Category Archives: bikes

bikepacking, bikes, GPS, national park, NZ

A40BPT2 – Ces Clark hut to Westport (Paparoa)

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Woken a little overnight by the wind, it did have the effect of blowing a lot of cloud away – we were both delighted to find the morning a lot less clagged in than on either of our previous trips (mine here). We would see far more this time! Off we went completing the climb of the Croesus Track with a stiff, cool wind buffeting us from the right.

More nice rocky trail, heading towards Croesus Knob – must wander up there one day.

Towards Moonlight Tops. Spot the trail, left to right.

In the cold my phone continued to make a further case for its replacement, dying on me. But no matter, especially as there were soon other things to deal with. Nearing the high point of the day, two hundred metres higher than the hut we’d left, some innocuous-looking rocks conspired to put a two centimetre slash in the sidewall of what was, obviously now, too light a tyre. Frustrating; wouldn’t have been too difficult to consider what tyres were on my bike and the rockiness of these trails at home, and sensibly change it for something stronger and heavier.

Moving a little up the trail to a slightly more sheltered spot, cue over half an hour of giving up on trying to stitch the sidewall (tyre annoyingly too tough for this, but not resistant to the original damage), struggling to get the tyre off the rim, putting a tyre boot and tube in, and eventually getting the tyre reseated. No real drama, a good learning opportunity and for the first time I rode with duck tape and zip ties further protecting the tube – rather hoping it would also somehow stay together at least until we reached the highway, only forty kilometres of such rocky trail…

Pleasant riding along the tops, enjoying the views out west to the Tasman Sea and closer over the topography of the Paparoa Range. By the time we made it to Moonlight Tops Hut, a bit later than expected, it was definitely time to boil the billy and eat – along with putting all my tools back in the correct place and resurrecting my phone.

I do enjoy this view, anticipating getting to the escarpment on the right, and then riding very close to the top and edge of it. Not least for the goblin forest that covers this section.

Predominantly downhill, there is still a bit of climbing to be done – but this is no issue as it’s such a beautiful section of forest to ride through, one barely notices. Getting out of the increasingly strong and cold wind was also a bonus.

The mossy trees don’t have quite the same atmosphere when there’s no mist sneaking its tendrils through; but certainly not complaining about such a clear sky!

Continually distracted studying the old forest.

Popping out of the forest briefly to see the sea.

Ooh, the emergency shelter has been upgraded considerably. Digger garage this end, enclosed shelter other end – another good bivy spot.

We soon dropped off the ridge and began the steep, twisty descent towards Pororari Hut. It was still in reasonable condition considering all the weather it must be exposed to.

With no one else on the trail, I didn’t feel rushed to get off the bridge beneath this waterfall and managed a couple of snaps this time.

One of the more tightly-switchbacked sections through some enormous boulders.

The descent flattened out some, with the odd rise, as we dropped and lost the wind. A beautiful afternoon for riding.

It would be a shame not to stop at this thoughtfully provided seat.

As I was the previous time, I was transfixed by the tight contours of this peak – Lone Hand. The topo map is a mess of packed, twisted lines.

Such a nice, still afternoon there was no need to have afternoon tea inside the last hut.

Dropping to the Pororari River, the riding gets faster and the forest changes to far more ferns – sublime.

The trail crosses the river, and a side stream, before keeping its elevation as the river drops away through a small gorge. This gives a good chance to look back for a last glimpse of the range – only a small part of which we’ve thoroughly enjoyed riding and taking in the views from over the previous day.

The bike track departs from the walking track here and, with one last little sting in the tail, climbs a hundred metres to the next valley. I was astounded to happen across two daywalkers two hundred metres from the end of the trail – such was the solitude we’d had for the rest of the trail, a magnificent way to experience it. A short bit of highway and it was time for an ice cream to celebrate such fun on the Paparoa, and that my rear tyre was still inflated. The duck tape wasn’t much for this world, so off it came before heading north for fifty kilometres of highway.

Calm, clear and mild for a late-afternoon ride – Southern Alps off in the distance.

Heading into Fox River.

There’s still little tourist traffic around, so the highway riding was doubly pleasant. With near seven hundred metres of ascent to Westport, it was as much climbing as we’d done all day along and off the range. I was not fast. Even less so when my tube let go short of Charleston on a steep, twisty descent; that took another twenty-odd minutes of daylight, but it was still a blissful evening of riding into the dark.

Getting towards the northern end of the Paparoas.

Warmly welcomed by Nina, we were spoilt with cups of tea, a large dinner of stew and salad, dessert, much sharing of adventure stories, use of facilities to clean dirty clothes and riders, and most importantly a tyre was found that fit my bike – huzzah! It was much beefier in tread and construction – a far better option for the trails around here, I’d happily take the compromise of being even slower roads. Thanks Nina, and in-absentia Rachel (whose tyre I’d borrowed).

One excellent trail done, forecast still looking good, plans for crossing the Denniston reviewed (I was disproportionately looking forward to this as the only new bit of the route to me) and bike good to go again (sacrificial drivetrain still functioning, just feeling a little off) – our tour was off to a great start and further adventure beckoned.

bikepacking, bikes, GPS, national park, NZ

A40BPT1 – Hokitika to Ces Clark hut (Paparoa)

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Eight weeks earlier I got a speculative “I’m flying to Hokitika and biking to Nelson over ten days, what are you doing?” call out of the blue from Pete. As it happens, not enough that I didn’t quickly sign up for riding three of the best multi-day (if you take your time, which we were planning to do being late-winter touring) bikeable trails in the country. It also helped that it made the long drive for the preceding weekend’s plan (which was postponed due to all the rain) far more worthwhile. So it was that I came to pick Pete up from Hokitika airport on a bleak West Coast afternoon – which just happened to be a notable, but quiet, birthday for me.

Over a suitably extravagant birthday dinner, the plan was reviewed – hoping to ride the Paparoa, Denniston Shortcut, Old Ghost Road, Heaphy and Rameka routes late in winter, we put in plenty of slack and options should the inclement weather continue (although the forecast was remarkably good), either of the two major rivers we had to cross be impassable, or other mishaps befall us. Back to load the bikes – it was summer that I’d last bikepacked, so there were far more layers and general touring gear to find a home for. Rain overnight kept me awake a bit, but the day dawned without it.

Pleased to have the bags back on, and keen to see how a suspension fork goes on these technical trails. I survived rigid last time, but I suspected I’d enjoy the change to plushness.

The day’s destination – them there hills.

A flat warm-up along the highway to Kumara Junction, somehow I managed to soon fall off. Trying to get on the footpath to avoid the traffic on a narrow bridge, the angled curb was far greasier than I expected and away went my front wheel. A bit of a wound on my knee to clean out and cover, actually using the always-carried, but seldom-used, first aid kit. Annoying, but as that was my only fall on a trip that included some tricky trails I’ll take it. Oddly and amusingly, one of Pete’s water bottles sheared clean in two on one snack stop. Left me wondering why I was carrying two large bottles on the Coast, where drinking water is abundant.

We joined the West Coast Wilderness Trail along the coast to Greymouth, where it took an age to buy a hut ticket.

A cruisy hour and a half up the Grey River valley and the short ascent to Blackball where the last shop before the trail provided us with more snacks. Apparently the road to the southern trailhead was closed due to a slip, but we expected we’d get past it. Strangely, for all the Road Closed Ahead warning signs and closed gates, we never saw a Road Closed sign as we approached the Smoke Ho carpark.

Oh, is that it? Of course, DOC *eyeroll. We saw much worse than this on, open, main West Coast roads. Clearly, we passed this easily on bikes.

One wonders how much the small communities vested in such trails suffer from disproportionate risk aversion. Such a waste after all the resources spent on these facilities in national parks. This ridiculousness meant the carpark was empty, and we had the whole amazing trail and huts to ourselves.

Time for what must be one of my favourite climbs – the old Croesus pack track.

Ooh, this is new and more colourful than I’m used to for such things.

Much of the two hour, ten kilometre climb is graded like this (around six percent) and the surface is so long embedded that it holds up well in the local climate.

A couple of bridges to cross before following the true left of Blackball Creek for some time.

Love the moss and general green – so nice to be back in the bush, I miss it.

There used to be a hotel here. Heading for that ridge up there.

Bits of the trail are a bit chunkier.

Actually, a lot of the trail is more technical – but I was having too much fun trying to ride as much as possible to stop and take photos. There are plenty of little stream crossings in and out of bends in the track – these are the most tricky parts. Heavily loaded and with not much time on a bike recently, I was well pleased to clear ninety-nine percent of the climb; satisfying, and very engaging riding.

Emerging from the bush, almost there.

Top Hut, perfectly good overflow shelter if the main hut happens to be full

We arrived at the hut in plenty of time to enjoy the views, get the fire going, appreciate a great day getting into the trip and eat a lot of the food we’d dragged up the hill.

Over the Grey River to Lake Brunner and the Southern Alps beyond.

bikepacking, bikes, friends, GPS, NZ

Canterbury Alternate

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Unfortunately, with a week of heavy rain forecast, our long-planned and highly anticipated weekend exploring Mt White Station was postponed. But with another trip planned in tandem the following week, it was still worth heading to Christchurch early to catch-up with friends and attempt to get a little riding in and some fitness back after a strangely inactive winter (unusually wet in Naseby, and winter ills didn’t help).

Andrew and Richard were keen to get out for some rain-riding in preparation for a slightly insane upcoming event; I was happy to tag along as it wasn’t a daunting plan, despite the forecast. A hundred-odd kilometres on the Friday, backpacker accommodation and a pub meal, a shorter return the following day; easy. Meeting in Sheffield after eight, it wasn’t too early for one of the famous eponymous pies. I was surprised how soon the gravel started off the highway (immediately) as we headed southwest towards the Rakaia river under grey skies. I was slow, but had a chance to catch breath as Richard dealt to a flat tyre early on.

Easy going to start.

New places to me, we were soon through Whitecliffs and on another section of provincial highway. Spotting a “Defence Area – Keep Out” sign, I was a little mystified – didn’t know there was a military base out here, but there was a second sign so I wasn’t seeing things. Off the highway, we didn’t drop to the river – staying on its true left as we headed towards the mountains. Past the top of Zig Zag Rd, things looked a little familiar from halfway throughTTW last year. Easy going with a slight tailwind up the valley.

Oh yes, I remember this plethora of signs in the middle of nowhere. Continuing straight was new again and took us to Lake Coleridge village and a lunch stop.

There began about five hundred metres of elevation gain, the gradient never really getting above five percent – but my lack of riding was soon shining through, feeling decidedly flat (me, not the hill by any means). This shouldn’t be this hard, but nothing for it to keep an eye on the scenery, continue eating and keep pedalling.

Across the Rakaia.

Over the penstocks to the Southern Alps.

Things flattened briefly as we rejoined the TTW route near the end of Lake Coleridge. The Lake Lyndon road was apparently closed for winter, so it was odd to see some inappropriate cars giving it a go – folk from the city looking for snow! It had all been washed away with the rain. Another long slow climb to another lake, the surface being wet and slow didn’t help – but mostly it was a lack of fitness. Richard had had Covid-19 more recently than me and was suffering even more, even I in my state had quite a wait at the lake.

Out to the highway and a short pinch climb up to Porters Pass, before the long descent to Springfield where a hot shower, a pub meal and a miserable excuse for a futon awaited. A good day on the bike, strangely tough for a benign route (good training for something), some new sights, fun company; alas, none of the promised rain.

Just a few hours of easy riding planned to get back to cars, but we’d been told we could ride in the forest at Mt Misery (yippee) en route. This soon became questionable as with the earth sodden from all the recent rain and clearly some big winds having ripped through, there was tree-fall like I’ve never seen in a plantation forest. I’d have preferred to go to the summit, but around the hill we went. Thankfully, the double-track had been cleared of the fallen trees; this meant the surface was both sodden and chewed up. Slow-going, but it could have been a lot worse.

Just as well I had a sacrificial drivetrain – expecting wet and grit on the West Coast the following week.

The Defence Area signs made more sense seeing what we couldn’t see from the road on the other side of the valley floor the previous day. Munitions dumps, cue too many memories of reading about process safety incidents, design and the hierarchy of controls.

Eventually we got out of it and climbed on decent forestry road.

Reward for the little climb and slow surface.

Best example of the storm damage in there.

The fast descent off the hill was much appreciated and we were back on the roads to Sheffield, and another pie. Sodden farmland everywhere, looked like a tough winter as some paddocks more resembled swamps. Malvern Hills Rd strangely wasn’t hilly, mostly just skirting the base of said hills. Done by lunchtime and back to clean up, eat, and rest. Still none of the promised rain.

Sunday I’d arranged to catch-up with Mark, hopefully over a gentle two or three hour ride. But agreeing to take the passenger ferry across Lyttelton Harbour to the notoriously hilly Banks Peninsula the writing was on the wall; Grant arrived just as we boarded, by then it was in screaming capitals. My first taste of bike riding on the peninsula was going to be very climby.

But with a day like this…

The calm before.

The sealed climb out of Diamond Harbour passed quickly enough in the cool of the morning and with plenty of chat; maybe a bit too fast. Soon the drop to Port Levy – the only place I’d previously spent any time in the area, a few days of eating, sleeping and barely moving trying to overcome the fatigue and limping post-TTW. I certainly didn’t spend those days riding up four-hundred metre climbs back to back.

Down to Port Levy on the climb out.

By the second summit, I was done. I could either turn back now alone and retrace my steps, or continue with three more climbs (the next the toughest, the following the biggest) with Mark and Grant. Riding alone was not the point of the day, but I’d only brought snacks for a few hours. But encouraged by word of a pub lunch and plenty of snacks to be shared – the choice to continue on a glorious day to see some new places in fun company was the only one to be made. I’d be slow, but I’d get there.

Down to Pigeon Bay.

The Pettigrews Rd climb was, I was told later, not the easiest way to the Summit Rd – but at twelve percent for over half an hour, it was not as tough as the impression I got of it beforehand. Still, I lagged. The reward, delayed by ten minutes of riding along the ridge, was the Hilltop pub and a lot of tasty food (even chicken chips/crisps, which I generally detest, tasted good) soon disappeared.

View to Akaroa Harbour wasn’t bad either.

A fresh descent of Harmans Track was over in a flash, to leave us with the slightly less steep, but much longer and higher climb up Western Valley Road. It certainly went on, but with all that food I wasn’t falling so far behind. Unfortunately the drop back to Port Levy was a bit mucky with recent forestry traffic, but fun all the same before the last four hundred metre climb of the day had us back at Diamond Harbour with time for refreshments before the ferry back across the harbour.

An excellent introduction to Banks Peninsula riding, I survived and hopefully got a bit of bike-fitness back – plenty of food certainly helps. Thanks Mark and Grant for the encouragement and all the chat.

That was about the riding for almost a week around Christchurch, I must return for some more. Special thanks to Jo and Andy for such generous hospitality.

bikepacking, bikes, NZ, shoulder

Nydia Track – mostly

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Somehow last year, I wangled my way onto the inaugural Sounds2Sounds bikepacking event start list. While I was very much looking forward to riding 1500 km down the South Island from Queen Charlotte Sound to Milford Sound, I didn’t put a lot of thought or time into planning my ride, figuring I’d get to the start with the usual gear and take it from there – I was even more anticipating touring the route with various friends at whatever pace they chose. Amongst summer adventures, helping family out and then deciding to move to Naseby for the winter (brrr) – which required finding somewhere to live, Sounds2Sounds was a ride in the back of my mind that would sort itself out.

Riding away from Blenheim Airport, I realised that for all my travel with a bike over fifteen years this was the first time I’d assembled a bike at an airport and just ridden away (having thoughtfully disposed of the cardboard box) – exciting! A flat and easy thirty-five kilometres in light Sunday afternoon traffic took me north to Havelock (not to Havelock North, which I’m far more familiar with). Finding the campground, there was enough time to pitch my tent, get supplies, cook dinner and come up with a plan for the few days before I started Sounds2Sounds. I’d do an overnighter north on the notoriously rugged Nydia Track (very much a tramping/hiking trail), camp just past the trail end and spend the following day exploring gravel roads around Pelorus Sound before returning to Havelock.

With only fifty kilometres to cover that Monday, albeit much at a slow pace, it was a leisurely start before quiet gravel roads took me to, across and alongside the Pelorus River and Sound to the trailhead on a still, sunny morning.

Over the Pelorus.

Warm-up, and forty percent of the distance, done in eighty minutes I thought the twenty-seven kilometres to the next road would take seven hours of at touring pace.
The first climb was more rideable than I was expecting, but still – forty minutes to gain two hundred metres over two kilometres is not rapid. Only just into the descent to Omahakie Stream I found West Coast friends, Nina and Rachel, on their last climb of the return from an overnighter – pity I was a day late, or I’d have had some good company. We stopped for a natter before all getting a move-on. The descent over all too soon, it was time to settle into the hike up to the highest point of the day – Kaiuma Saddle. It was a pleasant walk, and not nearly as bad as I’d been expecting – all the roots and rocks easily negotiable. There was no hurry and I just plodded away.

A rare glimpse of the terrain.

Down to Nydia Bay from Kaiuma Saddle. A good spot for lunch in the sun.
The descent was good technical fun, especially with a loaded rigid bike, and in half an hour I was down skirting the edge of Nydia Bay. The few dwellings in this isolated spot were interesting to see. There were even some people around – it seemed common to walk in one day and stay a couple of nights before completing the track; I had no such plan.

A brief detour down to the Nydia Campsite for no particular reason.
I settled into the last big climb for the day – 350 metres up to Nydia Saddle. It was pleasant enough going, and would have only taken an hour and a half, until I happened upon a large, recent treefall near the top. It completely covered the track, and the hillside was steep enough that attempting to go around it when alone was not a risk and effort I was willing to expend. Further investigation found I could just get under it. So close to the saddle and the end of the track it was worth a go.

There’s my bike back down the track, having just found I could get under the tree and all the foliage it had brought down with it.
Never before have I had to take all the bags off my bike to get past an obstacle.

Posting bags through the pinch point – getting to and from this point was enough effort across all the branches and vines.
Even with the bags off, my bike wouldn’t fit, nor could I manhandle it through. Amused by the absurdness of it and enjoying the challenge, off came the wheels and with sufficient trips back and forth I worked hard to wrestle the frame through (pedals and handlebars particularly adept at getting caught on vines and branches).

There was a way through there, unsure now how.
At last, forty minutes later, I was reassembling my bike and reattaching the bags – pleased that there was no damage. A few hundred metres to the saddle, it was time to rest and refuel – that had been a different kind of effort to the normal hike-a-bike. Recognising my tiredness, I resolved to take it easy on the final descent – also knowing that the last section was notorious for its rooty nature and requiring time off the bike.

Alas, not even a kilometre down the track I got my balance wrong on a slow rocky bit, put my right foot down and my momentum took me over the bank. Impacting my left side, but still going down the bank, a tumble whacked my right shoulder on a tree and out it came, again. The seventh time now, the dislocation came with the clear thought of “well, that changes the next few months – no Sounds2Sounds, no biking, moving house is going to be difficult, more physio…”. Otherwise only a little scraped up, it took some time and energy to get back up the steep bank to the track with my left arm only any use. Confirming my shoulder was out and not going back in, it was an easy decision to reach for my SPOT tracker.

I’d intended to bring my personal locator beacon on this trip, but someone wanted to follow my dot, so the SPOT it was. Not the best under the canopy of thick bush, but fortunately I’d crashed just before a slight opening in the trees – it looked the result of a long-ago slip. I was most pleased to see the lights flashing green, indicating that the device had found sufficient GPS satellites and my SOS had gotten out. The clearing also meant that I had a nice patch of sun to lie in – on the track with my arm hanging off the side hold a water bottle in an exceptionally hopeful bid for the muscles to tire and relax that I might relocate my arm. It didn’t work, but it was nice lying in the sun.

With the sun slipping away behind the trees, and along with it the warmth of the day, it was time to prepare for a possible night out on the track – I didn’t expect to see any hikers until at least mid-morning. Thankfully my bike stayed on the track, so I began the slow process of extracting my ground sheet, mattress, and sleeping bag. Mattress inflated, I slowly worked through the pain of any movement of my shoulder and arm, to get in my sleeping bag – remarkably tricky with one arm to use while the other shoots pain all around.

No sooner had I settled into my invalid’s cocoon that I heard the faintest trace of helicopter blades whipping through the air. Quickly, compared to getting in, I was back in the open air to try and spot the chopper and wave it down. As it got closer and the sound bounced around the hills, I eventually worked out it was on the other side of the ridge and out of my sight. Sigh. The noise faded as it disappeared somewhere. Slowly I again attempted to get in my sleeping bag. Having just done that over many minutes, the chopper came back.

This time it was on my side of the valley, down a bit and I could see it! But in this dense bush, the crew spotting me had the proverbial task – although I guess they’re well practiced. I set my helmet light to flashing and pointed it at the side of the helicopter. Eventually I was spotted, which was even more pleasing. I wouldn’t be spending a painful night alone on the track. Hovering over me for a bit it was draughty, then off it went (I later learnt to unload unnecessary weight in a nearby paddock) before returning.

The downwash so strong, all my sleeping equipment was in danger of blowing away down the track. Heck, I was in danger of blowing away; crouching and holding onto my gear continued for minutes. Not entirely comfortable, besides the obvious, in this position, after a time things calmed and went very quiet as off went the chopper. I stood and turned to find a paramedic, Neil, standing right behind me. His proximity was somewhat startling, but I was well-pleased to see him. All the standard questions ensued as he went about his assessment of the situation. Thankfully I had no other injuries (it wasn’t much of a fall really, just not a good one for a weakened shoulder) and was making sense – I think. With drugs soon into my left hand, the edge came off and a plan was made and enacted while we waited for the helicopter to return in half an hour. Curiously, the rescue had come from Wellington – not that far away really, but across on the North Island – as the local rescue helicopter was otherwise occupied.

In some ballooning, all-enveloping harness I’d be winched up with Neil, along with most of the luggage off my bike. Unfortunately my bike couldn’t come with, but I was happy for Neil to stash it off the side of the track – confident it’d not be found by the few people out here mid-week and cause more alarm. Back came the chopper and the downwash. I’m still deeply impressed with the whole winching process in such a small clearing in the bush – soon I was up in aircraft and we were off to retrieve that gear. In spite of the whole situation, I enjoyed the flight to Blenheim (chosen over Nelson as it required less fuel for the helicopter to return to base) getting a view of a part of New Zealand I’m relatively unfamiliar with.

But this is the only picture I managed to snap between being seen to medically, filling in details on a tablet and messaging loved ones (family having been contacted by rescue services, domestic and international, to check it wasn’t a false alarm understandably had a few questions).
Landing at Wairau Hospital, at least I could walk myself into the Emergency Department, where what I’d tried to do trackside was repeated – the bed was more comfortable as my arm hung off the side with weight taped to it. Familiar fun times sucking on the Entonox as various people tried and failed to relocate my arm. By now it had been out four or so hours and, predictably, it wasn’t going back in. Again, time for a general and it was, apparently, quickly back in. Much rejoicing, well, as much as possibly through the haze of the drugs wearing off. I guess five hours is better than the six it was out the previous time… I was pleased the relocation attempts weren’t as excruciatingly painful or numerous this time.

Photo taking really goes downhill when my right arm is out of service.
Onto another bed for observation and a Covid test (strange timing there, but priorities). I was slightly put out by a nurse suggesting I was about to be discharged into the night of an unfamiliar town to be left to my own devices. I rated chances of finding a motel near midnight on a Monday night in Blenheim as low to dismal; I might have just rolled out my sleeping kit again and slept under a tree on the hospital grounds… Thankfully the doctor decided I needed to be kept in “for observation” and found me a bed in a ward. Sometime after one in the morning I managed to get some sleep, pretty happy that my arm was back in place and I wasn’t out in the bush. Very thankful for the prompt, and somewhat exciting, rescue and the medical treatment.

Turns out I did know one person in Blenheim, Warren – whom I’d met briefly on the Six Corners Challenge, and was due to start Sounds2Sounds the same day as I had been. After a visit from the physio and another doctor, I was discharged mid-morning and Warren kindly picked me up and let me rest at his house for the day. The afternoon was enough to organise retrieval of my bike the following day, have some gear I’d left at the Havelock campground collected and delivered and me to stay with Warren’s mother for a few days while I worked out how to get home.

I was well looked after by Linda, amongst much bikepacking talk, at her place up the Taylor River valley. Pleasingly, this was on the Sounds2Sounds route, so I was able to see a lot of the riders go past – nice to see friends, even though I couldn’t ride. My shoulder was a bit stiffer than usual post-dislocation, and gave some unusual pains further down my arm – I assumed from the force used to relocate it. I settled into one-armed life again, trying not to use it too much – but still trying to help around the house a little. The rural setting was most pleasant for gently exploring, there was much time spent reading and sleeping too. Warren delivered my bike (it had been well hidden, taking Aaron almost as long to find it as it did to run in from the top of the Nydia Track), and it made sense for Linda to take it south when she went to collect Warren and Tosca from Milford Sound. It made even more sense for me to get a lift too and save the hassle of negotiating a flight south. So a week after my crash, I made it home – many thanks to all those that helped me.

As it was, I was only off the bike for four weeks as with some physio I quickly got back my full range of movement. Being in a sling only really lasted a couple of weeks; moving into an overly-cute rental cottage was manageable with help. Since then I’ve enjoyed settling into a little home, plenty of time with and helping out family, much mountain-biking from home on the finally-delivered and -assembled new mountain bike, casually helping a couple of short-staffed local businesses, getting enough firewood to survive comfortably a winter far colder than those of Napier, and, now that regular frosts have arrived, a lot of reading in front of a roaring fire. Somehow I even ended up on a podcast, in a manner of speaking.

I was most surprised, impressed and delighted when this caricature of me dropped into my podcast feed. Credit: Jonny Simpson.
With such cover art and my writing here, there’d be little chance of guessing that the episode has almost nothing to do with riding bikes! Except to say, it’s my story – so of course bikes aren’t far away. Noticing a New Zealand-sized gap in personal finance media, Ruth, and Jonny, set about rectifying that with an excellent website and podcast. It’s quite a resource and has certainly and ably filled that gap over the last six years. Somewhere along my own path to not having to work for a living (not a fan of “retired”), we corresponded a bit and sometimes I’d drop in for a tea and chat when I was passing through town. That’s a bit more often now that I’m only an hour down the road.

On one such visit recently, I was mildly taken aback (should have seen it coming) when asked if I’d share my story for the podcast. As the whole idea of the podcast is to share people’s money stories and get more conversation about such things going, I could but say an honoured-yes. Quite concerned that my story isn’t really that interesting compared to the others I’ve heard, it turned out I’m more than happy to talk personal finance for three hours – just as well Ruth could relate it far more concisely. So if such things interest you, the episode is here, check out thehappysaver.com or contact me – I’ll happily chat about my own experiences.