2012 Kiwi Brevet - Reducere
I'd missed the inaugural Kiwi Brevet, through a combination of apathy and anxiety, I think. I didn't know a lot about self sufficient multi day stuff at the time (In spite of working at probably the best place to source information and gear - R&R Sport, which subsequently whored itself out to become Torpedo7). Combined with the lack of impetus to do the thing, I was also shit scared of taking such a plunge. I mean, riding 1,100 km, with no possibility of a pick up from a good-natured friend, or bailing out at any point? Fuck that.
The week of the first KB, I'd worked out I'd made a big mistake. I was following the blue dots with eager anticipation and excitement, wishing I was out there among them. I vowed to make the start line of the next edition, should there be one.
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I originally penned this passage the day I arrived home from my first Brevet. Only my second proper multi-day event, having completed the Tawhio o Whanganui the summer of 2011/12 with my superb old buddy, the esteemed (academic) Dr. Randal.
I'd done all the normal stuff before the Brevet, including some nice meaty long rides. I don't remember them exactly, but I know I'd done sessions like 4 times up Turoa and what I called the Triple Tip Track Treat (which included three ascents of a shitty 4wd track I used to love). I'd cobbled some gear together, but it was mainly tramping stuff - I had dry breakfasts made up and ready to go - just add milk. I had water purification means, and various other 'back country' equipment. I know now, that's about as useful as a cock flavoured lollipop on a Brevet.
I ferried down to Picton with my great m9 Stephen, who was rolling a lovely steel hardtail, carbon forked Single Speed - truly one of the hard men of the starters. We downed a few sneaky beers on the ferry, before cruising the 30km or so to Blenheim, to meet up with a gaggle at the Renaissance Brewery on the outskirts of town. It was a great vibe there that evening, with all manner of SPD equipped sandals, Beards of varying lengths (from Kurt Cobain, right through to ZZ Top), and of course the constant discussion around sleeping gear, puffer jackets, saddles, and every Brevet riders favourite topic - tyres. The hours were whittled away by our relatively banal musings, until some wise person decided it was time to split - we had a bike to ride in the morning, after all.
Somewhere either en route, or actually in Blenheim, I had a bit of a cough/flu arrive with me. It was started mainly as a bit of a head cold, but morphed into one of those hoarse voice, dry throat, slight headache but she'll be right type things by the time we all congregated like a bunch of hi-vis vagrants in Seymour Square for our 0900 getaway.
I was pretty nervous, and quite shy at the time - the traits of a former introvert, I guess. I stayed away from the photos, and kept to myself as I awaited the chance to ride - this was a huge challenge for all of us, and for me it was almost all new terrain. I don't know if I was more nervous or excited.
The clock tolled 0900 (or more correctly, it tolled 9 times) and we departed Seymour Square mainly in the right direction. The first part of the route was 'neutralised' which meant we couldn't ride like dicks.
A bit of benign river trail later, and we were spat out near the foot of Taylor Pass. I had no idea what Taylor Pass was, except it probably went up a hill - exactly my sort of riding. In fact, one of the few things I knew about the first day for sure, was Ward Pass - some 130km in - was at about 1100m, so we would be riding up hill in some general trend for some hours to come.
As soon as we were given the OK, about half a dozen cranked it up, and steamed off the front of the otherwise sensible group of ~100 riders. As I have an aversion to common sense, and a seriously insatiable competitive streak, I was one of the half dozen. I remember senõr Lindup, along with the seriously fit Olly Whalley among the front group. I'd been a mid-pack XC racer for a few seasons by this point so wasn't averse to putting the hurt on at all. Actually, I loved that shit.
Anyway, cresting Taylor Pass, I find myself all alone, with nobody to chat to or keep me a) sane, b) on the right track. For the first time of many, I consulted my cue sheets - I'd taken the liberty of laminating each day of cues using the stationery supplies at work. Thanks Fronde.
After some time, lots of dust, and more corrugations, I pulled off the trail at the start of the Molesworth Station. I'd packed lunch from home, and needed to refuel a bit. Besides, I was actually beginning to wonder if I'd gone the wrong way by this point - although my cues were right on, I hadn't seen anyone for a few hours. Olly came through, said a quick howdy, and blasted off into the sunset. I wasn't to see him again (nor was anyone else until he got back to Blenheim 3 days and some change later!)
I carried on, and having crested Ward Pass, found myself rolling along this thoroughly shitty, dry, straight, vapid stretch of gravel aptly named Isolated Flat. I just stopped pedalling at one point, and came to a slow halt, almost forgetting to put a foot out to steady myself. I sat in what is probably the only small stream along this stretch, trying to cool down, and find something interesting about the place.
I had a bit of a rest, the kicked on - by now, there was a bit of a headwind getting up, so I was pleased to (eventually) see Acheron Homestead, which heralded one more milestone closer to my destination for the night. Some folks weren't sure if they'd make it through the Molesworth prior to the curfew of 7pm, but I was out the other side before then, thankfully. From this point, my mind wandered only twice - seeing a crashed car off the side of the road near the top of Jollie's Pass, and wondering what I'd have to drink once I reached Hanmer as I bombed down aforementioned pass.
I got there about 20:45, quarter of an hour or so before the local 4 Square shut. This was my first experience of food anxiety, in that I wasn't sure anything would be open on my arrival. The other great anxiety for any brevet rider is accommodation anxiety - that is, being user of whether they have anywhere to stay that night.
I'd booked a hotel room, and after procuring some food, made my way there for a shower and a feed. By about 2115 my buddy Stephen had rolled in on the single speed, and we hung out for the night.
I was up about three times between 2200 and 0600 with coughing fits, a bit of a fever (potentially more to do with heat/dehydration than sickness, in retrospect) and general nerves.
We were up fairly early - although somehow I was the last person ready. In 2020, I now know this is just me, I'm always last to leave the house and almost always late to things.
We rolled out into the drizzle today, sit bones complaining and leg muscles groaning as we made our way out of Hanmer on SH5A, onto SH5 towards the longest straight in NZ (passing through Culverdon). We were joined by David Kleinjan, who was also on a single speed. At first I was a little unsure about this, as we were now hamstrung to a certain pace - but after a short while, I was quite happy continuing at a conversational pace, knowing I wasn't out to set any records, and that having company would be crucial to maintaining ones marbles.
We stopped in Hurunui at a pub (I think sent to the knackers by the more recent Kaikoura Earthquake) to stock up on the only thing they had aside from booze - Cookie Times. These became a bit of a staple for the Brevet, along with Chocolate milk and Ginger Beer. We negotiated MacDonald Downs without any issues, and emerged into the Lees Valley for the long drag into the Southerly towards the Wharfedale Track. This was to be the first bit of proper Mountain Biking on the course, so I was pretty amped to get there.
Too amped, as it turns out. While Stephen and I were gasbagging, we managed to miss the turn off to the Wharfedale Track - see, we weren't looking for a sign which said "Townshend Track" at all, particularly not underneath a huge Macrocarpa in a large paddock of overgrown grass. Anyway, everyone else managed to make that turn except us, so it's clearly our fault...
We rode about an hour up and down the road following the gorge, before working to we'd gone waaaay too far to be where we thought we should be. We backtracked, and eventually found our way. I was training hard for Karapoti at the same time as this ride, so relished any opportunity to tackle a steep, loose climb. There were a few small pinches along this track, so I managed to get good training out of it if nothing else. The Wharfedale itself was pretty unremarkable in this direction - lots of portaging and clambering on the way up, and the descent was relatively shite. Overall, I'd give it a 4/10, would not bang again.
It was misty at the top, drizzled on the way down, and by the time we reached the domain at the bottom, it was raining. By this stage, we were four - Stephen and me, along with David K on the other single speed, and one other. We continued as far as Springfield, where the local pub had Portacoms set up as units out the back.
We ordered fish and chips, and a beer I think, before hitting the shower and heading to bed. I was up and standing outside in the pouring rain at 0300, trying to combat my fever. Eventually I cooled down, and went back to bed, only to shiver the rest of the night.
I was the last to leave the pub. The guys had made quick work of getting ready, so by the time I was putting my feet on the ground for the first time, they were out the door, headed for Porters Pass. The terrible sleep and general lethargy meant I wasn't in any hurry to get away, so I eventually got my shit together and set off after whomever was in front of me. I caught them all up on the climb up Porters Pass, in about 15 or 20 metres visibility - it was quite eerie, particularly as I had no idea how high up we would go on this climb.
Once I reached the crest, I didn't have to wait long for Stephen to join me - we donned jackets and gloves, and bombed down the other side of the pass, into the interior of the mighty Souther Alps. It was still drizzling, but not nearly as badly now - we had good visibility and the weather was easing. Sure enough, by the time we reached Flock Hill, the drizzle had abated altogether, and the clouds even threatened to part. Before we reached the Bealey Bridge, the sun was out, the wind was gone, and we'd make it somewhat closer to both our destination for the night, and cloud nine.
We had a funny moment when Stephen was posing in the middle of the Bealey Bridge - a long, one lane number - and I was taking the photos. Out of the corner of his eye, he must've seen something moving. Thankfully, he took note, as about 3 seconds later a Holden Commodore came roaring past, bemused expressions included.
Arthur's Pass was absolutely lovely - we bumped into Nathan Mawkes there, who had made great time that morning as a bit more of a veteran of these events. He is much more organised, and that shows in how quickly he gets from A to B. We stood guard over the bikes, as the local Kea population were pretty keen on our grips, saddles, and tyres.
I'd driven this section a few years prior, and knew the Otira Gorge pretty well - great place to stop for a photo or two, I told my buddies. After bombing down the viaduct, there's a great little rest area off to the left, affording the most spectacular views of the lower parts of the gorge, and the avalanche-proof tunnel over the road. Well, I pulled off into the rest area, and circled around to wave the others off, too. Two of them made it in, no worries - but Stephen, using these wonderful lightweight brake rotors front and rear, didn't quite get there the first attempt. I distinctly remember him scrabbling past the turn off, with quite a head of steam up, both brake levers in at the handlebars with full force, and both feet dragging along the road, Fred Flintstone style, as he first looked to make the turn, then gave up all hope in just trying not to wear the armco barrier on the side of the road. He arrived with us a few moments later.
With disaster averted, we made our way to Jaksons, for the turn off around Lake Brunner. After only a few KM, the road turned into this magical hard packed clay, which felt faster than brand new tarmac under the tyres. As I had the luxury of gears, I made damn good use of them, and absolutely smoked that section of the course - for the first time in almost three days, I felt amazing, and my legs couldn't pedal hard enough. Eventually, I'd had my fill, and cruised along, waiting for some company. I'd caught Nathan again, and when the single speeds caught me, we all rolled towards the Grey River together, and made the left turn up to Blackball for a surprisingly early finish - we were there around 1830, plenty of time for laundry, showers, dinner, drinks, and shenanigans.
Quite a crew assembled here - of all places - that night, and we sat outside sampling the food (I had a venison steak, mashed potatoes and some greens) and local beers from the Monteiths Brewery just down the road in Greymouth.
This day proved to be the most fun of all - it had beautiful rolling tarmac, a fantastic long climb, the best gravel climb, single track, double track, and a nice long descent to finish.
Having passed the sombre Pike River memorial site, we stopped briefly at the Ikamatua store - we saw the forlorn figure of Thomas Lindup there (not sure if anyone calls him Thomas these days, so Duppy shall suffice). Duppy regaled us with a take of a pretty rough day or two - wrong turns, no turns, punctures, sleeping rough, running out of food - he'd had a bugger of a time.
We cruised up past the old Blackwater School, through the old town of Waiuta, and into the singletrack. This was one of the highlights of the route - beech forest, technical riding, native birds, and all in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.
Maybe a couple of hours in, we reached Big River, and were suitably unimpressed by the size of the river. We'd just ridden along the Grey for an hour, this one was pretty shite in comparison if I'm honest.
River girth notwithstanding, we carried on our mainly downhill ride to Reefton, with only a puncture for Stephen slowing us. I waited with him, and we were back in business in short order. I remember a trip to the four square in Reefton, but not much else. I know we left hastily, as my first order of business as we began the ascent to Rahu Saddle was to get changed.
Without stopping or even slowing, I somehow managed the following procedure:
- Remove backpack
- Remove helmet
- Remove riding top (zipped)
- Slide bib shorts off shoulders
- Remove under shirt
- Replace bib shoulder straps
- Replace riding top
- Fit helmet
- Affix backpack
This probably only took a couple of minutes, but such was the level of traffic I had no qualms of doing so while riding up a gentle gradient, no hands, for the duration. Lovely!
We worked up quite a sweat in cresting this puppy, did old mate Stephen and I. On dropping down to Springs Junction, we made a quick stop at the very dodgy looking store, eventually settling on a scoop of hot chips. These would see us to Murchison, no worries.
David K on the other single had rejoined us, and we were three once more, for the final dig of the day. The quiet farm roads along towards Maruia were fantastic, then the turn off to ascend Maruia Saddle even better. By this stage the sun was setting, and we set about making our way safely to Murch, some 2 hours away. Once crested, we hit the lovely descent with aplomb, then after crossing the Matukituki River, cursed the SHIT out of the road were were on, as it seemed to go on forever. Eventually, the bright lights of Murchison glinted in the distance, and the pressure was off. We arrived just after 2100, with just enough daylight to navigate safely.
My body was feeling OK - my legs had that familiar wooden feeling, my arse was sore, and most surprisingly, my neck and shoulders were really sore from the constant static position of riding a bike for 12+ hours a day.
I didn't know at the time, this was to be my last night on the course. We followed the routine of filling bottles and camelbacks, refrigerating them, and getting our shite ready for an early departure.
This time we meant it.
I began my day with the goal of reaching Nelson, where a camp ground booking awaited me. The day was frigid, as it can be down South - we were all wearing as much as we had, and struggling to keep the pedals turning. We rode past Nathan, who we'd seen in Arthur's Pass - he was just getting going, but was wearing a puffer jacket, pants, gloves, a beanie - all sorts of wonderfully warm looking gear. I'm not sure if any of our trio whimpered as we went past, but we all did inside, out of jealousy!
The climb to up the Braeburn Track was lovely - great surface, lovely gradient, and it was a nice way to warm up for the morning. One thing you get used to with these sorts of rides, is rarely being in the right clothing - it's either too much, or not enough. Going from a frosty morning, to climbing for half an hour at a solid pace, I got the worst of both worlds. After cresting, we made the commensurate wardrobe adjustments, and set about our next obstacle/challenge - the Porika Track.
This was much revered, and almost feared by riders, given the reputation it carried. As with any challenge, I thought I could do better, and started the lower switchbacks with determination. As each stretch emerged in front of me, the stakes got higher - I'd made it a third, a half, then two thirds - by that stage, I'd had to put a foot down once, when my rear tyre slipped on a rock due my shitty line choice up a particularly steep, treacherous section. I was pretty determined to make it to the top without stopping again, and thankfully from about 3/4 of the way up the climb eases, and breaks into a series of short, sharp climbs punctuated by easy mellow sections. I waited at the top for my riding buddies again, and once we'd all had a bit of a gasbag, we headed down of the hill, towards St Arnaud.
In St Arnaud, something funny must've happened. I was already feeling pretty decent that morning - probably saying goodbye to that cold/cough for good, I think - but it was either the quad shot long black, or the massive chunk of Carrot Cake I had, which really set the day up for me.
As we rolled out, and up the short climb towards Tophouse, I was feeling pretty antsy. I started playing music on my old Samsung S3 Mini - Ambitionz az a ridah, by Tupac, I'm pretty sure - and kinda acting like a bit of a dingus. Stephen and David were having none of my excellent banter, and I slid off the front, to ride at my own pace for a while. I got into my own little world, and when I paused to look over my should atop Kerr Hill, I noted their distance.
That exact moment, was the first time I backed myself to ride hard, and ride long. My first day was a bluff - everyone was fresh, I had a bed for the night already booked, all I had to do was get there. The second day I got lost, the third I was done by 1830. Today, I was going to go long, and go to the end.
It was a melancholy descent off Kerr Hill - my riding buddies were not to be seen again, which was a real shame - we'd had some fantastic laughs, and pulled each other through some shitty, dark times out there over the previous four days or so. However, for the first time, I was able to hit my stride, stretch the legs, and see what I was capable of doing, which was really exhilarating.
I was having an absolute blast, stripping off metres of elevation and kilometres of tarmac between me and Nelson. I steamed through the small rural settlements en route to Wakefield, at which point the course took to the local cycle paths to arrive in Nelson itself. Once in Nelson, I grabbed some food and drink from the New World, and took stock - it was about 1600 in the afternoon, and daylight was mine until about 2100, after which I wasn't sure. I had a small rear light, for safety - but hadn't planned on riding at night at all, so wasn't packing a front light.
After a nice, tough climb, I reached the saddle - it's a solid hour or so of climbing, not really a lot of easy stuff in it - and saw a lone figure, hunched over a mountain bike. I didn't really know at the time, but that man who was looking pretty knackered at the top of this massive climb was a bloody top bloke, in Scott Emmens. I've since had occasions to catch up with Mr. Emmens and shoot the shit, and think he's one of the most lovely, vivacious people around.
After a very brief 'hullo', I shot down the other side of the Maungatapu, towards the Marlborough Sounds. I reached Pelorous in good time, and stopped to use their toilet - my last Brevet poo.
I was still feeling great, and amped up by my decision to make a break for home, so the miles from Pelorous to Havelock, then Picton simply melted away. It helped I had the sun setting behind me as I smoked along Queen Charlotte Drive, I think - absolutely amazing riding conditions, environmentally, emotionally, and physically.
I had a bit of a dilemma on reaching Picton. It was getting dark, and it was getting cold. I was still feeling OK, and was committed to continuing one - there was just one issue. Lights. Or lack of.
I hadn't planned on riding at night at all - I'd thought it was a good way of preventing myself from rushing through any parts under cover of darkness, and missing the scenery, so I'd deliberately not packed a front light. Dick!
I bought a small bottle of coke and a packet of peanut M&Ms at the Mobil station on the main road in Picton, donned my arm and knee warmers, and set off. The first hill out of Waikawa bay was the biggest, about a 30 minute climb for me at this stage. Under the large pine trees, I couldn't see much, but at 8kmh you don't really need to, either.
Once I broke out of the trees at the top, over looking Port Underwood, the full moon was my saviour. I could see the road absolutely fine, including the gravel surface and any potholes to navigate around. I headed down the descent gingerly, thinking I needed to remain safe out here - I was on my own now, and I didn't think too many folks frequented Port Underwood Road at this time on a Wednesday night.
My tactic of using the moonlight as my night light was great - until the road made a turn as I descended into Robin Hood Bay, and was suddenly in the shadow of the hill I had descended. Pitch black. I slowed to a crawl, bumping my way down the corrugations, hoping I was still on the straight and narrow.
At this point, I was essentially riding by braille.
This pattern continued, twice more, as the hill obscured my light. The final descent, on tarmac this time down to Rarangi, was emotional - I knew the tarmac heralded the end of my day, my ride, my first Brevet experience. While I wasn't out of the woods just yet, I had a bunch of flat, straight farm roads to negotiate to get back to Blenheim. It provided plenty of time to reflect, to take stock, and to miss my bed back at home. I was torn, between wanting to complete this massive challenge, and not wanting the challenges to finish. I felt like I'd only just risen to the challenge on this last day, and it was about to be over for me.
I made the left, then the right, then the left, and I was back on the main road in Blenheim. A jink to the right, another left, and I could see Seymour Square. I rolled in, standing on the pedals to give my arse a rest, and coasted to a halt beside a park bench looking back at the clock tower.
I dumped my bike on the ground, and slumped on to the seat. Pulling the packet of M&Ms out of my bag, I tried my best to take it all in - except there was nothing. Nothing to take in.
There were no people, no phone calls or texts, no celebrations - just me, my M&Ms, and a drunk bloke staggering home a street over. I'd already had my celebrations - the moments I'd had out on the course, where I'd been struggling and come out the other side, or the times I'd felt elated and on top of the world after conquering a climb, or making a milestone - those were the celebrations. I had them every single day, at the most unexpected times.
I'd stashed my gear back at my Aunt's place a few streets over - I headed back there, a bit of a lost soul - where to now? I'd finished, but was far from home, and it was 0300 in Blenheim. On arriving back, I deliberated for all of 5 minutes - should I shower, and go to bed now and catch a midday ferry back to Wellington, or should I just grab my gear, and head for the terminal an hour and a half away (it was only an hour on the way to Blenheim - that was 5 long days ago!) and jump on the first boat home?
I chose the latter, and made a quick change before leaving a note, and heading out the door. Leaving Blenheim at about 0330, arriving in Picton at about 0500, I was looking forward to resting in the nice warm Interislander terminal. It wasn't to be - it wasn't open until 0630! I spent the next hour and a half on the park bench out the front of the terminal, absolutely freezing, but too tired to do anything about it. I was drifting between sleep and hypothermia, but pretty OK with the whole situation. Eventually, the doors opened, my ticket was booked, and I was on my way back home to round out a sublime few days in the back blocks of our beautiful country.
I got home, and promptly did my washing, ate some food, etc etc. Pretty normal stuff I had some war wounds, mainly the tendonitis in both my achilles which meant they creaked every time I moved - a little disconcerting at first, but you get used to it with a little help from Voltaren.
I arrived home on the Thursday afternoon, spent a day doing as little as possible, then went for a short ride on Saturday afternoon to see what the legs were up to.
The following day, I rolled out for the Makara Peak Rally - and a race to take in as many tracks as possible in 2 hours. I won that, in spite of having only just finished a 1,100km ride a couple of days earlier.
In the weeks to follow, I rode the Coppermine Epic (6th place, I think?) on a Saturday, then the Mt Victoria round of the NZ North Island Cup the following day as a back to back training block for the race that never was - the Karapoti Classic and Perverse Reverse. My whole season - even the Kiwi Brevet - had been structured to give me the endurance and stamina to set a new record for the Classic/Reverse double, but this was all scuppered by terrible weather on race day, and the eventual cancellation of the Perverse Reverse.
The week of the first KB, I'd worked out I'd made a big mistake. I was following the blue dots with eager anticipation and excitement, wishing I was out there among them. I vowed to make the start line of the next edition, should there be one.
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I originally penned this passage the day I arrived home from my first Brevet. Only my second proper multi-day event, having completed the Tawhio o Whanganui the summer of 2011/12 with my superb old buddy, the esteemed (academic) Dr. Randal.
I'd done all the normal stuff before the Brevet, including some nice meaty long rides. I don't remember them exactly, but I know I'd done sessions like 4 times up Turoa and what I called the Triple Tip Track Treat (which included three ascents of a shitty 4wd track I used to love). I'd cobbled some gear together, but it was mainly tramping stuff - I had dry breakfasts made up and ready to go - just add milk. I had water purification means, and various other 'back country' equipment. I know now, that's about as useful as a cock flavoured lollipop on a Brevet.
I ferried down to Picton with my great m9 Stephen, who was rolling a lovely steel hardtail, carbon forked Single Speed - truly one of the hard men of the starters. We downed a few sneaky beers on the ferry, before cruising the 30km or so to Blenheim, to meet up with a gaggle at the Renaissance Brewery on the outskirts of town. It was a great vibe there that evening, with all manner of SPD equipped sandals, Beards of varying lengths (from Kurt Cobain, right through to ZZ Top), and of course the constant discussion around sleeping gear, puffer jackets, saddles, and every Brevet riders favourite topic - tyres. The hours were whittled away by our relatively banal musings, until some wise person decided it was time to split - we had a bike to ride in the morning, after all.
Somewhere either en route, or actually in Blenheim, I had a bit of a cough/flu arrive with me. It was started mainly as a bit of a head cold, but morphed into one of those hoarse voice, dry throat, slight headache but she'll be right type things by the time we all congregated like a bunch of hi-vis vagrants in Seymour Square for our 0900 getaway.
I was pretty nervous, and quite shy at the time - the traits of a former introvert, I guess. I stayed away from the photos, and kept to myself as I awaited the chance to ride - this was a huge challenge for all of us, and for me it was almost all new terrain. I don't know if I was more nervous or excited.
Day 1 - Blenheim to Hanmer
The clock tolled 0900 (or more correctly, it tolled 9 times) and we departed Seymour Square mainly in the right direction. The first part of the route was 'neutralised' which meant we couldn't ride like dicks.
A bit of benign river trail later, and we were spat out near the foot of Taylor Pass. I had no idea what Taylor Pass was, except it probably went up a hill - exactly my sort of riding. In fact, one of the few things I knew about the first day for sure, was Ward Pass - some 130km in - was at about 1100m, so we would be riding up hill in some general trend for some hours to come.
As soon as we were given the OK, about half a dozen cranked it up, and steamed off the front of the otherwise sensible group of ~100 riders. As I have an aversion to common sense, and a seriously insatiable competitive streak, I was one of the half dozen. I remember senõr Lindup, along with the seriously fit Olly Whalley among the front group. I'd been a mid-pack XC racer for a few seasons by this point so wasn't averse to putting the hurt on at all. Actually, I loved that shit.
Anyway, cresting Taylor Pass, I find myself all alone, with nobody to chat to or keep me a) sane, b) on the right track. For the first time of many, I consulted my cue sheets - I'd taken the liberty of laminating each day of cues using the stationery supplies at work. Thanks Fronde.
After some time, lots of dust, and more corrugations, I pulled off the trail at the start of the Molesworth Station. I'd packed lunch from home, and needed to refuel a bit. Besides, I was actually beginning to wonder if I'd gone the wrong way by this point - although my cues were right on, I hadn't seen anyone for a few hours. Olly came through, said a quick howdy, and blasted off into the sunset. I wasn't to see him again (nor was anyone else until he got back to Blenheim 3 days and some change later!)
Olly's ride in this Brevet was actually a bit of a dangling carrot for me in the 2014 edition. I knew if someone else could ride it in less than 4 days, I could too. His dedication to making his milestones in such a no-nonsense manner was inspirational for me.
I didn't know it at the time, but having Olly shake the pace up so much from day 1 really set the tone for my 2014 lap of the same course, in the opposite direction. I've already written about that one :-)
I carried on, and having crested Ward Pass, found myself rolling along this thoroughly shitty, dry, straight, vapid stretch of gravel aptly named Isolated Flat. I just stopped pedalling at one point, and came to a slow halt, almost forgetting to put a foot out to steady myself. I sat in what is probably the only small stream along this stretch, trying to cool down, and find something interesting about the place.
 |
| It's a seriously fucking boring place |
I had a bit of a rest, the kicked on - by now, there was a bit of a headwind getting up, so I was pleased to (eventually) see Acheron Homestead, which heralded one more milestone closer to my destination for the night. Some folks weren't sure if they'd make it through the Molesworth prior to the curfew of 7pm, but I was out the other side before then, thankfully. From this point, my mind wandered only twice - seeing a crashed car off the side of the road near the top of Jollie's Pass, and wondering what I'd have to drink once I reached Hanmer as I bombed down aforementioned pass.
I got there about 20:45, quarter of an hour or so before the local 4 Square shut. This was my first experience of food anxiety, in that I wasn't sure anything would be open on my arrival. The other great anxiety for any brevet rider is accommodation anxiety - that is, being user of whether they have anywhere to stay that night.
I'd booked a hotel room, and after procuring some food, made my way there for a shower and a feed. By about 2115 my buddy Stephen had rolled in on the single speed, and we hung out for the night.
I was up about three times between 2200 and 0600 with coughing fits, a bit of a fever (potentially more to do with heat/dehydration than sickness, in retrospect) and general nerves.
Day 2 - Hanmer to Springfield
We were up fairly early - although somehow I was the last person ready. In 2020, I now know this is just me, I'm always last to leave the house and almost always late to things.
We rolled out into the drizzle today, sit bones complaining and leg muscles groaning as we made our way out of Hanmer on SH5A, onto SH5 towards the longest straight in NZ (passing through Culverdon). We were joined by David Kleinjan, who was also on a single speed. At first I was a little unsure about this, as we were now hamstrung to a certain pace - but after a short while, I was quite happy continuing at a conversational pace, knowing I wasn't out to set any records, and that having company would be crucial to maintaining ones marbles.
We stopped in Hurunui at a pub (I think sent to the knackers by the more recent Kaikoura Earthquake) to stock up on the only thing they had aside from booze - Cookie Times. These became a bit of a staple for the Brevet, along with Chocolate milk and Ginger Beer. We negotiated MacDonald Downs without any issues, and emerged into the Lees Valley for the long drag into the Southerly towards the Wharfedale Track. This was to be the first bit of proper Mountain Biking on the course, so I was pretty amped to get there.
Too amped, as it turns out. While Stephen and I were gasbagging, we managed to miss the turn off to the Wharfedale Track - see, we weren't looking for a sign which said "Townshend Track" at all, particularly not underneath a huge Macrocarpa in a large paddock of overgrown grass. Anyway, everyone else managed to make that turn except us, so it's clearly our fault...
We rode about an hour up and down the road following the gorge, before working to we'd gone waaaay too far to be where we thought we should be. We backtracked, and eventually found our way. I was training hard for Karapoti at the same time as this ride, so relished any opportunity to tackle a steep, loose climb. There were a few small pinches along this track, so I managed to get good training out of it if nothing else. The Wharfedale itself was pretty unremarkable in this direction - lots of portaging and clambering on the way up, and the descent was relatively shite. Overall, I'd give it a 4/10, would not bang again.
It was misty at the top, drizzled on the way down, and by the time we reached the domain at the bottom, it was raining. By this stage, we were four - Stephen and me, along with David K on the other single speed, and one other. We continued as far as Springfield, where the local pub had Portacoms set up as units out the back.
We ordered fish and chips, and a beer I think, before hitting the shower and heading to bed. I was up and standing outside in the pouring rain at 0300, trying to combat my fever. Eventually I cooled down, and went back to bed, only to shiver the rest of the night.
This is still probably my most forgettable Brevet day to date - the countryside was pretty drab due to the weather, the riding was passable at best, my body felt like shit, I got lost, and my sleeping arrangements were terrible.
Day 3 - Springfield to Blackball
I was the last to leave the pub. The guys had made quick work of getting ready, so by the time I was putting my feet on the ground for the first time, they were out the door, headed for Porters Pass. The terrible sleep and general lethargy meant I wasn't in any hurry to get away, so I eventually got my shit together and set off after whomever was in front of me. I caught them all up on the climb up Porters Pass, in about 15 or 20 metres visibility - it was quite eerie, particularly as I had no idea how high up we would go on this climb.
Once I reached the crest, I didn't have to wait long for Stephen to join me - we donned jackets and gloves, and bombed down the other side of the pass, into the interior of the mighty Souther Alps. It was still drizzling, but not nearly as badly now - we had good visibility and the weather was easing. Sure enough, by the time we reached Flock Hill, the drizzle had abated altogether, and the clouds even threatened to part. Before we reached the Bealey Bridge, the sun was out, the wind was gone, and we'd make it somewhat closer to both our destination for the night, and cloud nine.
We had a funny moment when Stephen was posing in the middle of the Bealey Bridge - a long, one lane number - and I was taking the photos. Out of the corner of his eye, he must've seen something moving. Thankfully, he took note, as about 3 seconds later a Holden Commodore came roaring past, bemused expressions included.
Arthur's Pass was absolutely lovely - we bumped into Nathan Mawkes there, who had made great time that morning as a bit more of a veteran of these events. He is much more organised, and that shows in how quickly he gets from A to B. We stood guard over the bikes, as the local Kea population were pretty keen on our grips, saddles, and tyres.
I'd driven this section a few years prior, and knew the Otira Gorge pretty well - great place to stop for a photo or two, I told my buddies. After bombing down the viaduct, there's a great little rest area off to the left, affording the most spectacular views of the lower parts of the gorge, and the avalanche-proof tunnel over the road. Well, I pulled off into the rest area, and circled around to wave the others off, too. Two of them made it in, no worries - but Stephen, using these wonderful lightweight brake rotors front and rear, didn't quite get there the first attempt. I distinctly remember him scrabbling past the turn off, with quite a head of steam up, both brake levers in at the handlebars with full force, and both feet dragging along the road, Fred Flintstone style, as he first looked to make the turn, then gave up all hope in just trying not to wear the armco barrier on the side of the road. He arrived with us a few moments later.
With disaster averted, we made our way to Jaksons, for the turn off around Lake Brunner. After only a few KM, the road turned into this magical hard packed clay, which felt faster than brand new tarmac under the tyres. As I had the luxury of gears, I made damn good use of them, and absolutely smoked that section of the course - for the first time in almost three days, I felt amazing, and my legs couldn't pedal hard enough. Eventually, I'd had my fill, and cruised along, waiting for some company. I'd caught Nathan again, and when the single speeds caught me, we all rolled towards the Grey River together, and made the left turn up to Blackball for a surprisingly early finish - we were there around 1830, plenty of time for laundry, showers, dinner, drinks, and shenanigans.
Quite a crew assembled here - of all places - that night, and we sat outside sampling the food (I had a venison steak, mashed potatoes and some greens) and local beers from the Monteiths Brewery just down the road in Greymouth.
I still remember this day and night very fondly - from the drizzly, cold start, to the most glorious day inside the Souther Alps, to the absolute magic of the surface along the side of Lake Brunner, and the fantastic food and company at the Blackball Hilton
Day 4 - Blackball to Murchison
This day proved to be the most fun of all - it had beautiful rolling tarmac, a fantastic long climb, the best gravel climb, single track, double track, and a nice long descent to finish.
Having passed the sombre Pike River memorial site, we stopped briefly at the Ikamatua store - we saw the forlorn figure of Thomas Lindup there (not sure if anyone calls him Thomas these days, so Duppy shall suffice). Duppy regaled us with a take of a pretty rough day or two - wrong turns, no turns, punctures, sleeping rough, running out of food - he'd had a bugger of a time.
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| David and Stephen along Taylorville Road, near Ikamatua |
We cruised up past the old Blackwater School, through the old town of Waiuta, and into the singletrack. This was one of the highlights of the route - beech forest, technical riding, native birds, and all in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.
Maybe a couple of hours in, we reached Big River, and were suitably unimpressed by the size of the river. We'd just ridden along the Grey for an hour, this one was pretty shite in comparison if I'm honest.
River girth notwithstanding, we carried on our mainly downhill ride to Reefton, with only a puncture for Stephen slowing us. I waited with him, and we were back in business in short order. I remember a trip to the four square in Reefton, but not much else. I know we left hastily, as my first order of business as we began the ascent to Rahu Saddle was to get changed.
Without stopping or even slowing, I somehow managed the following procedure:
- Remove backpack
- Remove helmet
- Remove riding top (zipped)
- Slide bib shorts off shoulders
- Remove under shirt
- Replace bib shoulder straps
- Replace riding top
- Fit helmet
- Affix backpack
This probably only took a couple of minutes, but such was the level of traffic I had no qualms of doing so while riding up a gentle gradient, no hands, for the duration. Lovely!
We worked up quite a sweat in cresting this puppy, did old mate Stephen and I. On dropping down to Springs Junction, we made a quick stop at the very dodgy looking store, eventually settling on a scoop of hot chips. These would see us to Murchison, no worries.
David K on the other single had rejoined us, and we were three once more, for the final dig of the day. The quiet farm roads along towards Maruia were fantastic, then the turn off to ascend Maruia Saddle even better. By this stage the sun was setting, and we set about making our way safely to Murch, some 2 hours away. Once crested, we hit the lovely descent with aplomb, then after crossing the Matukituki River, cursed the SHIT out of the road were were on, as it seemed to go on forever. Eventually, the bright lights of Murchison glinted in the distance, and the pressure was off. We arrived just after 2100, with just enough daylight to navigate safely.
My body was feeling OK - my legs had that familiar wooden feeling, my arse was sore, and most surprisingly, my neck and shoulders were really sore from the constant static position of riding a bike for 12+ hours a day.
I didn't know at the time, this was to be my last night on the course. We followed the routine of filling bottles and camelbacks, refrigerating them, and getting our shite ready for an early departure.
This time we meant it.
Day 4 - Murchison to Blenheim
I began my day with the goal of reaching Nelson, where a camp ground booking awaited me. The day was frigid, as it can be down South - we were all wearing as much as we had, and struggling to keep the pedals turning. We rode past Nathan, who we'd seen in Arthur's Pass - he was just getting going, but was wearing a puffer jacket, pants, gloves, a beanie - all sorts of wonderfully warm looking gear. I'm not sure if any of our trio whimpered as we went past, but we all did inside, out of jealousy!
Sitting here in 2020, I can say each of my three Brevets (two of the Kiwi, one of the Great Southern) have all included an absolutely freezing start to my final day on course - and each time, I'm better prepared, thankfully!
The climb to up the Braeburn Track was lovely - great surface, lovely gradient, and it was a nice way to warm up for the morning. One thing you get used to with these sorts of rides, is rarely being in the right clothing - it's either too much, or not enough. Going from a frosty morning, to climbing for half an hour at a solid pace, I got the worst of both worlds. After cresting, we made the commensurate wardrobe adjustments, and set about our next obstacle/challenge - the Porika Track.
This was much revered, and almost feared by riders, given the reputation it carried. As with any challenge, I thought I could do better, and started the lower switchbacks with determination. As each stretch emerged in front of me, the stakes got higher - I'd made it a third, a half, then two thirds - by that stage, I'd had to put a foot down once, when my rear tyre slipped on a rock due my shitty line choice up a particularly steep, treacherous section. I was pretty determined to make it to the top without stopping again, and thankfully from about 3/4 of the way up the climb eases, and breaks into a series of short, sharp climbs punctuated by easy mellow sections. I waited at the top for my riding buddies again, and once we'd all had a bit of a gasbag, we headed down of the hill, towards St Arnaud.
In St Arnaud, something funny must've happened. I was already feeling pretty decent that morning - probably saying goodbye to that cold/cough for good, I think - but it was either the quad shot long black, or the massive chunk of Carrot Cake I had, which really set the day up for me.
As we rolled out, and up the short climb towards Tophouse, I was feeling pretty antsy. I started playing music on my old Samsung S3 Mini - Ambitionz az a ridah, by Tupac, I'm pretty sure - and kinda acting like a bit of a dingus. Stephen and David were having none of my excellent banter, and I slid off the front, to ride at my own pace for a while. I got into my own little world, and when I paused to look over my should atop Kerr Hill, I noted their distance.
That exact moment, was the first time I backed myself to ride hard, and ride long. My first day was a bluff - everyone was fresh, I had a bed for the night already booked, all I had to do was get there. The second day I got lost, the third I was done by 1830. Today, I was going to go long, and go to the end.
It was a melancholy descent off Kerr Hill - my riding buddies were not to be seen again, which was a real shame - we'd had some fantastic laughs, and pulled each other through some shitty, dark times out there over the previous four days or so. However, for the first time, I was able to hit my stride, stretch the legs, and see what I was capable of doing, which was really exhilarating.
I was having an absolute blast, stripping off metres of elevation and kilometres of tarmac between me and Nelson. I steamed through the small rural settlements en route to Wakefield, at which point the course took to the local cycle paths to arrive in Nelson itself. Once in Nelson, I grabbed some food and drink from the New World, and took stock - it was about 1600 in the afternoon, and daylight was mine until about 2100, after which I wasn't sure. I had a small rear light, for safety - but hadn't planned on riding at night at all, so wasn't packing a front light.
Without any singletrack, any imminent danger, or anyone but myself around - this was the most exhilarating moment of my entire Brevet. The moment I committed to finishing without stopping. I wasn't sure I could. I'd never ridden some parts to come. Nevertheless, I was absolutely foaming to do it.I grabbed a few essentials from the Supermarket, and just carried on through Nelson. There wasn't much to see, so after twenty minutes or so I'd left the safety of the City, and was headed up past the Maitai Dam, to the Maungatapu Track.
In the months before the Brevet, I'd been keen to reccy as much of the course as possible - with very limited means, the only part I actually knew was this section. I'd taken a ferry to Picton, rode out along the Wairau, up over the Whakamarina Track, then over the Maingatapu to the Brook Valley - all in a day - the Thursday before the NZ National Champs.I knew parts of the Maungatapu weren't really all that rideable, so was happy enough to do a bit of walking - also, it eased the burden on the bum, which by day 4 was beginning to be a real pain in the arse.
After a nice, tough climb, I reached the saddle - it's a solid hour or so of climbing, not really a lot of easy stuff in it - and saw a lone figure, hunched over a mountain bike. I didn't really know at the time, but that man who was looking pretty knackered at the top of this massive climb was a bloody top bloke, in Scott Emmens. I've since had occasions to catch up with Mr. Emmens and shoot the shit, and think he's one of the most lovely, vivacious people around.
After a very brief 'hullo', I shot down the other side of the Maungatapu, towards the Marlborough Sounds. I reached Pelorous in good time, and stopped to use their toilet - my last Brevet poo.
I was still feeling great, and amped up by my decision to make a break for home, so the miles from Pelorous to Havelock, then Picton simply melted away. It helped I had the sun setting behind me as I smoked along Queen Charlotte Drive, I think - absolutely amazing riding conditions, environmentally, emotionally, and physically.
I had a bit of a dilemma on reaching Picton. It was getting dark, and it was getting cold. I was still feeling OK, and was committed to continuing one - there was just one issue. Lights. Or lack of.
I hadn't planned on riding at night at all - I'd thought it was a good way of preventing myself from rushing through any parts under cover of darkness, and missing the scenery, so I'd deliberately not packed a front light. Dick!
I bought a small bottle of coke and a packet of peanut M&Ms at the Mobil station on the main road in Picton, donned my arm and knee warmers, and set off. The first hill out of Waikawa bay was the biggest, about a 30 minute climb for me at this stage. Under the large pine trees, I couldn't see much, but at 8kmh you don't really need to, either.
Once I broke out of the trees at the top, over looking Port Underwood, the full moon was my saviour. I could see the road absolutely fine, including the gravel surface and any potholes to navigate around. I headed down the descent gingerly, thinking I needed to remain safe out here - I was on my own now, and I didn't think too many folks frequented Port Underwood Road at this time on a Wednesday night.
My tactic of using the moonlight as my night light was great - until the road made a turn as I descended into Robin Hood Bay, and was suddenly in the shadow of the hill I had descended. Pitch black. I slowed to a crawl, bumping my way down the corrugations, hoping I was still on the straight and narrow.
At this point, I was essentially riding by braille.
This pattern continued, twice more, as the hill obscured my light. The final descent, on tarmac this time down to Rarangi, was emotional - I knew the tarmac heralded the end of my day, my ride, my first Brevet experience. While I wasn't out of the woods just yet, I had a bunch of flat, straight farm roads to negotiate to get back to Blenheim. It provided plenty of time to reflect, to take stock, and to miss my bed back at home. I was torn, between wanting to complete this massive challenge, and not wanting the challenges to finish. I felt like I'd only just risen to the challenge on this last day, and it was about to be over for me.
I made the left, then the right, then the left, and I was back on the main road in Blenheim. A jink to the right, another left, and I could see Seymour Square. I rolled in, standing on the pedals to give my arse a rest, and coasted to a halt beside a park bench looking back at the clock tower.
I dumped my bike on the ground, and slumped on to the seat. Pulling the packet of M&Ms out of my bag, I tried my best to take it all in - except there was nothing. Nothing to take in.
There were no people, no phone calls or texts, no celebrations - just me, my M&Ms, and a drunk bloke staggering home a street over. I'd already had my celebrations - the moments I'd had out on the course, where I'd been struggling and come out the other side, or the times I'd felt elated and on top of the world after conquering a climb, or making a milestone - those were the celebrations. I had them every single day, at the most unexpected times.
Indeed, the completion of an event like this leaves not glory, but longing. Longing for more sunshine, more tailwinds, more magical gravel, more camaraderie, more days to just ride. This theme has been a constant for me over the years, be it for single day missions, or multi day Brevets like this one and the Great Southern Brevet.
I'd stashed my gear back at my Aunt's place a few streets over - I headed back there, a bit of a lost soul - where to now? I'd finished, but was far from home, and it was 0300 in Blenheim. On arriving back, I deliberated for all of 5 minutes - should I shower, and go to bed now and catch a midday ferry back to Wellington, or should I just grab my gear, and head for the terminal an hour and a half away (it was only an hour on the way to Blenheim - that was 5 long days ago!) and jump on the first boat home?
I chose the latter, and made a quick change before leaving a note, and heading out the door. Leaving Blenheim at about 0330, arriving in Picton at about 0500, I was looking forward to resting in the nice warm Interislander terminal. It wasn't to be - it wasn't open until 0630! I spent the next hour and a half on the park bench out the front of the terminal, absolutely freezing, but too tired to do anything about it. I was drifting between sleep and hypothermia, but pretty OK with the whole situation. Eventually, the doors opened, my ticket was booked, and I was on my way back home to round out a sublime few days in the back blocks of our beautiful country.
I got home, and promptly did my washing, ate some food, etc etc. Pretty normal stuff I had some war wounds, mainly the tendonitis in both my achilles which meant they creaked every time I moved - a little disconcerting at first, but you get used to it with a little help from Voltaren.
I wrote about this ride that evening, and the following day - but deleted the whole lot a few years later, when I was battling with really shitty self esteem. I figured nobody would want to read about this, so I deleted the whole lot - the words, the photos I took, everything. I regret that now, but at the time it somehow made me feel better.
I arrived home on the Thursday afternoon, spent a day doing as little as possible, then went for a short ride on Saturday afternoon to see what the legs were up to.
The following day, I rolled out for the Makara Peak Rally - and a race to take in as many tracks as possible in 2 hours. I won that, in spite of having only just finished a 1,100km ride a couple of days earlier.
In the weeks to follow, I rode the Coppermine Epic (6th place, I think?) on a Saturday, then the Mt Victoria round of the NZ North Island Cup the following day as a back to back training block for the race that never was - the Karapoti Classic and Perverse Reverse. My whole season - even the Kiwi Brevet - had been structured to give me the endurance and stamina to set a new record for the Classic/Reverse double, but this was all scuppered by terrible weather on race day, and the eventual cancellation of the Perverse Reverse.
Hi Dave, great writing and great re-visit too. Thanks for sharing, I've greatly enjoyed the way you record your days on the bike!
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