An End Has A Start

It was gloomy and chilly for the ride out of Dunedin. We passed through the university end of town, a part of the city neither of us had found time to visit during our stay, into a strong headwind with hills ahead — all very Scottish. Eal, still weak from his few days of illness, passed on the chance to attempt the world’s steepest street, and so, without any such excuse, did I. I’m fairly sure J. C. Meyer would have something to say about its official steepness, having personally given me the tour of Pittsburgh’s “dirty dozen.”

By lunchtime the rain had arrived, forcing us into a miserably small shelter for a stop. We made light of it as always, joking about old school friends, arguing over whose dog was the daftest, and generally taking the mickey out of each other. By the time we reached Moeraki I was ready to sit in a warm pub with a stout. I pitched the tent, showered, ate — rice and soup, the usual — and was heading down to the nearest place just as Eal was arriving. He found me later, already at a table with a couple, Sal and Hugh, and we talked the night away trading stories from the road. Before the evening was out, they’d offered us a place to stay at our destination two days from now.

The steepest, officially.

…

Waking to a pitter-patter on the tent usually means more sleep is on offer, and hearing no rustling from Eal, I pulled my sleeping bag hood up and dozed a while longer. It still hadn’t let up when I woke properly. We packed up eventually and had breakfast under a small porch beside the camp kitchen — trying to wait out New Zealand rain is a fool’s game, so we got on with it and hit the road. Eal made an observation about the birds: back home they don’t much care for rain, preferring to stay dry in the trees and keep quiet after dark. New Zealand birds love it, splashing about in puddles with wet feathers, larking around long after sundown. I took some heart from the birds.

We stopped at the Moeraki Boulders, on a tip from John and Jessi back in San Francisco, catching the only dry spell of the day. From then on it poured, much to the birds’ delight, my shoes soon holding the contents of a small lake and my hands shrivelled once again. We reached Oamaru with no accommodation lined up and nowhere to camp, so it was always going to be a backpacker’s night. We found the one spare room left in town — slightly overpriced, tiny, but dry. Short of finding a tumble dryer, which we only really get the chance to use on rest days, there’s nothing you can do for cycling kit soaked on a day like this. You have to write it off, tie it into a plastic bag, and bury it at the bottom of a pannier. Heavy rain also meant no camera action — so just the one picture from today.

We took a long breakfast the next morning, working through some early job applications with one eye already on Australia. I set out a while after Eal into a strong tailwind, flat roads, and found myself properly cranking — the first forty miles gone in just over two hours. I even rode in my Converse, my bike shoes still waterlogged from the day before. I found Eal snacking by a picnic bench, and stopped to demolish some pastries I’d picked up in Oamaru.

We rode together the rest of the way to Temuka, stopping briefly in Timaru for a spot of library time. Temuka was home to Sal and Hugh, who’d offered to put us up in Hugh’s currently empty rental for the night. We picked up a couple of bottles of the Eighteenth Amendment, my favourite New Zealand brew, to thank them properly.

Why aye, mate.

My grass.

Ipod day.

Riding in my Converse.

Sal & Hugh :-)

The end was tangible now, just two more days of riding — head down, crank out, get them done. My mind had been at sixes and sevens over wanting the riding to be over. I’ve loved every single second of this trip, which is exactly why it feels uncomfortable to be wishing away these carefree days. It’s a tricky feeling to sit with, so I tried not to overthink it and simply accepted that I needed something new in my routine, beyond counting miles and turning pedals.

We took one last camp on the eve of my twenty-sixth birthday, eating in the camp kitchen as usual, joined by a few elderly Australian couples who quizzed us about the trip and our impending arrival on their shores. I turned in for a final night on my trusty airmat, and as my eyes closed I caught, in a single instant, a flash of every street, face, town, dinner, mountain and river from every day of riding behind us. We lived it.

Serious Ryan is serious.

What are you waiting for? Live it! (After you have finished reading.)

Twenty-six. I am twenty-six. Still sounds absurdly young. I rolled up the airmat and sleeping bag and packed the panniers with the kind of efficiency that only comes from months of practice. Trusty Vango tent, you’ve been wonderful, good job. Eal bought me breakfast at the cafe next to the campground, sun out, birds singing, the whole area buzzing with a big horse-racing weekend across Canterbury. Even Prince Charles was reportedly in town — sharing my birthday, of all coincidences.

With plenty of gusto I set off into the day, happy and free. Eal and I had agreed a meeting point before entering Christchurch so we could ride in together. I waited at the turn for a good hour with no sign of him, and assumed he must have taken an earlier road, so I carried on and soon reached the outskirts, where traffic picked up but, thankfully, so did the network of bike paths. Passing the Christchurch town sign on a bridge over a street named Anderson, I found myself in tears — overwhelmed by spending a birthday away from friends and family, and by the sheer weight of finishing a six-month bicycle ride. A powerful, rare kind of moment, this adventuring business, capable of catching you off guard. I felt ten feet tall all the same.

We had pedalled across Europe all the way to Lisbon, through the Ardennes, over the Alps, past vineyards and over the Pyrenees. From Boston to San Francisco, zig-zagging the Appalachians, beating the midwestern heat, hauling ourselves over the Rockies and down the Pacific coast. Pushed on through the middle-earth landscapes of New Zealand’s north and south islands, over thermal hotbeds, up glaciers and across rugged, empty country. My mind, heart and soul had grown along with every mile of it.

We spent the evening in a converted jail, now a backpacker hostel, and treated ourselves to dinner, dessert and beers to celebrate my birthday properly. Christchurch surprised us both. So much had been made in the media of the earthquake here years before, yet I’d barely heard a word of it since. Political wrangling and endless complications over rebuilding meant most of the clean-up and redevelopment had simply stalled — the entire downtown area was still sealed off behind mesh fencing, crumbling buildings and overgrown weeds giving the whole place the feel of a post-apocalyptic film set.

Bye tent.

Thanks for breakfast Eal!

Last ditch attempt to reverse the glove tan.

Me ‘n wor lad.

The next couple of days went into preparing for Australia, hopping between hostels each night as the town filled up around the horse racing and Canterbury’s public holiday weekend. Every place we stayed was wonderful, the weather held beautiful throughout, and once the bikes were boxed we set our alarms early for the flight to Brisbane. Australia, here we come.

Final trek across town to pick up a bike box. Easier than Lisbon, not as easy as SF.