Note To Future Self

Bonk is a four-letter word. Uh, I mean, to cyclists it’s one of those four-letter words. To bonk is to have your gas gauge hit the big E. There’s no other term which so perfectly represents that moment when your reasonable ride starts to go south. When your legs hurt more than they should, your stomach starts growling, the hills grow steeper with every pedal stroke.

For me, a good bonk starts when my thoughts spiral down to a single-minded focus on food. The next food stop, the next little town, all those snacks you left at home. Maybe there’s some chocolate smeared on the inside of my saddle bag. But the bonk really arrives when my mood shifts from lamentation over caloric absence to an unassailable determination to survive to see that big rock candy mountain of burritos and fried food as far as the eye can see. If only I could get home, I’ll eat everything in sight…

Thursday, I decided it was time to strap on the man pants (much to my surprise, the man pants are stretchy lycra) and face my nemesis, the Port Hills, on a road bike. Sure, I’ve ridden up the Port Hills on my mountain bike, but on a mountain bike you’re chill, dude. You can stop, commune with the sheep, take a few pictures. When you’re on your road bike, it’s all about speed and progress. Oh, and the paved routes are steeper than the mountain bike routes. And have no shoulders.

Up to this point I’ve been too chicken to ride up by myself, and too proud to join a group ride where I might suddenly, cataclysmically , and very publicly self-destruct on the climb. The situation called for direct action.

My plan was innocent enough. Climb Dyer’s Pass, then travel along Summit Road (along the spine of the Port Hills) till I’d had my fill, turn around and descend Dyer’s. After all, once I’d climbed Dyer’s how much more could there be? It would be downhill all the way home.

First, I’m happy to report I successfully ascended Dyer’s. The first kilometer or two climbs vertiginously, abruptly, and brutally through the suburb of Cashmere, before a sudden shift in character and the road levels to a not-too-challenging false flat, twisting and cruising along a peaceful wooded ridgeline. If there isn’t a car behind you, desperately trying to pass, it’s a pleasant cruise through the woods. I was happy to find light traffic.

At the top, you’re greeted by The Sign of the Kiwi, a historic stagecoach stop/tea room/tourist trap.

We’ll come back the Sign of the Kiwi later.

A quick turn to the left brought me onto Summit road, and the climbing started again, going around the knob which hosts Christchurch’s mind control tower…

(yes, that’s the road cutting across the hillside…)

Summit road is a gorgeous ride, swooping and carving around hillocks, with views of Christchurch on one side, and Lyttelton harbor on the other.

I was so taken by the views that I failed to notice that I was, on the whole, descending. There was plenty of climbing, to be sure, but for each up, the next down was a little longer.

Before I knew it, I had reached the top of Evan’s Pass

and I was a bit tired. And hungry. And out of food. And it was definitely uphill to get back.

Now, the smart answer, of course would be to just tootle down Evan’s pass to Sumner, have a nice cup of tea and figure out how to bike halfway across Christchurch on the nice, flat city streets.

But in the end stubbornness won, and I started the long, cold, windy slog back up to where I had started. After the first kilometer I was tired. By the second I was tired and ravenous. By the third I was cold and tired and sick of that @#$%#$ wind whistling in my #$#$% ears.

I might have taken a couple of extra stops to sit, ponder my plight and wait for the world to stop spinning, but eventually I made it.

I started out thinking, “Oh, I’ll just get back to the Sign of the Kiwi, ride down the hill and have lunch at home.”

Then it was “I’ll ride down the hill and buy a hot lunch near home.”

And near the end “I’m going to stop at the Sign of the Kiwi and order one of everything.”

Well, perhaps not one of everything.

(from lower right, a steak and mushroom pie, a cappuccino, one walnut slice and ketchup)

Going

going

gone!

(no, that chunk of walnut slice didn’t make it out alive)

Suddenly, without warning, the world became a much cheerier place. The sun was brighter, the birds chirpier, and the wind sang a happy song in my ears.

The descent down Dyer’s was fast and furious. Cinematic, even. I even scored the rarest of on-road privileges, a complete descent without a car coming up behind and trying to get around me.

Home sweet home. Now what’s for dinner?

Total: 3-ish hours including lunch, about 50kms.

Lesson learned: Take food when you go riding, stupid.