Great Southern Brevet; Epic to the power of hardcore

Ollie in full tailwind assisted flight
Photo Dave King

Day 0.5 Tekapo to somewhere past Little Omarama Saddle

After an awesome low-key briefing which belied the truly epic nature of what lay in store, organiser Dave King escorted us on our merry way. I had an almost immediate fail with the pockets on my homemade front bag disgorging their contents at the first whiff of a bump. Only 500m in I had to turn round and retrieve my phone, cues and money. Fortunately the next couple of kilometres were a sealed road and after a bit of TT action I caught the lead bunch.

What was to follow was probably the single roughest piece of road I’ve encountered. Following a baby-head boulder strewn track for some 30km, my gear took a beating  and by the time I’d reached Haldon Arm my rear bag was dangling by a thread, just kept in check by a McGuyveresque concoction of duct tape and zip ties.

This first day was especially frustrating as surges of effort to catch a flying Ian were hamstrung by bag related calamites, and this was to take its toll by the end of the day. Stopping in Omarama for an epicly sized cheeseburger, I set about buying and installing some hose clamps in a desperate attempt to secure my gear. Missing the Ian and Mark express, I instead jumped on the Craig and Geoff bus and we headed out of town with sun setting. ‘Little’ Omarama saddle was a huge 1200m climb, and my stubborn resolve to ride it all netted nothing more than some painful cramps on the descent. While they would probably have been hilarious for a third party to witness, the body clenching spasms rendered me stationary and helpless while dismounting to cross a river, and I was left with no option but to pitch my tent right there beside the river and shelter from the approaching storm.

 

Day 1.5 Somewhere past Little Omarama Saddle to Wanaka

Stoked to have survived the night warm, dry and in the company of a rather large weta (perhaps he was just really close to my face) I ate my breakfast of cold chips and resolidified citrus slice with resolve, packing my gear for the long day ahead.

Donning my full rain gear including jacket, Ground Effect Helter Skelters, and booties for the light rain, I had to stop only 30 minutes in to remove it all after the skies cleared to reveal snow clad hills. Craig and Geoff appeared to have bivyed in a derelict hut just prior to the water race, so would only be a couple of hours ahead, and I set to following the delightfully winding Mt Ida water race, then the road to Falls Dam, stopping only to repair a puncture from the rocky surface.

A series of road stretches and I was on the Rail trail to Oturehua, the soul crushingly straight route enlivened only by a couple of tunnels which tested one’s ability to ride with eyes closed. An excellent pie and juice in Oturehua and I was off again, pushed along to the base of Thomsons track by a handy zephyr at my tail. Aerobars started to prove their worth here, and dropping my elbows to the pads and reaching hands forward to the extensions gave a fantastic sensation of speed, as if I was piloting a jet fighter blasting to the sun at the speed of light.

Pies; official fuel of the GSB
Photo Dave King

Any such sensations of speed were quickly quashed by the grind over to Tarras. Some 22 gates made proceedings tiresome, and while I initially threw my bike over them with vim and vigour, by the final set I was reduced to opening and closing them, awkwardly manoeuvring my laden bike through the opening in between.

Riding alone with only my wandering thoughts for company, I took solace in the screaming tailwind that was building behind, and joining the road for Wanaka it would have taken a disaster for my spirits to be damped. As if to test my resolve, such a disaster happened, and on reaching for a snack while pondering the range of treats I’d purchase in Wanaka, I realised that I’d lost my money, cards and course cues out of my jersey pocket. Whether through misfortune or sheer muppetry, I’d last seen them on the climb over Thomsons when I was checking how many more metres of the climb remained. Continuing without money to purchase food would be stupid and I rolled into Wanaka fairly dejected, the delightful Clutha and outlet singletracks failing to lift my spirits.

A call to Heidi to let her know what had happened helped form a few ideas, and I was soon sheepishly knocking at the door of Mike Sidey who just so happened to reside in the resort town. While I’m not sure if my actions were consistent with the self-supported ethic of the Brevet, Mike’s generous offer of funds and a place to stay were duly accepted, and the shower and omelette were a great bookend to a taxing day.

To be honest I was on the verge of pulling the pin, but this support gave me the resolve to HTFU and come back fighting, partly motivated by the fact that I knew I’d never live down a DNF in the presence of such a perennial finisher as Mike.

Day 2.5 Wanaka to Waikaia

Bright and early I met fellow Breveteers Tristan, Anja, Rob and Jasper and we formed a peloton and set a cracking pace for the bottom of the Roaring Meg. Stoked to have good company after a long day alone, I set off for Tuohys Saddle, walking a bit more than I had during reconnaissance last year.

It was a bumpy but enjoyable fun descent with very cautious lines around the Spaniard clumps which feature an alarming ability to deflate any tires passing within their spiky force field. A section of bike carry and a high speed access road descent past the dam, and I was out onto the Kawarau George Road, on the aerobars again and storming into Cromwell.

A danish and pizza bun from New World were washed down with a litre of juice, and some more great river singletrack took me out to Bannockburn to begin the epic 1400m climb into the Nevis.

Plugging away at the climb I checked off elevation in 50 metre increments, and before long I was over the top, shredding down into a misty valley. Relatively smooth roads meant my bags stayed intact and I began to plug away at the road south.

Old mounds of mining soil bordered the road, and toward the end I had the company of flock of sheep whose pesky hooves were chewing up the wet surface. Several times I witnessed the Einstein amongst the flock break out off the road, and I pondered how similar human behaviour can be till a select individual tries something new, which in turn everyone else follows. We are by nature social animals and I was all too aware of this even after a short period alone on this lonely road.

Back on the tarseal and heading towards the bustling metropolis of Lumsden, aerobars assisted my steaming ride, not dropping under 30km/h till I reached the town.

Passing up the number of pubs and cafes on offer, I was hoping that Lumsden was cultured enough to have a café open. It didn’t disappoint and a steak sandwich, mango lassi and slice filled the void left by 10 hours of riding.

By sunset I had made Waikaia some 50km away, even pushing on to the serene Piano flat campground where I set up my tent ready for an early assault on the Old Man Range.

Day 3.5 - Waikaia to a hayshed outside Middlemarch

Dawn was clear beside the river with a claggy humidity captured by the thick beach forest that lined to undulating road leading to the climb. I’d readied myself for an aerial assault by the resident sandfly population, but no such barrage eventuated and I packed up my tent with skin and blood intact.

Climbing into the mist, the exertion of the steep climb provided good company, and as I clawed my way up the hill I could see fresh tracks of pushing riders ahead, their pins succumbing to the grade. Breaking out above the cloud, the day was clear and beautiful while the trail below flattened off to reveal a ridgeline route that appeared to have been chewed up by diesel-fuelled rubber-booted off-road monsters. The destruction these dim witted drivers wreaked on the trail was profound. In some places 15 metres wide stretches of deep ruts, filled with muddy water with nowhere to drain. I picked my way carefully around the worst spots, thankful for the tire tracks of the crew ahead as a guide as to where (or where not) to ride.

As the climb continued, I glimpsed the first patches of snow which looked to be a couple of days old. Rocky waterfalls which drained the snow melt made for a great technical challenge, while I was thankful for the fresh melted snow to fill my bottles where it cascaded off a ledge.

With snow drifts up to knee deep, I post holed through the slush taking detours around the worst sections, and where the grade was sufficiently downhill to build up momentum I called on memories of snow riding in Patagonia and sledged the descents. The snow trudges of the Tour Divide are renowned for their length and brutality so I smiled at the thought that this effort was only a taster of the epic hiking in store in five months.

Temperature was starting to rise, and hopes were buoyed on the sight of a fresh tire track, knob prints still defined by a globule of water. Traversing the ridge they became clearer and clearer until finally I could see way off in the distance the figures of three riders.

Pursuing the trio in earnest, I caught them just at the radio tower before the huge descent, and their surprise to see me was nothing compared with my elation at having a group to ride with.

The descent fitted my mood well with the banked corners and rocky surface fuelling my stoke, the promise of a meal in Alexandra which was twinkling far below my due reward.

Some roadside plums at the base of the hill proved to be the entrée for a Subway feast. Double meat meatball was the order of the day with endless fountain L&P to wash it down, and while I waited for the others I repaired a broken spoke which had given up on the brake heavy descent from the Obelisk.

Geoff’s fan club had come out to support the local hero, and as we stocked up at an omnipresent 4-square on the way out of town we revelled in the support of these avid Brevet fans.

Riding out of town on the rail trail, we branched off for the Dunstan Trail, a fantastic rolling road with stops at the Poolburn Dam for a refreshing swim in the baking afternoon heat.

After such an exciting morning the day seemed to drain on, with mind fading to a haziness that was personified by the deathly mist that descended into the evening.

The fast and bumpy descents dealt more blows to my rear bag, and in a last ditch attempt to keep things in tact I plied the rails with my last length of duct tape.

Despite my efforts to stock up on food I was running low after a very long day, and I was relieved when our group decided to put in for the night at a hay barn at the bottom of the descent. Dinner consisted of a small tin of tuna with crackers that proved to be some of the most satisfying meals in recent memory. There is nothing like a Brevet to make you appreciate the simple pleasures and this thought stayed with me as I drifted off to sleep.

 
Day 4.5 Middlemarch to Tekapo

Breakfast of an Up-and-go and we were up and off, easing into the ride to Middlemarch where a second cooked breakfast awaited. After such meagre pickings yesterday evening it was no surprise that I racked up a $45 food bill at the rail trail cafe. The quantity was so good that I was left thankful that the trail ahead was of the flat grade typical. The worst thing would have been to have that delicious breakfast repeat on me on some gut busting hill climb.

Back on the bikes and we smashed out the 60km to Ranfurly, mindful that a big day today would see the Brevet done and dusted. My riding companions were less determined than I on this front and weren’t willing to commit to the lofty 300km goal. For now they made excellent companions as we discussed all manner of things which were at the front of our wandering minds.

A salad heavy wrap in Ranfurly made for a delicious morning tea, while the back roads to Naseby with a cheeky bit of water race singletrack were a great prelude to another 4-square lunch stop.

Danseys Pass loomed ahead and as we rolled into it I was eager to get to the gentler climbs that lay on the other side. A picturesque setting with great views and a warm day made the riding fantastic, so it was only natural that I tried to push the limits of a weary body. After cresting the pass and inhaling the expansive views of the Waitaki, we raced down the other side, our group regathering at the head of a mob of sheep. Mark commented I was on a mission, and on reflection I was, so when the group dawdled prior to the next climb I made a decision to go hell for leather and push solo for the finish some 150km away. Low on the aerobars and with a downhill grade to Duntroon and Kurow I made great progress, focussed on the long road ahead.

Stopping only to text in, fill my bottles and retrieve my last remaining power cookie bar from my bag, I was off on the sealed road to the Hakataramea, a steady wind at my back pushing me up the gradual climb. For only the second time on the Brevet I called on my Ipod to keep boredom at bay, the riveting tales of apocalypse survival from ‘We’re Alive’ keeping me motivated to the very top of the Haka’ Pass. With sun starting to wane I was treated to the most amazing view of the Mackenzie, Mt Cook illuminated with golden plains as far as the eyes could see. Donning most of my warm gear for the descent in the shade, I was thankful for doing this at such a friendly weather conditions with a tailwind blasting me down the coarse gravel road. A 90 degree turn promptly quashed this stoke as a 60km/h flyer was reduced to a 3km/h grovel. Again I was thankful I only had this for a short stretch, and some less lucky with their timing would have to battle the wind for the whole 100km from Kurow, surely something I wouldn’t wish upon the worst bicycle thief.

Rolling into Tekapo with the sun properly set, I was greeted by the cow bells of Swiss patriots Walt and Zita, their gracious hospitality at the Chalet prior to the ride was repeated with a hearty steak and roast vegetables, and after the rush of finishing quickly faded and fatigue set in, a warm, soft and comforting bed.

Ollie at the finish and straight on the text machine
Photo Denise Blance

The Great Southern Brevet experience was easily one of the toughest of my short ultra-endurance riding career. I had seriously underestimated it and had made some mistakes along the way, some of which were exacerbated by a spot of bad luck. I took pride in the way I’d overcome this adversity and had some fantastic experiences along the way, whether it was the great company of Geoff, Mark and Craig or the breath-taking vistas highlighted by the descent from the Old Main Range into the meatball serving oasis of Alexandra.

Above all else Brevets are a fantastic opportunity for the bike obsessed to explore unseen parts of our beautiful country. Dave King’s epic Great Southern Brevet did this and more, serving as a spark for further adventures exploring the wonderously expansive and varied landscapes of Central Otago.

Ollie’s brilliant summer of Brevets. Part 1; the Great Southern

Great Southern territory Photo GSB blog

Almost 8 months has passed since I committed to the mammoth undertaking that is the Tour Divide  (a 4400km Epic ride following North America’s rocky mountains),  and two New Zealand ultra-endurance events were destined to play a key role in my preparation. The first is the Great Southern Brevet, a delightful amoeba shaped romp around the barren plains and ranges of Central Otago. At only 1050km in length the scale paled in insignificance compared with the Divide, but when doubled up with the Kiwi Brevet starting two weeks later, the pair would serve as a true test of gear, mind, body and soul.

So far preparations have been going well. Quite early on I began the strangely exciting (but expensive) task of procuringing lightweight touring gear.  Extensive research was compiled in  geeky but useful spreadsheets which compared specifications and allowed objective decisions to be made. I now have accumulated an awesome selection of gear from the like of Z-Packs, Western Mountainering, GroundEffect and Exped.

Gear sacks ready to be loaded

Bike setup is pretty dialled too, and I’ve chosen to run the same Ventana El Commandante frame I used in earlier Brevets, only upgraded to the sliding dropout version that allows me to run a carbon drive belt on my Rohloff internal gear hub. Aerobars are a new (and admittedly naff) addition but their comfort and mounting space makes them a no-brainer. Completing the build is a Niner carbon rigid fork up front with WTB Vulpine rubber, both of which were tested to their limits riding Nelson’s technical trails over the new year break.

El Commandante ready to roll

Perhaps the most demanding of time and thought has been the solution for carrying all my gear. While I’m a massive fan of the Freeload rack and its flexible and durable mounting system, the stock configuration with plastic deck and dry bag strapped on had been a heavy inelegant solution during previous endeavours. With help from Cactus and Tim at Freeload, I set about developing an integrated dry bag with space for 20 litres of gear. While early iterations didn’t fare well during off road testing, the addition of some alloy tubes in place of the carbon and revised clamp resulted in a super durable solution which took all the abuse I could throw. They even survived a high speed ghosting manoeuvre down the sublime Coppermine saddle descent after the Vulpines got to the end of their tether in the slippery conditions.

Rear Freeload with integrated drybag

Up front, I used the same PVC fabric I’d used for the rear dry bag, and glued it into a wedge shaped bag with room for a 3L hydration bladder, as well as four handy pockets to take small items which I needed ready access to. These included leg and arm warmers, lights, snacks and of course ample chamois cream. This bag survived the same forced dismount described above with aplomb, and I found having the extra 3kg of mass up front helped even out the largely rear wheel balance of my loaded rig, the extra front traction helping to mellow out the handling during tricky descents.

Handlebar bag

Besides a few niggles which I have been all to vigilant, the body has been a trooper. Early in the piece I visited Jeanette at Sportsmed to get some stretches to mellow out my bow-string tight ITBs, and these have been great, even allowing me to punish myself with the odd run including a jaunt along the Abel Tasman over summer. Paranoia set in over a bony spur on my foot, but a visit to a podiatrist and a new set of Sidi shoes saw this niggle largely resolved, with the velcro straps allowing me to manage the comfort for this often neglected part of my anatomy. 


Regular core sessions during work lunch breaks (dubbed ‘Fab abs’) have been great for my strength, and while I’m yet to get abs of the cut and definition of Peter Andre’s,  I can feel them working on the bike which frees up my arms for more pressing tasks.

Spot tracker ready to beam my location top the world

So with gear and body sorted, all that remains is to line up on the start line in Tekapo, and ride until I can’t ride any more. I’m excited about what lies ahead, and while this anticipation doesn’t have the same anxious edge of earlier endeavours, it is still present enough to manifest in daily conversations and even in my dreams. While the prospect of following the electronic signal of our spot trackers may sound as dull as watching soup congeal, I'm told it is a thrilling pursuit so encourage all of you interested in the Brevet’s to get involved. In a few days time I will be living the dream, pushing my body to its limits and devouring immense quantities of questionable food in an effort to keep legs moving. As soon as I've recovered I’ll endeavour to post a written report, but it will be a poor substitute for the out of this world sensory experience that lies in store on the Great Southern Brevet!

Craig gets some singletrack stoke

In this local ruler and recent Timaru 12hr solo champion's own words...
Ventana’s… they are so much fun I can hardly control myself!

Mountain Pedaler out...

Le Petite Brevet 2011 – Sunshine, tailwainds and a thermonuclear steak and cheese

The inaugural 2010 edition of the Petite Brevet was a tortuous experience, so it was with trepidation that I signed up for Tim’s second edition.  Circumnavigating Bank’s peninsula in a rough figure of eight, this year’s  anti-clockwise direction was the reverse of the previous year, and did without the apparently beautiful stretch across the Lake Ellesmere spit.  I’d had the misfortune of traversing this endless sand trap alone at 2AM in the morning in the depths of a southerly, so safe to say it wouldn’t be too missed.

The key difference this year was the weather, with the aforementioned southerly making for a miserable affair last year. For this year’s edition rain threatened to dampen spirits early on, but what eventuated was a spectacularly sunny day that really made a great showcase of the fantastic route that Tim had chosen.

As with all Brevet’s the start is a highlight with anxious newbies mixing with the Brevet gnarled vets, comparisons of bike and tire choice being the default conversation.  Sifter and Megan had come down from Wellington as part of their preparations for the Cape Epic, while Judd form Back of the Pack Racing had made the trip from the US of A, putting aside last minute doubts raised by my report of last years’ experience and jumping on the plane across the pacific.

Gear wise I’d gone for lightweight speed,  a decision driven by the positive weather outlook. Packed into a Cactus zero were a rain jacket, polypro, 3 litres of water, and baker’s dozen of Em’s power cookie bars. This final addition was to be a marked improvement on last year’s nutrition which consisted of lockjaw inducing OSM bars. Em’s cookies made me want to delve into my pockets and wolf them down, an ideal attitude for extended endeavours of endurance like the Brevet.

Before we knew it we were off, and with my ambitious goal of making the Diamond Harbour ferry’s final 11PM crossing for the return to the city any thoughts of pacing or sociable riding quickly evaporated. With 250km of roads and trails, and a robust 7000m of climbing in store, only time would tell whether this goal was realistic.

Straight away adventure racer Ian and I opened a gap, buzzing along the traverse singletrack and onto Summit road past the Sign of the Kiwi. Descending Gebbies Pass we were struck by a block headwind, but fortunately the next section along the rail trail had just enough of a skew to the southerly to give a welcome boost from our tails. The only obstacles on this arrow straight route were the skittery sheep and their ample droppings, the latter leaving Ian distraught at the poo splattered state of his new 29er, barely a week old.

Turning off from the trail through Birdling’s Flat we heeded Charles’ warnings about outlet crossing, and were glad not to be traversing the moonscape at night. The thick pebbly surface hid the only crossing which lay right up against the lake, and with a quick change of direction we were on course and climbing Bossu Road.  Grim memories were rekindled despite the healthy tailwind, and as the driving rain worsened I hoped for my chamois’ sake that it’d clear before too long.

Steaming down the fantastic sealed Kinloch Road descent I made a mental note to come ride the road again, its sinuous curves would surely be heaven on a road bike. Spitting us out at Little River we ducked into the store’s café, pushing to the front of queue to get the greasy fix our chilled limbs craved. I’ve always been greeted by delicious food aromas at this Café, and this time was no different. The threat of an 800m climb on an undigested sausage roll didn’t deter me and I wolfed down the gourmet pastry, promptly pointing my bike skywards towards the mist shrouded Double Fenceline route.

It turns out Ian had spent some time in Little River growing up,  whiling away holidays at his relative’s  farm. While he didn’t say it, I’d no doubts that he was familiar with the spirit crushing steepness of the Western Valley Road climb, shaped as he’d taken an interest in mountainbiking.  A farming contact had informed him that a culvert would be running clear, and as he stopped to fill his bottles I kept climbing, eager to start the Double Fenceline trail.

While I hadn’t pre rode this part of the course, which as for last year was probably the navigational crux of the route, I backed myself at a few key junctions and made it through geographically informed. Just as I dropped on to Pettigrews Road the mist cleared to reveal a stunningly sunny day, with views either side of the peninsula that really did bring on a smile.

Rejoining the tarseal, the route followed Summit Road to Okains Bay which was punctuated by the leg sapping pinches that give the peninsula its fearsome reputation (particularly amongst roadies tall geared roadies). Dropping down to the ocean was a welcome relief, and before two shakes of a lambs tail I was parked up at the Akaroa 4-square, impatiently standing in the queue in my sweaty lycra, Coke and thermonuclear Irvines Steak and Cheese in hand.

At this point I chose to wait for Ian, certain that his company on the remainder of the route would keep craziness at bay. As we saddled up and weaved through the crowds of sauntering Christmas shoppers, the Purple Peak Road quickly signalled its intentions, pitching to 25% early on, then relaxing into slightly less unrelenting grade that quashed any thought of shifting from granny.

My steed for this Brevet was a newly kitted out El Commandante complete with carbon Niner rigid fork, Rohloff and Gate Carbon Drive. Tire choice was a fast and sketchy WTB Vulpine that proved to be a perfect for the par cours. Throughout the ride the bike didn’t miss a beat, the content hum of the ‘hoff complemented the buzz of the belt, and never needed lubing despite puddles, dung and  dust. The only point where I felt out of my comfort zone was on the more corrugated descents, particularly into Pigeon Bay. When the road steepened and under hard braking I found myself wrestling with the road for control. Some more riding on wash boarded roads and perhaps a spot of rock climbing will be in order to build gun strength in the lead up to my bigger goal events, particularly the Tour Divide.

The descent into Le Bons bay that followed was thrilling, and set the tone for the rest of the ride, at least the parts with a downhill gradient.  Wide, open and steep with whoop inducing corners that seemed to go on and on. The descents spat you at a sea level with a grin as the only evidence of the rush.

On the climb out of Le Bon’s I began to count down the eight remaining hills to the finish, a natural tactic I seem to adopt when managing an enormous task such as the one I was presented with. The funny thing was, after this first climb my mind wandered and I threw this approach out the window. It seems the thrill of conquering bay after bay was more than enough to keep my legs and brain ticking over. Okains, Stoney, Chorlton, Little Akaroa and Pidgeon Bay all passed by, each with its own quaint charms that left me eager to return and enjoy the ambience under less hasty circumstances.

By the time I descended to Port Levy it was 7:30PM. My goal of making the 11PM ferry was smashed and now I sought only to make the 8PM sailing. Nature decided to back me with a belting tailwind, propelling me up the climb at a spritely 12km/h. Cresting the saddle with 10 min to go, I dived into the descent throwing caution to the wind, hardly a friendly gesture given the wind’s recent generosity. Despite my efforts it wasn’t to be, and as I reached Diamond Harbour at 8:08PM, I knew I’d have just a bit more riding in store.

The final 30km passed in blissful solitude. With quiet roads and the sun setting, and just enough energy left to knock out the final climb up from Governors Bay to the Sign of the Kiwi.

Along Summit Road then descending Rapaki to complete the route, I stopped the clock at Hansen park at 9:47 PM, exhausted but elated.  Still no dancing girls but this year was different. With sun and favourable winds replacing the dreadful southerly of 2010, I rolled home content with the knowledge that experiences such as this are what makes life rich and fulfilling.

Mountain Pedaler out...

Escaping zombies in Fiordland



Ollie low on the Borland Saddle climb
All photos Dominic Blissett



With good friend Ross set to enter a lifetime of martial bliss with the lovely Anna, his mates saw fit to celebrate the end of the bachelor lifestyle with a stag party located in a secret Fiordland location. Codenamed Operation McSidey, our transportation down to the drop zone took the form of Dom's Toyota Granvia, which was loaded with gear lunchtime Thursday for the long haul south.

Throughout the weekend Dom displayed excellent endurance driving, steering the bulky van all the way south. Stopping only for feast of pizza at Dunedin's Ra bar, we were audibly assaulted with the rants of a crazy old timer. The 10 hour journey had the potential for high levels of boredom and were it not for the fantastically gripping stories of flesh-eating zombies being blasted out of the stereo we may have turned into the very zombies the tale described.

Ross was already a fan of the riveting audio play We're alive, and by the end of the journey the van was deeply engrossed in the tale and eagerly awaiting the next chapter. So enthralling was the tale that it is  serious contender for space on my Ipod, with the story providing entertainment for some of the long, lonely journeys that lay ahead.

Crashing at the McCulloch's place, we rolled out mid morning, stocking with food and ammunition for the raucous weekend that lay ahead. While the exact details of the weekends events are classified, the zombie story was rather prophetic and by the end of the two days, the level of carnage would blow that of a big-budget explosion addled movie out of the sky.

One part of the weekend I can comment on was a fantastic riding excursion that Dom and I took to the crest of the Borland Saddle. Feeling the itch after so long in a car and then a day of sitting around, the ride was heaven and we had the good fortune of being in this notoriously damp, moose-hiding terrain on perhaps one of the only dry days in a year.

While the sign claimed closure due to snow (small matter for our pedalling steeds), the road up was in great condition, baby bottom smooth and with a relaxed grade that never steepened as it snaked its way up to the 1000m saddle.

Dom had recently taken possession of an SLR camera and I offered to play model, hardly a chore when surrounded the spectacular vistas prominent in this remote part of our country.

Both aboard singlespeeds, the seemingly endless descent saw ridiculous displays of spin-and-tuck which are well known to one geared purists.



Spin, tuck and repeat

We were content to roll back to the lodge up till the point when we spied some gnarly beech singletrack at a fork in the road. It had been some time since my wheels had touched the beech strewn hero dirt, too long in fact, and the gnarly trail we were treated to added an entirely new dimension to the ride.

Delightfully prominent roots broke up the smooth trail, with steep steps and switchbacks proving a stomach clenching challenge with seats up and travel low. At one point the trail sidled past a curious limestone outcrop, and we threaded handlebars between trees and the wall before stopping to investigate the strange feature.

While the trail was bone dry, the bush surrounding it was lush and radiant, with fern clogged gulleys and root littered flats adding spice to the lower parts of the trail. Finishing up with a roll down the river, both Dom and I were suitably stoked, and returned to the lodge beaming with the satisfaction that can only come from premium singletrack.

In our absence the camp had been infiltrated by a posse of human sized gorillas, and the hilarity that ensued as they tormented the inebriated stag left me cautious if I were ever to have my own stag party.

Back in the van and heading north, with the dulcet tones of the zombie apocalypse lulling us into a bacon induced kip, I reflected on the tight bonds that had been formed between Ross and his mates. Surely this reason alone is a good enough to justify this sometimes destructive ceremony, and this was certainly the case for this Fiordland adventure.





That Dom and I had happened upon such a sparkling gem of singletrack was icing on the cake, and the whole Fiordland adventure made for a fantastic long-weekend escape.

Going bush in the St James

Ollie pedals into the endless vistas of the Clarence Valley

With the nation descending into a monotony of rugby reflection, building to an idiotic crescendo with the semi-final showdown, I was left with no choice but to escape for a long weekend. Taking a day of leave I went bush on my El Commandante.

The rough plan was to ride north from Christchurch to Hanmer, camp the night using my yet to be tested collection of ultralight camping gear, then ride the St James cycle route with Heidi the next day. While the backcountry route has been open for a few years now, I hadn't had the chance to roll my wheels along it and jumped at the opportunity when I saw a clear patch through an admittedly cloudy weather window.

El Commandante prepped and ready to leave the man cave

Recently I've been working with outdoor industry legends Cactus and Freeload to develop a lightweight gear carrying solution for longer rides, and the weekends riding would serve as a thorough test of one design. Success would see me adopt the integrated dry bag in events like the Kiwi Brevet and the Tour Divide, while failure would see my lightweight kit scattered on the trail to be scavenged by critters or sharp eyed riders following in my tread.

Loaded to the gunnels and keen to get out of dodge, I pushed north, stopping only briefly to show the guys at Cactus what I'd come up with and get their feedback on constructibility. On a sealed highway, the ride was uneventful with the exception of a spectacular tailwind that saw me pushing 35km/h for much of the 140 km journey, and also the abundance of magpies.

It seemed that in the absence of daytime television to keep unemployed magpies occupied, they took it upon themselves to rally against me, using their ultrasonic screeches to alert buddies kilometers away to my presence. Out of nowhere they would swoop and dive for my head, some with an alarming crack. I did my best not to flinch, and fortunately these critters rated pretty low on the viciousness scale with none actually striking my head. I'd back the legendary 'Mt Pleasant Punisher' in a WMW Smackdown bout any day.

Around Culverden the rain which had been threatening all afternoon set in torrentially, with the wind switching direction to raging headwind just to drive the chilly point home. Finally arriving in Hanmer I scurried into the quaintly decorated Log Cabin for a scoop of chips, and some meat products of dubious origin. I justified the indulgence by rationalising that I'd need to adapt my body to this kind of greasy onslaught for the Tour Divide.

Dinner was a similarly uninspiring affair, with significant deliberation over choice of canned soup. I eventually opted for some Campbell's Chunky, and followed this up with a long spell in front of the precooked chickens until I discovered the beautifully warming air of a a heat pump discharging just above the beer. Pretending to read the fine print on a box of Heineken, I soaked in the warm air while I pondered the storm outside, looking increasingly more like a strange spandex clad homeless person.

Abandoning plans of camping up high, I settled for a damp corner of a campground. I showered under a cold dribble barely warmer than the rain outside, put my wet clothes back on and waited inside for a break in the weather to pitch my tent. Fortunately it went up quickly and proved to be a remarkably comfortable place to be in the storm, especially given its scant 400g weight. The company of Ritchie, Rose and Jackson was also warming, the latter two regaling tales of adventures on their off-road tandem which Jackson built himself.

Uber-tent glistening after a stormy night

Next morning I forced down more dubious canned goods and headed for the substantial Jack's Pass climb. The original plan had been to meet Heidi at the St James car park at 9am, but a corner from the top I heard a car behind and was stoked to see her car dubbed the battleship for its mottled grey paint work, had made it. We saddled up on our bikes and headed for the trail head some 36km away. Assisted by a fantastic tailwind we made short work of it, and as we turned on to the trail proper spirits were high.

Ollie gets in some trail head fettling

The landscape in this part of the world is reminiscent of a barren moonscape, and brought back memories of my time in Nepal where similar dry valleys were common  at higher altitudes. Having raced the infamously cramp inducing Rainbow Rage some 6 times, the scenery had become all to common, but revisiting it I reflected on how it exuded a kind of desolate beauty and emptiness that calmed the soul.

Heidi takes in the vistas

While the St James cycleway itself is rated as advanced on DOC's scale, there was no point where I felt the rush or thrill of a gnarly descent. I reckon that their rating must come from the fact that this amazingly scenic ride is in a very remote part of our world, and the 100km length involved (by the time we had looped back to Jack's Pass) was not to be taken lightly.

Advanced in scale, but not in content

The trail itself was fantastic, using combination of farm tracks, 4wd routes and wide purpose built singletrack. Where a cavernous gully required crossing, DOC had employed all the engineering expertise at their disposal, installing epic swing bridges that made crossing the obstacles a doddle.

Gear wise, my prototype bag was gradually self destructing. The impact of the trail early on caused one of the carbon rods to fracture leaving the bag rubbing on the tire over every bump. Channelling McGuyver, I whipped out a pocket saw and fashioned a bunch of sticks into a base support, locking it down with a zip tie when these began to wiggle loose. While the concept is good I had underestimated the sheer torture a bumpy trail can dish out, rest assured my later developments will have this part up sized.

Dry bag with ghetto modifications

We stopped regularly for snacks including my favoured trail snack an Em's Power Cookie. One of these well crafted nutrilogical concoctions even pulled Heidi from her depths of fatigue. After 8 hours in the saddle the oaty goodness helped her conquer the final climb to the car as cats and dogs began to fall.

All in all a successful weekend of riding with belt drive bike and body going not missing a beat. It was great to explore the St James with Heidi and I was impressed with how she handled the difficult challenge, gritting her teeth and knocking off personal time and distance records not to mention a bit of quality chamois time (some of it soggy).

Belt drive loved the mud

Words can't describe how refreshing it is to pack your belongings onto a bike and escape your normal world and this adventure has only encouraged me to indulge more in these weekend mini-adventures. While a bit socially backward, I'll jump at future opportunities to go-bush, usually aboard a bike and in a part of the world unexplored by me.

Grasshopper and friends enjoy Nelson's trail treats

Sue's 2012 El Saltamontes basking in the glorious Nelson sun



 

This year’s arrival of spring proper was well timed for number one Ventana tifosi and mother to the Mountain Pedaler; Sue. A stack of new frame designs were incubated over New Zealand’s winter at the North California factory, with the El Ciclon and El Rey released prior to the venerable El Saltmontes (the grasshopper), which finally hatched a few weeks back.

Sporting a multitude of new features including a tapered head tube, press fit bottom bracket, slacker geometry, 3D rockers, an optimised pivot and asymmetrical chainstays, the new frame made for an excellent replacement to Sue’s well loved 2006 Salty, which had seen many states of dirt in the hills around Nelson.



The pimped build was highlighted by Chris King hubs and Hope X2 race brakes



The bike was assembled to a custom spec with fruity bits like a custom Stans/Chris King wheelset, WTB’s ferociously grippy Wolverine tires and a Rock Shox Reveb for gnarly descending manoeuvres. Drive train was largely supplied by SRAM with a custom XTR crankset of 165mm length decked out with a 36 22 ring combo to help Sue conquer the steep climbs Nelson is famed for.

 

SRAM 2x10 drivetrain used a custom double ring combo up front to suit Sue's climbing style



With the bike assembled, it was only fair that Heidi and I took a trip to Nelson to get the bike setup dialled and of course at the same time sample the blossoming selection of trails on offer.

Saturday saw a comprehensive tour of the Codgers area including Turners, Old Dog new Tricks, IV line, P51, Pipilini and Firball. While some were new instant classics that are testament to the burgeoning skill of local builders, it was the rejuvenated ones I enjoyed most. The new lines oozed flow, with plenty of grade reversals to make excellent use of the elevation on offer. Fortunately parts of each track still payed homage to the steep sketchy fall lines that were the Nelson standard of old, with a few bum clenching moments to keep you on your toes and remind you what it is to be alive.

  

Fireball road climb was rewarded with a multitude of singletrack descents



The trail network they’ve developed is amazing and I for one will be returning for an extended summer holiday, looping the amazing network together for endless days of singletrack shredding.

 

Sue descending on the newly buffed IV line to round at a solid day of singletrack.



While Sue obviously loves the tracks, her new Salty with its relaxed geometry, fatter tires and glowing grinch green paintwork suits the evolved trails to a tee. It was with sadness that we left, but rest assured she’ll keep them well ridden in the long summer that lies ahead.

Mountain Pedaler out...