Auckland, Saturday 16 February – By 6:00 am a group of at least 30 cyclists had gathered in the glow cast by golden arches atop a steel pole planted at the entrance of a large empty car park that would soon begin to fill with cars steered by fat hands moist with excitement from thoughts coloured by backlit menu boards promoting hamburger and sundae deals.
In the dark of the car park entrance, rising chatter retold a story of eyes wide at 4:00 am and anticipation fed by the same chemical release that jolts small children from their beds at Christmas day dawn.
This year many backs humped small packs stuffed with civilian items, including shorts, t-shirts, jandals, and, in one instance, a selection of fine Cuban cigars in a plastic zip-lock bag. The investment in additional weight later paid handsome dividends when riders forsook salt stained lycra for clothing and smoking choices befitting a Coromandel beer garden.
By Whitford we were riding in full morning light. Sticky warmth crept into day. There wasn’t much talk, just grunted consensus that we were travelling at a decent clip. The peloton’s power-to-weight ratio was up and there has no holding back.
At Clevedon the decision was made to ride as two groups, presenting smaller targets to impatient fishermen driving at high speed to boat ramps along the seabird coast.
But what peloton can resist the urge to catch another in front and soon enough we coalesced for the last 20 km before Kaiaua.
At 9:00 am the day’s first coffee entered our bodies. The Kaiaua store hosted our second encounter with fishermen, who found favour with loaves of white bread cut to sandwich thickness. They were later blamed for contaminating a public toilet, which still festers behind hastily erected health and safety warning tape.
The next leg took us through Miranda and on to State Highway 25 at Waitakaruru and a wind-assisted run to the Aeroview Garden Centre and Café opposite the Thames aerodrome.
This year many backs humped small packs stuffed with civilian items, including shorts, t-shirts, jandals, and, in one instance, a selection of fine Cuban cigars in a plastic zip-lock bag. The investment in additional weight later paid handsome dividends when riders forsook salt stained lycra for clothing and smoking choices befitting a Coromandel beer garden.
By Whitford we were riding in full morning light. Sticky warmth crept into day. There wasn’t much talk, just grunted consensus that we were travelling at a decent clip. The peloton’s power-to-weight ratio was up and there has no holding back.
At Clevedon the decision was made to ride as two groups, presenting smaller targets to impatient fishermen driving at high speed to boat ramps along the seabird coast.
But what peloton can resist the urge to catch another in front and soon enough we coalesced for the last 20 km before Kaiaua.
At 9:00 am the day’s first coffee entered our bodies. The Kaiaua store hosted our second encounter with fishermen, who found favour with loaves of white bread cut to sandwich thickness. They were later blamed for contaminating a public toilet, which still festers behind hastily erected health and safety warning tape.
The next leg took us through Miranda and on to State Highway 25 at Waitakaruru and a wind-assisted run to the Aeroview Garden Centre and Café opposite the Thames aerodrome.
For two riders the day ended 10 kms before the café, when a large oncoming truck launched a pocket of violent air at the head of the long single file.
Instant deceleration caused wheels to overlap. Fingers grabbed at brakes. Safely distributing the sudden speed loss was impossible. Someone went down and the rider immediately behind went over the top, both riders unable to continue.
A kind surgeon in our midst diagnosed a broken metacarpal. The other rider’s condition was unclear, but the state of his bike removed all doubt about immediate riding options. Passing motorists stopped and took both riders to Thames for hospital assessment and the return journey.
The final leg, from Thames to Coromandel, took in the narrow coast rode, which Strava shows was covered at an average speed of 42 kmh.
Someone had frightened away the wind and scooped hot air into the valleys. Thoughts turned to water…was there enough in our bodies? Were the day’s nutrition choices good? A grim lunchtime assessment of GU gels stuck front of mind. "I don't like those, they taste like spoof," said Finchy. No one questioned the basis of his assessment.
Beer came in trays of 10. Cramped legs jolting out from underneath tables ambushed wait staff. A beer was kicked over. Finally, calm spread over the group and drinking followed a steady rhythm.
Diners looked on in awe.
The 10 km ride to the ferry terminal dragged riders from garden bar seats. What’s this, one more pub stop? A margarita and a jug of dark ale just the thing for the final slog and appropriate jetty arrival time.
At 6:30 pm the ferry disgorged its passengers onto down town Auckland. Sense prevailed and most riders filed away in ones and twos. A brew bar detained others. A bouncer stared balefully at bare feet, but consented when we proposed bicycles shoes. Three strangers and a long discussion. What was said, who knows, but they gave us a friendly wave.
The day’s final act was a failed bicycle dismount in front of two quizzical children.
The final leg, from Thames to Coromandel, took in the narrow coast rode, which Strava shows was covered at an average speed of 42 kmh.
A whittled down bunch disintegrated into solo riders pitted in an ugly sweat soaked battle with bikes that stubbornly refused to ascend the coastal ranges as they were told.
Sun and heat beat down, wringing water from human vessels and turning blood to gravy that swelled and pulsed under melting skin.
Sun and heat beat down, wringing water from human vessels and turning blood to gravy that swelled and pulsed under melting skin.
Someone had frightened away the wind and scooped hot air into the valleys. Thoughts turned to water…was there enough in our bodies? Were the day’s nutrition choices good? A grim lunchtime assessment of GU gels stuck front of mind. "I don't like those, they taste like spoof," said Finchy. No one questioned the basis of his assessment.
Beer came in trays of 10. Cramped legs jolting out from underneath tables ambushed wait staff. A beer was kicked over. Finally, calm spread over the group and drinking followed a steady rhythm.
Diners looked on in awe.
The 10 km ride to the ferry terminal dragged riders from garden bar seats. What’s this, one more pub stop? A margarita and a jug of dark ale just the thing for the final slog and appropriate jetty arrival time.
At 6:30 pm the ferry disgorged its passengers onto down town Auckland. Sense prevailed and most riders filed away in ones and twos. A brew bar detained others. A bouncer stared balefully at bare feet, but consented when we proposed bicycles shoes. Three strangers and a long discussion. What was said, who knows, but they gave us a friendly wave.
The day’s final act was a failed bicycle dismount in front of two quizzical children.
Through tears one child worried that the confused state of the rider might be permanent.
