This text was read by OCR from a scanned newsletter and has not been proofread yet, so expect odd characters and mistakes.
MTB 4-6 June — Andrew Whitfield
What's your experience? Are you reasonably fit?
So asked Paul, the trip leader, when I enquired about mountain biking the Queen Charlotte. On the verge of cancellation, he took a gamble and I stretched the truth; the trip was on. We arrived at the ferry terminal bolstered by Steve and Robert and two of my friends, Richard and Megan.
In retrospect, the most dangerous part of the trip was already behind us: a busy road, a large pack and a bike do not mix particularly well. The plan was to stay in Picton overnight and make an early start with a water taxi to the beginning of the Queen Charlotte at Ship's Cove (Captain Cook's favourite place in New Zealand, apparently); our large packs would be ferried to Saturday's accommodation. That much is true. However, before then, we had a quick bite to eat in the Toot ‘'n’ Whistle with Beth’s tramping group and then decided to explore the sights of Picton.
In the belief that this would take minutes, our leader departed for an early night and a chapter of Bravo Two Zero. At one o'clock in the morning, he was still reading — alone. When we eventually returned to our ‘doss-house’, Paul greeted us in a cheery manner which could not disguise his fear that that the trip was about to disintegrate in a drunken haze. Believe it or not, and you probably won't, we were relatively sober. After trying to gatecrash a private bar party, a jovial Irish man had told us to try the Irish bar down the road, which he coincidentally also owned. The smail bar was a perfect place to mix with the locals and witness some drinking tricks from a visiting rugby group. Inevitably, or so it seems in my presence, the police arrived to be greeted by cries of ‘this girl needs a frisking’ from the rugby contingent. We made our excuses and retired.
Setting out from Picton harbour on a beautiful Picton morning, we were soon pushing our bikes up muddy and densely wooded paths before finally doing some riding. So keen was our leader to ‘purn the rubber’ that after a quick photo opportunity he blazed off without his daypack and had to double back. So much for sober nights, eh? The group soon found its dynamics: I would swear at the uphill and speedway the downhills; Paul was consistent and stable; Steve of the squeaking bike liked taking photos — for which I was secretly thankful as it also gave me the excuée for a break. He also liked feeling vibrations through his hands as he had no front suspension; Robert was stealthy and quiet; Richard was Mr Stamina when he wasn't going head first over the handiebars (use the back brake, perhaps?), whilst Megan preferred to hang-back and create her own spiritual space (was she was secretly sharing girly gossip with Beth's group?).
Our first pit-stop was for a ‘world famous’ muffin at Resolution Bay Cabins. Instead, there were no muffins and the coffee was weaker than the proverbial. Next up was Ferneaux Lodge where we tried to reconstruct the famous murder mystery. Covered in mud from head to toe we finally rode into Punga Cove to rest and refit overnight. After more drinks, a drunken French group, and an excellent pasta meal, our attention turned towards the final day. This was, according to Paul, meant to be the ‘full-on’ day. Could we make it in one piece and still catch the water taxi back to Picton? Several of us had our doubts.
An early start saw us once again pushing our bikes up to the top of the ridge in what was fast becoming a pushathon. But after much sweat and fading morale, the ridge flattened out. Isn't it amazing what people take on a trip? Robert's chain snapped and several people had chain breakers handy, all because it had happened to them! After this unplanned stop and feeling the pace, a wise decision was taken to avoid a particularly nasty 10km section of the path and take the toad. The final section of the track was magnificent with the luxury of a time cushion, sunshine and gently undulating beech forests. After mowing down a few trampers, we emerged from the forest and rode out to a jetty to clean our bikes and contemplate a Sunday roast at the Toot 'n’ Whistle. Within moments of sitting on the water-taxi, I was asleep. And what about the crashes, you ask? Well, like Formula 1, everyone likes to witness an accident, particularly if they're not involved. However, it’s not everyday that you hear laughter as one is happening! After Richard got his tire stuck, the group started to pile-up behind each other. In an attempt to avoid hitting Steve, I slammed on my front brake and feeling myself going over the handlebars, I jumped off. In slow motion, I had left the track and begun stumbling down a cliff, desperately trying to grab anything I could see. Thank God I am not too heavy, as a slender branch held my weight. And what do I remember? Megan laughing at me! Apparently, some people express shock through laughter. I hope... Unfortunately, the cycling was still not over for those of us who did not have a lift waiting for us in Wellington. Poor Richard lived in Karori and wisely decided that it was time to look up an old girlfriend. If he was too tired for one thing, how come he had energy for the other, was my thought?! As we cycled into the wintry night, our dear leader took great pleasure in powering past us — in his car. There’s always a first time! Many people say the Queen Charlotte is the best mountain biking trip in New Zealand. On this account, I've no reason to doubt them. The organisation, the company and the weather were made to order.