Back in the Saddle!
The closest I got to see New Zealand was sitting on the runway some 18 years ago, peering out of the tiny airplane window hoping to get a glimpse of this much-talked-about land. The pissing rain was so strong I could only see a few feet ahead. I couldn’t even have claimed to have set eyes on New Zealand soil. Back then I was 22 years of age, eagerly flying around the globe at breakneck speeds on a shoestring budget, with my 7 flights in any direction for a thousand quid STA student deal. New Zealand was a refueling stopover from Santiago, Chile to Sydney. That trip was the start of an insanely addictive travel bug that will no doubt last my lifetime. I knew I had to return to NZ.
Currently, I am sitting in window seat 38L on a United Airlines Boeing 787 plane, tapping away at my Chromebook to lay the foundations for this final journey, to complete the world by bicycle, New Zealand and then Australia to England. The flight is a 29.5-hour journey via San Francisco and Los Angeles arriving in Auckland, New Zealand, 2 days later. It's a funny thought that one and a bit days on a plane will equate to a year's worth of pedaling on a bicycle! Though at 40 years of age, with most of my friends married, divorced, with teenage kids, or all of the above, I am having a mid-life crisis of the best kind! Raring to hit the road for one last great adventure before I hopefully have a few baby panther cubs of my own to put on the back of a 4-man tandem!...whilst also massively aware of the big sacrifices I made to make this final journey happen.
Rewinding a few hours, the first, and most difficult part of a journey for me is getting to the airport. I have somewhat perfected the task of taking a bike on a plane after all these years, though it's never easy! I normally box the bike at home and get a lift or public transport to the airport. This year I thought I'd try a new technique - riding my fully loaded bike to the train station and dragging an empty cardboard box to then pack the bike at the airport. I had been visiting my brother for a few days in Haarlem, a picturesque town on the edge of Amsterdam, where he lives with his wife and 3, soon to be 4 crazy boys. The train from my brother's house to Skippool airport had several changes and I figured pulling an empty box would be a hell of a lot easier than dragging the mammoth 40kg box up and down various platforms.
The donated box was for an e-bike and so enormous that it spanned from one side of the carriage to the other - blocking not only 2 doors but the entire carriageway - perfect for the busy commuter train into Amsterdam! Thankfully the easy-going cycle-friendly Dutch had a sense of humor and didn't mind squeezing down the packed train to exit at the other end of the carriage. The big box big plus was that the bike dropped into the box with 2 wheels on and a foot to spare, no need to disassemble the bike whatsoever. Nothing worse than arriving jet-lagged at a foreign airport and opening a box full of nuts and bolts!
On arriving at the airport my next challenge is always the same, making the weigh-in! Several carriers allow a bicycle in a box for free as part of your checked luggage, so I always pick an airline that does. Making the 23kg max weight allowance and avoiding a huge weight penalty, especially on a world tour, is the hard bit! So I’ll let you in on my little secret….
Put all the heavy stuff (pedals etc) in a pannier bag and bury it out of sight.
Check the bike in and wait to be sent to the “oversized items” conveyor belt.
Grab your “heavy bag”, Re-open the cardboard box (or your ski bag for that matter), and tip all the heavy bits back inside! Ps: Remember to bring some sellotape to re-seal the box. It works every time.
(The Pedaling Panther accepts no responsibility for people getting arrested at airports due to suspected terrorist activity following this advice!)
I found this technique works best when traveling with a partner - as one can hold the “heavy bag”, while the other checks in and vice versa. Though it's a little more taxing on a solo adventure. On past trips, I have asked random people if they could, “hold my bag” while I checked in, Though with a poor response rate and some peculiar looks I realised I was beginning to look like a terrorist! This approach may have worked better pre-September 2001. On this occasion, I simply dropped the bag butt-up against the check-in counter, so it couldn’t be seen by the airline worker on the other side and went to check in at a desk further down. As I chatted away with the lady checking in my bike I completely forgot about my mystery bag. Looking up ten minutes later, 3 staff members were circled around my bag making inquiries about the suspicious package, about to call security! Note to self, keep one eye on the hidden pannier bag!
All was smooth sailing as I touched down in San Francisco, transitioned through US customs, and collected the enormous box in order to reload it onto leg 2/3, San Fran - LA (a process that I find completely bonkers!) With 30 mins left before my Connecting flight and an interesting chat with a woman in the cue from Belgium, off to compete in The Iron man world championships, I made it through US immigration and dragged the box at pace through the terminal building towards the oversized loading bay. As I approached the oversized bay, the United Airlines staff advised me that, "the conveyor belt is broken, you need to take it to the check-in area further down the terminal building." Stressed, Jet-lagged, and without sleep at what was now almost 10 am UK time I was beginning to get the hump! So what do you think the cocksure United Airlines flight staff said to me?? "That box is too big, it's not coming on the plane!" TOTAL RHUBARB! I thought!
I'm not going to lie, and I'd like to say this was purely tactical, but I threw my toys out of the pram like a 6-year-old child! "That box has just come off a flipping United Airlines flight and it's going back on a Flipping (Ok, a similar word to flipping) United Airlines flight!” I snapped back in a huff, “And if not, I'm going to make you personally responsible!"
Crikey! I thought to myself, you're the same carrier as the flight the box has just come off! He still insisted that the box was too big. "How do you know it's too big, you haven't even measured it have you!? And you don't even know what the maximum size measurements are, do you!?" I retorted angrily, and somewhat unfairly to a probably overworked, underpaid airline worker. Though simultaneously thinking, what do you expect me to do if I can't take my bike, live on the streets of San Francisco, dump it at the airport, buy another 2000 quid flight when you could have quite easily taken the box - all that hassle because you can't be arsed to help me!?
"Well, I said, in that case, I'll make it flipping fit!" I ripped the gaffa tape off that had been gripping the box together and started beating the cardboard with my fist and kicking it in an attempt to condense the box. I don't think in reality the box got any smaller, it just changed shape, fell apart, and made a huge scene in the middle of the departures lounge! So much so that the man I had been arguing with came out of nowhere with a trolley and whisked it off to the plane! Lesson learned if in doubt act like a spoiled child!?
Barely making the flight after sprinting through the terminal, and less than an hour after the plane wheels had left the tarmac of San Francisco, they had touched down at LAX Los Angeles. An hour's walk through a never-ending labyrinth of terminals and dated connecting corridors brought me to the Tom Bradley International Terminal. The only slight hiccup this time was that I wasn't allowed to board the plane - without proof of a flight ticket out of New Zealand. Strange policy I thought. One that I had experienced years before whilst crossing from Canada to the US. Even if I buy a ticket I pondered, if I decide to illegally stay in the country, I just won’t get on the plane!? Anyway, I had to do a quick calculation in my head as to how long it would take to cycle across New Zealand, and booked the cheapest flight to Melbourne around that date, showed her the screenshot, and jumped on board.
A 13-hour flight later I was finally In New Zealand! Unfortunately, the Blue Bullitt wasn't! Had the United Airlines staff taught me a lesson and wheeled my bicycle into a San Fran skip and not aboard the plane I thought? I had good reason to be anxious. A friend of mine, The Viking, had waited a month for his bike to arrive in Anchorage, Alaska. I had met Viking, a 6-and-a-half foot monster, an ex semi-professional rugby player sporting a huge beard and plaited ponytail, whilst cycling across Burma years before and mentioned to him that he must, "cycle from Alaska to Argentina''! The Viking agreed, and unlike most of the population that drift through life, is currently making his way down the US coastline en route to South America as I head the other way! Check him out - Benson the Biking Viking - is his Instagram name.
Thankfully there was to be no repeat of the Vikings misfortune and 24 hours later I was about to be reunited with my 2 wheeled friend. Apparently, it had got stuck in LA and was loaded onto the next flight. Looking out of the plane window as the plane touched down on New Zealand soil, the first words that came to mind were, Jurassic Park! I passed through immigration very smoothly and grabbed a coffee. I had been awake for almost 2 days straight and needed it. How bloody expensive that coffee was! I was to be in for a shock with NZ prices, even before our brilliant new prime minister managed to nearly collapse the UK economy overnight! Leaving the airport I took a bus into Auckland and booked into a very overpriced Chinese-owned hostel. At forty years of age, I had promised myself I would not be staying in any more hostels. Though with all my savings in obliterated shares and spiraling inflation I opted to change that policy! Still unsure when my bike would arrive I decided it wise to book the 2nd night just in case. With all of Auckland's hostels fully booked for the weekend, I opted for a yoga retreat on the edge of the city. Just as I booked the accommodation the phone rang to say the Bullet had arrived. Back to the bus station I returned - and jumped on the airport shuttle to collect the bike (see pic!). The rest of the people at the NZ airways lost baggage counter had been waiting over a month for suitcases that had been found.....and lost again in some overseas airport. Luck was on my side.
I disposed of the infamous supersized box and pedaled back to the shiny skyscrapers of Auckland city centre, grabbed a boat from the docks across the harbour and pedaled again to reach the yoga retreat in Auckland's northernmost suburb, Albany, arriving at dawn. The reception was closed and my key was left in an envelope sellotaped to the door. My first taste of NZ hospitality was a room left in a shit tip by the previous guest! One of the long-term residents kindly lent me some sheets and on the plus, the night was free of charge. I went for a wander, had a refreshing dip in an old but decent unheated outdoor pool, and went to the lounge area, where I fell about laughing. I was greeted by 5 middle-aged hippies, one had her eyes closed and was dancing around the room pretending she was on a higher spiritual plane, looking more like an escapee from the looney bin. The others, wearing their Thai elephant wanker pants tried to suss me out in my sporting attire. Now, I do love free-spirited people, but these idiots were clearly on an ego trip and like an Eckhart Tolle audio book on repeat! “We only have the now” one kept saying! Say something original, get on your bicycle, and lose your beer gut I thought to myself! I’m being excessively mean here I realise, I just find anyone wearing 80’s bodybuilding wanker pants who purposely show off their hairy armpits too easy a target!
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| First night on the Road - Firth of Thames |
My route through the north island took me south to Tauranga before heading inland to Lake Taupo and then dropping down the west coast to Wellington. I had left England smugly thinking I was about to jump straight from British summertime to a sizzling New Zealand spring. Well, I did, for a day! And was then hammered by every type of weather you can imagine. Sideways rain, hail storms, driving head-on winds, and a smattering torment of sun. To top it off, I was going the wrong way! The winds in New Zealand this time of year were predominantly southerly and I was agonisingly going head-on against it. On the worst days, I was moving at 6-7mph hour after hour, cursing out loud! That was the bad news. The good thing about cycling in the crap weather was the country offered free hot baths. The number 5 road heading south from Rotorua is called the “Thermal Explorer Highway”. Nothing beats freezing your tits off in a tent at night more than jumping into a hot spring the next morning! The road was littered with them, steam rising from either side of the highway like a Jurassic Park movie. The only thing more unbelievable was that rich overseas tourists were paying top dollar to use artificially constructed spas a few miles up the road in the tourist hotels of Rotorua. More money than sense!
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| The Thermal Explorer Highway |
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| Arriving in a wet & windy Wellington to complete the North Island - ferry terminal in the background |
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| Rewarding myself with a huge hotel buffet breakfast - Wellington |
I set my alarm for 5AM and left Harry’s house in the dark for the ferry port. The ferry journey linking the 2 islands to Picton (at the top of the south Island) is said to be one of the most beautiful ferry crossings in the world. I haven’t taken every ferry in the world, though I wouldn't be surprised if it was “THE" most beautiful ferry crossing, well, second to Dover - Calais of course! The 3.5 hour ferry worked its way across the Cook Strait surrounded by lush native forest and clear waters as it entered the archipelago of islands and into the tiny port of Picton. My bicycle was stored on the lower deck, next to the train carriages. Yes, train carriages, the rail track went onto the boat. This is not a joke, like a fireman taking a hose into a lift, the train tracks actually went into the boat and dropped off the carriages. A point which may only be interesting for oddballs like me that go out of their way to visit the world's transport museums!
There were only 2 roads south from Picton, and one was closed because of a mudslide. Decision made easy I set out on the number 6 route over the mountains and along the rugged west coast. The kiwi roads were very rough, unlike the smooth surfaces of much of Europe and America, and went straight up the mountainsides (literally 20% gradient at times) instead of snaking up them like the swiss mountain roads. Throw in a strong headwind and NZ is a pretty good place for those that like torturing themselves on bicycles! The west coast was extremely remote with very little passing traffic and would follow the coast with huge waves crashing in before repetitively snaking inland for a huge climb and returning back to the Ocean.
Talking of snakes, I was about to comment about how New Zealand had none of the raw dangers of Africa and other continents I'd cycled;
Rocks thrown at me, men chasing me with spears, camping with big cats and bears, stung by stingrays, dragged into operating theatres by drunk doctors or rape attempts by one-eyed men in Mexico.....
Until I was attacked by magpies that is!! It first happened on my very first day on the north island. A cyclist approaching the other way shouted at me, "watch out for the magpie!" I laughed and gave them the thumbs up, must be some sort of friendly cockney-type rhyming slang I thought! Then, out of nowhere, a huge magpie dived down at my head like a Japanese world war 2 Kamakazee bomber!! "F OFF" I screamed, as it came within inches of my helmet. It obviously understood and it performed a dramatic U-turn into the skies, only to prepare for another attack! This must have happened on 5 separate occasions with multiple attacks each time. Cycling with my head tuned backwards at 180 degrees whilst throwing desperate haymakers into the air wasn't how I envisaged cycling New Zealand. Speaking to locals, apparently this defensive (or purely cheeky) aggressive act was pretty common. One piece of advice was to put twigs in my helmet. Twigs in my helmet!?! Wouldn't this make a bird more likely to go for my head!? I'm still trying to figure out if someone is seeing how many foreign cyclists are prepared to look like complete idiots with a John Rambo style camouflage on their head - or if this is sound advice with good scientific reasoning!
I typically did between 80 - 100 miles per day. Progress with the head on wind was severely restricted. Unlike my race from Alaska to Argentina and Cairo to Cape Town 5 years ago, where I was up against the clock. I had decided to slow things down a little! My technological ability had improved somewhat and I had now figured out how to download an audiobook. One book that I was listening to in NZ was called, “The Midlife Cyclist”. A brilliantly written book which challenges whether someone middle aged (a category I apparently now scrape into at 40) can train and race as hard as someone in their mid 20’s. I'll let you read the book, but essentially the answer is yes and No! We need more protein, occasional impact or weight training for bone density, to listen to our bodies and not to constantly try and beast ourselves! 5 years ago my daily mileages were often between 110 and 135 miles for weeks on end! Cycling 90 miles I would get up and feel great, though 100+ mile days on the bounce I figured could do more harm than good, and was also extremely hard work!
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| Camping in a wooden mountain hut I came across to avoid a heavy overnight rainstorm |
The 6 coast road took me to the Franz Josef glacier at the foot of mount cook. In need of a hot shower I checked into the glowworm hostel. Owned by the eccentric Benjamin. His parents at one point owned 17 hostels throughout New Zealand, which all started by converting the building next to their farm in to a backpackers. He was a lovely chap and a natural salesman, tempting any backpacker into his hostel with a newly installed hot tub and free vegetable soup. His real party trick was a collaboration with a friend who owned a bar in town. They had bought a huge white stretched hummer which would arrive at the hostel at 7pm and take everyone to the bar....which was 200 yards around the corner! I spend my day off doing the 5 hour hike to the glacier. Well, at least that's what I thought, the glacier had retreated up the mountain and the path terminated at a viewing area with the glacier in the horizon.
Hitting the road, the last point on the coast was a tiny town called Haast, from which point the road chucked left and headed very steeply inland, up into the mountains towards Wanaka (not Wanker, as I previously thought the place was called) and Queenstown. The latter being a mecca for the rich. A perfect playground for everything outdoors. Based on a beautiful lake surrounded by snow-capped mountains, snowboarding, bungee jumping, downhill mountain biking and heli-skiing were all moments away. The cheapest house in town was a million dollars - and with most of the land being owned by a handful of people they made sure it stayed that way! Most of the foreign workers were living out of bunk beds in hostels with the rental situation making London look like a dream!
New Zealand was one of the last countries to open from the pandemic and the tourist Industry had taken a huge hit. Recent inflation of flight prices hadn't helped matters either. I would often find myself camping in the bush, awake the next morning cold and starving and excitedly cycling towards a standalone cafe in the mountains, my mind fascinating for hours about a hot cappuccino and muffin…Then, as the cafe finally became visible on the horizon and my mouth started to dribble imagining stuffing a muffin down my neck with two hands.....…..saw the windows boarded up with a “for sale” sign outside! This happened several times. A can of cold sardines in the rain was little compensation as I refuelled my body with enough fuel to make it to the next town. Speaking of food, the price per kilo of tomatoes was 20 dollars (over a tenner!) and broccoli for 7 dollars each! One time when I bought a small salad tomato, the lady on the checkout was convinced it was a vine tomato and I was purposely disguising it! She even got the assistant to go to the veg section and check it. To be fair I have been known to do this on occasion, though I felt like I was trying to pull a scam on a rare diamond in a jewellery store! It's the first time I've sliced up the stalk of a broccoli and chucked it on my stove.
The food prices were made up for by the generosity of the people, which I can't finish this chapter without giving a few example:
1) Free bacon and egg sandwich from the lady at the pink cafe.
2)When buying an inner tube and offering to give my spare one for free (which had the wrong valve type and wouldn't fit my rim) the lady bunged my tube into the box and said, "here, just take it!" Mine was a completely different tube to the brand on the box, but I wasn't complaining. Inner tubes in New Zealand cost 17 bucks!
3) When Terry, originally from Yorkshire spotted my old touring bike leaned against the supermarket, while he was doing his groceries. He immediately came over for a chat - something I experienced everyday on my journey through NZ. Terry must have been in his 80's and still cycled to the supermarket on the touring bike made by his friend for him in 1987. When asked where I was going, my reply was "overland to England ''. His response was simple and sincere, "good man". When asked if his children cycled, he replied, "they don't like suffering like me!" and which way I should go through Australia, "through the middle". I know if Terry was half his age he would have joined me there and then. Meeting people around the world like Terry is what makes cycling the world so special.
4) On checking in to Christchurch international airport, where I currently sit in the departure lounge concluding this blog awaiting my flight to Melbourne, the check in lady could not have been more of a legend. Time and time again flying with a bike had been a pain in the ass, with airlines constantly trying to charge me extras for the bike or refuse to take it all together. As I plonked my bike on the scales and it almost doubled the max weight of 20kg, the lady said with a smile, go around the corner and unload some stuff then bring it back to me (knowing full well I was going to chuck it right back inside).
The final day on the road was a big one, Queenstown to Invercargill. Invercargill being the most southerly point in New Zealand, and the Lands End of New Zealand for anyone cycling the country, it was the natural finishing point. Many people asked me, “why Invercargill!?” From their voice tone it appeared that Invercargill was the Hull (voted Britain's shittest city!) of New Zealand with an apparently bland countryside on-route. Invercargill may not have been flashy and outspoken like Queenstown, but I preferred it. It had old buildings and a soul. That apparently bland countryside was still pretty damn nice too, the worst of what New Zealand had to offer would be the crowning jewel of most countries. As the land flattened out with fewer mountains to channel the wind I forgot how easy it was to cover big distances under more normal conditions. I wanted to see if I still had it in my engine to knock out the big rides (as I did 5 years ago) and pushed on to do the 120 miles in one day and finish with a flourish.
I arrived in Invercargill with goosebumps on my arms not wanting to stop to just beat nightfall. I checked into the only hostel in town, a beautiful wooden Victorian style building with hints of American Influence. Huge high ornate ceilings and Big Victorian fireplaces with an old American wooden veranda. An older kiwi guy staying in the hostel looked at the state of me and gave me a plate of vegetables and then the kind owner of the hostel told me to take the big room with a huge bed and charged me 30 bucks (dorm price). There is definitely something to be said for dressing like a hobo at times! It seemed a fitting end to a very beautiful and hospitable country!
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| Hostel in Invercargill |
After a couple of days of looking around the town and not enough time to cycle to Christchurch for my flight home, I jumped on the bus and thoroughly enjoyed looking out of the window and effortlessly gliding through the countryside. Arriving in Christchurch, I met an old friend from London, Mark, who had moved to New Zealand 10 years ago. We had ridden from London to Paris many years ago. I had actually seen Mark on my very first day In New Zealand. However, not as I expected. Mark is a good-looking git and as a part-time male model is the face of an outdoor shop - a big poster of him in the window caught me off guard and made me laugh out loud as I passed by on my very first day in Auckland! He’s not your average boy band type though, when not strutting his stuff he works as a welder producing huge pieces of commissioned metal artwork.
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| Road trip with Mark to a remote campsite on the beach - & a freezing cold sea swim to say farwell to New Zealand. |
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