One of the good things about a bottleneck water crossing on such an event is that it facilitates a congregation of all the similarly-paced riders mid-ride. We saw riders in the convenience store, met Dave over breakfast at a cafe and then saw many more waiting for and on the nine o’clock boat across Wakatipu.

Time to share stories of the previous three days. Photo: Dave King

Not the boat to ferry across this time, but still worth a photo.

The newer boat is definitely faster, not even half an hour after scheduled departure we were leaving the shore for an hour of toil into the norwester. But with the views, excellent surface and the promise that we’d soon have the wind at our backs it was hardly toil. Plenty of time to chat, take pictures and see a pink blur flash past us.

Mountain and hill spotting as we trundled along.

We turned and followed the Von River flats up, pushed by the wind. No traffic out here and just lovely morning riding. An important snack break to complete at the foot of the climb, the rest of the boatload were soon past us. The only real climb of this section, it’s not too bad with wind assist – even if it wasn’t the gale force push I had up in a gathering storm on the penultimate day of my TA.

At the top of the climb we found most of the boatload congregated admiring the views and having an early lunch – rude not to join them. With some undulations we crossed the watershed and into Southland, now crossing the Oreti – which we’d spend the rest of the afternoon loosely following. Long gradual wind-assisted gravel downhills seemed to go and go, interrupted only by a quick look at a small pond.

I’ve still not ever had the time or energy to make the detour to Mavora Lakes when passing on an event. One day I’ll get there, for now – this will have to do.

The horror of the cycle trail into Mossburn in strong winds still fresh in my memory after five years (terrible slow surface, many flat right-angled corners turning across the prevailing wind), I was steeling myself for twenty kilometres of mental and physical exertion. That worked well, as it wasn’t nearly as bad as my memory would have had me believe – after storm damage it’s been resurfaced and the corners didn’t require as much slowing to negotiate. There were however far fewer trees bending in the wind than I (mis?)remembered and crossing the wind was still hard work – some small exposed bridges best negotiated on foot lest one gets blown to the edge and find nowhere to plant a foot, except the water below.

Definitely time for a big cafe stop when Eileen and I rolled into town. Many others soon joined us at a cafe that was generally very good, but with a strange aversion to serving hungry customers three-quarters of an hour before closing. I for one bought enough to feed me for many non-bikepacking days, but with seconds I figured I had enough to go and ride the Nevis the following day. There was still a tailwind to take advantage of all the way to the Lumsden turnoff. One just had to deal with an unfathomable cycle trail; really, powerpoles up the middle?! Rather put an end to easy side-by-side chatting for a while.

Go figure. I guess it’s better than being on an unshouldered road.

Near Lumsden we turned north, wondering how the now-crosswind would slow our progress. As the route to Garston slowly curved to the east, the wind wasn’t as bad as perhaps feared. Death by a thousand gates through a large farm section however… Four of us worked our way through the double sets of cattle stopped, self-closing and fastened gates at so many points we lost count early and just dealt with it. That and the powerpoles – a shining example of a cycle-unfriendly cycle trail; how that happens…

Discussion turned to how far we might make it that day. There were no services to stop for in Athol or Garston, so it was easy to keep going.

Suddenly Dave appeared for a photo and a chat, this would become less surprising over the next two days. Heading to Garston with Eileen and Dave (another one). Photo: Dave King

Yup, not much food to be had here. Just as well, we may have called it stumps for the night if there had have been.

By this time, twas already eight o’clock and yet another longest-distance-day-ever for Eileen – but there was still plenty of daylight left, and the old Garston Ski Hut had been in the back of our minds as a destination all day, it was now a mere ten kilometres away. Only thing was, it was over six hundred metres above us!

The approach to the start of the actual climb seemed the hardest – just a direct climb to the gate.

The climb averaged out at about nine percent and an hour and quarter of delight. Sure, constant pedalling and all – but the wind died down, it was warm and still and the light over the Mataura valley and the Eyre Mountains was sublime. On consecutive days, I was treated to an amazing evening and twilight ride. It certainly is great getting to see the whole day while riding, events like this making it far more likely that one will push on. We made the hut with plenty of twilight to spare to find quite a few GSBers already ensconced – some riders I’d not seen since the start days earlier, some from the boat in the morning (including Katie who, on that pink flash of a bike speeding past way back at the lake, arrived two hours before us – what, did we stop to eat too much? Not possible.) and Dave, naturally, going through his photos. As darkness descended a few more riders arrived until we’d pretty much filled both rooms of the hut. Another fantastic day.

A late start to the Great Southern Brevet does at least give plenty of time for breakfast at the Greedy Cow and catching up with bikepacking friends from far and wide, finally meeting previously-online friends for the first time and the chance to meet new people who soon become friends. Two years ago, there were only thirty-odd lining up at the Church of the Good Shepherd; this time, I expect due to the difficult in travelling overseas, there were near a hundred riders eager for the adventure ahead. What a privilege in these times, just to have such a large group start and simply shake hands and be with friends sans any distancing restrictions.

With six weeks off the bikepacking bike due to dislocating my shoulder before Christmas, I had simple goals for the 1100 km course. Most importantly, keep my shoulder where it should be; other aims were to see if there was any shoulder pain, take it easy and ride into a little bit of fitness, spend time riding with others, not do much night riding so as to see as much as possible, not exhaust myself before the big event of the summer, see how my lighter kit worked out and generally enjoy a week away riding in amazing part of the country. To try and trick myself into riding slower and shorter days punctuated with more stops, I’d switched to flat pedals and my street shoes – a set-up I typically only use for touring.

Heading down to the start.

Excited to get out there and see what Dave had in store for us. Photo: Dave King.

An hour milling around lots of chatty people pre-ride was excellent, but eventually we got to do what for we came for. Seen off by the cowbell toting locals down the street, I hung around until I was at the back of the field and tootled off up the hill out of town.

Bunched.

It was almost possible to lag behind, but we were soon on gravel then heading up a steep track. The desire to ride up it was still there, but not being attached to my pedals did force a dismount and push. This was working out ok.

Strewn.

That crested, the track improved to a gravel road and views across Lake Pukaki. Dropping down to the lakeside, it was forty kilometres of Alps2Ocean gravel and trail to Twizel; the wind must have been kind as even I managed that in less than two hours. Finding the problem of not having a proper shakedown ride, strangely my front brake began to increasingly rub. Arriving in town mid-afternoon for resupply I was feeling pretty ordinary. Only on leaving town and having many people fly past me, did I make the leap and realise just how much energy that little brake rub was sucking. That adjusted once off the road, everything was right with the world again and I had the semblance of a lease of life.

Which was just as well, as the next section was a good hike-a-bike up the overgrown Flanagan’s Pass. A couple of hours of mostly pushing through farmland then close tussock (at times over twenty percent), with some decent stream crossings, was not unpleasant in the late afternoon.

Somewhere, the remains of a trail under the grasses.

Back east and where we’d come from.

A brief pause at the saddle to layer up and admire the view, twas then onto a rollicking descent. So much fun!

Across the Lake Ohau headwaters

I caught up to Guy partway down and we continued around the lake to rejoin the A20 and familiar trails. With the sun starting to drop, thoughts turned to how far to go for the day. Eileen appeared from somewhere, having been well in front of me – but also having too much fun on the downhill and missing a turn. I’d not made any plans, Omarama seemed too far away for first day back on the bike. Quailburn, as Eileen had suggested, seemed a better idea at 150 km in. Guy and I made our way around the bottom of the lake, first sheltered in the scrub before joining the road and dealing with the wind off the lake. With the recent devastating fires, the campground Adele and I stayed at when we did the A2O a few years ago was closed and looking rather blackened.

Eventually we reached the lodge entrance and the time to turn from the wind for the long gradual climb into the gathering night. Chatting with a few others, it would be the last we’d see of them until back in Tekapo six nights later. Eileen rolled up and after we’d all rested and snacked a bit, the three of us started the climb. A nice steady three percent grade as twilight set in – about an hour it took.

We were all pretty spent and had a bit of a rest at the summit. Somehow I managed the last half hour without turning lights on, but it was quite dark by the time I was hunting out a bivy spot near the historic Quailburn woolshed. A great day back on the bike, save the brake rubbing wasting a bit of energy – but I sorted that and everything was excellent again. Now for the wind to die down while I slept in the lean-to of the woolshed.