Both Earl and Masa were well along their way by the time we finally rolled out of the Cheviot Motel at 9:30 a.m. The first kilometers of gently rolling brown and grassy hills passed by easily though we were ascending to make a pass into the Hurunui Valley. We made our way up the valley cursing the inaccuracy of our guide book which declared the route without noticeable hills until the pass into the Greta Valley. Time after time we dipped into the river valley and pedaled our way out. Finally we reached to top of the valley and stopped at a gas station for a quick roadside meal of chips and drinks, our bodies begging for the replenishment of salts.
Descending was not the picnic we'd anticipated. The wind had taken a turn and we were now having to pump our way down the hill and were only traveling at 15km/h. With each turn of the crank the temperature rose, the road became more truck trafficked and we fatigued. As we hit kilometer 70 we arrived in Amberly, where we ran into Earl, who had just arrived though he'd left two hours before us. I'd grown tired of trucks passing too closely to us as they passed and lobbied Andrew for taking a bus the last kilometers to Wellington. He readily agreed and we found a helpful woman at the tourist information office to give us advice on getting there.
While helping us she renewed drivers' licenses, answered phones and did her nails. She was a tornado in action. \"Just make your way to the 'Tank and Tummy' across the way and you can pick up a bus there,\" hustling us out the door so she could get onto solving the Gulf Crisis for Kofi Annan. From the faithful T & T we had a snack while waiting for our bus. It buzzed by us though we were waving frantically and we were ready to ride on to Wellington on our own. At the last minute the driver hit the brakes, stopped and put our bikes in the massive luggage compartment at the back, bags and all.
Within minutes I was napping and we were on our way to the end of the line for us in New Zealand. We found our way to the YMCA and ran into Masa and Kiko there. Masa was searching for a campground in Wellington without any success. The town itself was not very cosmopolitan. A hot night there involves driving around the block revving your motor and trying to run down pedestrians while hooting and hollering at chicks. We opted to see the cinematic classic \"Starship Troopers\" and went out for a drink. At the bar we met the most annoying homo ever.
Tony greeted us with the standard, \"Where'ya from?\" His follow-up of, \"I'm so sorry,\" failed to warm us to his charms. Somehow he'd thought he'd endeared himself to us and began talking our ears off until we could stand it no longer and left. We managed to avoid the star attraction of town, climbing up the church tower. It was maybe 30 meters high and all we could imagine seeing from up there is a view of all the ugly 50's, 60's and 70's architecture that had polluted the Christchurch building stock. We could hardly see the advantage of hiking up it especially knowing that earthquakes had toppled the tower at least twice since its original construction.
Of interest is the City Museum and Gardens. The museum sports a fantastic exhibit on Antarctic exploration as well as more stuffed fauna then you can shake a stick at, displayed in really well done dioramas. Departure from Christchurch (or ch-ch as the locals abbreviate it) was more difficult than anticipated. No bike boxes were available at the airport so the logistical nightmare of getting the boxed bikes to the airport lay before us. A crammed-to-the-gills airport shuttle got us there after stopping at every hotel in town before taking us to the bike shop to pick up the bikes. We endured the sneers of the other passengers while we dealt with the marginally competent staff at the shop.
I had the excited feeling we were going on to a new adventure when we finally got into the air. Thankfully we'd be arriving the day after the madness that is Sydney's signature gay event of the year, The Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. Much to surprise of all of our friends, we'd always planned to arrive the day after Sydney's famed gala event, the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. The frenzied party is just too much for us as we advance in age. We landed, put our bikes together and found our way to town. Bicycle assembly took just a little longer than it should have.
For some odd reason the brake cables had been detached from their anchors on the brakes in front, forcing me to adjust them before we could leave. Making me appreciate the job our mechanic, Wade Dollar of Sun Cycles in Phoenix, had done on our retreat all the more. Oddly enough Sydney's normally neurotic drivers were calm, so the ride to town was almost calming. We got lost along the way and we just asked a group of Mardi Gras revelers on the street how to find Jonathan's house. The leather-panted sequin-bloused disco bunny on the remnants of a speed and ecstasy trip didn't know Jonathan by name but he did know the street.
Our gracious host didn't even flinch when we rolled our beasts into his apartment, but he was a little shocked by our burden. His boyfriend du jour, Michel, was most enchanting and we both fell head over heels for him. Almost too beautiful to look at, I found it difficult to concentrate in his often scantily clad presence. Mardi Gras' shock waves were still to be felt that evening. Several of the bars hosted \"recovery\" parties, which seemed just another excuse to have too much to drink or whatever and dance. We witnessed one errant discoer slip into a seizure at one bar in the middle of the dance floor.
Most seemed to care little about his near brush with death and kept dancing while his friends tried to revive him before carrying him downstairs to get medical attention. The bedlam continued chez Jonathan; the comings and goings were non-stop during our visit. Even with all the craziness, he cooked us a marvelous blueberry pancake breakfast our first day and took the best care possible of us. The second night we hosted a \"Mini-Party\" at Jonathan's where we all watched the Mardi Gras Parade on television. Participant after participant streamed by, each with more and more sequins as the queeny host and bitchy drag commentators dis'ed every passerby \--all on national network television.
Imagine the San Francisco or New York Gay Pride Parades getting coverage like that! Though I like Sydney and all the distraction of a big city, I was ready to leave our third morning. Good fortune was with us on our departure. Our dear friends from Copenhagen Niels and Tomas were in town for the festivities and were ready to take a road trip with us. They'd even hinted that they wanted to ride a bit. I owe a special debt of gratitude towards Niels, who acted as my guardian angel last summer when I dislocated my shoulder. He gave me a great place to stay while I recovered.
Tomas Oppermann)** After Niels and I had experienced the Sydney Mardi Gras, it was time to meet Fred and Andrew and to go north with them. Niels and I rented a car and went to Jonathan's to pick up the luggage of the two Bikebrats. Then we were to drive to Newcastle and Fred and Andrew were to take the train. Of course Niels and I took a wrong turn and almost had to go all the way back to Sydney, after we had driven about 60 km. We made it to Newcastle only half an hour later than the train-travelers.
It was soon decided that Fred and I were riding. We started from the station in Newcastle where an elderly \"sweetheart\" gave us directions to the boat to the other side of the water. When we got off the boat the riding began and it was very fast discovered that you couldn't ride two next to each other, as a bus nearly ran us down. I was quite glad when Niels and Andrew passed us and stopped, because I was riding in my swimsuit and could now change to cycling shorts. After riding a while we met Niels and Andrew again -- this time for cold drinks and a snack in a tiny village called Bob's Farm.
How nice to have a service team scouting in advance and securing basic needs. The day went well and the 55 kilometers did not scare any of us away. We passed the first koala road sign, although this one probably was erected by a real estate broker trying to improve the image of a new neighborhood. After the ride, we still had enough energy to climb the 190-meter Tomaree Head. Estimated time was 1 hour but this young and healthy team did the expedition in only half an hour; due to sunset and hunger we speeded up. The evening was spent in Shoal Bay next to Nelson Bay.
Both bays had seen better days when they served as the Monte Carlo of Sydney. Today they represent a living museum of how nice things used to be. We truly enjoyed this retro atmosphere and were quite fond of Shoal Bay until we received a parking ticket the next day for violating the one-hour parking in this empty town.