This text was read by OCR from a scanned newsletter and has not been proofread yet, so expect odd characters and mistakes.
Ta was a distinct chill in the air as the slumbering group of would-be cyclists began to stir. Accompanying the pleasant sunrise, birds. raucously hurled abuse-at each other in-an abundance of squawks and chirps. After all it was spring. One by one bleary eyes opened.and sleepy looking bodies crawled from under the fly to inspect the view from their overnight paddock at the top end of Lake Wairarapa.
After breakfast and having faffed around with panniers we were off. Within moments Harriet, singled out by a nearby calf as “mum”, was being hotly pursued. She had ridden over a cattle grid and around a corner before noticing the panting creature alongside her. (How it made it across the cattle grid without breaking a leg remains a mystery.) Order was soon restored as the farmer appeared and carried the calf, still staring longingly at Harriet, back to its other mother.
Back on the road the sun began to burn and the sweat to pour. (This trip was in fact advertised on an “FE.” trip sheet and as such, it was felt, should not be allowed to become a mere cruise.) Forty kilometres or so down the road towards Cape Palliser we reached the village of Pirinoa. The “FE.” label was momentarily brushed aside as the local dairy found its ice cream store raided. While some sat outside the dairy relaxing Kevin felt the need to fill Karen’s rear tyre with air from the petrol station and proceeded to pump it up to 60p.s.i. Karen, on her newly inflated bicycle, started back across the road when BANG!! — something like a car backfiring, only louder, caught the attention (to put it mildly) of ————the-rest of-ts-—“well—that’s the-end-of-my-trip-“ —j—of muttered Karen. Wheeling the remains over to us it turned out, spectacularly, that the old and over pressurised wheel rim had been blown half off! Kevin seemed to be wringing his slapped wrists all of a sudden and received some none-too-happy glances from Karen. The pair of them hoped to catch a lift in a mail van back to Featherston while the rest of us, now numbering just 4, continued southwards.
Phil Kendon
By lunchtime we arrived at the Pinnacles, still not a breath of wind or a cloud in the sky, and met Roger. Having delivered two tramping groups at different -points-on-the edge of the Haurangis he was-keen tojoin us for a ride for the rest of the day. After a quick look at the Pinnacles by the more energetic members of the group we were back on the road. Before long we passed a horrendously eroded section of road — which seemed to be fighting a losing battle with the sea. By now the Kaikouras were shimmering in the afternoon haze across Cook Strait but still the sea was a flat calm. Ngawi came into view just in time, we figured, for an afternoon tea stop. There aren’t many FE. trips that stop off at 4pm for half an hour for tea drunk out of china cups and (more) ice cream. Could it be a trend that will continue? We pondered this unlikely idea while looking out over the surprising rows of bulldozers that line the beach at Ngawi, each with a boat trailer in tow. Each time a fishing boat comes in to the exposed and fairly steep beach it hurtles up onto a submerged trailer, which is then hauled up the beach by a bulldozer. The existence of the place must be due largely to this cunning piece of ingenuity of someone’s, a few years back.
In the lengthening shadows we continued our pedal along the gravel track towards Cape Palliser. The peaceful evening light was penetrated rudely by a strong fishy aroma wafting up at us from the seals below. We considered throwing a bar of soap at them but then realised we did not in fact have one between us! Further round, at the Cape, Harriet insisted on running up the steps to the lighthouse while the rest rounded the next section of headland, now on 4WD track, bound for Stonewall Creek. A fine campsite awaited us, complete with an excellent bottle of red wine and a few vague attempts at conversing in gibberish (a language devised by Roger, which helps to pass the time but is otherwise of no use whatsoever.) Having dined extremely well, sleep came easily.
Trip Reports
Sunday morning dawned cloudless again (something to do with NOT having Struan or John on the trip, probably). Roger, the pack horse, kindly offered to carry most of our gear back to the bus while the rest of us, enjoying the 4WD track, meandered around to White Rock. At this point Harriet proved unstoppable in her determination to swim in the sea whilst Ann, Grant and I opted for a paddle. A blue and virtually frostbitten body crawled, shivering from the water after a very short time. Each to their own! Turning away from the sea our route now meandered up through farmland to Tuturumuri, via one or two notable hills — the first of the trip. The big one, however, was yet to come. Grant and Harriet powered their way up this monster, while Ann and I plodded some way behind. Harriet made out that she “had an excuse”, that being that she could not manage to get into bottom gear and therefore the bike would not go any slower! A hard case.
One more short but tiresome hill later and we reached Martinborough, just in time for a reviving pot of tea from the cafe and a healthy dose of carrot cake. The tally on Grant’s speedo was 160 km and an excellent trip had been had by all. (Note — this -_.trip-has the_potential_to_be-a_hell_mission_in_strongwinds — talk to Stuart!)
Punters: Phil, Harriet, Ann, Grant, Kevin & Karen (but not for long), and Roger (who joined us for the wine).