Mountain Pedaler NZ

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

2012-01-18T21:48:00.000-08:00

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

2011-11-24T19:40:00.000-08:00

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

2011-11-21T21:08:00.000-08:00

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

2011-11-03T12:39:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-17T00:12:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-25T17:55:00.000-07:00

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...

Winter distractions

2011-08-21T22:33:00.000-07:00

Kip' skis after a ridgeline traverse

Photo: Kip Cooper

While my obsession with bicycles is obvious, strapping some bedazzled planks to my feet and sliding down a mountain is a more recent passion. With local bike tracks soggy and damage prone, and ski hills steep and inviting, I took this winter as an opportunity to explore this more gravity oriented mode of personal transportation.

I decided to lock it in early with the purchase of a Chill pass which allowed me discounted access to club fields. While previous experience with their nut crackers had been pretty hairy, and I’d had to fight hard to suppress flinching as the steel frame rolled over each pulley with a finger severing clank. Fortunately several days on the rope tows have helped ease my anxiety, although I’m still vigilant of wayward fingers.

The list of gear required for skiing is seemingly endless, but on reflection less of a burden on finances and time than biking. Before the season began I traded up my sketchy straight skis for some modern carvers courtesy of Tardme.

A number of friends had frequently espoused the joys of back-country touring, using traction boosting skins on the base of your skis to access fresh slopes and fantastic views. Add to the shopping list some skins and a set of Trekker bindings that allowed me to pivot at the toe with my standard alpine setup. Goggles, helmet, shovel, probe, transceiver, jacket and a Cactus Sedition pack to carry it all and I was set.

With a few days on the fields to shape my pretty average skills, and with some fantastic advice from super shredder Michi, I adopted a jet fighter like approach to carving turns, and relished the exhausting combination of strength and coordination that a good descent required. With skills at an all time high, I was keen to give the touring thing a proper whack and so Kip and I headed for Mount Olympus in the hope of finding some gnar to shred.

The omnipotent weather being had dumped a load of fluffy stuff on Christchurch during the preceeding week, so last weekend was always going to be a banger in the mountains.

After Kip showed some Possum Bourne worthy driving skills up the access road, we were greeted with queues as long as the trail of Mitsubishi Outlander underbody trim left on the access road. The field was crowded with punters searching for fresh lines in the wake of the week’s earlier dump. Unfortunately there was none to be had as the lucky souls who’d been staying at the plush Olympus hut had found them all.

Struck with this disappointing scenario, Kip and I decided to take action, strapping on our skins and loosening our boots for a trek to the top. The closest thing I can liken climbing on skins to is hike-a-biking. Doubled over from aerobic exhaustion but making steady progress with the goal of a premium descent ample motivation.

One difference however is the skill required for turning whilst ascending a steep slope, with limited remaining concentration and coordination mustered to wrestle skis into a tight about face. Despite the constant struggle against gravity, touring uphill is an enjoyable experience, and you tend to develop a rhythm and forge progress, till next thing you know you are at the top of a mountain with a spectacular view.

Ollie striding it out on the way up

Photo: Kip cooper

We then strapped our skis to our packs and pushed for the summit by foot, stopping only to take photos that the amazing main divide backdrop begged for.

Booting it to the top

Photo: Kip cooper

Topping out we ripped off our skins and switched over bindings, strapping down boots for the furious descent ahead. Initially intimidated by the sheer steepness, fear quickly gave way to elation as I carved turn after turn in the soft untracked powder. Where elsewhere a nasty frozen crust had formed, this aspect of the slope gave nothing but golden flakey powder all the way down. This was the first and best experience of the day, the serene setting and amazing snow confirming my inclinations that ski touring was indeed all that.

Ollie scans for lines
Photo: Kip cooper

By the end of the day we’d racked up a number of thrilling descents, each fear filled initial moments followed by the elation of swishing down. By day end my legs were so shattered from the combination of sliding up and carving down that I could barely manage a turn. This culminated in a hilarious collision with Kip, a bystander commenting it was only fair given he’d laughed at an earlier biff.

So with plenty of snow still on the hills and the bike season starting to build, it’ll be a hard choice to choose between the slippery slopes or rock strewn trails. Not an undesirable dilemma but one that is only made possible by this great shaky city I call home.

Mountain Pedaler...

Keep calm and ride on...

2011-04-19T18:12:00.000-07:00

Touched by the plight of Christchurch's quake ravaged residents, good friends Anja and Tristan are putting on an awesome event to raise funds for those affected.

Called 'Keep calm and ride on' (possibly the best race name ever!) they've tapped into the encyclopedic knowledge of Naseby's awesome trails, as stored in Kila Heppi's noggin.

Continuing a recent them of 6 hour enduros, the race should make for an awesome weekend away, with the famous hospitality of this Central Otago town at its heart.

Awesome un-ridden trails will be the icing on the cake, so there is practically no reason not to make the trip.

I might even shoot for some Sunday morning curling at Naseby's world class ice rink. Sliding a few stones makes for a lovely contrast with the razzle-dazzle of of mountainbiking!

Mountain Pedaler out...

Supersize your Super D

2011-04-19T02:08:00.000-07:00

Riders pin it off the line in the Outside Sports Super D

The inaugural Outside Sports Super D held on the 15th of April was a splendiferous festival of descending fun.

Ollie and Michi teamed up with the two Nicks, and the merry band of travellers left Quakehurch for Queenstown, arriving Friday night in time for a catch-up curry with our Dunedin possie. Despite anticipation and the risk over overcooking in the dorm’s Dutch oven we slept like logs, stirring only for hilarious dream conversations.

Up bright and early on the clear crisp morning we prepared for the excitement that lay in store.

Gondola to top. Sweet trails all the way down!

The enduro Super D has a storied history in New Zealand, with the infamous Brake Burner held at Coronet Peak satiating XC, DH and trail riders’ desires for endless runs. NZ Ski’s decision to cut the chairlift cables left riders hanging, and it took the enterprising team of Geoff of Southern Traverse fame and Jim of Outside Sports to resurrect the universally popular format.

Six hours, solos and teams, with gondola uplifts for the 600m descent. Rather than the full on gnarl of DH courses, Super Ds use trails with more mellow grades, with plenty of passing opportunities provided by wide sections of trail and small climbs. The latter are the constant subject of complaint from gravity riders; while the weenies revel in the chance to pull back some of the losses over their rougher spirited brethren.

Boarding the gondola in pairs for the lift the start, the revelry built to a thrilling crescendo with cheers and jeers as riders left at 30 second intervals on the small climb to the start of the descent. Never before have I experienced such a celebration for the start of a race, with everyone stoked to be riding such an epic course on such a beautiful day. As I saddled up on the inside line next to new friend Jono (the first of many gondola buddies), this elation faded in a haze of breathless exertion as we exploded off the line.

Hooking one of the epic berms at the top of the course

Beginning with a fast wide section through mature conifers, the trail threw in some flowing corners, daring you to stay of the brakes. Over a small rooty section the first of the bike high berms began, wide cambered catchers ignored in favour of the tight and loose inside line.

Jumps and rollers began to feature amongst the sweeping berms. Passing into mature beech forest with a tight rooty corner giving way to the flowing jumpy descent, tabletop jumps littering the trail all the way down.

Spat out at Warp 10 onto the halfway skid site, it was down the gears and travel, and up with the dropper post for the leg searing grind up to Vertigo. Mellow at first, the climb eased then pinched again for the final awkward turn into the next trail.

A rush of speed and a string of rollers to double and triple, pump after pump and then more sweeping corners spat you out onto the skid site again.

Sliding round a gravelly hairpin we headed back down Singletrack Sandwich hooking off the trail on a dusty freshly cut line. Slicing through ground layered in golden autumnal leaves this delightful line swept back and then down a series of drops and up a dip.

First attempts with an inside line were foiled by roots quickly becoming too slippery for words, so the safe-ish outside line become the default. Dusty and rooty with speed scrubbing uphill turns, we dropped out on a wide track and pedalled hard to hit the intimidating step down, road gap step up combo.

Gathering speed then slamming on the anchors, it was down with gears and travel and up with the dropper again for the refreshingly mellow switchback climb back to Vertigo. Only the odd rooty pinch tested lungs and legs, before a series of wide switchbacks with sneaky hot lines led on to the final set of jumps.

Double, table, step down, double, step down, all hit at an ever increasing pace. Shrieking into the open steaming round one flat corner and another steep one and we were back on Hammy’s.

Seat up and pedalling like a madmen back to the Gondola base, only a tight inside line and steep switchback to break the rhythm.

An epic course that seemed to strike a perfect balance between gnar and flow, and by the end of my 16 laps (around 9,600m vertical descent) I knew every bump and berm like the back of my 661s.

Ollie shreds a corner on the lower part of the course

Crashes were few but amusing. Singletrack Sandwich seemed to be the bane of my run, and as determined as I was to shave seconds with the off-camber roots of the inside line, the 50-50 odds of making it through rubber side down proved too risky.

On about the 4th lap I was reflecting on the ride up how hot my knees had become. Perhaps it’d be worthwhile taking off my knee pads to air them out? It took an overzealous drift into a steep corner to drop my knee square into the dirt for me to quickly revaluate that position, and knees stayed safely but uncomfortably moist.

My Ventana El Chucho just ate up the trails. A recent switch to some fresh and light WTB rubber gave speed and grip, while the stiff tracking rear end combined with the mega rolling front wagon wheel to give traction and pace. Despite odd appearances which were summed up by a spectator’s baffling call telling me I needed to “swap out the front wheel for the climb”, the 69er proved to be an ideal trail weapon, the unique setup matching (and arguably besting) many of the menagerie of bling setups on show.

Ollie takes the El Chucho to Warp 10
Photo Tess Carney

Counting down the laps to the finish I was determined to maintain pace and recent adventures in rock climbing seemed to have fortified my t-rex arms to keep the dreaded death grip arm pump at bay. Blissfully unaware of my position in the field throughout the day, it wasn’t till my final lap when a friend said I was only 30 seconds back on 2nd place for me to recall that I was actually in a race. I ended up catching the other rider, but finished back in 4th, the confusion understandable due to the staggered starts. Mild disappointment paled in comparison to the blissful exhaustion felt at the finish, a level of stoke beyond the realm of written words.

A much needed shower and we were back up the gondola for a meal and prize giving. Kurt who I’d met trail building in Chile showed supreme gravity defying skills to take the win, reportedly riding all the monstrous jumps with his seat up, bad ass XC style. Solo riders took 5 of the top 6 spots, perhaps the solo riders’ unrivalled understanding of the trail that winning out over the freshness of the teams.

It took less than the a jiffy for me to decide if I’ll be back, and with bit more confidence on the bigger jumps that made the difference, I hope to be footing it at the pointy end of the podium.

Mountain Pedaler out...

Downhill demons confronted at the Diggler DH

2011-03-22T02:14:00.000-07:00

Ollie busts a Vic Park huck in the early days

Downhill racing has always excited this XC racer, even going so far as dabbling in the local DH race scene six years ago on first moving to Christchurch. Shuttling the trails in Vic Park made for a perfect way to spend a dusty Saturday afternoon, shredding the hucks and jumps of Old nats, Raadi garden, and Drop track. The weapon of choice back then was an early edition Keewee Stealth hardtail complete with period Manitou Shermans, the latter sporting vice like stiction that can only come from a solid year of hucks to flat.

Back then, my personal issue with gravity riding was a lack of self control. While the thrill of a blistering 3 minute run should have been more than enough, the constant quest for speed and thrills pushed me to try bigger drops and jumps, culminating in the famed Christchurch 40 footer (which actually measures 35 feet).

As a firm believer in the mantra ‘crap happens when you party naked’ it was no surprise that crashes resulted, often leaving me with broken bike or body that meant I couldn’t ride for weeks at a time.

It came to a head with a nasty knee incision that left me hobbling stiff legged for a month, and after this I decreed never to push myself into DH again. While the short intense gnarliness and associated self destruction were a rush, I’d much rather be shredding less exciting XC tracks without the injury induced periods of inactivity.

The catalyst for a change in attitude was an upcoming event which has sparked my passion for the gravity scene. From the ashes of the Brake Burner has risen the Outside Sports Super D, and after a half day of post-Motutapu shuttles at the Skyline Gondala venue I was itching to give the 6 hour enduro DH race a burl. Thoughts quickly turned to preparation and what better way to become accustomed to bike and mindset than a DH race, and the 4th annual Bike Methven Diggler DH presented such an opportunity.

Shuttles Mt Hutt style
Photo Bike Methven

With age comes maturity, and a better (if inevitably more conservative) understanding of risk. I’m confident now that I can roll around a jump or drop outside my ability ignoring the pang of regret that would have prompted the younger Ollie to ‘hit it up’.

There is no denying the fun of a DH race. The sheer challenge of distilling practice runs into the very essence of a trail then swilling this down in an endorphin fuelled dash for the finish. A mixture of elation and exhaustion abounds as you sprint to the line.

And the Diggler didn’t disappoint. It was low key in the truest sense, family run and grom infested, with none of the factory team hype that seems to pervade modern DH. In her first ever race Heidi would be joining in on her hardtail, while Jeff ‘Tenzing’ Collins pulled his X-5 out of the shed, leaving his entirely unsuitable Maxxis Larsens on in a show of cocky tire choice.

The track was relatively easy, or would have been had the weather decided to play ball. While we left the rain behind in Christchurch, overnight showers had left the Mt Hutt trail in a delightfully slippery state, the first steeper section reduced to a traction stealing slither.

The only difficult feature of note was a tight step down, and putting age hardened risk assessment skills to good use we eyed up a line and hucked the gap. Casing at first we learned quickly to sneak in a few pedals prior, landing it smoothly and peeling into the berms below with new found speed.

Ollie clearing the stepdown in his race run
Photo Bike Methven

Gradually the trail began to firm up, with mud pushed from racing lines making higher parts of the course fast and predictable. The exception to this was the wooden structures, which collected tyre shifted mud and rendered the slats slipperier than a greased weasel, kicking the back wheel alarmingly off the edge and into thin air during my penultimate practice run.

The slippery bridge claims a grommet
Photo Bike Methven

Briefing was typically low key, with groms preceding under 17 and women, before senior men took to the course. Suggestions by Jeff and I to shift the finish line to back up the hill (maximising the advantage of our lightweight and widely geared trail bikes) were declined in good humour. We’d have to bring the noise were we to compete with the full on DH rigs.

3...2...1... Go!
Photo Bike Methven

Race runs started from the access road on a rickety wooden ramp, and as rider after rider descended the nerves were running high in a manor I rarely experience at XC races these days.

Ollie heads off on his first race run
Photo Bike Methven

The first run was over in a flash, with plenty of scope remaining to steal back seconds on the next race run. It all came to together for the final, riding what felt like my best run of the day and sprinting to the line with new found stoke in 2 min 40 seconds.

Jeff who was seeded numero uno
Photo Bike Methven

Jeff’s second run was less ideal, ghosting his bike through the first section and requiring the assistance of a gawking spectator to rescue it from the bracken. His best run ended up being his first, a solid 2 min 46 seconds.

Heidi sporting some nose-gnar after a huck to face on her first run
Photo Jeff Collins

She adopts the tripod to avoid the dreaded 'slippery salmon'
Photo Bike Methven

Heidi’s maiden race proved an awesome success. Her gritty resolve saw her overcome a bloody nose inducing huck to face on her first practice to finish a close second in the hotly contested Open womens field.

Timaru local and ex-Canterbury University MTB club pinner Cam took the win in a blistering 2min 25 sec.

With race runs over and complimentary chocolate consumed, Jeff and I headed up the hill to sample some of the other tracks on offer. Although similarly slippery substrates kept speed at bay, the lower section of Bang for Buck proved a highlight. Racing into berms with too much speed, the raised corners would catch drifting back ends and flick them in the right direction, an awesome trail sensation which brought whoops of joy. This track alone would justify a visit in the dry, and I for one will be sure to head out for one of their famed shuttle days when time allows. The Bike Methven crew are onto something special with their Mt Hutt bike park, and as word spreads more and more Cantabrians are associating the Hutt with premium mountain bike trails rather than mass market snow sliding.

Mountain Pedaler out…

Karapoti 2011– A muddy puncture-fest

2011-03-05T14:23:00.000-08:00

Mini-pinner Anton dukes it out with Dirk on his way to the win.
The youngest ever Karapoti winner at 16 years of age!
Photo Wheelworks Racing

The weeks leading up to this year’s Karapoti had been marred by the tempestuous tantrums of Christchurch’s shakey monster. Ravaging the city’s streets and buildings and causing tragic losses of life, it gave a strange hue to my final preparations for this race which had been one of my season goals. With my home made uninhabitable and teetering like a cinder block Jenga tower, I was taken in by good friends Ross and Anna, and even managed to escape quakechurch for the solid ground of Tekapo for the weekend prior.

Perhaps the biggest effect of the quake on me was psychological, and I felt uncertain whether I could muster the motivation to climb into ‘the box’, with doubts circulating in my mind in light of the precious fragility of life brought to the fore by recent events.

I can genuinely say that I overcame this, justifying the indulgence of racing by telling myself that to let the harsh actions of some tectonic forces control our lives would be a failure of the human spirit. The fact was we had survived and should celebrate by doing what we love.

So it was off to Wellington where we squeezed in substantial Thursday ride where another good friend Rhys took us for an afternoon tour of Wellington’s peaks, taking us down trails which were in his preferred steep and sketchy style.

Come Friday, the pounding of rain on the roof of Rhys’ loft suggested conditions would be greasy, and a day of rain induced inactivity left me twitching in anticipation; perfect for a race like the Karapoti.

Starting with the traditional waist high dash across the river, which felt higher than usual especially after the obligatory tumble finding footing on the rocky river bed, it was off on the sealed rode a furious pace.

I was well positioned here and in the top ten, biding my time as we swerved and splashed through monsterous puddles up the gorge trail. It was only a short while after when disaster struck. A jagged rock concealed in the murky depths of one pond-sized puddle sliced an inch long gash in my front sidewall, instantly deflating it and sending me careening out of control.

Not disheartened, and clutching at memeroies of sub 2:45 times pulled out in spite of similar failures, I executed a frantic puncture fix, chucking a tube in the front and pumping the crap out of it to avoid further failures. In two minutes I was done and steaming off up the Gorge, passing an Australian rider who had also punctured at this cruel early stage. He, perhaps wisely, ended up pulling the pin.

As I hit the hill I started to pull riders back in. One by one winching past them till I was a good halfway through the field. The descent of the Rock garden is always a favourite and I forgave any line choice in favour of descending via the gushing waterfalls that flowed over the fall line, shredding past more riders and stoked for what lay ahead.

By this stage my attempt at a tire boot had revealed its inadequacy, with a giant rubber zit now bulging out of the sidewall and rubbing on the fork arch. Fearing that this friction would lead to a catastrophic tube failure, I made the painful decision to stop and put another boot in. Again it only took me a few minutes and I was off again, shouldering the bike and running sections of the knee crumbling devil’s staircase. Recent adventures in the Canterbury highcountry and Nepal have made the bike over shoulder position second nature, so it was no surprise when I pulled back some of the people that had passed me.

Big ring boulevard is usually one of my favourite parts of the course, and the top section lived up to its reputation, the fast flowing turns making me feel all too much like a bike riding rock-star. As if sensing the stoke and wanting to keep spirits in check, a sharp rock again claimed a sidewall, this time on the rear. Throwing in my last tube and pumping with all the vigour I could muster I was off again, and set about the all too familiar game of leap frog I’d been playing with the back of the elite field.

The final two punctures came of all places, on Dopers, which is the very climb one must bury oneself to garner a good result. While I should have been seeing stars from anaerobic exertion, I was trackside fixing one, then a second flat, after the first failed due to poor patch adhesion. Turns out it is pretty difficult to get them to stick when the driest thing around was my growing repertoire of puncture related humour.

All repaired and it was off again, climbing Dopers in personal record time and gingerly riding the final descent, knowing well that another puncture would see my bike hurled off a bank and me walking home.

The gorge is always a joy, its delightful downwards gradient giving a profound sense of speed and with jagged rocks seemingly shifted by the screeds of tires, and puddles shrinking back into the ground I made it safely to the road with inflation at a maximum.

A final surge across the river for the line and I was stoked for the ordeal to be over. 3:11 was well off my goal but the five punctures that got me there were a fair justification for the blowout.

Such is the fearsome tire munching reputation of the Karapoti, there is even a prize for the most punctures which I duly received. Can’t imagine how the previous year tallied a record 12 without some sort of mental breakdown.

Thanks must go to the riders who offered up spare tubes, it is this kind of camaraderie which makes mountain biking awesome. Also to Rhys and Muriel who are always so hospitable on Wellington trips.

Michi and I were generously supported by Cactus Equipment for the race, and they have been staunch supporters of this legendary event for some years.

I can say with certainty that I’ll be back to avenge the punctures-fest that was my 2011 Karapoti, and no earth shattering natural disasters will stop me!

Shuffle and cuss –polo at its finest

2011-02-13T15:20:00.000-08:00

Grey locking horns with black
Photo Polo Camo

When I mention to buddies that I can’t make a ride due to a planned game of bicycle polo, many gawk back with a look of stuporous bewilderment. The word polo conjures images of Earl Grey swilling English toffs, whipping their steeds around manicured lawns while swinging their mallets with fearsome intent. On completion of the game they retire to their expansive country estates to be waited on by their manservant (likely called Jeeves).

The grimy reality of Christchurch hardcore hardcourt polo is far from this classist dream. People from all backgrounds, sexes and ages rise to the unique challenge of riding a bike whilst swinging furiously for a small orange ball. Desperate attempts to weave through the opposing team before shooting for the back of the net are rewarded with a sense of accomplishment and whoops of joy from spectators and team-mates alike.

The pinnacle of my polo experience came last weekend where I was fortunate enough to be drafted amongst the high-rolling green team for the O-Tautahi Shuffle tournament, led by Rick of St Andrews Hill. My usual polo weapon is a Charge Plug fixxie, which flags behind the specialist steeds that seasoned players chose to mount. Wheel covers to deflect wayward balls, flat pedals, wide slick tires and gearing that would draw the mocking laugher of staunch legged single speeders all feature. I was however fortunate enough to borrow Rick’s backup (a vintage ZK8000 Trek) which featured all of these, resplendent in a fetching salmon colourway.

Green discuss tactics
Photo Polo Camo

The format of the session differed from usual games, with a bench of players ready to blast onto court at a moments notice when a substitution was called. The rapidly switching format made for some dynamic games with subs proving invaluable for the inevitable skid to tire-explosion induced retirement. The tournament was spearheaded by polo pioneer Craig (aka Polo Camo), who is singlehandedly responsible for Christchurch’s polo revolution. His tireless passion for the game and organisational enthusiasm cannot be overstated.

With plenty of smack talk in the lead up to the first game (“black and grey aren’t actually colours”), the intensity was off the scale. Elbow to elbow, mallet to wheel and mallet to mallet contact in attempts to put opposing players off their game. There were surprisingly few (accidental) mallet to body incursions, and the lack of hilarious but destructive head first into mesh-fence stacks was a sure sign players were naught newbies.

Loosing our first game green rallied for the second, the result coming down to a nail biting final push, where no amount of adroit skidding or measured mallet work could close the gap. Black emerged as victors and took the trophy, but to coin a rugby cliché it truly was polo that won on the day.

Rain sprinkles failed to dampen player's enthusiasim
Photo Polo Camo

Hilarious injuries were abound, exemplarised by me lodging a fist between an opponents tire and brake stay. Plenty of people took tumbles to the asphalt but most were back up and laughing with grazes of joy rather than teary tantrums. The sheer challenge that polo poses for coordination (especially for someone as challenged with hand-eye as I am), can do nothing but wonders for bike handling and poise.

All this talk of aggressive contact might seem intimidating for the bystander or newbie, but rest assured the polo scene in Christchurch is as safe as a kevlar puncture strip. Empathy runs deep in the crew and they share an unspoken understanding not to rough up people if they aren’t into it.

However, if you are up are up for it, I can’t imagine a more unique thrill. Polo mixes the competitiveness and speed of Japanese Keirin racing with the theatre of WWF wrestling.
In summary, polo rocks.

Amen.
Photo Polo Camo

Mountain Pedaler out…

Thunderous downpours fail to spoil Vulcaniser stoke

2011-01-23T12:29:00.000-08:00

Weeks of meticulous preparation by Craig, Rebekah and their militia of Singletrack Club helpers could do little to keep the cursed rain at bay.

And as we curled up in our tents the night before, high above the North Canterbury coast, we could only hope that the thunderous rain punctuating our fitful sleep would leave some dirt on the hill. While a little rain was desirable to keep the dust down, the slippery-as-salmon surface that greeted us on an early morning reconnaissance left Craig with some tough decisions. In the end he made the right call, removing the infamous Boar’s Nest descent from the course and looping us back along a 4wd track to the start/finish area.

Shredding
Photo Brooke Hudson

Doing my small part for the event, I donned a Cactus radio holster and helped out with marshaling. If the various approaches to the log drop by punters opting for the fun ride were any indication, the steep and windy descent to the gully was still sketchy enough to keep things exciting.

Ollie on the log drop
Photo Lyndal Donnelly

Come twelve o'clock it was off with the wet weathers and on with the race face and spandex. As we formed up on the start grid for the first surge up the hill, I was less nervous than expected. This perhaps explains my gutless start which was at odds with my usually strong opening efforts. Still mixing it up in the top 5 and shredding the descent, all it took was a wayward root to flick me off line and into a tree, losing a couple of spots and putting me on the back foot for the steep climb to the top of the course.

Ollie chases Dayle who was stormin' on his Singular
Photo Greg Milne

Fortunately all the climbing work I’d been doing of late was paying dividends, and while I struggled to match the ferocious pace of the under 19 whippets I was comfortably peeling off the steep climbs at threshold for the duration of the race. Had the race been longer then my endurance may have clawed back some of these losses, but alas the rain affected loop played into the hands of the short people.

Ollie gets in the box on one of the steeper climbs
Photo Bruce Wilson

From here on the race was pretty uneventful. The trains of riders had squelched most of the mud off the racing line rendering the descents fast and tacky. Best of all, I found a good rhythm on the climbs smashing them to the best of my ability.

A particularly memorable moment was tussle with a young B. Oliver, who I traded places with till his final lap. In the dash to his finish and spurred on by awesome family support, he put in a gutsy surge for the line. Awesome to see these young whippersnappers following in A. Coopers figuratively large (but literally small) footprints.

Hooking a berm
Photo Bruce Wilson

Finishing second in open men to a charging Nick Clark and seventh overall, I was happy with a solid but not exceptional start to the race season. With a few more smash fests like this under my belt I’m happy that I’ll be up at the pointy end of the field.

As always, the Vulcaniser was a fantastic event, and as we piled into the Little’s woolshed to shelter from the thunderous downpour, an aura of low-key stoke was pervasive amongst the gathered crowd; even overcoming the homely stench of manure dreaded dags of recently shorn sheep. With more spot prizes than the crowd could take including some sweet Cactus packs, racers and supporters alike left warmed by the notion that despite nature’s watery manifestations, there was still fun to be had on a mountain bike.

Cass – Lagoon Saddle: Epicness redefined

2010-12-12T21:59:00.000-08:00

Ollie readies himself for the Cass saddle descent.

It had been a goal of mine to explore the backcountry terrain of the Cass - Lagoon Saddle route since I first sampled it's technical treats back in May this year.

Both Michi and I had heard tales of the steep descents and long valley flats, and with estimates for the round trip being made at around 9 hours it was never going to be a short ride.

While the gale force winds and rain forecast in the preceding week cast a shadow over the weekend plans, when Saturday dawned clear and fine it was Michi who made the call. Hastily assembling tents, snacks and all manner of ancillary items that our car camping approach allowed.

The plan was to ride Cragieburn Saturday, camp the night then mount a full blown assault on the Cass on Sunday morning.

Some trail newbies joined our Cragie’ jaunt, and despite the inevitable complaints about steepness and roughness on the ascent, it proved to be just these things that left them grinning on the descent. With the first loop out of the way, Josh, Michi and I set about a second climb to Camp saddle with the final hike to the highest point justly rewarded with some spectacular vistas.

Michi armors up

Recovering from the effort, we dropped saddles for the drop from the saddle and heart rates began to spike again, this time from the sheer exhilaration of skidding down 37 degree scree slopes rather than any aerobic exertion.

This was only my second ride on the El Chucho, Ventana’s unique approach to a trail riding weapon. Designed as a 69er, the big contact patch of 29 inch front tire seemed to float over the unstable scree, while firmly locked and skidding on the edge of control, the 26 inch rear wheel sunk deep into the scree and slackened the harrowing slope by a precious few degrees.

As if to test one’s bravado, the rocks on the slope grow bigger and bigger as you approach the end, till the final 20 metre stretch where they form a full blown rock garden that could surely become the pictorial definition for ‘nuggety’.

Blasting down the track for the second time, we arrived back at the tents and scooted down the road to bathe in the cooling eddies of Cave Stream, making it through the treacherous caverns with no cases of denim induced hypothermia.

In true townie camping style, dinner was at the Bealey Hotel, where a monstrous plate of vegetable curry and venison pot pies were washed down with ice-cream sundaes (complete with nuts). Hasty preparation had left me floundering for snack options for our mission the next day, but the Bealey came to the rescue with an impressive lunch box containing a coleslaw and ham sandwich, some caramel slice, a juice box, apple and a slice of bacon and egg pie. It proved to be a seemingly endless source of delicious treats during the next days ardours, and a source of green eyed jealousy from my ride companions. Unfortunately I had to dispense with the box itself, but managed to squeeze the entire degustation into my Cactus Zero in such a way that I wasn’t left with a sandwich/pie/slice hybrid after the bike-across-the-back carry, of which there would be plenty!

Ollie guardedly tucks into his B&E pie

Waking the next day to the tune of native fauna dropping some beats, we hastily packed up camp and headed to the trail head at Cass River, beginning with a river bed ride punctuated by dashes across the flow where the gorge narrowed. Once into the forest the track climbed steeply, but the bone dry beech surface made the odd rooty pinch surprisingly rideable, except in a few extreme cases. Out into the open past the Cass hut, tussock was reclaiming the narrow bench, also providing surreptitious cover for a wheel stopping rocks which proved too much even for the sheer rollability of the 29 inch tire.

Atop the saddle and ready to shred

From Cass saddle to Hamilton hut we were rewarded for our early labour. Insanely steep and criss crossed by thick mats of off-camber roots, we were thankful of the dry conditions as were struggling to stay on line and away from rapidly approaching trees as we shredded down the valley floor. Gradually leveling off we eked round switchbacks, which were again laden with roots. As the trail mellowed with lower altitudes the flow took hold, pumping rises and drifting the back wheel around turns. Again I was impressed by the 69er. Plenty of travel in the back to smooth out the big hits (of which there were plenty), but the drifting situation was where it came alive. With a front wheel so planted and secure, I could unweight the back and get it rowdy through corners with an ease and confidence I’d never felt on a 26” trail bike. Concerns over a threading the longer footprint through switchbacks were unfounded, and as we shredded down to the hut I was approaching a stoke double whammy, with bike stoke joining trail stoke for an off the charts reading.

Josh the roadie hooks into one of many sandwiches

Onward along the undulating trail, we traversed a swingbridge and some boggy swamps before passing West Harper Hut where we hopped onto another river bank. While this riding lacked the sheer thrills of the epic descents, the mellow trails, warm air and rugged mountainous surrounds kept me sure there was no place I’d rather be.

Sequence on a particularly sick section of trail

A mixture of riding and scrambling took us up to the Cass Saddle shelter, where a final dart along a swamp traversing wooden boardwalk delivered us at the final highpoint. With the Waimakariri River visible ahead in all its alluvial glory we set course for the highway. The descent was not without its challenges, with our nemesis the tussock clump causing a number of amusing off-the-bikes. Once clear of the tussock the track entered a pine forest then natives again, where fast flowing bends gave way to tight switchbacks interspersed with the drops and root steps. Riding with a flow and pace at odds with 7 hours on the bike, the trail caught me out in a couple of places, one in particular where a gravelly drift got too rowdy and ended in a low side off a bank. Somehow no skin was lost and I was back on the bike and shredding the final run to the road.

View from the top of the Bealey to the Waimakariri

Finishing with 15km of sealed road wasn’t ideal, but ironically the weather which had threatened to put the kibosh on the whole weekend favored us with a mad tailwind. It provided a welcome push at our backs and also some attenuation for the horrendous tire noise that can only come from super tacky trail tires on chip seal.

A truly epic adventure and one that will be difficult to trump, even with the swath of mountain routes that we are fortunate enough to have surrounding us.

Mountain Pedaler out…

Civil disobedience at the Festival of Cycling

2010-12-05T23:48:00.000-08:00

Grinning after the Witches Hill traverse
Photo Rebekah Tregurtha

On a beautifully still Christchurch morning I made my way down from Mt Pleasant for what must be the shortest ever race commute, not more than a minute and a half to the race start at McCormack’s bay.

Living in such close proximity was a treat, as the tracks down Greenwood Park and Captain Thomas are personal favorites. I’ve a depth of familiarity that has been honed from countless runs down these nuggety gems, often on a rigid forked, one-geared steed.

Warming up it was clear the field was pretty stacked, with young local pinners and a few big names from the North Island all making the trip with the hope of grasping the generous purse on offer. From the gun it was a furious tailwind assisted smash, testing the spinning abilities of the few who chose a 1 x 9 gearing. As the road pinched up to the Bridle Path, it was immediately apparent that my legs we’re staging a protest at the very thought of exertion. A week of intensity training is the likely culprit, with fatigue making the grind up the farm track a disheartening experience. Battling on and loosing places faster than confused cartographer it wasn’t until the final stretch of the Rapaki climb when I finally regained some rhythm and could start to recover from a terrible start.

Riding the Witches Hill link was a welcome break, mindful of the throng of spectators I played it cool and cleared the tricky first section. This technical trail served to break the mental blockade, and rolling back onto the road I could start to push again.

Pulling back two riders by the bottom of Castle Rock, I set about reeling in three more and diving into John Britten I knew I’d be able to grab back some time on the extended descent.

Getting the stoke on down Greenwood Park
Photo Logan's olds

A delightful combination of rockiness and flow carried me down to Evan’s Pass and with telltale puffs of dust on the trail it was clear a competitor was only seconds ahead.

Here is where the purpose of the race changed for me.

Save a precious few boundary pushing events, there has been a depressing trend towards dumbing down the cross country discipline. Whether it is by shortening event durations, removing technical sections or even cancelling events at first sign of adverse weather, I strongly believe that these actions are undermining the adventure and risk that makes XC such a rewarding pursuit. If this decline continues I can picture us riding flat paved trails, cocooned by layers of body armor made mandatory by knee deep stacks of waivers.

With this in mind I hit the compulsory dismount section of Captain Thomas resolved to make a stand. Sacrificing my result, I hoped my disobedient actions would provoke some discussion in the community, perhaps even raise some questions about whether this is the direction that XC racing should be heading.

Knowing the organiser well, I could understand her position and the implications of responsibility should someone hurt themselves on the course. The fact is mountainbiking is inherently dangerous, and as soon as we start removing self-responsibility from racing we will lose the ability to assess the risks and push boundaries in spite of them.

Bouyed by my stand, I proceeded to shred the reminder of Captain T, catching a rider at the bottom of the jarring step section.

From here a manic duel ensued, with the rider clawing back any small gaps I could make, and both of us dispatching roadies at the tail end of their Long Bay’s loop with an ease that belied our knobbly tires and hairy legs.

Coming into Redcliffs, traffic had stopped at a zebra crossing and at the front of a queue a bus was rolling away. Seeing the opportunity I jumped, and was treated to a 50 km/h motor pace all the way to the McCormack’s bay turnoff. This move could be considered by some as dangerous, and the sour look at the finish line on the rider who’d missed the jump meant he probably thought so. Perhaps he was just disappointed that he hadn’t taken the opportunity.

Finishing in 11th position, but dead last on time due to my ‘bad boy’ behavior, my first ever race disqualification gave substance to what would have otherwise been an average result. The grind up the hill to home did little to quash what had been an exciting race on fantastic trails, and I was smug in the knowledge that I’d made a stand on a subject I feel strongly about.

3 Weeks in Nepal; the Annapurna Circuit by bike

2010-12-01T23:34:00.000-08:00

With the dust and stomach ailments finally settled from Michi and my Nepalese off road touring trip, we decided that it would be unfair not to share our experiences of this amazing place with a wider audience.

The good people at the Christchurch Singletrack Club saw the opportunity to coordinate our talk with their end of year celebrations, and the refreshing beverages and good company should make fine acocmpaniment to the tall tales from Michi and myself.

So if you have a free evening on Wednesday the 15th of December we encourage you to pop down to Elevate bar in Cashmere and enjoy the show.

The full details are:

3 Weeks in Nepal; the Annapurna Circuit by bike

Tales of Ollie and Michi's Nepalese adventures

7:00PM at Elevate Bar

2 Colombo Street

Cashmere

Hope to see you all there!

Petit Brevet 2010; the little monster

2010-11-22T06:03:00.000-08:00

Riders ascend Rapaki for the first of many climbs. Photo John 'Sifter' Randall.

Dawning warm but overcast, I rode from home in Mt Pleasant to Hansen Park where a few keen beans were already gathered and fizzing at the bung. Chatting to seasoned Brevet veterans Simon, Jasper, Michi and Sifter (whose bung knee ruled the event out for him), all seemed pretty amazed at the behemoth that Tim had created, but any anxieties were largely hidden by the experiential learning that comes from similarly epic undertakings like this Brevet’s elder sibling.

Ollie and Michi discuss lead-out tactics for the sprint. Photo Dominic Blissett.

Outright excitement was palpable in newbies like Dom and Ross, the latter reporting shakes such was the level of his anticipation. Loaded to the gunnels with gear to house and feed an African nation, they were prepared for any eventuality. All that gear meant weight for the climbs, and their loaded mules cast a stark juxtaposition against the sleek, unburdened lines of my rigid hub-geared Ventana.

Their obvious adherence to the Boy Scouts ‘be prepared’ motto brought about a touch of anxiety in me. Should I have packed some extra layers or even a survival blanket? But with bikes rolling out across the freshly mown paddock at 8AM on the dot, it was clear that my bed had been made, and that now I’d have to sleep in it, or not sleep at all, as the case came to be.

Reserved smiles early on. Perhaps Ollie knew what lay in store. Photo Lance Griffin.

Cruising up Rapaki and onto familiar tracks of Vernon and the traverse, it was good to get in the groove, a small bunch of four forming which thinned to two as we shredded a favourite road descent to Gebbies Pass. Lance and I worked well together, and knowing these early roads well we dispatched Port Levy saddle then Pigeon Bay saddle in quick succession. Here Lance’s choice for minimal navigation bit him in the ass, dropping back then taking a wrong turn only to be seen at Hilltop much later on. He was fortunate to be guided through the fog stricken Double Fenceline Route by the navigationally talented Michi, perhaps the only man I know with a built in GPS function (complete with Google earth compatibility).

In actual fact Michi and I had lucked out, as this crucial section was the only part of the course we had chosen to pre-ride, so the minimal visibility proved to be no barrier. I heard some grim reports particularly from Ross and Dom who’d neglected to take a fog busting fan in their gear and spent six hours exploring the lower couloirs of Mt Fitzgerald.

An indulgent break at the Hilltop Cafe followed. Pie, cake and ginger beer were consumed in great quantities to the point where a coat of bloat had enveloped me like the mist outside. When David and Simon then Michi and Lance rolled in and ate their own pies, I held on for another 45 min, knowing full well that the company on this next stretch would help me keep sane through the long night ahead.

Mist envelops the course at Hilltop. Photo Lance Griffin.

Summit Rd rolled up and down the hill in a strangely enjoyable fashion before dropping down to Little Akaloa where some fantastic conversations ensued about whether the name was a typo that had been perpetuated by lazy cartographers.

Up and down again to Okain’s where I sadly parted company with Simon and Dave. Rather wisely they’d chosen to chill at the backpackers, and their evening of fish and chips, warm showers and soft pillows couldn’t be further from what lay in my immediate future.

Climbing out of the picturesque Okains bay along the seemingly endless but well named Big Hill Road alone, I caught up to Charles who had trooped all the way through without a stop. His first Brevet and he was well prepared, having ridden the whole course the week prior but pulling the pin at Barry’s Bay at 3AM only last week, he was determined that they’d be a different outcome this time.

Dropping again to Le Bons Bay for another climb back to Summit Road, the sealed surface carrying us steeply into the mist. Michi and Lance appeared through the fog on one of the undulations, having missed the Le Bons ballbreaker. I joined them for a final pinch to the Stoney Creek track which descended into Akaroa. Here the afternoon rain conspired with clumps of poop and my tire’s skimpy knobs to make this grassy descent a hair raising experience. With relief we made it into Akaroa, even catching the 4 Square’s closing special ($1.09 Pam’s mince and cheese) a few minutes before closing time.

Already shivering despite wearing all my layers on, I was determined to hit the road and keep the wheels rolling. The mild warmth of all the exertion I could muster was all I could call upon to fight the cold on this long night.

A pleasant ride around Onawae Flat then Duvachelle to Wainui and the rain began to worsen. As if in cahoots with the altitude, a grovel up the indomitable Bossu Road accompanied ever increasing waves of rain till on the exposed tops I was soaked and shivering in the bone chilling squalls.

Rather than any competitive instinct which had driven me this far, my sole motivation to continue now came from a need to get home and out of the dreadful cold. The descent to Little River was steep and corrugated. Rigid forks and shivering limbs made it even more testing, and it was with relief that I made it finally to Little River, where ironically the road that defines the settlement had the look of a monsoon fed torrent. Turning left onto the now swampy rail trail, I was safe in the knowledge that only the flat latter part of the course remained. There was however still a long way to go and a long night ahead.

The seemingly endless sandy stretch out to Ellesmere outlet was where I first experienced what has been described to me by adventure racers as the sleep monsters. Grinding away with only the gusting headwind and driving rain for company the featureless night time landscape lulled my eyes to a sleepy state, and for the first time of many I’d find myself waking with a start, with bike heading acutely off course. Fortunately the rustle of long grass or sticks woke me before I struck ditch, power pole, sea or oncoming vehicle, and I was lucky that the roads and trails where it happened were as straight as an arrow.

The sandy surface dashed any hope of riding, so plugging through the sand I took to opportunity to eat a chocolate bar and crank my IPod, anything and everything to try and keep eyes from involuntarily closing. With relief I made it through the outlet section where the 2 hour’s previous toils were rewarded with a profoundly comforting tail wind. Cranking through the miles free of twist or turn, monsters returned and the regular glances at my bicycle’s speedo proved to be dull company. Even it gave up eventually, succumbing to the road crud and becoming locked as my mind was on the average speed.

Hope had begun to grow now with the lights of Lincoln appearing through the mist. Street light are often bagged for the light pollution cast by their buzzing sodium bulbs, but on this day, very early on a Saturday morning they were a most welcome sight.

Kennedy’s Bush Road is a tough climb at the best of times, and in my sleep deprived state I am embarrassed to report walking some sections, unable to muster enough traction from sodden surface, tires and legs, let alone a line to follow in the darkness from my fatigue addled brain.

Normally the feeling of elation at cresting a final climb would be difficult to contain, and friends will report me regularly whooping in delight when cresting a final climb. No such celebration in this growing light, the easy tarmac kilometres to Rapaki passed in a haze, the final descent I enjoyed safe in the knowledge that it was almost over.

Stopping at Hansen Park to note my finishing time of 5:55AM. No dancing girls.

Ride home and a walk up the hill where a shower of plentiful warmth ensued. Bed.

In all, the estimated 5800m of climbing turned out to be closer to 7500m, the latter being measured on a bike mounted altimeter of one of the 13 to finish (from 28 starters). 21 hours and 55 minutes made for my longest day on a bike ever. At points I was pushing the boundaries of fun into the realms of misery but on reflection it is an experience I’m glad I’ve had.

It may be some time before the memories of this Petit monster fade.

Le Petit Brevet 2010 – what lies in store?

2010-11-18T23:12:00.000-08:00

Ollie in the big Brevet. Photo Caleb Smith.

The wildly successful Kiwi Brevet had its inaugural running at Waitangi weekend this year. In running this mammoth 1100km self-sufficient bike-a-thon, MTB legend Simon Kennett unwittingly started a wave of popularity for the randonneuring genre. Participants must combine riding fitness (durability rather than speed) with mental fortitude and a gigantic quantity of food. Success is not achieved by reaching the finish line first, but by completing the epic undertaking, and while saddle sores fade, the memories of long days in exciting and beautiful places live on.

With pleasant memories still strong, it was with no hesitation that I jumped at the opportunity to partake in Tim Mulliner’s take on the theme; Le Petit Brevet. Famous for his bestselling touring book ‘Long ride for a Pie’, Tim had dreamed up a thrillingly difficult course on Canterbury’s Banks Peninsular. In squeezing 5,800m of climbing into only 320km, he’d set a route that would challenge the most die-hard pedal freaks, while still proving achievable for the less obsessed looking to dabble in an epic weekend-long adventure.

And now with preparations for the very long ride almost complete, I can only speculate what will lie ahead on the mixture of singletrack, gravel and sealed roads of this beautiful part of the world.

In the interests of keeping weight down (especially important given the sheer climbing involved), I’ve decided not to take any bedding, and am resigned to ride through the darkness and into the morning’s small hours, hopefully arriving back at Hansen Park at 4AM on Sunday morning.

Proven in the Kiwi Brevet and a recent high altitude touring circuit around Nepal’s Annapurna circuit, I’ll be riding my grinch green Ventana El Padrino, complete with Rohloff hub, carbon rigid fork and Stans Raven semi-slicks. Setup wise I’m passing on the Freeload rack and dry bag, instead paring gear back to a minimum and carrying it in a Cactus pack. All going to plan I’ll be able to get away with the 15L Zero, but if sanity prevails it’ll likely be the 29L Henry. Illumination will be from a borrowed set of Ay-Ups, their 12 hr runtime surpassing any other light setups in my box of tricks.

Ollie's Padrino gets some lovin' before its big outing

The relatively short distance has left me a lot less conservative than for the Brevet, with only essential tools, spares and duct tape, not to mention cash and cellphone finding a place in the pack. I’ll also be rocking a hydration bladder instead of the bottles I used in the Brevet. A Steri-pen will mean I can top up from rivers and dodgy taps without fear of gut rot.

Assorted gear.

Food wise I’ll be munching on One Square Meals (cranberry as I have yet to overcome my psychological allergy to apricot after the Brevet), stopping for a sit down meal at Hilltop and Akaroa if they are open and willing to accommodate a sweaty cyclist.

Perhaps what I’m looking forward to most, is the camaraderie that grows between randonneurs. With almost 40 souls lining up, the mixture of anticipation, excitement and anxiety on the start line will be electric. As these feelings fade with the growing miles, the simple task of covering a great distance in the company of like-minded individuals will forge a sense of community that beats any extrinsic reward.

While the forecast is for light rain and light winds, I’ve convinced myself that it’ll be no more than a cooling mist, which would be innumerably better than the midday roastings we’ve been experiencing recently in Canterbury.

MetVUW's predictions for the first five hours.

Check-in again for a full report of my Petit Brevet experience, assuming I make it through Tim’s pick of the peninsula’s unrelenting climbs!

Day 20: Chillin’ in Kathmandu

2010-10-23T16:18:00.000-07:00

A monkey cleaning a companion at Swambuktah temple

Today’s goal was to visit the Swambuktah temple, the Buddhist shrine renowned for its hyperactive monkey monks.

A delicious (steaming fresh) apple strudel breakfast and we were off on foot at 7AM, in an attempt to beat the heat of the day. Shorts were at the cleaners so I was wearing my only other pair of trousers which happened to be my waterproof Cactus Lifty ski pants. They are pretty breathable but brisk walks around a 30 degree Kathmandu were probably pushing the limits of their design.

Continuing a theme of navigational creativity we left the map at the hotel and took the scenic route past the banks of the river, sickeningly plastered with household garbage.

Walking past the Bajaj industrial district with its asphyxiating smoke stacks we finally made it to Swambuktah with the guidance of a friendly policeman.

More monkey preening action

We knew we were on the money when we spied a large surly primate snacking on rice. First attempts at photos with the monkeys were cautious as I noted a rabid glint in their eyes.

Yawning monkey

Climbing a marathon set of stair to the temple, the monkey show began in earnest. It seemed as if picking seeds from a companion’s fur was the preferable way to spend the day with dual benefits of clean fur for one monkey and a nutty snack for the other.

A monkey with no friends has to clean himself

The younger and more energetic leapt from tree to tree with dazzling displays of gymnasticry. Some even attacked a string of prayer flags, double teaming the fabric till it was threadbare.

We sat for a good hour, taking photos and observing the monkey’s remarkably human like behaviour. A truly awesome close encounter with none of the cages or crowds of zoos.

Walking back to Thamel, we set about our final task of spotlessly cleaning our bikes to the high standard of New Zealand Customs. A greasy rag, brush and sample sized bottle of shampoo did the trick and we were all boxed up in time for an afternoon nap.

Our final ceremonial dinner at an authentic Tibetan restaurant came served in dish with an oven of glowing coals at the centre, heating a delicious broth containing all manner of delicacies including our favourite momos.

A relaxing last day in Kathmandu and we are all prepared for our midday flight tomorrow.

It is sad to be leaving this amazing land but both Michi and I are excited to be heading home to New Zealand.

Day 19: Pokhara to Kathmandu

2010-10-22T13:23:00.000-07:00

What a day of contrasts. A slow start while we waited for our Rainbow tourist bus was proceeded by a frantic rush to the correct bike stop to load bikes on the roof before it left without us.

Then, defying our expectations of a 2PM arrival time, we were subjected to traffic congestion from hell coupled with the best spine jarring ride that Nepal’s decrepit roads could muster.

Ollie smiling after failing the bottle drink on bumpy bus challenge

At almost 12 hours long for a 200km journey, we are confident we could have ridden our bikes faster (and probably in more comfort) although heat may have been an issue as we were sweltering inside the bus. Boredom was the word of the day, and not even a book I’d picked up from our hotel could keep the itch to jump up and do something at bay.

Roof mounted goat heading for Pokhara

View from the bus in an epic queue

When what seemed like an eternity of start-stop driving had passed and we had crested the final hill into Kathmandu at the pace of a one legged Cheetah we decided to cut our losses and mount bikes for the ride into town.

Bumper to bumper congestion stretching across a distant hill

Immediately our boredom switched to excitement as we readied packs and lights for a daring assault on the bus roof. If stationary this wouldn’t have been a problem, but with the bus still crawling Michi clambered onto the roof, throwing down bikes and bags in the smoggy haze.

With only our fading headlamps for illumination it was a thrilling ride into Thamel, arguably the most nerve racking of the trip. Our senses were flooded with smells, smog, honking and the jarring road but not the sight that would have made the journey less of a hazard.

We dodged speeding buses swerving on the wrong side of the road, and throngs of pedestrians who jumped clear as we burst from the night. Safe to say pulses were racing and hearts were in our mouths.

With luck and some navigational kill on Michi’s part we chanced upon our hotel, relieved beyond belief that we’d made it through the dangerous but thrilling experience of a Kathmandu rush-hour night ride.

It took more than a few lemon teas to settle our nerves but looking back I’m proud of how we handled to situation. Plus, if we hadn’t bailed on the bus we’d probably be still sitting in the traffic queue outside Kathmandu.

Day 18: Hangin’ in Pokhara

2010-10-22T13:17:00.000-07:00

Starting the day with a breakfast burrito from Mike’s restaurant (a Pokhara institution) we enjoyed delicious freshly squeezed OJ while watching the locals board row boats for work on the other side of the lake. Picturesque wouldn’t begin to describe the scene.

Sunrise over colourful boats on Lake Pokhara

Then it was off to do mundane things like picking up laundry, catching up on e-mails and a few last minute bargains (sunglasses and a jacket) from an authentic Nepalese fake goods merchant.

Once sorted we decided to head off on a cruisy recovery ride to explore the Pokhara that is so popular with tourists. Clearly we were suckers for punishment, as the ride quickly distorted into a granny gear sweat- fest timed to coincide with the worst mid-day heat.

Climbing the road to the World Peace Pagoda proved more strenuous than initially anticipated, but once finally at the sacred Buddhist site the breathtaking and strangely peaceful views helped quell spiking heart rates.

World Peace Pagoda above Pokhara

The Annapurna range which we had been so close to only days prior was peeking through the clouds and made a dazzling backdrop. Yet again we were reminded of the sheer scale of these mountains.

Gigantic mountains peeking through the clouds

Leaving for some well earned downhill the trail took us down a step laden descent to a dead end. It seems that even on our day off we were destined to carry our bikes, and 15 minutes of toil brought us back up the hill to where we had started the descent.

View down to Lake Pokhara from the peace Pagoda

To save more hard work in the oppressive heat we descended the scary fast access road which was nuggety enough to fulfil the need for sketchy speed.

Rolling back into town, a bakery lunch and nap prepared us for a night on the town, Pokhara style. We were joined by some Swiss-Australian friends we’d serendipitously met in Pokhara after initially meeting on the trail at Thorong Phedi.

Beginning with a return to the steakhouse for half a cow worth of steak, we then attempted to hire a boat but were refused, the proprietor of the rental service citing fading light. Undeterred we danced up a storm to a local DJ’s beats, cutting shapes to a terrific light show complete with lazers and smoke machines. A fitting end to our time in Pokhara.

Up early tomorrow for 6 hour bus to Kathmandu.

Page 17: Jhinu to Pokhara

2010-10-22T13:07:00.000-07:00

The view down the valley as we roll out of the Annapurna sanctuary

Leaving the awesome Green View Guest Lodge after now standard issue Tibetan bread, lemon tea and porridge breakfast it was off down some more insanely steep stairs to a bridge, then up some even steeper stairs till we reached some wicked rideable singletrack. I had the overwhelming feeling that we were descending into the energy sapping mug of the tropical jungle and not since Besi Sahar or Tatopani had the overwhelming sensation of sweat drenched exertion been felt.

Looking back to the mountains we are saying goodbye to

Thankfully the singletrack portions were off the scale, striking an excellent balance between gnar and rideability. Rocky with the odd climbing pinch and a smattering of features like waterfalls, steps and exposed edges to keep the fun factor high.

Michi on the trail

Today we saw some ingenious water powered contraptions, utilising a resource the Nepalese obviously have no shortage of. A hydro pipeline with a solid 100m head and a more primitive grain grinding mill were both perched on the track edge so begged for a sneaky inspection.

A hydro-powered grain mill on the trail

Stopping for a pizza and momo lunch (our last Annapurnan indulgence) made the final leg a gut wrenching battle, every acceleration met with a puff of half digested momo gas. Riding out from Nyapul and the culture shock hit us, honking taxis and buses and all manner of traders hocking wares shattered the alpine tranquillity of the last two weeks.

The solid 15km climb was a welcome reprieve, its gradual gradient and sweeping switchbacks making for an enjoyable final hurdle. I even got to test my new set of altitude enhanced lungs with some uphill motorpacing from one of the dirty local buses.

The view down to Lake Pokhara from the top of the hill

An equally epic 15km descent and Pokhara began to take shape, the odd house becoming an apartment block until we were in a hectic haze reminiscent of Kathmandu all those days ago.

For dinner we fulfilled a long held desire for animal protein, demolishing what must have been a 500g steak at the Everest Steak house. Ice-cream sundaes capped off a fine meal, and now having retired to our soft hotel beds (with working hot showers) we can begin to reflect on the experiences we’ve had.

Day 16: Annapurna Base Camp to Jhinu

2010-10-22T12:57:00.000-07:00

Sun rising over the Annapurna range

After a rough night sleep in the storeroom at the Base Camp lodge where we were periodically woken by clanging pots and the manager describing the blanket distribution process we awoke to catch the sunrise over the most amazing mountain scene I’ve ever laid eyes on. Wall to wall 7000m+ peaks all glowing in the light of the fresh day. Again my efforts to capture the scene on film won’t do the scene any sort of justice.

The sacred mountain of Machapuchre in the morning light

On beginning our descent it struck me how here in Nepal the land doesn’t really seem to rise up to the mountains as in New Zealand. Already insanely high at 4100m, peaks still tower above us as if the impossibly high ridges were invented as a joke, the near vertical slopes of ice clinging to rock left to match the 3000m step the valleys below.

An actual Himilayan mountain goat

Fresh as it was, we set off briskly stopping only to take snaps of the sacred Machapuchre from new angles. We were on fine form as we half skipped, jumped and ran from village to village. Stopping only to pass pole flailing trekkers or to mock the travel times listed at guest house murals.

In short we managed the ten hour trek in under six, albeit with some aching calves for our troubles.

Michi was blisteringly fast in the morning, but faded by lunch, still managing to ascend the countless stairs up to Chhomrong with typical pluck. One porter described my climbing style as ‘like a goat’ during a daring rock move to pass the porter’s train. I’m taking it as a compliment.

Michi doing his best mountain goat impersonation

Pizza lunch at Chhomrong was followed by bike collection then a blat down the hill (steep unrideable stairs) to Jhinu. Hot pools failed to live up to the high standard set by Tatopani but were still heaven on fatigued muscles. All that is left is an epic dinner of momos, chocolate cake for desert, then to bed for our final day in the Annapurna sanctuary. The ride out to Pokhara shouldn’t be too strenuous and we plan to take heed advice to seek the most rideable western route.

Day 15: Chhomrong to Annapurna Base Camp

2010-10-21T18:30:00.000-07:00

Ditching our bikes proved to be one of our smarter moves as much of the trail was composed of flight after flight of steep stairs that would have reduced us to a grovelling carry.

Perilously steep steps on the way to Annapurna Base Camp

Michi and I were infact quite the speed trekkers, ditching 15kg of bikes and gear left us with a spring in our steps, and we typically took half the expected time posted on map boards in villages along the way. We half powered through Bamboo, Himalaya, Deurali to Machapuchre Base Camp, then finally Annapurna Base Camp, 2000m above our starting point of Chhomrong.

A waterfall crossing the trail

Lunch in Deurali heralded a delicious cheese and tomato pizza. Plenty of cheese and some herbs made for a delicious treat, here on the southern side of the Annapurnas they don’t seem to hold back on the cheese as they do on the North side. Whilst descending to a river crossing and attempting a hot line I slipped on some steep scree and diced my hand and elbow, but both seem to be healing well already. Funny that after two weeks of the arguably more dangerous act of mountain biking, it took a casual walk for me to lose some skin.

Hiker Ollie looks up the valley to Machapuchre

It seems we are both well acclimatised as I felt no effects like shortness of breath and could smash it up the hill.

The final stretch was in light rain then hail, but through the mist we spotted herds of black and white sheep, the odd struggling trekker and finally the bright blue corrugated iron of the Base Camp guest houses. Apparently the place is booked out so we are double bunking in a storeroom (head to tail). Prices here are ridiculous (500 Rupee Coke) but this is obviously the price of luxury at 4130m.

Prayer flag covered climbers memorial at Annapurna Base Camp

At base camp itself the air is chilly but once clouds had cleared we braved the wind to take photos galore. When the cool proved too much to bear we ducked inside for a game of chess, and even a sneaky chapter or two from a book I found in the restaurant called ‘Hullabaloo on the Guava Orchard’ – Seems good. A book is something that I wish I’d brought along, as a few chapters of reading is a great way to pass the downtime between dinner and napping.

Clouds roll over the south face of Annapurna

Bracing for the cold night we are glad to have brought our winter sleeping bags and have layered up with a couple of polypro layers just to be safe. A light breakfast of porridge (all we can afford on our tight high altitude budget) and then we’ll be off to pick up our bikes in Chhomrong. There is even talk of hot pools at Jhinu. Nice!

Day 14: Ghorepani to Chhomrong

2010-10-20T16:28:00.000-07:00

Himalayan sunrise over Poon Hill

Ignoring a kerfuffle downstairs at 4AM we maximised all important sleep time and woke at 5:30AM for a 20 minute dash to the peak of nearby Poon Hill, just in time to watch the sun rise over endless ranges of the most beautiful mountains one could imagine. What seemed like 500 people had all awoken before us and crowded the peak, all trying desperately to capture the moment in stunning digital clarity. It is moments like this when I wonder if it isn’t better to just live the moment rather than trying to capture the uncapturable. Quite simply no photo could do this Himalayan sunrise scene justice.

Photographers capturing their own portion of the sunrise's slendour

Back down to our lodge for a round of porridge and Tibetan bread and we were off again, this time with bikes in tow for what would turn out to be an awesome day of jungle singletrack on steeply undulating terrain.

Michi on morning's the climb from Ghorepani

Parts of today’s ride reminded me of sections of Nelson’s Black Diamond ridge. Root strewn sections with soil eroded away made for plenty of chain ring-obstacle interaction. A big squishy bike would have been the ticket but our short travel 29er hardtails still fared surprisingly well. Anything too steep to ride usually had a raggedy set of stairs with a death cliff at the end which gave ample motivation for playing it safe.

Michi on the descent to Chhomrong

Flight after flight of stairs with a sprinkling of perfect singletrack was the order of the day.

After one section I noted a leg of my Freeload buzzing the tire, so stopped to realign it. A rare lapse in an otherwise commendable performance by the rack so far. Michi opted to tighten his straps only he cranked the webbing so hard it tore. Some ingenious use of a belt and we were rolling again.

Lunch was a delicious potato, vegetable and cheese number, and afterwards I entertained our hosts (at their request) with a daring display of trials riding. He recorded it on his camera phone but made no promises to make me the next You-tube hit.

Ollie carves a corn field turn

More descent and more climbing and we’d made our goal of Chhomrong. Tomorrow we plan to drop bikes for a speed trek to the Annapurna Base Camp, as all reports are that this out and back section would be a nightmare on wheels.

Day 13: Tatopani to Ghorepani

2010-10-20T16:18:00.000-07:00

On leaving our quaint accommodation the Namaste Lodge at 8AM, Michi offered the young boy who helped out at the lodge a ride on his El Padrino. The boy was beaming and clearly Michi’s kind gesture had made his day.

Turning off the road and back onto the trail we immediately began to be pestered by children selling fruit including green oranges and some of the blackest bananas I’ve seen. Never an issue on other parts of the trail, here our irritation was no doubt magnified by the tropical clamminess we were climbing through, limbs glistening and helmet juice falling from our heads like rain.

Michi slogs out the steps to Ghorepani

Fortunately, the higher we got the more a breeze made its presence felt and the bike carrying became less of a chore. Steps were the unifying theme of the day, but with our carry techniques dialled from the early sections of the trek it didn’t faze us.

Michi demonstrating his effortless carrying technique

Lunch was at the Dhulghiri View Lodge where an absent minded waiter neglected to write down my order, resulting in a longer than intended (although not unpleasant) wait in the sun.

A sign at lunch reckoned the final stretch at two hours, but an hour later we had huffed and puffed our way to Ghorepani. Here I note a softer breed of trekking tourist, many opting for the bus ride and day walk from Pokhara.

A donkey train gets on the feed bags outside our lodge

The pleasure of dry boots while trekking cannot be put in words, and while the numerous river crossing of yesterday had overcome the leather/Gore-Tex combination the dry conditions up high today had kick started the toe dehydration process. While they didn’t quite dry out today I hold out hope they will soon.

Tomorrow we rise at sparrow’s fart to conquer the 30 minute Poon Hill trek, hoping to catch the unrivalled views of the Annapurna range and Dhulghiri illuminated by the rising sun.

Day 12: Muktinath to Tatopani

2010-10-20T16:13:00.000-07:00

Waking to sunshine through condensation soaked glass, we had both enjoyed one of the best sleeps thus far, the combined effects of food coma, the previous day’s epic descent, lower altitudes and fading man flus.

Another epic breakfast and we were off down the hill, descending steeply on what could loosely be described as a road, more a rough four wheel drive track littered with rocks and dust. Our Ventana 29ers were in their element on these fast roads, squashing potholes and loose rocks and shredding past trekkers, tractors and tourist laden jeeps.

Michi pushes his bike through a washed out section of road

The sheer diversity of landscape we ended up passing through today was amazing. Starting in eroded high altitude hills where the only sign of moisture was in deep scoured gullies, gradually the land got greener and wetter till trees started to appear, then forests and finally the thick rainforest we find ourselves in here in Tatopani.

Michi riding the cliff edge road to Tatopani

A common theme across each landscape were herds of goats being brought down from high up for the yearly Dashain festival. Not something the goats themselves probably celebrate given it begins with a marathon walk and ends with them in a curry.

Goats on their way downhill

In Jomsom the goats had red dots on their backs and horns as wide as DH bars, while lower down they were skittery as pinballs, much to the chagrin of their herders.

Almost by accident we spotted the sign for the world’s deepest gorge on today’s ride. Turns out gorges are measured from the high surrounding peaks. The gorge itself was a bit of a non-event, but with the awesome 8000m+ height of the Annapurnas to the east and Dhulghiri to the west it clearly deserved its world beating status.

Looking down to Andha gorge; the world's deepest

Tatopani is a hidden gem on the Annapurna circuit. Arriving at 3PM we hit the hot pools which rival the best in New Zealand for laid back ambience. Sipping now reasonably priced Cokes we soaked in the warmth with a handful of fellow trekkers. When heat grew unbearable we would cool off with a hose bringing water from the raging torrent of a river only metres away.

The view to Nilgiri South from Tatopani

I’m trying the famed Nepali dish of Dal Bhat for the first time tonight. The bottomless lentil/rice combination should be more than sufficient to fuel us for the biggest single climb of the trip so far, up to Ghorepani, a gruelling 1700m above us.

Day 11: Thorong Phedi to Muktinath via Thorong La Pass

2010-10-20T16:00:00.000-07:00

An early start with a light breakfast of honey porridge (the best so far) and jam toast. We choked back our Diamox, packed our bags and began the slog to High Camp, making it there in just under an hour. While this first section was too rocky to ride, a more pressing concern was the tingly pins-and-needles sensation that robbed my digits of their function. A documented side effect of the Diamox formed a tag team with the frozen air, dropping a painful body slam on my ability to grip and forcing me to push me bike upwards with only my palms.

While waiting for Michi at high camp the pain grew to an excruciating degree, as if my digits were about to explode. Hastily retrieving Cactus SPG gloves from my pack I swapped out riding gloves for these toasty numbers and with extensive use of spirit fingers the pain started to fade. By the time we were pushing again my fingers had returned to normal and I could focus on the challenging but and occasionally rideable trail to the pass.

Michi soldiers on to the pass

Surprisingly, breathing was not too laboured, although the fact that a yak train following the same route dropped me was a humbling sign that I couldn’t match the blistering pace of these large Nepalese mammals. An hour in the riding got really good, as I was able to follow the narrow bench that had been compacted into the scree by so many trekkers and porter trains.

Yaks leading the charge to Thorong La

Spinning the final gradual climb to the pass and as I crested the summit a tangle of prayer flags signalled I’d made it. Clearly a celebratable accomplishment as flags were a metre deep in places, filling the barren pass with a vibrant and joyful energy.

Clumps of prayer flags signal our arrival at the pass

Michi was some way back, battling with the altitude and recent case of the runs, but when he finally made the top we celebrated with a block of chocolate and a call to both our families on the Speck’s satellite phone. Both families seemed pretty surprised to hear where we were calling from.

Ollie calls home from the pass

Gathering extensive photo evidence of our feat, we rugged up and dropped into the biggest gears our Rohloff’s could muster to begin the 1600m vertical descent. Growing in a crescendo of gnarl, the trail was never more than 2 feet wide and always littered with jagged scree ranging from toaster to kidney bean sized. Periodically we would stop and swap position in the train, primarily to give searing brake pads a chance to cool, but also to allow the other person to get photo and video footage capturing the feats of riding bravado against the immeasurably beautiful backdrop.

Michi shreds it down to Muktinath

Jaw dropping mountains were never in short supply, with Dhulghiri (7th highest in the world) forming a perfect triangular icon, and the rapidly expanding villages still a thousand metres below giving culture to the gnar. To my great surprise all of the trail bar two yak affected switchbacks were rideable, so as we buzzed into Muktinath at 1PM the stoke level was pretty high.

Ollie hooks a turn above Muktinath

Such an intense and draining descent was of course followed by a nap, then a stroll around the temple that gives the town its name. Water played a large role at this holy site, powering prayer wheels and a 108 spout fountain where we watched a strange cleansing ritual.

Some of the 108 fountain spouts at the Muktinath temple

On the cards tomorrow is another 2600m descent, but the 62km it is stretched over should be easier on the nerves and braking fingers than today’s memorable ride.

Day 10: Manang to Thorong Phedi

2010-10-19T18:20:00.000-07:00

We pre-ordered a proven winner in the Yeti Hotel’s set breakfast, which made for a lightning fast 7:30AM getaway. In no time we were riding the smooth rocky steps out of town, with liberal bell use required to scatter the morning donkey trains.

Michi rides skyward from Manang

The skyward ride was surprisingly and enjoyably very ridable, only the odd gravelly pinch requiring a bit of extra grunt and an associated fit of puffing on completion.

Yak Yakara was where we spied our first of the woolliest of Himalayan mammals, the Yak. They were sunning themselves on the grassy slopes and posed non chalantly for photos.

Yak poses at Yak Yakara

We also witnessed a battle royale between mountain goats, clashing horns in a war for supremacy over the stinky herd. Michi and I placed bets on our favourite but the battle ended in a draw as they fled the scene.

Goats clash for herd supremacy

This high up there was a significant drop in trail traffic, with only the odd porter. A coke now costs eight times what it did in Kathmandu so porters that do make the effort are hopefully rewarded.

Big wheels monstering the trail to Thorong Phedi

We had planned to take the whole day to get to our destination but rolled into Thorong Phedi at 11:30AM, deciding to settle in with a game of chess over a pot of lemon tea.

The quality library at our guest house had clearly been established by people with time to kill acclimatising and was stocked with everything from Stephen King to Seven Years in Tibet (the book). I even garnered some sneaky tips from a guidebook for the Annapurna Trek.

One rather alarmingly reported that at least two days acclimatisation was the norm for this final section of the trek. Still feeling fine apart from the odd tingly appendage; a side effect of the Diamox we are taking to keep altitude sickness at bay.

Mist shrouded cliffs at Thorong Phedi

In the afternoon I braved the chill mountain air to get some pictures of the amazing cliffs and ranges surrounding us. One especially awesome use of prayer flags had them strung over a 100 metre canyon, and one could only speculate what combination of extreme rockclimbing or explosive devices had put the flags in place.

Guest lodge at Thorong Phedi, note insane prayer flag string in top right

We hit the hay early for an early breakfast and 6AM start to push for Thorong La pass then Muktinath arguably our biggest day so far.

Day 9: Acclimatising in Manang

2010-10-19T18:07:00.000-07:00

In a first for the trip, the day began with an epic sleep in (almost till 8:30AM) when the sun’s rays bearing down o us from down the valley proved too powerful for our room’s feeble curtains.

Breakfast was a similarly laid back affair, toast with peanut butter and jam, an omelette, Manang potatoes and lemon tea.

A typical guest house in Manang complete with flowering potatoes out front

A young man we befriended yesterday informed us that Manang is famed for the quality of its potatoes, which are carried by donkey to fetch a high price in Kathmandu. A fried potato concoction at lunch confirmed the pedigree of the spuds beyond doubt.

We set off on a leisurely trek to a nearby viewpoint that gave even more gawk to the already literally breathtaking vistas. Up a steep series of switchbacks we passed strings of prayer flags that had just begun to flutter in the morning breeze.

Prayer flags flutter above Manang

Rather judgementally these flags had seemed like a bastardised cultural icon embraced by alternative lifestylers looking to add some Tibetan chic to their decor. But in this mountainous setting, and with the sun illuminating their greens, blues, whites, yellows and reds, I began to grasp some of their deeper meaning.

Ollie in hiking mode admires the view

Topping out at a curious grove of papery barked trees we sat in reflection before beginning a sedate descent back to Manang. Originally we had hoped to explore some caves at nearby Bakra, but a closer inspection of the map revealed they were back up at 4000m!

Instead of this we opted for a nap, then unburdened our steeds for some riding on the steep loose switchback of this morning’s walk.

Armed with Michi’s Fujifilm and my Sony Cybershot dodglily converted to a helmet cam, I played riding model for the afternoon, pushing then riding sections multiple times to get the perfect shot of shredding the scenic gnar.

Ollie shredding the gnar down to Manang

Riding downhill back to Manang was a cruisy way to end the day before we returned to the Yeti Hotel to get gear and bikes sorted for our climb to Thorong Phedi (the foot of Thorong) tomorrow. We are both feeling well rested and ready for whatever the mountain can throw at us.

Day 8: Timang to Manang

2010-10-19T17:48:00.000-07:00

The day kicked off in spectacular fashion, with a rideable descent followed by a ridable climb, a combination of length and ridability we’d not yet experienced on the trail so far.

Super Sherpa and friends

On crossing a swing bridge between descent and climb we came across a porter that set the ‘hard core’ bar at a new level. His load was no less than four single mattresses and at least 40 cans, all perched precariously on his back. The complaints we had made about the weight and awkwardness of our loaded bikes seemed trivial in the company of this super Sherpa.

Michi gawks at mountains

As far as riding went, the trail just kept getting better. Always climbing towards the ever present peaks, lush rain forest gave way to conifer forest and then onto barren plains and eroded cliffs reminiscent of the South Island’s Molesworth station.

Ollie on a rocky section of trail

Finally arriving at Chame (only two days behind schedule) we came across a game of volleyball that had captured the attention of the entire town, allowing us to sneak through in relative obscurity.

Ollie crossing a bridge before Pisang

At Pisang, a beautiful hamlet perched beside a mountain river, we spied locals using mountain bikes for the first time. Clearly the changing trail made bicycles the preferred mode of transport, trumping even the mighty donkey.

Lunch in the sun allowed me to discover yet another gustatory delight in the form of the Tibetan Momo. These miniature crescent shaped pastries were filled with vegetables, eggs and delicious sauce. Steamed or fried they were sure to become the preferred source of calories.

The high altitude architecture of Pisang

As our elevation crept higher, the architecture also changed. Makeshift corrugated iron cladding gave way to hand hewn stone and planed timber milled using jigs not seen in New Zealand for almost half a century.

Finishing the day in Manang at 3450m so far the altitude has treated us kindly. The only ill effect to report so far is a severe shortness of breath when I attempt something silly like mashing up a particularly steep section.

Ollie cresting a climb close to Manang

The mountains surrounding us now and visible right outside our window are all consuming, with 8000m + peaks seemingly within a stone’s throw.

Manang sports its own quaint cinema complete with squashed yak rug. We watched the movie adaptation of J Krakauer’s ‘Into Thin Air’, and this served as a grim and chilling tale of the folly of mountain climbing. Our plan is to spend a day in Manang acclimatising before pushing for the highpoint of Thorong La the following day.

Day 7: Chamje to Timang

2010-10-19T17:39:00.000-07:00

Setting off bright and early at 7:30AM, the guest house’s lack of toast forcing us to discover the greasy wonders of Tibetan bread. A pan-fried dough which is very satisfying if slathered with sufficient jam.

Michi tucks into a Tibetan bread for breakfast

Unrideable stairway climbs gave way to nuggety descents that proved beyond our ability. While I’m kicking myself for not riding some of these sections, my desire to ride was tempered by the lack of emergency medical treatment. Hospitals seemed as readily available as a spinner hub-cap kit for your donkey train (i.e. not very accessible.)

A donkey train without spinner hub-caps

Crossing a swing bridge we stopped for a curry lunch, using the sun’s glowing rays to dry our soggy clothes and fuel a post lunch nap.

Back on the bikes the trail took a turn for the better, the stretch to Timang being the most ridable since yesterday morning. For what seemed like hours we spun away up the climbs, which were a refreshingly consistent gradient and free from the bane of our forearms; steps.

Ollie rolls up a rideable section of the trail

The elevation robbing undulations of earlier had vanished and we clawed up almost 1000m of climbing by the day’s end.

When in a sweaty and oxygen indebted haze one particular charm of the small villages is beginning to grate. The constant donkey and buffalo traffic plasters the trail with dung. This attracts flies and a rancid stench that make some sections sickening. Fortunately it usually clears up outside the villages, and clear mountain air is usually only a few pedal strokes away.

Michi crosses a swingbridge, a river raging below

Midway through the afternoon at Danakyu we met an Austrian engineer tasked with advising a local team on a 150 Megawatt hydroelectricity project. While geographical and resource constraints were profound I couldn’t help picking up on some complaints which wouldn’t be out of place at the consultancy where I work. It seems the lack of a detailed scope especially is an issue the world over.

Michi endures a final carry section before Timang

We realised today that our 1000 Nepalese Rupees per day budget is at odds with our ambitious distance goals, so have made the call to err on the side of full stomachs lest we waste away. Part of maximising value has led to a new found passion for tea drinking, something the Nepalese take seriously. Lemon tea is a particular favourite and we can’t seem to order a meal without a steaming pot of the good stuff to wash it down.

We are still yet to make Chame which we had hoped to do on the first day, but all reports are that the sections to the pass are all rideable so we retired to bed in Timang with spirits as high as our elevation.

Day 6: Besi Sahar to Chamje

2010-10-18T17:55:00.000-07:00

Today’s start was slightly delayed as the ferocious appetite of yesterday clearly carried over. Part of the blame can go to miscommunication as the waiter misunderstood our egg request & brought us 2 omelettes each. Extravagence.

Hitting the trail with only a brief stop to get permits checked and the road immediately became nuggety, a great relief after two days on the ‘road’. Straight away we started reeling in fluro-clad trekkers, my bar mounted bell proving a boon for subtly alerting them to our presence.

Ollie crosses an axle deep river with a grimace

Michi braves the monsoon fed torrent while a local stares

Stopping to get permits stamped again we descended a set of stairs leading to a swing bridge, the gathering throngs of villagers giving Michi some dutch courage to ride a set of stairs with great gusto. Unfortunately he lost is front tire on a slippery step and took a dirt nap. A less than ideal start.

Michi adopts the carry

Crashes aside, after the plain sailing of the first section, we were shocked to discover that the proceeding morning would be filled with steep stairs that forced us to shoulder our steeds and grovel up the hills. Come lunchtime it was wearing thin, but a plate of vegetable fried rice and a rousing downhill set the tone for an upbeat afternoon.

Not even a malfunctioning Rohloff (which reduced Michi to one gear) or a slit sidewall on my rear tire could quash the buzz of the views and trails we were being treated to.

Michi gets a push from some friendly locals

In an enduring theme of friendly locals, we befriended some children who gave us moral and physical support up one of the steepest pinches. We also met a young Iranian on holiday who induced cross cultural hysterics when he imitated the sleeping pose of a trail side dog.

Our Iranian friend mimics a trailside dog

One the darker side, the litter and trash of both locals and tourists still seems to mar the vistas, and the pushy demands for candy or money from some children is starting to wear thin.

Our final stop was about half our planned distance, the sheer undulation making our blind plans too ambitious, even after 9 hours of riding. Chamje however is amazing. Perched atop a cliff opposite a 100m waterfall whose sheer thunderous flow causes resonance of our room windows.

We are using sleeping bags for the first time, with plenty of insect repellent to keep the bloodthirsty at bay.

Day 5: Kurintar to Besi Sahar

2010-10-18T13:53:00.000-07:00

All smiles as we hit the road

Breakfast of porridge, toast and pancakes gave way to a slightly delayed 8:30AM departure, some bike fettling required to install a rear brake pad that had been overwhelmed by the road gunk of yesterday.

Off on the road we were setting a cracking pace, taking advantage of the morning sun which cast a warm light on the tropical vistas surrounding us.

Michi rides past luminous rice paddies

Some foliage was so luminous that it was almost as if it had been freshly painted and was waiting to dry. This was a sure sign that the recently finished monsoon season had done wonders for the local crops. We’d timed our trip to perfection as attempting the route we’d chosen during the monsoon would have been akin to riding our bikes across a fire fighting equipment testing field.

The first time through Dumre we rode straight past the unmarked turnoff, only it wasn’t until the wrong side of a 600m climb that we realised our error. Back tracking 13km we made the turn, but by now the heat had become oppressive.

A pale skinned person of Swiss origin, Michi was more at home in the cool mountain air rather than the smothering heat blanket of the jungle, and began to melt into the road mirages. I too was suffering, a curious tingling in my feet spreading to my face, perhaps an early symptom of heat stroke.

Along the road we befriended a group of Nepalese high school kids who offered us a Sherpa style push up a steep section of road. We were stoked to learn they knew of Ed Hilary, and discussed what they had learnt today at school while we filled our water bladders from a roadside hose.

Our school age sherpas after their generous push

Stopping at a river to cool off feet and heads, I saw a snake, lizard, ants, dragon flies, spiders and a cow, all in one shady nook of the river. The sheer diversity of life in a small section of this tropical region was dazzling.

A dragon fly joins us to rest in the cool beside the river

Fortunately the Nepalese had revised their minimalist road signage policy to include distance markers, so counting down the kilometres it was with great relief when we pulled into Besi Sahar, booking a room at the Tukuche Peak hotel, the first clean lodgings we found.

An epic dinner ensued and the days ardours melted away in a mist of Fanta, fried rice, burger and naan bread. It was a hard day on the road, and tomorrow we begin the trail proper. We’ve a 2000m difference in height between Besi Sahar and Chamche, with hopefully not too many undulations in between. Today we made the error of skipping lunch, and 8 hours of riding on three Mountain man bars brought me to within a gnat’s whisker of the dreaded bonk. Dinner was however that much sweeter!

Day 4: Kathmandu to Kurintar

2010-10-17T17:50:00.000-07:00

I awoke to Kathmandu’s curious dawn chorus. Barking dogs gave way to screeching birds then the occasional howl of monkeys, all set to a gradual crescendo of blaring car horns. The soundtrack of Kathmandu.

We fought jet-lag with a solid sleep in, which seems to have knocked my man flu on its arse. Breakfast of porridge, toast and tea filled in the time while we waited for our permits. The minutes and hours ticked by as our impatience grew, itching to escape the din. The 10AM time got pushed back to 11, and only by 12 did we have permits in hand and could finally hit the road.

Ventanas ready to roll.

Ollie waits (im)paitently

The delay had pushed our schedule back so we frantically set off through the hustle to Besi Sahar, some 170km away. Leaving the city, buildings thinned and the stench changed from the exhaust of vehicles to that of animals as we climbed a hill signalling the edge of Kathmandu.

Trucks and busses appeared to be backed up so an intense game of bicycle tetris ensued. Riding across the centreline or ducking through handlebar wide gaps in the queue when trucks came perilously close.

Jammed for about 10km, traffic appeared to only be stopped for a single work crew collecting gravel from the roadside. I couldn’t help thinking that such whimsical traffic management would cause some highly strung kiwi to flip out in violent display of road rage. The Nepalese were content to sit in their vehicles and chill, smiling and waving as we rode past.

Ollie smiles despite the dampness

Rain fell but the air was warm so we continued to clock up the miles, stopping only to secure a floppy dry bag to Michi's Freeload & removing a screeching brake pad spring.

About 3 hours in to the ride Michi began to fade so we reassessed our ambitious distance goal.

Michi during a dryer section of the ride

As luck would have it, about 5:30PM just as dusk was settling we came across a dry oasis in the rain, the Riverside Springs Resort. Rooms were luxury and the promise of hot showers and dinner made the exorbitant room rate seem reasonable.

Dinner was rice themed, with fried rice and rice pudding washed down with a banana lassi. A brief scout for after dinner entertainment proved fruitless, so we retired to our rooms for a deep contented sleep, joined by the local reptilian population who clung to the inside of the window screens.

Lizards on the windows at the Luxury Riverside Spirngs Resort

Day 3: Singapore to Kathmandu

2010-10-17T16:36:00.000-07:00

Waking at 4:30AM in a fit of coughing, we struggled through the jet-lag induced haze to board the MRT for the airport. Even at this ungodly hour we were sweating like sieves 10 minutes in, loaded to the gunnels with bike boxes and packs. The train didn’t arrive for 30 min, so we wiled away the time in air conditioned comfort.

Changi airport is the best I’ve come across so far in my travels, with a full range of services and some great architecture. Our flight was on Silk Air, and with none of the high class trimmings of Singapore Airlines I scalped a copy of the excellent Financial Times newspaper for entertainment. Inflight entertainment consisted of soundless repeats of funniest home videos which kept Michi in stitches.

Bikes dwarf our taxi from Kathmandu airport

On trying to pass through immigration we were informed that our money was no good for buying a visa, and only the almighty US dollar was valid. Sneaking ahead Michi enlisted the assistance of a tourist police officer and a trekking guide who kindly offered to lend us the visa money. Given I’d recently been the victim of a taxi scam in Chile, I was acutely aware of our vulnerability. No such scam eventuated in Nepal and our friend helped us out of the kindness of his heart. He even covered our taxi fare, found us a hotel after the place we’d booked denied our existence and sorted us out with permits for the trek. We’d be staying at the Hotel Blue Diamond, one of Kathmandu’s finest at $20 USD a night!

Ducks, dogs and children get down in the Kathmandu garbage

Arriving in Kathmandu and the contrasts with Singapore immediately hit us. While sterile is the word I’d use to describe where we departed from, filthy came to mind in Kathmandu. A raucous cacophony of honking horns and hazy smog greeted us in Thamel.

Traffic chaos and the web of a giant electrical spider

The streets blended foot traffic with cars scooters and bikes with no designated lanes making for an initially harrowing experience. Once we learned to hold our line and emit an air of staunch, walking about was pretty trouble free.

Stocking up for the trek we scored some sweet Foakleys and a genuine Mammut puffer jacket for $5 and $60 respectively, but not without some cut throat bartering with plenty of use of the threat to walk away. They are going to send us the warrantees. We also sourced a box of muesli bars and a roll of TP each from the supermarket, both western luxuries which we’d struggle to find on the trek.

A frenetic dusk ride on the bikes fulfilled our thirst for adventure; some of the scenes put NY’s famously reckless couriers to shame.

Our first Nepalese meal was a curry from the dodgy hotel restaurant, and with 170km on the cards tomorrow we hit the hay, stoked to finally be escaping civilisation.

Day 2: Chillin’ in Singapore

2010-10-17T15:34:00.000-07:00

Our day began with a strange (but complimentary) breakfast of corn, cornflakes, pasta bake and ‘chicken’ sausage. We left the cool cocoon of our hostel and entered the city, already sweltering at 9AM. Walking around the high tech shopping district to source some computer parts for a family member, it struck us that nothing really happened before 11AM. We amused ourselves by trying to locate a store selling graphics cards, starting from the top of a 15 story tower and working our way down. We were unsuccessful but vowed to return to complete our quest later.

A walk to Singapore’s latest architectural monstrosity; The Marina Bay Sands, was next on our agenda. Effectively a stylised boat resting atop three gigantic towers, inspiration could have come from biblical tales of Noah, the flotilla of merchant chips discharging bilge in the adjacent bay, or just the Las Vegas financier’s desire to have a massive boat on top of massive towers.

The Marina Bay Sands in all its boat/towery glory

We paid our $20 to ride a lift to the boat for a breathtaking view of the skyline, and it was easy to see how Singapore packed so many people into such a small space, with high rises stretching into the haze.

Singapore skyline from the Bay Sands

When we grew tired of gawking at the view and watching the wealthy families indulge in the endless pool, we decided to find some water for ourselves as the heat had now become crippling. We’d heard that the Sentosa Island Resort was the place to head to, so boarded the MRT for the end of the line. Here we were confronted with a mall on roids, a muzac playing beast whose sole purpose was to fulfil the consumerist urges of seemingly everyone in Singapore.

Stopping for lunch we were tempted by a sushi train offering all manner of Japanese treats. Spotting a flyer for a buffet we hastily took a seat and began indulging. By the time we got to 25 plates we felt we had definitely got our money’s worth and could hear the chefs complaints as they struggled to keep the train stocked.

Michi feels the cumulative effects of 25 plates of sushi

On receiving the bill we were shocked to discover that the buffet didn’t apply at this particular restaurant. Eighty dollars later we had learnt to read the fine print, and vowed to return to an applicable restaurant to have our delicious revenge.

Only to discover it wasn't actually a buffet!

Negotiating the mall melee we boarded a monorail for Sentosa which turned out to be resort based on hyper reality, complete with Segway rides and inflated ice-cream prices. Our need for water cooling overcame our concerns over water quality with the previously mentioned flotilla (the world’s largest) visible only a couple of hundred metres off shore.

While swimming we observed a couple of metal detector wielding weirdoes prowling the beach. Michi was convinced they were searching for the lost treasures of the orient, while I was certain that they were the resorts defence against sharp metal objects discarded on the beach, a relic of some previous PR disaster.

A day full of walking in the heat had left us sapped and dry. We both hope that Nepal will be a tad cooler and are amping to saddle up in Nepal and get out into the wilderness.

Day 1: Christchurch to Singapore

2010-10-17T15:28:00.000-07:00

Our plane ready for action on the Christchurch apron

Our departure from the autumnal chills of New Zealand went off with only minor mishaps. Michi had left behind our itinerary and schedule but quick thinking and even quicker response from our driver Nick meant we could relax. Travelling on Singapore Airlines, I was impressed by the plushness of the cabin space. While an aircraft cabin is as far from the most desirable place to be, good leg room and extensive inflight entertainment system quelled my desire to get up and jump about. It was quite a surprise when the pilot interrupted Charlie Wilson’s war to report with ear bleeding volume that we had begun our descent.

Our entry to Singapore was probably the easiest I’ve had to endure, the authorities putting our boxed bikes in the too hard basket and waving us through, a response seemingly at odds with their policy ‘death penalties for drug smugglers’ printed in red ink on the entry card.

Michi smiles through the travelling personal space violation that is the MRT

Boarding the MRT for downtown began as a quiet affair with only a dribble of airport commuters, but by the time we had reached the main line we were crammed in like sardines, our personal bubbles clearly violated by the sheer volume of Singaporeans. Their chagrin was evident as our bikes occupied the same space as approximately 6 metric persons, but we played the ignorant tourist card and felt their glares go right through us.

While Ollie zones out...

Up till now we had the pleasure of air conditioned carriages and buildings, but on departing the train we were flooded by the full sweaty reality of Singapore’s equatorial position. With no maps we set about lugging our bikes around the streets, eventually arriving at our hostel (complete with air conditioning) an hour and a bit later.

A quick shower and straight to bed, the cumulative effects of man flu, our slow roasting walk and jet lag taking their toll.

New design!

2010-09-16T21:53:00.000-07:00

With a bit of time to reflect on the joys the blog brought me over my time in Patagonia, I decided to treat it to a webular extreme makeover. The result can now be seen before your very eyes!

In other breaking news, Cactus Equipment have generously decided to support our Nepal expedition which leaves next Monday. Preparations are well underway, and we'll be carrying a heap of gear in Cactus' awesome Henry pack from their 'fast and light' series.

Mountain Pedaler out...

Week 11 Patagonia – The final countdown...

2010-08-29T07:15:00.000-07:00

To ensure continuity with the dreary theme of last week, we were again battered with the most appalling weather that Northern Patagonia could muster. Spirits were at an all time low during the week, but rather than bore you with verbose descriptions of the multitude of miseries we were put through I thought I’d share some entertaining sidebars that have helped us pass the time.

Speaking of time, it seems that our proximity to departure has conspired with the weather to slow the passage of days down to a crawl. Although I’ve been sans watch for the entirety of the trip the time keeping monkey residing deep within my hippocampus has slowed his cymbal banging to a once a minute thud. A stark contrast to the staccato beat that has till now underscored my time here in Chile.

Roof manjar in all its terrible glory

With the new crew well and truly settled, the crowded rooms have given rise to a sickening phenomenon which can only be described as roof manjar. Named for its resemblance to the Chilean delicacy first described back in week 5, this disgusting ceiling dwelling scum seems to grow overnight, achieving full coverage by the morning before shrinking back during daylight hours. The source of this phenomenon has left our crew’s best biological minds baffled, and the speculation over its origin has filled many hours of the working day with entertaining banter.

Perhaps the most exhilarating part of track building is rock rolling, which has always been the default option for extreme trampers looking to add some ‘pow!’ to their hike. This past week we have been working under bluffs, which pose a risk of rock fall but also a plenitude of roll able ammunition. We justify the destructive and exhilarating rolls by setting out to only roll rocks which pose a threat to the long term safety of the trail. The hard graft to dig out the boulders only serves to build anticipation, and with some brutal persuasion from rockbars, picks or spades, rocks finally topple end over end. They build speed before launching off rocks and careening off bluffs to the fields below, trees crashing in their wake. Rolling rocks awakens a primal amusement and it is usual to see the whole crew cease digging in favour of gawking at the destruction in morbid fascination.

Preparations to roll Behemoth are well underway

Last Friday while clearing a slip from a river side trail we happened the largest rock rolling candidate we had yet encountered and duly dubbed it the Behemoth. It took the best part of a morning to uncover the full girth and our best estimates put its heft in the order of four tonnes. It then took four good men with spades to edge it over the brink where rather than roll it slid, gaining momentum before a final lurch into the air and a splash into the river below. The demise of Behemoth was even captured on film, so all can relive the destruction in vivid multimedia colour.

Those who know well of my bike obsession will know I’m particularly fond of a certain fully suspended trail monster by the name of El Terremoto. He has performed flawlessly here in Chile and this past three months has topped off almost three years of good times shredding the gnarlier trails around NZ. The business running things here in Chile is buying up crew member’s bikes and offered a good price to part ways with the ‘moto. So the least I could for its faultless service was give it a solid scrub behind the ears removing the accumulated scum of 3 months of Patagonian winter. It’ll be sad to see the tail end of this awesome bike but his spirit will live on in a new bike based around an El Chucho frame. Combining the look-at-me rollability of a big wheel in the front with the tight wheelbase and ginga-whipping abilities of a 26er in the rear it should make for a deadly trail machine to rival the huckability of the ‘moto.

Accumulated gunk in the 'moto's chainrings.

Safe to say life in Chile had been far from easy!

This will be the final report from Patagonia but keep your eyes peeled for some adventures in the mountain bike meccas of Moab, Fruita and Winter Park, USA. Even more adventure is likely instore after that with a three week cycle touring mission along the Nepalese Annapurna circuit on the cards. Thanks for following my adventures so far and I hope to catch up with you all when I’m back in the relative warmth of New Zealand!

Mountain Pedaler out...

Week 10 – Patagonian weather strikes back

2010-08-22T07:34:00.000-07:00

A waterfall crossing one of the tracks. At times the rain felt like we were standing under it!

The omnipotent weather being struck again this week, as if sensing the proximity of our departure it replaced the pleasant weather of the last couple of weeks with ferocious gales and rain showers which we last experienced back in July. Still with only two weeks, the chance of cold digits and damp torsos is much easier to stomach, especially given the 11 weeks of hell the new crew could be in for.

While back home I’d be the first to question the originality of a discussion of weather (particularly in the hermetically sealed comfort of an office), the sheer extremeness of the weather here, not to mention the fact you are balls deep in it digging trails has lead me to hypocrisy for most of the Patagonian reports.

Like the trail troopers that we are we kept plugging away at building trails. The first part of the week was spent clearing the uphill trail of storm debris. Now fully ridable, it makes an enjoyable but strenuous commute to work. We then moved on to complete a downhill started by the crew working prior to us. Given it was dug in snowy conditions the track needed a bit of work widening benches and removing obstacles, while making better use of the trail features that we like rocks and logs. One particular rock slab required some rock work that would have stretched even the most avid stonecutter. Graham put his skills to work and using rock scattered about (the pinch was at the base of a 30m cliff) he crafted a set of ridable steps which led into the final segment of trail.

Graham rocks it out.

Another development which brightened the otherwise dreary days has been a major revision of the pann stick, first discussed back in week 5. By taking a single stem of cane, trimming it of leaves, then splitting the end 150mm, you are left with a weapon of mass toasting (WMT). This allows us to reach the desired level of toasting with none of the risk of pann loss inherent in earlier pan stick designs. Only two cases of pan loss were reported with this design (John’s rolling down a steep unrecoverable bank to the amusement of the other crew) so pann security is markedly improved.

Pann stick development underway.

Up till now, our crew had harboured a bitter resentment of cane bushes when they crossed the line of the track, such is the difficulty of removing the rubbery and extensive root systems of these exotic bushes. But now with this innovative (and patent pending) pann stick, this flora has garnered some new found respect.

Pann sticks in action. Note carying degrees of toastedness.

With two weeks (9 working days) of track building remaining the countdown has well and truly begun, and already I’m starting to reflect on the amazing experience I’ve had here in Patagonia. While working outside is a sure fire way to get wet and cold, the satisfaction of being able to shape trails as you see fit, not to mention the beauty of the natural surroundings has made for a thoroughly rewarding time. In a way, the adverse weather has served to heighten the experience, proving that one can survive in the worst that nature can muster without the modern comforts we have become cocooned within.

Mountain Pedaler out...

Week 9 Patagonia – Sunshine coming out our ears

2010-08-14T17:14:00.000-07:00

A sign mourns the burning of a tree in flora loving Coihaique

Translation: What was the reason for this sacrifice?

An increasingly familiar glowing orb (found only in the sky) again came to the party this week with some fantastically balmy days. Some even pushing the thermometric scale into the twenties, a hitherto unheralded level of warmth in our small part of Patagonia.

Our weekend trip to Coihaique was a ball. On the hour and a half drive from the lodge more breathtaking views flashed past in the van windows, punctuated by river crossings and wayward cows. On arrival we stocked up on empanadas at the supermarket and checked into our cabano, a place which roaches could easily call home sweet we’re the place not so freaking cold.

In a drunken dare Jack trys to lick his elbow, Ollie watches in amazement

Photo John Butler

A round of heavy drinking ensued, several members of our crew pulled back from the brink of rowdiness by a good old fashioned pull-up competition. On hitting the bars we we’re turned away at first sight by some fearful looking bouncers. In a display of good old fashioned racism entry was denied on the basis of the rowdy behaviour of some other trail building kiwis, who legend told had bottled a bouncer. The bouncer's position was entirely understandable, as some of the other crews obviously hadn’t been a model of kiwi friendliness. Perhaps their personas had been warped another classic kiwi trait; binge drinking.

Thankfully, Oscar a builder at the lodge took pity on our plight and took us to a groovy salsa joint called Burlin, where we proceeded to dance the night away. Questionable gringo dancing skills were more than compensated for with enthusiasm, and some of the crew stretched the night into the next day with plenty of random stories involving stray canines, hotdogs and emos.

Refreshed by a weekend of good times, the week of trail building passed in a flash. We progressed well with a second climb below the gaucho trail, carving out almost 800m of prime singletrack from the soft loam soil.

Jack and Jake had been putting the finishing touches to the downhill trail we built last week, erecting a 5 m wall ride to add some pizazz to the final turn. We’ve called the trail ‘Get some!’ in homage to a trigger happy soldier in Kubrick’s Vietnam masterpiece ‘Full Metal Jacket'. The whole crew spent a lunchtime sessioning the wall, with DJer John boosting so high off the end that he landed in a bush above the landing. With ‘Get Some!’ complete, all that is left are some tweaks and plenty of laps to ride it in, not to much of a stretch given the sheer fun factor of this track.

Ollie boosting the wall ride at the end of 'Get some!'

Photo Emil de Vries

Track building shifted back up the hill for the last part of the week, with recently melted snow finally making it possible to ride up to the traverse where we were working. Snow had given the track a working over with smashed bridges and collapsed benches giving plenty of scope for work.

A bridge destroyed by a swollen stream.

Beams will be resused for a bridge to traverse a tricky pinch.

We’ve also taken delivery of a bangin’ (literally) petrol rock hammer dubbed the Cobra that has allowed us to unleash some indiscriminate justice on any rocks who dare challenge our trail building prowess. It can even be switched to drill mode to allow rock bolts to be installed, or rocks to be split with the aid of wedges.

Matt gets medieval with the rock drill

A new crew of gringo trackbuilders is due to arrive tomorrow, so we’ll be doing our best to show them the ropes and ease them into the daily slog. It seems like only yesterday we were in their position with 3 months of riding and digging ahead of us. I’ll be sure to show them all the great trails they can ride on the way to and from work and with the turn towards spring they’ll no doubt be spoilt with plenty of the good warm stuff.

Mountain Pedaler out...

Week 8 – A mountain top, some structures and downhill sickness

2010-08-06T19:16:00.000-07:00

Matt admires the vista atop Mt 5 Puma

Our day off this week fell on a Sunday, and a member of our crew named Tommy had hatched a marvellous idea to use the forecast pearler of a day to push for the summit of a mountain we had spied from our work spot. Initial plans to leave at first light to take full advantage of the morning frostiness we’re pushed back with the inevitable sleep in. But when the time came to set off the air was still chilly and the crusted snow made for easy progress up the steep slopes with slightly frosted digits at least till we climbed out of the shade of the valley.

Nature crafted this snow spiral, snapped on the trek to the summit

Prior to departing we had talked up the expedition to the rest of the crew. We claimed that we would not only spot a real live puma (the first sighting of our trip), but capture five of these ferocious felines with only our bare hands. As such, the mountain conquest was named Mt 5 Puma, and standing tall above the surrounding ranges at 1640m it made for some breathtaking views. We were treated to endless mountain ranges of needle thin spires and vertical rocky faces, a quintessential 360 degree Patagonian vista. Just like postcards of the region only in vivid 3D colour and with the awe that can only come from earning the view with a 3 hour hike.

Millsy captures Mt 5 Puma's vista on lens

Descending was a blast. While the exposure forced caution on the steeper upper slopes, we threw this approach out the window as we descended to the tree line, using a combination of gravity assisted snow plodding and bum sliding (both legitimate mountaineering techniques).

The week began with another blue bird day, something we are quickly becoming accustomed to given they snow hell that we were faced with earlier in the trip. This fine, clear weather gives rise to a strange phenomenon called hoar frost. Moisture in the soil freezes and expands lifting the top layer of soil as much as 30mm and making for a challenging but not unridable surface. Come afternoon though the trails may sport a benign look, but they become a slippery, muddy skating rink. This made for at least one 180 degree washout spin that would have put Chazz Micheal Michaelson from Blades of Glory to shame.

The Terremoto after a particularly muddy outing

Millsy and I decided to brave the treacherous conditions and our 10 min ride became the single most intense mudslposion I have ever experienced. By then end both wheels would no longer turn and the entire drivetrain became in a battered in a brown paste. The ride was cut short when my derailleur got sucked into the wheel, bending the cage and letting out a petulant graunch. Macguyver skills to the fore and with the aid of only a 5mm allen and a set of pliers I was up and rolling for work the next day.

Millsy and Jack get stuck in on the bridge build

Construction of our downhill track has romped ahead, and we reached the final feature this afternoon. All up it is a feature packed downhill extravaganza. No less than 5 rock gardens, drops, rock rolls, wall rides and monster berms. The multitude of features is a sure sign of a crew unleashing their trail creativity after too long building featureless uphills.

Jack and I spent the first part of the week constructing a bridge to rival the Otira Viaduct. Traversing a tricky rock outcrop it drops riders to the start of the trail with an exhilarating swoop. From here the trail only gets better!

The bridge that signals the start of our yet-to-be-named downhill track

Being able to ride and tune our features was a blast, and with a completed loop composed of mellow uphill and gnarly feature packed downhill, there should be no shortage of post work entertainment (as long as the weather plays fair).

Jack gets his huck on on one of the track's numerous drops

We’re off for the weekend to Coihaique where hilarity will no doubt ensue. I’m planning to stock up on icecream, chocolate and of course Pachunga!

Mountain Pedaler out...