Note To Future Self

Oh yes.

Happy Fourth Anniversary, big guy.
And welcome back.
Glad you’ve decided to rejoin the party.
Now get back to work.

This previous weekend, I rode the 2007 Harbor Ride, one of the events of the Festival of Cycling. It’s a popular event, with a proper race (the “Long Bays Classic”) and a citizen ride going over the same course.

The course itself is one of the canonical riding/training routes in the area. Lots of flat, a bit of rolling and few steep climbs. Maybe 600-700 meters of vertical, and great views the whole way.

The net result: I’m slow. I managed the 78kms in 2:40, or about 28km/hour, which puts me at 480th of the 840-ish people who finished, and 94 of 121 in my age group (men 17-34). Small consolation, but had I been in the race, I wouldn’t have been the last man (but I would have been the last woman).

Actually, I can’t say I’m too disappointed. Without any particular reasoning I was shooting for 2:30. Good to have a target for next year.

On the plus side, the weather was great, I didn’t suffer much on the climbs and I had enough energy to ride home from the ride, make some lunch and do some Christmas shopping. Hm. Maybe I could have gone a little faster.

(not me, clearly)

This is a Campagnolo Record Ultra Narrow bicycle chain:

Like all things Campagnolo, all 65 trillion moving parts were hand assembled by ascetic vegan monks in Vicenza Italy. It does a pretty good job of getting power from the cranky bit in front (that would be me) to the wheel-y bit in the back.

This is a Park CT-3 chain tool.

If not the gold-plated Bentley of chain making-and-breaking technology, it’s at least the Toyota Vitz. Gets the job done. For example, this is just the ticket to remove the chain from ones bike before flying halfway around the world for a wedding. Then reassemble said chain, ride like a maniac around the Seattle countryside, and break the chain again to come right on back home to NZed.

Sadly, when Mr Park and Mrs Campy Record meet, the chemistry is anything but magical. Unless you consider having your chain detonate into a bazillion pieces magical.

It has been impressed upon me that Campagnolo chains are not to be touched without a papal dispensation. And certainly not with my proletarian chain tools. Indeed, a conventional chain tool will shear some rather important flanges off the pins, leading to sudden and dramatic chain failure, oh, this Wednesday.

Rather, I needed to use something called a Record Ultra Narrow HD-Link Kit which contains a packet of little dehydrated silence-vowing jam-growing Italian monks to reassemble your chain for you.

Sadly, I learned this lesson while high on a ridgeline, 25 kms from home, battered by a winter wind and ready to lie down for the long sleep.

Much like this. Except I didn’t get a tasteful pink jersey at the end of my ride.

Truly, I have never been closer to taking up curling as when the cranks suddenly spun free, and I turned to see my chain laid out as roadkill on the chipseal behind me.

Lesson one: Italian design is inscruptible. Install a Shimano chain.

This is the buckle on my cycling shoes. Yes, my cycling shoes have buckles. And velcro. No, I don’t know why. They’re also from Italy.

This is also a buckle from my cycling shoes, except this one took the full force of a car bumper slamming into my foot. My foot (and the rest of me) escaped unscathed, but this buckle will, sadly, never “click-click-click” again.

This buckle was clearly not made by wine-stomping vespers-chanting monks, because it’s user-serviceable. Yep, I just trundled on down to the cycling shoppe and got a new one (see above) and fixed it meself. Cheap, too.

Lesson two: Not all Italian design is totally inscruptible. I (heart) Sidi.

So what conclusion are we draw from today’s lessons? Don’t let me work on your bikes, for one.

Postscript: How did I get home after my chain exploded? Used the even grungier, less papally approved chain tool in my saddle bag to excise the damaged links and reassemble the chain, causing further grievous harm to the chain’s self-esteem. Then gingerly pedaled home. Miss Campy Record, meet Herr Wastebin.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but the weather this week has stunk. A little rain, a little frost, a little fog. Blech.

Despite the inclemency, I girded the old mountain bike for a spin up Rapaki to Summit Road, just to clear out the lungs and check out the trails. As I ascended up the trail and into the clouds

I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. Zero visibility was a good start

and wet trails

In the end, the singletrack was too wet to ride responsibly, so I settled for spin along the road and a relatively sedate descent through Victoria park

[yes, the sign does say "Down Hill MTB Track Crosses Ahead. Pedestrians Give Way."]

When the sun did come out to play, I was only too happy to say hello.

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.

We’re well on our way to a domestic routine here at Rancho Marburg, so the excitement level is down a bit from the first month on the ground. On the plus side, the weather has been wonderful. In place of any real news, or a post about the proliferation of sliding glass doors in Chch (oh believe me, I’m saving that one for later), here’s a bike two-fer.

The skies have been clear enough to keep the trails dry, and the Port Hills have beckoned. On Monday I made my usual trek up, up, up the Rapaki track, then along, along, along the Summit road singletrack. After my previous experience with the downhill runs in the Bowenvale bike park I decided to go back, back, back to Rapaki to get back down, down, down.

I’ll just let the pics speak for themselves. Click on any of them for a larger version.

Looking south towards Lyttelton and the Banks Peninsula. This picture is actually taken at the same place as the previous one with the bike in it, just facing the other direction. Yes, it’s at the top of the Rapaki climb, I always need to stop and rest there.

Looking down in Christchurch (and sheep!)

A bit further along

Part two:

Thursday, after a two-month hiatus, I returned to riding on the road. Well, it was my mountain bike with slick tires, but it was kind of like road riding. Mostly I was doing grunt work for Anna, scouting the route from our house to her work. The one-way distance is about 20km, mostly quiet country roads with a few short busier sections.

The real highlight, though, was lunch in Lincoln with Anna at Hillyers, the local purveyors of all that is tasty and wonderful in NZ cuisine.

Anna had the lamb and kumara (sweet potato) pie. I meant to take a picture of the pie, just to give you an idea of the flaky bakey wonderfulness of a good pie, but I was too slow and instead all I got was a picture of destruction in progress:

I went for a spot of quiche, the real man’s recovery food

And for dessert, of course, a slice. In this case chocolate peppermint slice.

(In case it wasn’t obvious, the pie and slice lunch is my nomination for the quintessential Kiwi experience and national cultural treasure.)

And finally, to scare the kids, here’s a picture of your intrepid adventurer in his stupid sunglasses.

I’m scowling because that’s what you do when you’re a bad bike rider and you’ve got your big stupid sunglasses on.

Ta for now.

[For the curious, the container full of all the worldly goods we couldn't live without arrived in New Zealand last Sunday. Customs is rifling through it looking for flecks of mud left on bike tires and taxables, and we'll probably see it in, oh, a week? Hooray!]

More than a few of our faithful readers have let me know that they’re tired of the namby-pamby “oh look, we’re living in New Zealand” “we bought a car” “Anna and I are still talking to each other” posts. What they really want is near-real-time reports on my bike riding and the general awesomeness of the bike scene here in NZed. Happily, your day has arrived.

One of the key advantages to being a kept man and a house husband is that I’m finally free to squander by daylight hours in a manner of my choosing. Perfect for an aspiring lay-about and itinerant cyclist.

Since I had the foresight to bring a mountain bike, I’ve been focusing on the dirt side of the equation. Anna brought her road bike, and I have slick tires, so I can handle a little pavement, but it just doesn’t seem right to subject a mountain bike to that sort of public humiliation

The southern border of Christchurch is defined by the Port Hills, a rather imposing pile of former volcano, owned exclusively by the sheep of New Zealand, though they do seem to tolerate humans using it now and again. From Marburg world headquarters on the south side of the city it’s an easy 10 minute ride to the base of the hills.

Other than one main road up and over the hills (Dyers Pass Rd) and Summit Road along the spine, the Port Hills are almost all parklands, grassy swards and sheep paddocks. This makes them an idea urban playground because, heck, the sheep don’t mind you, and as long as you close the gate behind you, their owners don’t mind either.

The key disadvantage, naturally is that they’re the Port Hills. Before you can go down you have to go up. There are a number of well kept 4×4 tracks which ascend the hills with varying degrees of inclination (see earlier notes on Kiwi trailbuilding), mostly dirt and gravel and not particularly technical, but every ride begins with a brief reconsideration of the whether you should have had that second lamb and kumara pie last night.

Having achieved the summit, the hills are open to you thanks to Summit Road (that’s it above in the first picture) and a network of singletrack which mostly parallels the road and connects all the other good bits. The only downside, of course, is that the good bits tend to involve either very up, very down or a healthy combination of the two.

Despite that the singletrack is excellent and generally suits my fast-and-rolling preferences. The occasional rocky section provides a little interest. Thanks to the thousands of wooly lawnmowers working their way over the hills, the riding tends to be in the open, though there is some forest making a comeback. It’s been overcast (almost foggy at the top) this week, the hills could be a real scorcher in the middle of summer.

(looking down from the summit towards Christchurch — and the ocean in the distance)

The final challenge comes when its time to call it a day You can’t just follow any path back down the hill. Some trails lead to nice graveled 4×4 tracks back down to the base. Others lead to near-vertical double-black-diamond downhill racing tracks (yesterday, I saw a sign warning “Caution: 40 foot jump ahead” I didn’t investigate). With a little caution, the descent can be made safely.

It’s quite a privilege to be able to string together three-plus hour mountain bike rides out your backdoor. I suppose its more of privilege to be able to ride on a weekday.