on the brakes. The thought of those wide off road Maxi tires churning beneath his butt leads to lot of muscle clenching and twitching.  I tell him he better keep his ass where it is as an ‘endo’ on Tana will look very ugly. John tells with his tongue in his cheek that he’ll stay in the groove. Simon begins to follow when suddenly his rear brakes fail. He lays the bike down quickly before it gathers too much speed. Grass burns and grazes are much easier to deal to than broken bones. He tightens the cable and walks down to meet us with the vehicles growling along behind.

It’s nearing 6pm as we press on around the sides of the promontory and down a thinning ridgeline towards the Point. The air is warm and the scenery is stunning. White dusk light dances and skips over islands, water and land. Steve and Stewart jump in and out of the vehicles trying to capture the place and moments through the lenses. We all stop often to soak up the wairua and mystique of the place. None of us wants the journey or the day to end.

The final 70 + metres of ridgeline to the sea is steep, crumbly clay and rock. Footing is treacherous so we climb down carefully with our bikes firmly in hand. A fall here would be tragic. We reach a point where the land drops away about 10 metres sheer to the Strait and debate whether or not to lower ourselves and our bikes down to the water on a rope. We have a harness and carabineers but no proper climbing ropes. The decision is made to let safety come first and we make our standing point journeys end. We’re a little disappointed we can’t dip Tanas wheel in the water here but we’ll find a safe place to do that tomorrow.

As we gather together for, handshakes, hugs, photo shoots and prayers elation and relief flood over us. We give thanks for all the others who helped us forge the links in the chain and ask for God’s blessing on the children we have been riding for. The white light of dusk bathes our bodies in a warm glow as we celebrate the journey and soak up the atmosphere.

I desperately want to call Gill and the children and share these moments with them. Their legs and love have been critical in getting us here. We climb back up the ridgeline and pull out the cell phone. After a few minutes of the rabbit ritual we find a cell phone hotspot and I’m spilling my heart out to Gill, Zac and Lizzie at home base.

Time leaks away quickly on us so we  load the bikes onto the vehicles and begin the heart-in-mouth drive back to Port Ligar for the night. Pete, John and I pile onto the back of Tim’s ute and watch Croftie crawling along behind. Tim drives nonchalant like up the hill seemingly oblivious to the death drop below. Pete and I decide we would rather ride our bikes than drive over this terrain and hang on grimly ready to jump off at a moments notice. The side angle on the track is severe and at one point the Prado with her heavy load and high wheel base lightens on her uphill wheels and looks ready to tip and roll. “Stop, Stop” we yell out to Croftie. Steve jumps out to do some videoing – at least that’s what he tells us! Croftie carefully realigns the steering so he can attack the hill head on and then roars up past us. My heart is in my mouth watching him.

Our accommodation tonight is a quaint old cottage at Port Ligar provided by Tim and his wife Raewyn. We down a huge pile of food including fresh corn and beans from the farm and enjoy a celebratory drink together. Raewyn invites us over for supper and plies us with a humungous  pile of moist, cinnamon sprinkled, banana muffins. She tells us of their family visit to Mexico some years previously and the time spent there with a sponsored child and family. Conversation is light and easy in this household and it’s late when we drag ourselves away.

Tomorrow we will dip Tanas wheel in the water and reflect on our experiences some more. We’ll then sardine pack the vehicles and begin the 8 to 10 hr drive back to Christchurch. In the near future the story of our journey along with the photos and video footage will be used to further benefit and bless the children of India. Before then we’ll take some time for a little extra sleep… zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

It’s 11.58pm and my shattered body is giving me “take me to bed NOW” signals. My brain has shut down for the day so the adventures will have to be penned tomorrow or the day after.

Those of you who have been avidly following our progress can now break open the champagne and party with us. A few hours ago the Cycling with the Poor team reached Clay Point, the North Eastern most point of New Zealands South Island. After a day of high drama and heady emotions we forged the final link in our journey.

Elation enveloped riders and support crew as we stood above the waters of Cook Strait in the dancing rays of the evening sun and considered our achievement. We hugged and cheered and prayed and laughed. I rang Gill and the children and cried with joy, relief and pride. Their contribution to the journey and project has been colossal and I felt their loving presence with me all the way.

The longest and most arduous off road tandem mountain bike journey ever undertaken in this country was over. 1500 kilometres, 21000 metres + of altitude gain and loss and 500 + bananas! were behind us. Most importantly over $10000 dollars had been raised for Children in Crisis - and there is still much more to come.

The expedition is over but the project isn’t. I’ll tell your more about that tomorrow.

Croftie and I set off in the Prado at 8pm to rescue romance. We have to drive for nearly an hour before we locate a hot spot up a valley near Pelorus Bridge. The Valentine call finally gets through, the blog gets updated, emails get dealt to, txts get downloaded and sent, contact is made with World Vision and new media connections are made. Time evaporates as quickly as a puddle on a Christchurch footpath in nor-west wind. We treat ourselves to a latte and flat white at the Pelorus Café and wind back around the 500+ bush clad bends to Penzance Bay. Croftie as usual is stimulating company. He regales me with stories from his bottomless bucket as we drive. Richard Pearce of flying fame would have been proud of his inventive streak. He even built a full suspension mountain bike for his son Peter Alexander in 1977. That’s the beautiful beast at the top of the blog entry.

Back at base the team have rested up in readiness for the final 50km plus push to Cook Strait tomorrow. We browse the map and consider travelling times and rendezvous points. The terrain at Clay Point looks precipitous on the topo map and we discuss whether or not we will need climbing ropes and equipment to lower ourselves down to the sea. We haven’t prepared for this eventuality however and wonder how we can cover it. John wanders off and returns with a couple of carabineers and some webbing he’s pulled from his pack. He holds them up and asks with a wry grin, “Will these do the trick?” We marvel at his foresight and wonder what other mystery objects lie hidden in his pack.

The day has been busy and I’m finding it hard to get my head and heart around the fact that the ride will end tomorrow. The team are totally focused on completing the journey. We know the fat lady hasn’t sung yet but she’s standing in the wings doing breathing exercises waiting to come on stage.  I trust and pray we are able to complete the final link in the chain and dip the front wheel of Tana into the rippling waters of Cook Strait.

The children in World Vision’s Born to be Free projects will be in my soul sanctum as I ride tomorrow. Their faces are etched in indelible ink on the backs of my eyelids and the walls of my heart. If this ride awakens more people to their tragic plight and releases rivers of generosity into their lives I will rest content.

“There were some strange noises outside the tent last night,” Steve says over breakfast. “There were the usual grunting possums, coughing sheep and crying moreporks, but something sounded like it was choking out there”. It could of course been Pete throttling one of the snorers in the team but we are all alive and fizzing this morning so it must have been something else.

As we are speculating on the identity of the mystery nocturnal visitor a deer climbs up the steps of the shearing shed and peers in on us. I blink in amazement. The only time deer have previously been present during my mealtimes is when they have been sliced and sitting medium rare on the plate. This critter looks like she wants to eat off my plate!  Our four legged socialite turns out to be a 20 year old hind belonging to Kaiuma Station. She had grown used to being handled and was tame enough to pat and stroke.

Our route today looks to have a lot of portaging to do so speed up the morning routines and get away early. The walking track to Tennyson Inlet begins on a friendly gradient. We ride what we can and push the bikes over the rougher rooted and rocky sections. Pete’s front derailleur plays up and gets straightened into compliance with a gentle twist of a pair of pliers.  The flora has changed. The rich beech forests of the Richmond Ranges have thinned and given way to rich stands of bow branched pungas and ferns. Pockets of hook grass tug at our socks and cling to the hairs on our legs. According to sage Croftie pesky grasses like these provided the inspiration for the inventor of Velcro. We top the Kaimua Saddle and find good riding patches on the northern side. Balancing on the narrow track is a bit of an act and we giggle insanely from time to time at the near falls when we hit big rocks, slimy clay and slippery roots. The bike is great to ride but it handles like a Mac Truck compared to Pete’s trusty Trek. He scoots on nimbly ahead leaving us to bulldoze along spitting the occasional fist sized rock out from under our tires.

Nydia Bay is reached in good time so we stop to down some lunch and watch the light play on the tital flats and water. Several houses cluster along the shoreline and we pass an old boat under restoration, a weather rock (if its wet it’s raining!), a long jetty and a pool with an attention getting sign, “No fishing, pet eel”. Peering into the water we spot a fat 1.2 metre eel swaying contentedly in the water. I wonder how many hungry walkers and cyclists have resisted the temptation to tickle him into a pot.

Light rain begins to fall as we make our way up to Nydia Saddle. The flat light foreshortens the view of the valley we head up and makes the saddle appear much closer that it is. For about and hour we wind in and out of gullies and streams taking extra care with our feet in the slippery conditions. When we reach the passage over the ridge we find Simon relaxing in his hammock under a couple of mamoe trees. He left earlier this morning to walk through the track and has made good time to reach this point. The trees have thinned here and opened windows to the sound below. We marvel at the milky blue waters and exchange notes before the cool wind chills the sweat on our bodies and prompts us to move on again. The roots and ruts on this downhill section are more gnarly than the north side of the Kaiuma. We follow Pete’s wiry frame downhill. He disappears like a 50 year old boy-racer in a tricked Subaru Legacy while we wrestle Big Mac Tana over as much as we can. We round the final bend into Duncan Bay about 3pm. According to our map an 8 km mix of sealed and gravel road stands between us and camp tonight at Penzance.  The local Council have been busy in recent times however and the pungent smell of new tar rises up ominously to meet us. Holiday makers and locals are no doubt grateful for the change, we are not. If you haven’t noticed already, riding road verges makes us grumpy. We grab the bars in grim determination and push on for the final leg of the day.

The little holiday home we arrive at is nestled in a beautiful location above the Bay. Hot showers wash the grime and remnants of sunscreen off our weary bodies. Steve’s spaghetti bolognaise adds spice to our bellies and evening conversations. The banter is cut short however as we race off to make cell phone connections with loved ones. It’s Valentines Day and we daren’t neglect them. Darkness is descending into the Bay as we roam and hop around trying to find hot spots. The rabbit ritual is fruitless however and an hour later we return to the house downcast with our phones still ‘searching for service”. Tomorrow we will drive until we find coverage and make amends for our marital neglect. Meanwhile Gilli, if you are reading this, I love you more than all the stars in the sky. You are the sunshine in my life’

John, Pete, Simon and I leave Devils hut and head downriver to connect with Support Crew at an idyllic wee camp spot called Butchers Flat. We are keen to hook up as breakfast this morning was lean and mean due to space limitations in our overnight packs. Our tummies are rumbling and growling for more tucker. Steve has promised to have a big feed waiting for us.

You may have noticed by now that the riders are the Arabian horses or the Show ponies in the expedition team. They get to race around and do all the dramatic and exciting stuff. The support crew are the Clydesdales doing the unheralded grunt work behind the scenes.

Steve and Croftie are our Clydesdales on this final leg and they pull hard on the traces every day. Yesterday they had a long list of tasks to work through. They replenished food supplies in Blenheim, confirmed access permission with landowners, arranged a campsite at Kaiuma Bay, scoped out the Pelorus River for a safe crossing site and loaded up more info to the website. They then set up camp at the head of the Wakamarina Valley and got ready to transition us into the rest of the ride when we pass through.

The children in the Born to be Free Projects are as reliant as the riders in our expedition. They cannot do life on their own. They simply don’t have the resources. They need committed and compassionate people who will link with them as support crew. People who will open up their hearts and dig into their bank accounts to donate and sponsor. People who will help World Vision set them up for a life that is free, healthy and hope filled. I trust and pray that some of you faithful blog watchers will become the Clydesdales who help make poverty and injustice history for these defenceless ones. 

We push and pedal our bikes down the winding track above the river pausing now and again to breathe in the intoxicating scent of the beech, manuka and fern. The noise of camera shutter and camcorder driver intrudes into insect chorus and bird song from time to time as we spot scenes of interest and seek in vain to capture the multi-sensory experience through the tiny lenses.

Swinging around a corner we spot Croftie with his manuka walking stick and hand held PRS radio. He calls Steve and tells him to fire up the kettle for us. We roll into camp as the whistle blows. Steve has a mountain of cereal, toast, bacon and eggs and the inevitable bananas ready for us. In 20 minutes it all disappears into our legs.

Another blog entry needs preparing so I sit down to squeeze out some thoughts while the rest of the team prepare day packs and tune bikes. We haven’t yet figured out how to ride the tandem and work on the laptop at the same time – now there’s a challenge. Perhaps I should ask John to try it for me first from the stokers seat.

The road down the valley from camp is all asphalt and we have the painful task of walking and riding the bikes where possible along the shoulder to keep them off-road. The verges on these secondary roads are usually narrow and off cambered and balancing on them when riding is difficult and draining.  We come across a large pink polystyrene fish stranded on the verge and attempt to whale ride for a while just for a change. After about 9 kms of tedium we head down to the river to see if we can find a way to cross and access the forestry road on the other side.  Impenetrable scrub crouches waiting to devour us on the far side however and after yesterday’s epic bash we decide to back off and continue the dance with the asphalt for the final 4kms to the end of the valley.

Crossing Highway 6 at Canvastown we make our way to the Pelorus river - our last big river crossing for the journey. The bikes are and packs are left on shore while we check out the possibilites. The river is deep right along here and there are no easy options. We decide to check it out to see if Crofties raft is necessary. Pete and I walk three quarters of the way across the slow flowing 60 metre wide current. We sink to chest depth before the bed starts to rise back up again under our feet to the far shore. We decide the crossing is doable and glide back to prepare. Steve and Croftie have the cancorders rolling capturing the action.

Our packs are strapped to the bike frames in readiness for holding over our heads. Simon heads across first and drops to shoulder depth before popping up on the other side. Pete follows but drops a little deeper on his way through. John and I hoist Tana above our heads and follow in their footsteps towards the mark on the far side. We drop to chest level through two little holes then start to rise up again. Suddenly the bed drops again and I sink up to my neck. This is not good. John is vertically challenged. At 5’7” he is shorter than me by about 3 or 4 inches. I hear splashing behind me as he suddenly lets go and slips out from under the rear of Tana to grab air. Now bike and packs are perched precariously on my head and shoulders. If the water gets any deeper I’ll have to abandon the lot.

There’s no way to turn around in the current so I take another adrenalin fuelled step forward hoping like heaven the riverbed doesn’t drop away any more. The water nudges up to my chin and the adrenalin pumps even harder. By now Tana must be feeling like the Gingerbread man after the wolf says, “The water is getting deeper still, you better climb up on my nose’. I take another step forward and feel a ‘Thank God’ bank rising up in front of me. Three or four steps later I’m up and out of the hole in waist deep water. John splashes over and attaches himself like a limpet to the rear of the bike. We plunge on over to the shore and in relief lay Tana on the stones.

Our crossing has been too rushed and a near critical mistake has been made. We are both good swimmers and didn’t feel unsafe in the water. We also knew we could have dropped Tana, moved to shallower ground and then retrieved her from the riverbed if necessary. Bearings would likely have been damaged however. We realise in hindsight that we had been sloppy marking our entry and exit points and drifted off course as a consequence.

The afternoon is drawing down as we don packs and ride off to complete the final 30 kms to Kaiuma Bay Station. The road is well formed gravel and we race over it towards the head of Pelorus Sound. The aroma of salt laden air tickles our nostrils as we approach the water. Pete and I yell excitedly to each other. The last time he and I savoured the smell of sea air was 31 days ago when we left Foveaux Strait. We stop to take in the view and reflect on progress. Journeys end is very close now and although we are eager to reach Cook Strait, another part of us doesn’t want the adventure to end.

Drifting off to sleep in the shearers quarters that night I make a mental note to ask Steve to check with World Vision to see how much money has come in for the children. The ultimate goal is not Cook Strait – its freedom for the captive children.

It’s a little past rooster crow time and several team members are roaming and hopping around one of Alex’s paddocks like foraging rabbits looking for cell phone hot spots. When someone finds one he stands fixed with phones to ear hoping the signals don’t fade. This bizarre ritual takes place often as we try to stay in touch from remote areas with family members and make other important calls.

I ‘OK’ home in my address book, chat with Gill and the kids for a while. Ben has moved off to Dunedin to study for the year and Beth is based in Auckland for a few months for a gap year course. “The house feels empty and quiet without them’, Gill tells me. Her new job at the Riccarton library is going well and the load is such that she won’t be able to come and join us for the last day of the expedition. I understand the demands but feel disappointed she won’t be able to share in the excitement of this special moment with us. We began the journey together and I’d hoped we might be able to finish it the same way. Lizzie and Anna grab a minute of three to write me in on their worlds. They are full noise with school, social and sporting commitments. I love them to bits and am mega-blessed to have them in my life. A few other calls to some local newspaper reporters and Nelsons More FM follow. We are getting good coverage from various media along the way and are grateful for their interest. The next blog entry is typed up and palmed off to Steve for uploading.

While all the coms work is going on Pete and John pour the love into the bikes and stuff the overnight gear into the packs. We will stay in a hut up the Wakamarina Valley tonight and need to be well prepared. Tires hit the track about 10am and we whistle up the gravel road to Barletts Creek where Cliff has dropped Simon off. Simon is travelling with us on foot today and pack horsing some of the extra gear. Cliff is heading back home to Darfield but not before telling us he intends dropping the Hilux into a big mud hole so he can impress Croftie with his tale of exploration. His spark has ignited many fires of fun and laughter among the team and we are gonna miss him heaps.

The 4WD track vanishes quickly and ominously into thick scrub. We abandon it and make our way up the stream bed to the base of a spur where our map indicates a track begins. Our GPS shows we are in the right place and vestiges of a track can be detected at the stream edge. We throw ourselves at the undergrowth and begin to bash our way up the steep slope. The pitch on the spur gets steeper and the vegetation gets thicker. “Looks like this is a pre WW1 track” Pete jests at one point. It’s evident now that the track on our maps was abandoned some years ago by DOC. The sweat begins to pour off us as we wrestle the bikes upward.  John unknowing brushes against a wasp on a tree. The little critter responds to his man love by stinging him on the backside. He yelps with pain and grabs his gluts. We empathise with him as men do and then ask why the wasps find his backside more attractive than ours. Soon after Pete lets out an even louder yelp as he gets a shot of little critter venom in his leg. We all begin to rotate eyes in slightly paranoiac fashion trying to spot them before they zoom in to get us again.

Young stands of Manuka bar our way at different points. They are growing so closely that the handlebars of the bike only fit through by wriggling and manoeuvring Tana and Pete’s trusty Trek in painstakingly slow fashion.  A snail on sleeping tablets could move more quickly than we are. We are committed to our route now and check maps and GPS to reference terrain. “I can’t think of anything better to do on a sunny day than this”, Pete says. “Me neither’ says John, “Other than sitting at home scooping out my kidneys with a blunt spoon”. Bits of bike constantly catch on trees and plants. We slip and slide and get ripped by bush lawyer vines. Simon goes ahead at times to break trail for us and pull on the bike from above. After 4 hours of excruciating torture we suddenly break onto the track we have been aiming for on the ridgeline. Woops of relief rent the air and we crash on the side of the track to recover. The track we are sitting on is wide and well graded. If we have ridden up the track from Bartletts we could have cruised along it at what would have felt like the speed of light compared to what we had been doing. As we nibble on OSMs and bananas I get ribbed to the max about my pre-expedition route planning.

The rest of the day is a breeze compared to the bush bash. The track winds up at an easy gradient to Fosters clearing near the summit. We soak up some sun then move on over the range. The vegetation changes dramatically on the western slopes where the rainfall is higher. The ground is wet underfoot and luscious groupings of moss and fern decorate the forest floor. We manage to find some ridable bits of track and make the most of the faster going. The track is rough and narrow however and I’m glad the front suspension is working like a treat. Peter Page at Doctor Bike in Christchurch gave it a thorough tune up a few days back and it’s been ‘sweet as’ since then. At 6pm we radio in our scheduled call to Steve and Croftie and thankfully get a clear enough signal to assure them we are OK and on track to meet with them the following morning for a late breakfast.

An eerie mist lurks among the beech near a high point on the ridge and we pause to snap photos of the moody scene. Pig rootings spoil the ground in many places however. They have bulldozed the undergrowth and left it looking like a detonated minefield. The zigzag track to the valley floor seems to go on forever and we make our way down in the fading light. Low light penetrates the canopy and bedecks a vast sea of elegant young ferns. Their bright green textured leaves stand out in vivid array against the black of the beech trunks. This forest world is full of captivating little creatures. I also find it to be alive with the Creator’s presence. His handiwork is everywhere.

The hut rolls into view about 8.30pm. It’s nestled in a clearing near a chuckling river. Our little primus is cranked to life and a feed is soon on the go. I grab a matchbox to light up a couple of candles. As I glance at the cover I am taken back in an instant to the villages of India where I saw the little children making matches by hand and stuffing them into boxes. The reason for our ride sits poignant like within my own palm.

Conversation is muted tonight. The candles are soon blown out and bodies unfurl into sleeping bags. As I drift off to sleep I wonder how the support crew have got on and hope that they have had an easier day than us.

The Wairau river runs calm cool and shallow this morning as we cross her. Strewn white log carcasses on her wide shingle beds lie as sobering reminders of the torrents that have thundered down in times past. We push on through terraced farmlands on the eastern banks and ride through scattered mobs of sheep and cattle. The ground is wet beneath the wheels and mud, grit and animal faeces get thrown all over legs and bikes once again. The gears slip and graunch on a steep pinch up a gully and we jump off to ease the pressure on the freewheel assembly. When we get back on to ride we find the rear hub is freewheeling in both directions. We are left as bereft of drive and power as a car with a failed gearbox or auto transmission. We suspect that the pawls in the freewheel assembly have been stripped out once again. The problem is irritating but we are philosophical about it today and strangely calm. We don’t have the parts or the tools to do the repair in the field and decide to get Tana to Blenheim as fast as we can where we hope to find a friendly bike mechanic who will do emergency surgery. A check of the map reveals it’s only about 8kms to our scheduled rendezvous with the support team at the upper Wairau road bridge. Pete and Simon ride on to let Cliff and Steve know while John and I push Tana as fast as we can to the meeting point.

We run and walk and glide down any hills that appear. Fitness is not any issue at this stage of the expedition and we cover the ground in quick time. Rounding a final bluff we spot Cliff coming up the farm track in his Hilux. It’s moments like these that we realise how critical the support team are. Tana is strapped on the roof of the vehicle and we head for Blenheim while Pete and Simon carry on downriver. Our plan is to get the bike repaired, return to the point we left the route and continue the journey. I pray for a kind bike mechanic then catch 40 winks in in an attempt to make up for sleep deficit that’s crept up on me as a result of blogging in the wee hours of the morning.

‘Bad things do happen to good people’, Harold Kushner points out in his insightful little book. But good things happen to ordinary people as well. There is a mysterious thing called grace at work in our world and it materialises for us in the form of a young cycle mechanic. Josh at Reidie Cycles in Blenheim comes to our rescue. He rips in and repairs the Tana in double quick time. Even better when he hears about the charity focus of our ride he refuses to charge.

Cliff resists the temptation to plant the boot more firmly on the Hilux accelerator as we head back upriver into darkening thunder clouds. Speeding fines are not covered in the Expedition budget. Heavy drops of rain begin to fall as we arrive at our connecting point and unload Tana. It’s 4.45pm and we have more than 40 off road kms to cover. Lightening blazes across the rolling cloud banks like the camera flash of Deity. Thunder claps rumble like oncoming trains shaking earth and sky as we get underway again. “These donkey ears (wire reinforced) could make a good lightening conductor” I jest to John as we stumble across the Wairau for the second time today. We both laugh but move our legs a little more quickly than usual.

The track through the pine and gum forest on the north side of the river is firm and fast. Josh’s new free wheel assembly is holding sweet and we motor along the surface. Lightening and thunder pursue us down the valley and the big drops of rain soon meld together and turn into torrents. Some of the streams we cross are running high under the stormy downpour and washing our sections of road. Wheel tracks turn into muddy streams and conceal the lurking wheel ruts. A couple of times we catch a front wheel on a hidden rut wall in the water and exit the bike in ugly fashion into the mud. We debate whether these count as falls and decide that our speed was so minimal when they happened that we would call them “Slow speed dismounts’. We are soaked to the skin by the driving rain but confident we can make camp before midnight!

We cross the Goulter River and hit a good secondary shingle road. A robust southerly wind is pushing on our tail and we have the smell of camp in our nostrils. We are flying over the terrain and hungry as hyenas. Suddenly the good shingle runs out and we encounter our dreaded enemy -  ashphalt!  This is a Strait to Strait off road expedition and Tana’s tires can’t touch tar. The sun sinks into bed as muddle snail like along the verge of the road in the deceptive light of dusk. A familiar vehicle growl breaks my concentration and I look up to Croftie roaring up the road in his Prado with a Cookie jar and headlights to help. Pete’s bro in law Stewart Bashford has teamed up with him to assist in guiding us in. Even with his high beam assistance we nearly tumble into a couple of ditches. We have no plans to break our necks in this way and get off to push and run again. At 10am we roll into camp at Terracedale farm to the cheers and warm greetings of the rest of the team. Alex and Pam Macdonald have provided a space for our tents and a hot refreshing shower. Pete and Simon arrived safely three hours earlier and are looking well fed and watered. We stack away massive quantities of Steve’s kai and collapse into our sleeping bags. Even the Snorers Trio of Cliff, Simon and Steve couldn’t keep us awake.

I wake up determined to shake off the disappointment of yesterday and focus on the positive aspects of the project. This is no easy task for me as I have a tendency to brood on mistakes, shortcomings and negatives. The black dog of depression lurks in the shadows of my life and visits me from time to time. If I am not vigilant this seemingly small setback will pull me down into a deep dark whirlpool of anger, anxiety, regret and despair. Prayer brings solace and strength for me. I ask God to help me park up the matter of the lost footage in the back of my mind. When my emotional temperature drops I will work with others on a plan to redeem the loss. I need then to turn to the needs of the now.

A 90 km ride from Hanmer up the Clarence and down the Rainbow rivers awaits us and the team are itching to get gravel under the tires. The two non riding days have given time for muscles and bums to recover and we are itching to get back in the saddles. We clean up the house, check the bikes, and load the vehicles as quickly as we can. Steve is support driver, cook and cameraman today. He is given a five minute lesson in videoing and a list of scenes to shoot along the way. Cliff is running support from his vehicle and playing the clown when he’s not helping out. John has his first day stoking on the back of Tana while Simon and Pete are riding their feed and watered single steads. The new guys have slotted in well and there’s a good vibe in the group.

The nor-west wind is blowing again as we clip in and head out. The road is a well formed gravel affair but the corrugations formed by accelerating and braking vehicles are some of the worst we have encountered. Tana’s longer wheel base and rear suspension provides a degree of comfort but the bike shudders and shakes like a naked man in an arctic blizzard and our kidneys get a heavy pounding. Our eyes rove over the road surface like Geiger counters looking for smooth ‘gold’ to ride on. We weave from side to side trying to find lines that give us a little more comfort and pedalling efficiency. On one occasion we spot a car approaching some distance away. We pull over on the far right to track on smooth stable surface and give him room to pass. As the vehicle speeds past an irate occupant calls out. “You’re on the wrong side of the road’. We’re surprised that his obsession with the technicalities of road code and his associated rights has blinded him to our needs. The traffic in this remote valley isn’t exactly bumper to bumper. In fact we only see about a dozen cars all day!!

The road is a challenge but it doesn’t detract from our enjoyment of the ride and the scenery. Once again we are surrounded by broad tussocked valleys, steep scree slopes, crags, buttresses and rock walls. Cloud hovers and drift over the landscape. Waterfalls weave silvery threads down rock walls and streams dance across the road. Fom time to time heavy showers of rain pelt and sting our faces on the fast downhills and the wind tugs at our jackets. Being out in these wide open spaces is exhilarating today.  John is strong and steady in the stokers seat and we make good ground. The turn off to Lake Tennyson appears and we duck off for a look at the scenery there. At the top of a little rise Cliff climbs aboard Pete’s bike and rides off down the hill to the lake edge. He’s no spring chicken but he handles the bike like an old pro, Pete stands on the rear bar of Tana and we set off in pursuit of Cliff the clown on our temporary Triplim.

Leaving the Lake we climb up the winding road to 1347 metre Island Saddle 1347 and Cliff informs us it’s the highest public road in New Zealand. A car full of sprightly senior citizens pulls up and we pause to chat and talk about the expedition with them. One old soul in the back asks me what the donkey ears are for. “They are radio antenna for communication with our support team’. I tell her with a twinkle in my Irish eyes. She catches the merry flash and laughs. “It’s great to have a sense of humour”, she says. Her ready rapport, quick wit and energy remind me of my mum. We give them some brochures on the project and encourage the computer savvy to check out our web site. 

We wind up Tana on the long downhill and pull into Sedgemere Hut which provides good shelter for lunch. Pete’s battery is a bit low today and he stretches out on one of the bunks for a few minutes to recover. Cliff wrestles with the gas bottle on Crofties cooker while Steve pulls out the kai. Before leaving Steve ducks off to the tin dunny, I sneak up to throw a couple of little stones at the walls to give him a curry up. Later he tells me, “I knew it was you back there’, I could see you through the bullet holes in the sides!

The long twisting road down the Rainbow River provides good going. Towering bluffs rise in menacing array above us as the valley closes in. Below the river snakes along lithely carving a path through reluctant stone and rock. The pylons for the national grid march alongside us like giant steel soldiers all the way. The utilitarian steel structures with their looping connecting wires provide critical power for our but they intrude awkwardly into the viewing spaces at every point. They are as out of place as pork chops at a kosher wedding.

Rounding one corner we see another cyclist coming towards us towing a trailer. It’s Craig from Wellington on his way to Dunedin or thereabouts. We’ve never met him before but we greet each other like long lost mates, compares specs on our bikes and trade travel stories before wishing each other well and moving on.

Shadows, when they do appear, are lengthening as we push on through dark patches of beech forest in the lower reaches of the Rainbow. An old dog comes out for an ear scratch at the old homestead gate but the gatekeeper doesn’t stir. The muck on the chain starts to clog the gear shifting again so we linger at a stream to wash things down and relube. The Rock and Roll product supplied by Graham Early at Marleen Wholesalers works a treat and we soon have things running smoothly again. The last 16 kms of the road are sealed so we ride the shoulder and meander through a random system of sheep and cattle tracks along the sides. Around 7.30pm Pete spots a couple of manuka branches with one of our Cycling with the Poor tops hanging on it at the top of a little track and we realize we’ve arrived at camp.

The tent is up, the kettle is boiling and a huge feed of spaghetti bolognaise is being conjured up by Steve. A cloud of eager sandflies are also waiting to swoop on bare flesh and devour us. We wash down quickly, don some dry clothes, slap on some insect repellent and settle in to replenish energy supplies. Darkness settles quickly and the rain comes with it.  Tomorrow will be another wet ride.

The market in the little resort town of Hanmer is slow to awake this morning. At 10am you could fire a cannon through the middle of the stalls and still not hit anyone. We park our vehicle alongside a a painting and prints dealer and festoon it with posters. People slowly shake themselves to life and some punters meander down to check out the goods on display. We talk to an intriguing array of passersby including a Swede, a Scot, an American and a German couple touring Godzone with their two young children on a four seater cycle. We collect $160 in donations and I cadge a ride on the four seater before heading back to the house to finish preps for tomorrows ride

Simon has been diligently filming this morning and when we get back realises that he has accidentally recorded over previous footage. My heart sinks with anxiety. We have spent big hours planning, setting up and videoing different parts of the journey and I hope like heaven nothing vital has been lost. With shaking fingers I recue the tape and go back over it. My worst fears are realised as I discover the footage of the expeditions beginning at Foveaux Strait is completely gone. Bugger. Bethany’s beautiful recording of those exciting and precious moments has been wiped. Tears come to my eyes as I consider the loss. The record of those events is an invaluable record of our family and team adventure and as the bookend to our story for the documentary we will make. I mutter angry words to the team about the need to be careful and then plunge into silence. I’ve made some silly mistakes myself when videoing and I know this is an accident, but I feel gutted by the loss and unsure what to do. An eggshell silence falls over the team for a couple of hours while they absorb the setback and tip toe around my disappointment. Simon feels terrible about the mistake and offers an apology. He’s been so diligent with his responsibilities in the team and a tireless server. He’s hurting as much as I am over the disaster but I’m too consumed with my own pain to comfort him. Gill has to return to Christchurch so she gives me a big hug and heads off with Jos. In my preoccupation I’ve forgotten Jos is leaving the Support crew today. She has made a mammoth contribution to the expedition. I want to send her off in style but am caught in up in the sadness of the moment and am unable to bookend this moment for her the way I had planned.

The rest of the day slips by in hazy, bland fashion for me. Gear is sorted and packed, dinner is eaten and plans for the morrow are discussed. Cliff lightens evening conversation with stories of his bulldozer driving days and I drift in and out of attention trying to come to terms with the loss.

The morning sun shines through the open curtains and steams open my eyelids. No riding today but lots to do. Advocacy and fundraising are central to our project and the pedalling break provides good opportunities for pushing ahead on this front. Publicity in various forms is critical in achieving this so we get busy pursuing the tasks that will help us tell our story.

John Dawson, Steve Rosie and Cliff Hatton join the team today. Their fresh energy and mix of skills boosts the team instantly. They team up with Simon to catalogue photos and video footage, Jos goes off to arrange for a spot for our stall in the local market tomorrow, Croftie gives the Landrover an oil and grease and heads back to Christchurch for a couple of days to write up the Canterbury Landrover Owners Clubs monthly magazine, and I get on with media liaison and updating the blog.

Four newspapers and radio stations have rung through and requested reports and interviews. The cell phone runs hot as we tell reporters of the crying needs of the little ones of India and the adventure of our ride. “Please write your article in a way that highlights the purpose of our ride and the plight of the children.’ I plead with one reporter. ‘The expedition is not about us, it’s about them.” As I move on to other list items I trust and pray that editorial knives will not cut the heart out of our story and sever critical lines of help and hope for the children.

Writing the blog sometimes takes an age. Words rarely flow from keys to screen. Most times they are chipped and carved by the tools of my slow working brain only to be discarded as inadequate when they appear in bold print. I want to draw you into our world. I want you to see the beauty of our landscapes and smell the sweat of our ride. More than anything I want to hold your head to my chest so you can feel within me the broken heartbeat of the children and be moved to help them yourself.

Catherine Healy from World Vision updates us via email with figures of money raised through referred sponsors and donors. We add up the value of these and other contributions that we know are on their way and celebrate the fact that we have gathered about $10000 so far. The temperature gauge on our web homepage is slowly getting hotter.

In the evening we all head off to a local restaurant to dig into some big steaks before returning to Pete’s place. Gill, Anna (her friend Zoe) and Isaac arrive in time for supper. The box of banana’s we received at The Lakes is ripening fast so we offer them a banana split with their coffee. We catch up on family news and expedition stories before hitting the mattresses. Sleep comes easy tonight.