Day 3 - 8

Day 3 + 4

In an effort at work/play balance, I decided to ride my bike today and went to my writing group yesterday for a shared lunch.  I did leave an email message with the property managers to which they are studiously ignoring.

Two can play at that game.

Also got a call from Kate Fraser of The Christchurch Press Zest fame, who said she would be using my 450 word article on “How to get someone else to Clean your Oven”  in the near future.   So many irons  in the fire.  

Exhausting.

Day 5 + 6

It is too soon to be working weekends and goes against my aforementioned philosophy.

Day 7

 I should be able to multi task today whilst answering phones at our family business when the ‘boss’ is out of the room.  He gets a bit touchy about non-industry related conversations/emails.  I’ve got one phrase to say to him....”Big Picture!”.

Day 8

Am ready for action now.  Everyone else better be too.  Actually spoke too soon.  Only managed a phone call to letting agent and current head tenant.

But did manage to sprint around the entire perimeter of Hagley Park, bike to work for a management meeting at 11am and stop at fish shop and Chinese supermarket on way home, take the dog to the vet to buy pheromone spray, buy weekly groceries and cook from scratch muesli, stewed apple berry and rhubarb topping for aforementioned muesli,  bake ANZAC biscuits for the tins and cook baked salmon and a tofu dish for tea.

I wonder if real real estate agents are this productive.

 Meeting with tenant  booked for Day 10 at 2 pm.

Let the Brainstorning begin...

Day 2 of Project – 1 August, 2012

Today I went out for breakfast (with aforementioned friend in the industry – purely coincidence), met the accountant for our annual accounts talk (second more lucrative income),  went to the movies (Bel Ami – don’t bother) then out for dinner (Japanese). A big day.

I also, bought an E-valuation on line for the paltry sum of $47.95 that told me the property had an estimated value of $461,000 with a medium confidence level of selling.  Go figure. 

I am still unsure of how many bedrooms and bathrooms the property has but have requested an appointment with the letting agent to meet the *tenants.

The insurance broker has also got back to me with a policy that runs out in September this year, that she assures me will be transferrable as long as “the Builders Report” confirms the building is structurally sound and that the purchaser is acceptable to the insurer.  Note to self; arrange builders report.  (Wild note taking has begun on whiteboard).

*Also googled “Can you sell a house while the tenants are on a fixed contract?” and was informed that you could, but, here’s the big hairy but....the tenants were entitled to stay till the contract expires. (Bugger, 8 months from now!).

Very helpful website that I must read that explains this stuff:  www.dbh.govt.nz/

Another huge day of admin.  Must go get ready for dinner.

Product

‘For Real’ Estate

31 July 2012

Today I have decided to sell a piece of real estate. Why? Because, I never have before and I like learning new things.  Oh, and I get to keep the commission.

After having bought four properties and renting them out for my brother over the past fourteen years (while he built up his local portfolio from his international perch in Japan), the hammer has swung to selling them off. 

Where do you start? Procrastinate for a few days then cruise by the property and take a photo from *your car in the rain. Decide to write a blog to “stay true to myself” through the process and for motivation.

Then you get a whiteboard.  All good projects have them.  Print out the postage stamp photo you took on your iphone and tape it to the middle of the board in readiness for some wild brainstorming and note-taking to take place around it.

Next, you email the insurance broker and confess to having lost the policy documents and demand they attach them to a return email as well as advise on any new rules I should know about. (Copy in my brother, so he knows I’m serious – and intelligent).

Also email your friend in the industry and ask for inside information; recommended/cheap valuers and solicitors. Preferably not corrupt.

Enough work for one day.

*Calculate potential commission on your iphone to excite yourself.

And the fun continues....

16/5 We left Georgia to sleep while we took in a scenic coastal jog taking in kilometers of splendid beach and runways.  The French being the epicurean leisure lovers they are left the tracks mostly to us with only a few other runners en route. I jogged and snapped photos along the way, while Ant finished the 8km round trip with a dip in the ocean outside our hotel.  Georgia ticked off her list of to dos with a ladylike walk from the hotel to the ocean, a compulsory dunking then back to the room to shower.  Keen to explore, we came across a food market in a nearby street. I partook of some oysters and wine for 6.90€ before purchasing meat and small goods for a beachside picnic. A swimming cove Ant had found was a perfect spot.  We ate our snacks al fresco, enjoying the view of naked  locals and family fun before reclining on the shore for an afternoon snooze.  Grateful for sunshine we inadvertently burned a little.  Mid afternoon, we climbed a little higher in the cove and enjoyed a cliff side aperitif maximising the exquisite spot. The marine museum was on the list and handily located on the opposite cliff.  A seal show at 5pm proved  a non event but the 3 floors depicting varietal marine life was. Back to the room to rest and snack then off to find dinner as we were in danger of fading.  Unable to decide on who was hungry or thirsty we settled on a nice patch in the sun taking in an ale and a lung full of cigarette fumes, as well as a meat pizza as accompaniment at a roadside cafe. Wandering the boulevard a couple of hours later we fell upon the main square and a table for three to continue our progressive meal.  Georgia realised a dream in the form of a whole pot of mussels, tiny but tasty. Tiring we returned to the room where I won the longevity award, dozing till midnight watching a disturbing Chinese movie dubbed in French.  17/5 11am checkout meant we were able to take in a walk to the lighthouse before breakfast, consume more baguette and fruit purchased from the market and shower leisurely before ousting. The friendly efficient staff made us a map we followed incorrectly to the bus stop.  We fumbled our way to the train station, purchased tickets and almost missed the train due to platform error. Georgia thankfully, asked all the right questions at the right time while I blithely looked on. A quick train ride then a metro ride left us a stranded  on a  San Sebastian street vainly looking for a taxi. A local mad woman took pity on us and phoned one.   The hotel San Sebastian was four star and located on the wrong side of the bay, a lengthy saunter into the hub.  The wifi was sensationally slow and more often non apparent but Georgia managed to hook up and find out what we needed to know.   A quick look around the centre of town taking in tapas or pintxo dependent on your dialect; Spanish or Basque, on demand and a cursory look around the shops of the thriving old quarter.   Back to the room around 7pm for a regroup I never recovered from.  Fatigue had crept up and felled me like a great oak leaving me cast in my bed for a solid 12+ hours while Ant and Georgia pressed on deep into the San Sebastian sunset utilizing the foreign fantasies and all they had to offer.   18/5 After waking from the sleep of the dead, I agreed to realise my latent energy and join Ant on a running tour of the bay.   A jog/crawl up the steep steps to view Santo Cristo up close was worth the asthma attack.   The chapel directly beneath was beautiful and unexpected.   The parishioners must be really dedicated. Back to collect Georgia who waited hungrily at home for our return like a baby bird, keen to hit the streets for some fodder.  A rapid early morning tapas or pintxo was consumed at a nearby cafe then we headed around the corner and fell upon fruit stalls and bakeries abundant, regretful of our earlier decision to purchase additional fresh fruit supplies at the supermarket. Back to the room to prepare  bags for the day then a taxi to the other side for a days entertainment.   Ant grabbed a local experience of a clipper cut for 10€ while Georgia and I mingled around before the impending shop closure around 1pm.  With a  newly shawn husband in tow,  we headed for a basement restaurant and enjoyed a full three course meal including wine for 16€ a head.  Fabulous service with tasty food was worthy of the rave reviews we read about on our departure from a framed local rag magazine. Back out into the afternoon and we were accosted by light rain. Shower proof wind breakers were donned as we mooched about the damp city streets vainly walking off our courses.  The cathedral proved  a welcome haven and was on the list.  We sat in the pews taking in the austerity as well as relieving our pained calves. The labyrinth of San Sebastian streets in the old quarter came alive at night with locals and tourists lined up in and around bars supping on wine or Sangria and pintxos galore.   The variety in size and offering  of snacks is  commendable and difficult to resist.  A plate is loaded, drinks ordered then the bill sorted at the end.  Someone keeps count!  From baby eel to chicken nibbles, delectable delights are piled high on sliced bread sticks or skewered, and adorn the bars feast like.  As a result, drunken patrons are few.   We took in three separate bars to be sure we had it covered then wandered back home across the bay pausing to snap the vista and had "one for the road" waterside to complete our San Sebastian experience. On our return to the room, Anthony made a bee line for bed while Georgia researched our next leg.  I blogged till I dropped. 19/5 An early rise, taxi to the bus station, then a 9.30am bus to Bilbao at 10€ each was a great pick for the 97km journey. Georgia was excelling at this travel game.  A last minute wifi meant contact with Harriet at home who was living our trip vicariously through my contact. A breakfast picnic in the back seat of the large bus was enjoyed en route while we spread out comfortably over five seats,  far enough away from the  'devil public'. Destination Bilbao, an hour and a half later.  A light rain showered our arrival.  Out of the bus straight into a taxi across the road and directly to the Guggenheim Bilbao.  Our previously purchased Tickets worked a treat as we sidestepped the growing queues and checked our luggage for free. The museum saved the city, rebirthing it as a 'go to' destination.  The architecture itself messes with the senses, confounding logic.  The exhibits or installations as they call them are spread over three floors as well as stretching outside around the building.  The 'art' ranges from classic to new and the sizes from small to uber large.  A steel 'installation' spread out over most of the ground floor and could be viewed within and from above.  Artist's like David Hockney had large exhibits that showcased his various talents over the years and willingness for flexibility utilizing modern tools like the iPad to paint and print out. Taking a break from the culture we wandered into the city as opposed to the museum cafe and dined in style.  Feeling adventurous, I ordered several things by pointing to them on the menu,  oblivious as to what they were.  A large steak arrived as one course much to my delight.  The rain hampered any further attempts at exploration so we returned to the museum to complete our cultural experience.   At around dinner time we finally left.  Scurrying  into a waiting taxi we whizzed through the rainy streets to the airport to complete our days journey to Seville on Spain's airline Vueling.  Touching down ten minutes early we collected our Eurocar rental and set about navigating the ten minute ride to the hotel.  Almost an hour later we arrived at the Seville Hotel Congreso,  having botched the GPS instructions badly.  Hungry and tired at midnight we piled into our room,  'cheap and no so cheerful'  (should have taken the reviews seriously) and collapsed.  Ant did an emergency burger shop run and we ate a Spanish fry up off our dubious floor before turning in for the night. 20/5 Muggy indoors, chilly out, with thunderstorms and sunshine.  The Spanish weather did not hamper my enthusiasm for the pre researched Seville bike tours.  I had the address, price, route and time but not the opening hours. Like a dog with a bone, I phoned the 'reservations required weekends' number and tried my luck at a late notice one.  A happy English speaking voice answered and assisted, promising to collect us ASAP for the tour.  My kind of service.  Injected into an existing tour we joined a ladies book club from Galway and a handful of Dutch tourists on a well run three hour tour of the city on rickety fold out bikes.   The wind whistled through our hair and clothing as we followed each other obediently through narrow streets pausing to take in the ambience and some local narrative from Alana our erudite guide. The city is chocker with must see sights most easily accessible by bikes.   After returning the bikes we headed straight back to our favorite bits that included;  local tapas at a roadside cafe, the impressive palace gardens complete with fish and peacocks, the third largest cathedral in Europe plus a jaunt up the 31 floors to the bell tower and finally more tapas at Bar Gonzalo with a Michelin suggested dish to boot. Negotiating our way home from the car park proved too easy so we added on a tiki tour.  Ant and Georgia, fueled by their navigational successes went down to the hotel bar to celebrate while I climbed wearily into my bed, down but not out. 21/5 As we had forgotten to set the alarm, we all woke alarmed at 9.20am, our hopes of an early departure dashed. Deciding on the hotel breakfast as a necessary evil  we ate the dried out buffet offerings and carb loaded in preparation for our first road trip from Seville to Granada, 250km. This hotel must have connections to the Spanish mafia with its four star rating.  About three more than is justified.   With road trips, the  start and the end like flying, are the hard bit.  The in between, simple.  Spain spread out around us like a bumpy counterpane quilt for miles, edged closely to the highway with acres of olive groves.  The time sped by from the back as I navigated mouth agape, lost in slumber.  We chose our next hotel on line the night before and were pleased with our choice situated close to the Alhambra, the reason for our visit. A plan was formed at the bar for the day; lunch a short walk into town, then back to the Alhambra mid afternoon for a few hours on our pre booked tickets (thanks again, Georgia) then a final decision on a tourist tour to the gypsy caves at night. The walk into town downhill through a park like setting was calming. Granada town itself,  a thriving mini metropolis. The main roads burst with activity.  We followed our hotel maps to the tapas area in search of  Spanish delicacies. We performed our obligatory march up and down the same lane repeatedly finally all agreeing on the ' right' place. Authenticity was the key and we achieved it this time.  Ant bonded with the cook/owner bent deep into the oven at the bar professing his cuisine as the best in Europe! We sat sated in the sun and watched the world for a minute before heading back up the hill to our alpine village hotel to regroup. The Alhambra is a world heritage site, built by and for a sultan about eight centuries ago and later taken by the Catholics.  It has a series of palaces with vast modern gardens boasting a multitude of water features and ponds teaming with fish.  Exhumed ruins lie around the outside easily viewable with access to most areas of the remaining buildings still standing.  The intricacies of the Nazrid palaces are unique, intriguing and remarkably intact.  The on site souvenir shop equally as impressive,  housed relics of the past alongside trinkets of today.  Considering the battle with the tour loads of 8000/day and the area covered we escaped relatively unscathed over four hours later.   Back at the hotel for another regroup at he bar, we were joined by a fellow Australasian, keen for company and an audience.  John and Margaret from Bateman, out of Sydney regaled us with tales of their Spanish exploration. Third time back in Spain they took brand new cars around Spain for less than the price of a rental and covered massive areas at their own pace, at times 8000km in eight weeks.  We bid them farewell as they left for the gypsy caves tour and we wandered back into town.  Turning right at the entry to the town this time we found ourselves in the ancient Moorish quarter that almost made me squeal with delight.   Buoyed with my nocturnal achievement, not yet seen on this trip, the three of us strolled down the very streets the ancient Moors did centuries before us. Keen to keep it Spanish we snubbed the Morrocan cafes popular this end and headed back to the other side for another dose of tapas. Crammed in (a good sign) like the sardines they served floured and fried, we ordered up large. Breaking my cardinal rule of eating after ten at night, I gorged happily on the dishes as quickly as they could serve them. Brimming with pleasure and provisions, we trotted happily back up the hill for the second time today astounding Georgia with our energy surges, spontaneously racing to the top. Unbelievably still not tired,  we mooched about the hotel and decided to check out the advertised swimming pool.  Closed due to the hour and the season, I did my best to impress my family with my contortionist skills, unsuccessfully trying to climb through the narrow bars on the gate that Georgia insisted I couldn't get my head through.  I did get my head through and one of my legs.  It was just my middle that wouldn't play ball.  Georgia was so stunned with my acrobatics she fell backwards into a concrete empty umbrella stand, denting her shins excruciatingly.  Time to quit while we were ahead we returned to the room and prepared for the next leg, 500km to Denia, a short distance from Valencia and on the Mediterranean coastline.  22/5 The alarm did its job of annoying the crap out of us at 7am and we reluctantly rose. After another hotel breakfast that provided joyless nutrients we left Granada, culturally satisfied. Traveling with his 'only stop when essential' attitude,  Anthony plowed through the Spanish desert 'taking no prisoners' with his newfound European driving skills.  Confounded by the need for petrol, we took a detour into a little town and refueled, almost detained by a street protest if not for some quick reflex re-routing. Back on the highway, and another hour or two the relentless desert finally succumbed to the magnificent Mediterranean as we approached the coast.  

Europe 12

Holland and Spain     10-27 May 2012 1.15pm NZ time. First entry 2 hrs after boarding a delayed flight from Christchurch to Singapore.  Back to back: Chc-Sing-Amsterdam-Gouda-Tilburg-Brussels-Biarritz-San Sebastian - Bilbao - Seville - Granada - Malaga - Valencia - Barcelona - Sing - Chc trip.  With my 84 yr old mother in law in tow, we departed Christchurch at 11.45am (55mins overdue).  Joanna took the delay in her stride being the seasoned traveller after sixty years of to-ing and fro-ing between Holland and NZ as a necessary evil for the emigrated.  My husband of 23 years paced the departure lounge panther like, unused to unproductive downtown.  I fought with the snack machine and lost; the second bag of prized Kettles fries.  Singapore airlines is an Asian fantasy.  Perfectly coiffed women and overly groomed men efficiently delivered food and drinks while we grappled with the technologically retarded inflight entertainment system.  Two cabinet savignons later, I was cocooned in an alcohol enduced nirvana viewing Johnny Depp on screen, ensconced in my polar fleece blanket anticipating my Kung -po chicken about to be served.  Nek minut, Changi airport, Singapore.   "Why walk when you can legitimately travel in a wheelchair?" I suggested to Oma. She took up my offer and we pushed her through the many kilometers of two out of the three terminals.  Tour stops included a dip in the outdoor swimming pool, the butterfly garden and a underwhelming Chinese meal at the ridiculously named 'Peach Gardens'. Back on board for the second and final 13 hour  leg to Amsterdam we fought off soporific urges until after the dinner was served, then welcomed sleep aided with chemical assistance.  Thirty physical hours later we were delivered to the open arms of Amsterdam airport.   11-14/5 Family time in Holland was enjoyed by all. From being greeted at the airport by cousins and reunited with our oldest after five months apart, to reunions and catch ups, we swam gaily within the gene pool.  First stop, a trip to beautiful Gouda, hosted by the Ant's first cousin Frank and his wife Sylvia.  A sanctuary 75km from Amsterdam, complete with winding roads, cows, lush farmland and of course, windmills. We were wined, dined, shown the local cheese haven and ensconced in five star residential service, second to none.  Two morning runs with their dog Dot, and a twilight cycle ride around this idyllic area ensured we captured all the serenity we grasp.  Second stop for Ant, Georgia and myself was a train ride into Amsterdam for the day to meet up with our host's daughter Suzanne for a day out. A quick look around her city apartment, reminiscent of Kiwi student accommodation but more erratically constructed, then off in search of hire bikes to explore the city.  Cycling within our five strong (picked up another cousin) peloton through the city streets was an unmissable experience.  Cars, trucks, motorcycles and other cyclists  melded magically through the maze of cobbled streets with only two accidents witnessed along the way.   Flea markets picked over, we stopped at a roadside cafe.  After double locking our hire bikes we joined the urban sprawl dotting the sparse outdoors tables drinking in the spring sunshine,  local wine and beer.  The afternoon spent we returned to the train station, farewelling our wily city slicker and made our way back to Gouda for one more night. Reluctant to leave but excited to continue, we all drove in Franks VW to Tilburg, 115km south to the familial heart of Holland.  More excited greeting ensued with our dear cousin Ans and her husband Leon.   A linguistically confused Oma met up with  us again as she switched unnaturally between Dutch and English amongst the crowd.  After another gourmet spread at Ans we made our way to a Tilburg city cafe and met another 30 family members for the official Cruissen family reunion organized by Ans.   People aesthetically familiar and genetically linked mingled happily for hours in the sun while I frantically tried to record how they were actually linked for posterity (and Harriet) in my travel journal.  Farewells and many triple kisses later we left with Ans and Leon for a quiet mother's day dinner at a tasteful restaurant close by. A night in Oma's brothers apartment in his absence, for Ant and me while Georgia took her last opportunity  to be spoiled by Ans.  Transported  in Audi A5 style the 119km to Brussels was much appreciated.  A lunch in the Grand Place enjoyed with 'Mrs Bucket' and her loyal escort before we tearfully parted company for this visit. 15/5 Charleroi, Brussels sounds prettier than it looks. So does the airport Ibis hotel.  Both are seriously average but a necessary evil for transition from Holland to France on this trip.  Biarritz is our next stop departing happily from this place at 10.40am today. Brussels was a blast. Not a must visit, but if you have to, the highlights are; mussels, beer, waffles, Manneken Pis, The Grand Place and of course chocolate. Mussels were consumed in prime position at the Grand Place, cocooned in the seven hundred years of market history, beneath the magnitude of the town hall, Breadhouse  and other grandiose buildings worthy of their UNESCO world heritage ranking.  Beer was chosen and downed from the over 2000 choices at the Cafe Delirium alongside other young and old revelers.  We were drawn in by the one euro waffle sign and left with a 4.90 euro waffle stacked high with fresh strawberries and dripping in flowing Nutella atop a sugary crunchy sensation worth every euro and potential future artery blockages.   Manneken Pis, like the Mona Lisa was a smaller than expected. So small we passed it once unwittingly before returning to the site. A cast iron version of its four hundred year old self stood on the side of the street surrounded by tourists while the original lay far from the thieves in a nearby museum.  Legend of the little man  peeing (literal translation) varies from his saving certain city destruction by  bombing, with his pee flow on the fuse,  to him taunting marauding invaders by showering them.   Chocoholics beware. You have arrived at your Mecca. Drawn inexplicably into the 'Mary' branded shop of Belgian chocolatiers, I marveled at the range while the haughty purveyor extolled the virtues of their hand made, preservative free, made to order delights. They had us at, "official suppliers to the Belgian royal household". Having farewelled the hospitality and convenience of our Dutch family we were left to navigate ourselves and 60 kgs of luggage to our next stop. Charleroi airport en route to Biarritz, France.  Following our seasoned traveller daughter like puppy dogs we watched her skillfully negotiate temporary storage, train tickets and taxi options.  15/5  Georgia spends her downtown (airports, taxis, trains ) catching up on sleep.  I use it to play on my i-Instruments  and Ant to pace amiably.   Our flight to Biarritz, France included an interlude at Charleroi airport.  Our proximity thanks to the budget Ibis, afforded us  a relaxed transfer.  After dining on expensive brekky foods at the monopolized Paul Cafe, I got a free full body pat down after setting off the security buzzer with my stylish silver cross necklace. 

Flying Fiasco

Segregation is alive and kicking and separating the masses in 2012.  In our inability to use religion, skin colour, gender or physical abilities to judge and discriminate against, in our ‘modern ‘ society, we now clutch at the straw of fiscal spending

Profit is lord; customer service the serf. In a bid to survive in the cut throat airline market, I am sad to say that our national airline has finally sunk to the levels of the interlopers.

It all began one fateful morning in February this year. Purchasing a ticket online bound for Melbourne with our preferred carrier, I was happy in the knowledge that I could travel direct at a reasonable hour, to and from Melbourne.  Fortunately, I had passed Online Purchasing 101 and could decipher the ticketing splits offering bag and food options, and ordered the ‘works’.

Confident in my purchase that coincided with two other couples travelling to the same event, I waited for my departure date.  Alerted to a change in airline scheduling by another couple on the same flight, I telephoned our airline to discuss our booking.  The 0800 operator advised me that no changes could be made as none had  appeared on their system. 

Many weeks later I received a call on my cell phone advising the ‘*changes’ and that an email would follow with amended ticketing information.  This never happened of its own volition.  After further follow up calls I eventually received email validation.

*Two flights now departing an annoying earlier hour......argh! 

New tickets printed, I headed off to meet up with friends for our four day sojourn.  

At check in, a red flag should have gone up when  chased by the check in operator,  advising us that we had to pay for the baggage we had just checked.  I advised the ‘changes’ that the airline had made and the magnanimous supervisor overrode the error.

Once on board nestled/wedged in our economy seats, we were then graciously transferred to business class to join our fellow Koru travellers.  They had requested we utilise the empty seats beside them. 

Joyful in our sudden change of status we settled in to our new surroundings and commenced luxuriating in the extra space.

Then the fun and games began.

As the food and drink cart made its rounds we were identified; seemingly by a yellow Star of David or the likes on a list of purchase options as “Seat only”.  Having purchased a ‘works’ ticket originally but then been rebooked by the airline with no monetary exchange, we had no verification of the original booking. 

With a rising blood pressure, I did my best to explain this to the previously accommodating staff, who could only proceed on what they had in writing.   Henceforth my husband and I were treated like lepers who had escaped the colony.  A bottle of water was placed on both our tables separately, then a bemused steward returned and removed both bottles without a word.  The food trolley circled us making no eye or wheel contact as we sat salivating all the while, being avoided like the plague.

Stewing in my own juices at our treatment, my mind raced as to how I would prove my legitimacy.  Once landed, I hurriedly logged onto my email and produced the original booking verifying our full ‘works’ purchase.

Triumphant in my findings I found the person in charge....who knew all about our faux pas.  She smilingly pulled me aside making all the right noises and expressions but ultimately like Mick Jagger,  gave me no satisfaction. 

I got a generic card to call for these sorts of problems and sent on my way.

Awkward, Irritating, Riling, Niggling, Zapping is apt description for our airline where managerial discretion has been replaced with revenue outcomes. Customers have been relegated to a choice on a list, and grouped accordingly. The bygone experience of international flight has been pared down to the bare bones of transportation.

Whilst there is still a living breathing steward to interact with, I expect empathy, understanding and company pride.  Otherwise what is the point of real people.  In a bid to modernise, streamline and survive in the airline industry, are robots the way of the future?  If so, the current staff  I dealt with do a very good impersonation.

Southern Revolution

The 11.30am start started at 10.30am for some, 12.00 for others. And so it began; the gathering of like minded souls. A week riding the bottom of the south island.  1000kms over 6 days atop carbon-fibre machinery, second to none.  The inaugural Tour of New Zealand proved a catalyst but no solution for the enthusiasts, meaning six months of planning for this breakaway tour group of 21 riders. 

The convoy of two vans played tag, pausing at McDonalds Ashburton for a nutritious interlude.  The journey to Balclutha went remarkably fast considering miles consumed. Captains of industry, airlines, surgeries, and domestic duties amused themselves with cryptic crosswords, Heineken consumption, minutia of cycle purchasing and anything else to distract the necessary evil of travel.

The Rosebank Motel welcomed.  Rooms allocated, we descended upon the bar for a ‘speed dating’ session, keen to become acquainted. Race rules for the pseudo competitors were mulled over a hearty meal of steak and large sides of pre-race banter before an early night. 

Day one of riding began with large breakfasts and riders ready for takeoff at 8am, after obligatory first day photos.  With nary a backward glance we rolled into the streets locating our group confidence and the turnoff for Invercargill easily.

 Southern hospitality is a tangible thing. We touched it at the Whistling Frog cafe 68kms into riding. Devonshire teas were delivered fresh from the oven by enquiring owners bemused with our caper.

We rose and fell with the undulations all the way to the Stirling Tides of Invercargill. Like guests at a wedding breakfast we shuffled  inline, piling our plates with restaurant fare of Michelin quality.

Replenished and savouring the coastal views in the mid afternoon sun, we nearly forgot the additional riding into Invercargill.

Wary of burnout, I opted for the van while the bikers grappled  with off-shore winds.

The Monarch Motel morphed into view. Invercargill looked almost appealing with two days to relax as only  ‘Type A’  personalities can; inching up Bluff Hill and racing the Velodrome.

The arranged masseuses arrived on schedule at 4pm. In lots of three, those interested had the hills kneaded right off their muscles. The rest watched on from their mezzanine balcony, sipping beer in true kiwi fashion.

An unexpectedly impressive meal was enjoyed at the Kiln Restaurant.  Toasts made and awards issued, we returned to our cyclist’s village sated.

“Veni, vidi, vici!”  Well, we all did. Bluff Hill; the nipple on the large breast of the far south. Oft spoken, seldom ridden. A warm-up ride of 27km prepared our bodies for the 265m climb up the extinct (we hope) volcanic cone. Our minds were another story. Two kilometres of sharp uphill had us heading for the bushes ‘nervously’, then tossing off clothes passionately like eager lovers.

Ten to fifteen minutes later, dependent on your prowess, it was over. Ruddy faced and self satisfied we grouped for a ‘must have’ snapshot.

Stella’s cafe served up homemade hospitality into booths, characterising Bluff’s unique locale.

That afternoon, insurmountable climbs were quickly forgotten as the team clambered into the ‘home of cycling’, AKA  Invercargill Velodrome.

Jerry Stock; of name and body, valiantly drew on his best coaching skills  teaching the large mass of testosterone, how to safely ride the $25m track. A twelve time Tour of Southland entrant and European cycling guide, his credentials.

Propelled around a 250m track by centrifugal force upon a cereal bowl edge at speed, is electrifying. Physics be damned! 

The Lone Star Invercargill proved a haven with much to celebrate in addition to payment for Jerry’s time.

February 22, the anniversary for the full contingent of Christchurch riders, weighed heavily in our minds alongside the 190km ride to Te Anau.

Textbook riding was observed as we passed through Riverton and the coastal glory of Gemstone Bay ALMOST slow enough for photos.

Colac Bay hid off the main road. The Pavilion cafe incongruous with the raw coastal solitude, easily comfortable on Auckland’s waterfront, dished up the best scones to date. Sated we stared out through the drizzle, warm of stomach and heart.

Acutely aware of the time, at 12.51pm the peloton rolled to a stop. Aligned, heads bowed in the middle of the wilderness, we reviewed our personal demons and mourned the loss of our compatriots for sixty seconds.

Like a large picnic rug, Blackmount School swimming pool spread ahead. Eating sandwiches from plastic triangles, we enjoyed a trip down memory lane when life was less complicated.

Manapouri beckoned.  A sprint finish to the water’s edge.  Skiable backdrops were another photo opportunity, then the final descent into Te Anau, 190km since breakfast.

The expected Te Anau rain arrived overnight and stayed on uninvited. Our ‘commissaire’ halted the tour and we vanned to Five Rivers. A battle between procrastination and indecision ensued.  Ten foolhardy fellows donned their raincoats. One van went ahead brimming with optimistic afternoon cyclists and the other remained behind in ambulance position.

Ironically, the “Dipstick of the day” uniform of OSH reflective ware, proved a safety beacon through the fog.

Queenstown’s unparalleled energy delivered on demand. The Prime restaurant and Alexis Motel, worth revisiting.

The dry night was celebrated like a new mother. Departing  town, persuaded by the brooding sky we headed for the ominous crown range. Climbing one of the highest sealed roads in New Zealand took almost an hour and a lot of puff.

The slippery slide into Cadrona compensated. Rotisserie-like, we huddled about the fire warming our stomachs and bottoms alike on more treats at the iconic inn.

The collaboration of sun, backwind and downhill accelerated our team trials into Wanaka. Fellowship wrestled results and fellowship won.

The Clearbrook Motel provided a comforting sojourn with full facilities for

domestic duties catch up. Keen to accumulate more miles, the

testosterone and tranquillity of the area spurred the group on for a

further sixty kilometres. A shopping window opened for others.

Urban Grind; synonymous with our lives and recreational choices, proved

 a great dinner venue for the team. 

Invading the alfresco tables the bicycle blether accompanied the

tapas menu before a B line was made for inviting beds. 

Day Six in the saddle. Lindis Pass; our final frontier.  Our celebrity cyclist, the 1988 World Triathlon Champion, gave us glimmers of greatness along the way fuelling the group’s professional fantasies.

Gliding into Omarama alongside an airborne glider, was straight off the

cover of ‘NZ Life & Leisure’ magazine.

‘The Wrinkly Ram’ an adequate depiction of the road spent riders, a

laudable lunchover.

The McKenzie canals marked the end of our tour.  We grouped squadron-like and headed for home grateful for the wholeness of mind and body.

The holidaying guitar finally made an appearance at the “Wrap party” and stayed well into the night competing with exhaustion for pole position.

Game over, we returned to point A where it all began.  Gear disbursed, we group hugged and sang Kumbaya as we made our way back to our families and lives, richer for the experience.

Friday 24/2/12 The Crowning Glory

The dry night at Queenstown was celebrated like a new mother. We rolled out of town reluctantly encouraged by the brooding sky. About 20km later, The Millbrook resort marked the arrival into Arrowtown. Swarming through the delightful settlement in preparation for the climb up the Crown range, we added to the village hum.

To wear a raincoat or to not wear a raincoat...that was the question. The drizzle had caught up with us. The ride up 600+ meters was going to be warm work but the ride down, snap freezing.

I opted for warmth all the way. Once the incline began the peloton split instantly. The 'pro' riders raced to the top leaving the 'survival mode’ riders inching their way up every meter. As a first timer, not knowing where the end was made pacing difficult. In a group of four we turned our wheels in silence, one revolution at a time until we saw the magical lights of our van illuminating the top.

In a bid to retain warmth in the now driving rain, I didn't stop to encounter my dominating position overlooking Wanaka from one side, and Arrowtown the other.
The slippery slide into Wanaka was natures own theme park ride. Cautiously we descended to the bottom whereupon we raced to the Cadrona hotel desperate for food and warmth.

Forming a rotating peloton around the welcoming fireplace we slowly dried out. After a full clothes change for some, the sun decided to co-operate as we reluctantly left behind the old world charm of the iconic hotel full of bonhomie and varied confections.

Uphill grinds long forgotten the four teams set off at 2 minute intervals for a team time trial. Sunshine, downhill and backwind assisted as we raced in unison for Wanaka. Fellowship wrestled results and fellowship won.

The Clearbrook Motel provided a comforting sojourn with full facilities for domestic duties catch up. Keen to accumulate more miles, the testosterone and tranquillity of the area spurred on the group to a further sixty kilometres. A shopping window opened for others.

What is even better than cycling?... Watching other people do it. Fortuitously, a local criterion passed by directly in front of our chosen waterfront watering hole.

Urban Grind; synonymous with our lives and recreational choices, was a great venue for the team. Invading the alfresco tables the bicycle blether continued well into our tapas menu and nightly awards presentation. Exiting full of fare and beer some made a B line for their inviting beds while others caroused a little longer unconcerned with tomorrows impending mileage.

Saturday 25/2/12 Tekapo or Bust

Waking up in Wanaka beside a babbling brook, apart from allowing alliteration is a truly surreal experience. The panorama engulfs. The teams systematically emerge from their units and ablutions ready for their longest and final leg...200kms to Tekapo.

Unwillingly we depart, torn from the quietude in resignation. First stop, Tarras. ‘Home of ‘Shrek’, our hirsute iconic ovine. The sunshine, cinnamon apple pinwheels and sense of freedom start the day off well. Abundant merino fashion is coveted briefly before the group forming whistle cries.

The quintessential country backdrop cannot we wasted as we pose en masse before departure. Heads down, tails up we press on to the Lindis Pass looming ahead. A flat tyre means a wheel change and the peloton is slowed to a grinding halt. Support vans execute a grand prix style pit stop while those uninvolved lay languorously along the berm.

A week of enforced togetherness removes all privacy barriers as pants are dropped alongside the jaws of passing tourists on the highway by opportunists glad of the break.

Pre-climbing preparations made, we snake deep into the Lindis in the full heat of the sun. Sweat and tears stream from our pores as we fight with those around us and ourselves to prevail.

Our blessed support crew wait encouragingly at the top and provide a boost to our physical and emotional needs alike.

A compensating 20km downhill to our lunch stop proved motivating and the slower riders were sent ahead as fodder for the chase. The pros; *real and *imaginary, catapulted downwards, bearing down on the unsuspecting targets at speeds exceeding 65km, long after the downhill assistance had waned.

*REAL depicted in this instance as a certain Californian born on Feb 29, 1960; 1988 World Ironman champ with over 200 podium finishes throughout his career as opposed to....

IMAGINERY: the ‘weekend warriors’ exhibiting superior cycle website honing skills, budgets without caps and lust for pack cycling dominance.

The snapshot of gliding into Omarama alongside an actual glider was lifted straight from the cover of ‘NZ Life & Leisure’ magazine. ‘The Wrinkly Ram’ an adequate depiction of the road spent riders as well as our chosen cafe, spread itself generously over some prime town real estate.

A wedding reception quality buffet awaited. Anxious not to repeat previous gluttonous refuels we showed exemplary restraint. A long tranquil pit stop enabled digestion but disabled momentum.

With one hundred down and one hundred to go I chose the van. Crawling along in a van at under 35km/hr isn’t as boring as imagined.

Leaning out of the windows for the perfect shot at a whole new angle, I too was drawn to the roadside like the Argonauts to Medusa, at the impassable image of Mount Cook illuminated in the mid afternoon sun.

Upsetting the natives; unrestrained of mouth and bosom, with our creative parking, we took our shots and left rapidly.

Poppies Cafe, Twizel was the final scheduled stop for the last leg. Swingball and lawn cricket left over from the seventies and Twizel’s boom time catered for those able to assume the upright position.

The van proved a sage decision as I witnessed from my front row seat, the gruelling climb up to the salmon farm for our final unscheduled but necessary, regroup of the day.

Starting with the pack and finishing with the pack was my objective, minus some of the ‘icky’ bits in the middle and I was right on target. A little encouragement from my spouse to ‘join the party’ was all I needed to climb out of my leisure pants back into the Lycra®.

The Canal roads of the McKenzie country are a special place. So special that some of the roads are closed to normal people. High on Peak fuel™ and self importance we hoisted our bikes over the cautionary blockade and then took photos for posterity.

Like RAF squadrons, we flew in sequence, eight wide across the road in the final burst for home. Competition now over, survival and merriment high on the agenda those that could, did race up the last less serious climb to pop up in the town of the Good Shepherd.

Exalted by our accomplishment, we joined the peloton’s posse that had made it all possible. Elevated at a lakeside retreat, we toasted good health and fortune on champagne and beer overlooking the glory of Lake Tekapo.

A spruce up at The ‘Residence’, Tekapo expedited. We luxuriated in the accommodation that was promised and delivered, then returned to resume the festivities.

Like MasterChef entrants, our talented support crew redefined barbeque and presented a banquet spread for the enjoyment of the revellers.

The holidaying guitar finally made an appearance and stayed well into the night competing with exhaustion for pole position. The closing awards ceremony consisted of team pursuits at holding a tune and golden awards presented by ‘podium chicks’ complete with bouquets.

Having completed only sixty per cent of the week’s riding, by my calculations I still had forty per cent more revelling to do. My husband did not concur as he escorted me to the waiting van, reminiscent of Security guards from a recent concert.

Sunday 26/2/12 Game Over.

Brekkie supplies exhausted, we snacked on milk-less cereal and dried toast in our post party wake up. Pack up day is a drag and amplified with the drizzle and mess. With lightened vans loads, we departed obediently by 10am in varying vehicles with our GPS™ set for ‘home’.

An unremarkable stop at Fairlie for fats and hydration broke up the three hour ride. A broken roof and window on two separate buildings was a reminder of proximity to home and the 4.3 quake registered twelve hours before. Upon further investigation, a fire and an unlicensed youth were responsible for these calamities.

Casual chatter and slumber filled the van as we drove the remaining hour and a half into Christchurch. Back at point A where it all began we gathered our gear, group hugged and sang Kumbaya as we made our way back to our families and lives, richer for the experience.

final instalment...

Friday 24/2/12 The Crowning Glory

The dry night at Queenstown was celebrated like a new mother. We rolled out of town reluctantly encouraged by the brooding sky. About 20km later, The Millbrook resort marked the arrival into Arrowtown. Swarming through the delightful settlement in preparation for the climb up the Crown range, we added to the village hum.

To wear a raincoat or to not wear a raincoat...that was the question. The drizzle had caught up with us. The ride up 600+ meters was going to be warm work but the ride down, snap freezing.

I opted for warmth all the way. Once the incline began the peloton split instantly. The 'pro' riders raced to the top leaving the 'survival mode’ riders inching their way up every meter. As a first timer, not knowing where the end was made pacing difficult. In a group of four we turned our wheels in silence, one revolution at a time until we saw the magical lights of our van illuminating the top.

In a bid to retain warmth in the now driving rain, I didn't stop to encounter my dominating position overlooking Wanaka from one side, and Arrowtown the other.
The slippery slide into Wanaka was natures own theme park ride. Cautiously we descended to the bottom whereupon we raced to the Cadrona hotel desperate for food and warmth.

Forming a rotating peloton around the welcoming fireplace we slowly dried out. After a full clothes change for some, the sun decided to co-operate as we reluctantly left behind the old world charm of the iconic hotel full of bonhomie and varied confections.

Uphill grinds long forgotten the four teams set off at 2 minute intervals for a team time trial. Sunshine, downhill and backwind assisted as we raced in unison for Wanaka. Fellowship wrestled results and fellowship won.

The Clearbrook Motel provided a comforting sojourn with full facilities for domestic duties catch up. Keen to accumulate more miles, the testosterone and tranquillity of the area spurred on the group to a further sixty kilometres. A shopping window opened for others.

What is even better than cycling?... Watching other people do it. Fortuitously, a local criterion passed by directly in front of our chosen waterfront watering hole.

Urban Grind; synonymous with our lives and recreational choices, was a great venue for the team. Invading the alfresco tables the bicycle blether continued well into our tapas menu and nightly awards presentation. Exiting full of fare and beer some made a B line for their inviting beds while others caroused a little longer unconcerned with tomorrows impending mileage.

Saturday 25/2/12 Tekapo or Bust

Waking up in Wanaka beside a babbling brook, apart from allowing alliteration is a truly surreal experience. The panorama engulfs. The teams systematically emerge from their units and ablutions ready for their longest and final leg...200kms to Tekapo.

Unwillingly we depart, torn from the quietude in resignation. First stop, Tarras. ‘Home of ‘Shrek’, our hirsute iconic ovine. The sunshine, cinnamon apple pinwheels and sense of freedom start the day off well. Abundant merino fashion is coveted briefly before the group forming whistle cries.

The quintessential country backdrop cannot we wasted as we pose en masse before departure. Heads down, tails up we press on to the Lindis Pass looming ahead. A flat tyre means a wheel change and the peloton is slowed to a grinding halt. Support vans execute a grand prix style pit stop while those uninvolved lay languorously along the berm.

A week of enforced togetherness removes all privacy barriers as pants are dropped alongside the jaws of passing tourists on the highway by opportunists glad of the break.

Pre-climbing preparations made, we snake deep into the Lindis in the full heat of the sun. Sweat and tears stream from our pores as we fight with those around us and ourselves to prevail.

Our blessed support crew wait encouragingly at the top and provide a boost to our physical and emotional needs alike.

A compensating 20km downhill to our lunch stop proved motivating and the slower riders were sent ahead as fodder for the chase. The pros; *real and *imaginary, catapulted downwards, bearing down on the unsuspecting targets at speeds exceeding 65km, long after the downhill assistance had waned.

*REAL depicted in this instance as a certain Californian born on Feb 29, 1960; 1988 World Ironman champ with over 200 podium finishes throughout his career as opposed to....

IMAGINERY: the ‘weekend warriors’ exhibiting superior cycle website honing skills, budgets without caps and lust for pack cycling dominance.

The snapshot of gliding into Omarama alongside an actual glider was lifted straight from the cover of ‘NZ Life & Leisure’ magazine. ‘The Wrinkly Ram’ an adequate depiction of the road spent riders as well as our chosen cafe, spread itself generously over some prime town real estate.

A wedding reception quality buffet awaited. Anxious not to repeat previous gluttonous refuels we showed exemplary restraint. A long tranquil pit stop enabled digestion but disabled momentum.

With one hundred down and one hundred to go I chose the van. Crawling along in a van at under 35km/hr isn’t as boring as imagined.

Leaning out of the windows for the perfect shot at a whole new angle, I too was drawn to the roadside like the Argonauts to Medusa, at the impassable image of Mount Cook illuminated in the mid afternoon sun.

Upsetting the natives; unrestrained of mouth and bosom, with our creative parking, we took our shots and left rapidly.

Poppies Cafe, Twizel was the final scheduled stop for the last leg. Swingball and lawn cricket left over from the seventies and Twizel’s boom time catered for those able to assume the upright position.

The van proved a sage decision as I witnessed from my front row seat, the gruelling climb up to the salmon farm for our final unscheduled but necessary, regroup of the day.

Starting with the pack and finishing with the pack was my objective, minus some of the ‘icky’ bits in the middle and I was right on target. A little encouragement from my spouse to ‘join the party’ was all I needed to climb out of my leisure pants back into the Lycra®.

The Canal roads of the McKenzie country are a special place. So special that some of the roads are closed to normal people. High on Peak fuel™ and self importance we hoisted our bikes over the cautionary blockade and then took photos for posterity.

Like RAF squadrons, we flew in sequence, eight wide across the road in the final burst for home. Competition now over, survival and merriment high on the agenda those that could, did race up the last less serious climb to pop up in the town of the Good Shepherd.

Exalted by our accomplishment, we joined the peloton’s posse that had made it all possible. Elevated at a lakeside retreat, we toasted good health and fortune on champagne and beer overlooking the glory of Lake Tekapo.

A spruce up at The ‘Residence’, Tekapo expedited. We luxuriated in the accommodation that was promised and delivered, then returned to resume the festivities.

Like MasterChef entrants, our talented support crew redefined barbeque and presented a banquet spread for the enjoyment of the revellers.

The holidaying guitar finally made an appearance and stayed well into the night competing with exhaustion for pole position. The closing awards ceremony consisted of team pursuits at holding a tune and golden awards presented by ‘podium chicks’ complete with bouquets.

Having completed only sixty per cent of the week’s riding, by my calculations I still had forty per cent more revelling to do. My husband did not concur as he escorted me to the waiting van, reminiscent of Security guards from a recent concert.

Sunday 26/2/12 Game Over.

Brekkie supplies exhausted, we snacked on milk-less cereal and dried toast in our post party wake up. Pack up day is a drag and amplified with the drizzle and mess. With lightened vans loads, we departed obediently by 10am in varying vehicles with our GPS™ set for ‘home’.

An unremarkable stop at Fairlie for fats and hydration broke up the three hour ride. A broken roof and window on two separate buildings was a reminder of proximity to home and the 4.3 quake registered twelve hours before. Upon further investigation, a fire and an unlicensed youth were responsible for these calamities.

Casual chatter and slumber filled the van as we drove the remaining hour and a half into Christchurch. Back at point A where it all began we gathered our gear, group hugged and sang Kumbaya as we made our way back to our families and lives, richer for the experience.

Wet, wet, wet 23/2

The forecasted rain arrived in the night and stayed on uninvited. An early morning text direct from the commissaire halted the tour in its tracks.

Rerouted past the Mossburn stop for morning tea directly to Five Rivers by van meant packing up all 25 bikes and 27 people into two vans. Lycra clad in anticipation drinking coffee and feasting on cheese rolls and muffins the group battled with procrastination and indecision.

The Five Rivers cafe played host well to local and foreign visitors alike, with retail sales of local artisans showcased enticingly throughout the contemporary
layout.

A call went out and ten riders stepped forward. Some of their own volition, others pushed. The remaining 17 clambered into the vans confident in their decisions.

A van of eight dry cyclists headed directly for Queenstown in search of a break in the weather. The other van followed the 'gang of ten' obediently on damage control.

The sights along the way for the van and cyclists alike were breath taking in two completely different ways. The drive in through Garston and Kingston meandered adjacent to the Remarkables on the right and Wakatipu on the left; two stand alone stunners.

The steadfast bikers rolled on undeterred by a little precipitation winding their way around the Devil's Staircase as practiced as altar boys. Queenstown emerged eventually 97 km later.

The first team had arrived and departed for their two hour ride reluctant to lose face. Beer and wine was detected from the luggage and disposed of smartly. A lazy drizzly afternoon spread out in one of the most magnificent spots in the country and possibly the globe.

The Prime restaurant in downtown Queenstown dished up approximately 27 steaks, cooked to perfection to some fussy bi-peds. The included lake vista only added to the perfection.
The party capital of the south didn't fail to deliver with the group returning to base at varying times on foot, in vans or a hailed taxi.

The last of the summer wine

22/2/12 the last of the summer wine.....

Too much wine and too much song opened up a day of remembrance for the 27 Christchurch team members.  12.51pm would mean a compulsory stop to commemorate the time and day a year ago when our lives changed irrevocably.

190km day ahead and saddle sore rumps guaranteed a slow even pace out of Invercargill.  The nineteen men and five women chattered amongst themselves enjoying the leisurely pace promised until morning tea time at 60km later.  Textbook riding was observed as we passed through Riverton and the coastal glory of Gemstone Bay ALMOST slow enough to take photos of the magnificent scenery.  What began as a ride through a gloomy rolling countryside likened to Scotland continued onto a new world mimicking a colder version of the Florida Keys.

A quick left turn off the highway to edge onto the coastline  to Colac Bay found us cold, wet but unfazed at the Pavillion Cafe. An establishment that could have been at home on the Auckland waterfront proffered up cheese scones and fruit muffins by the dozen.  The sated cyclists looked out over the waterfront through the drizzle, warm of heart and stomach.

Three bikes stowed by the ladies and jackets donned the remaining crew and we headed out for our next lunch stop at Blackwood School. The pace again civil and the land gradient accommodating we climbed gradually enjoying the lengthy downhills that go hand in hand with the ascents.

Acutely aware of the date and time we hauled the peloton to a stop at precisely 12.48 in readiness for the 12.51pm minute of silence. Heads bowed on an open silent road deep in the wilderness we all reviewed our personal demons and mourned the loss of our compatriots.

Morning tea now a distant memory  unconsciously upped the pace considerably as we bolted towards our lunch stop.  Tuatapere came and went, pretty and purposeful and a definite stop on any other occasion.

The grounds of Blackwood school swimming pool was awakend for an hour. The variety of lunch options further added to the frivolity. Laying around like school children chewing sandwiches from plastic triangles we enjoyed a trip down memory lane when life was less complicated.  

Mount Blackwood needed mounting as did our cycles again. Heavy bottoms but light hearts approached the climb with trepidation.  A 200m stretch of road works left us grappling with our machines.  Those dextrous enough forged through and were first off the mark for the uphill race.  At the apex the sun shone brilliantly along with our smiles to have climbed through the incline and  gravel of the continual roadworks.

The downhill was spectacular with riders clocked at 65km/hr over the 10km stretch.  Euphoria swept through the team like wildfire as it was all downhill from here with an accompanying back wind. A sprint was booked for the Manapouri stop, 20 kms from Te Anau and didn't fail to please.  The view from behind was like following in a lead car witnessing professionals pumping their way home for the big money.

Lake Manapouri  proved skiable.  A group photo was called for taking full advantage of the picturebook backdrop. Affluent bach owners glanced up from their decks and their books as the cyclists sloped past.

A cheer went up from the crowd as we passed the Te Anau sign.  190km and six hours and twenty minutes in the saddle  since we had set out that morning.

The Ranch restaurant in the village catered well to the still energised group after some restorative  massaging.  Keen to make like Velcroe with the Explorer Motel's pillow we eagerly  crowded  into one unit for the days summary from the team captain.  Acknowledgments were made with members commended and condemned in equal parts.

The sandman called for some with the cricket proving a great distraction for the wifeless boys on tour.

Bluff or bust!

21/2/12

We came, we saw, we conquered! Bluff Hill, the nipple on the large breast of the south. 22 riders solemnly rode the 27 km out to the live zone. Oft spoken of, seldom ridden. You know you are traveling with mature riders when you pull into town and head en masse into the bushes for a nervous one before the climb.

The support crew in the two vans took on excess weight from the nervous cyclists and buoyed up spirits as best they could.

Bladders bled we approached the bottom of the hill. Circling like vultures over a kill our starting gun was momentarily jammed by a rogue flat tyre.

The opportunists decided to make a getaway while the others continued to pace.

Eventually we took off at a great pace of knots only to be thwarted in our efforts by gravity.

Much grunting and battling of self wills ensued..... Nek Minut....or about fifteen minutes later, after some nosebleed inducing climbing, we were all safely uncleated swathed in sweat and satisfaction having completed a ridiculous gradient.

Scenic shots were captured as heart rates returned to rhythm. A leisurely descent, then to Stella's coffee shop for a much anticipated break of pies, toasties and coffees.

The energy on the return trip to Invercargill was palpable. Peaks conquered, the group now looked forward to their afternoon in the velodrome.

A leisurely lunch at the units of purchased snacks then back into the vans for the short trip to the sports centre of the south.

Our local pro Jerry instructed the nineteen men on how to ride safely on the 25 million dollar track. Bikes chosen, baskets swapped for personal cleats and the majority of the team tried something new for the second time today.

Propelled around a 250m track by centrifugal force up and down a cereal bowl edge they raced like pros. Pumping and huffing through two hours of single and team sprints they frolicked almost tripping over their childlike grins.

The mid afternoon van ride back to the unit took a detour straight to the bottle store for lubrication. Much back slapping by comrades and masseuses completed the build up to dinner.

The Lone Star Invercargill proved another good choice to showcase the purchases of a breakaway group of shoppers. Celebratory beer and wine flowed freely as did the conversation as we marveled at the days antics.

Bikefest 2012

19/2/12

The 11.30am start started at 10.30 for some, 12 for others. And so it began, the gathering of like minded souls setting out for a weeks riding around the bottom south of the island. One thousand kilometers over six days atop carbon fibre machinery second to none.

Two van loads embarked on the six hour journey deep into the heart of central Otago...or thereabouts. The mighty river Clutha...aka...Balclutha.

The journey was remarkably quick despite the chronological time span. Captains of industry, airlines, operating theatres and domestic duties amused themselves as best they could completing cryptic crosswords, drinking Heinekin, discussing the minutia of cycle purchasing, snacking on home baking and generally immersing themselves in the necessary evil of pre cycling transportation.

The Rosebank Motel was the first lucky choice of accommodation to welcome the weary athletes. Bikes unloaded, we sauntered to the motel restaurant and fell upon the allocated bar. Three tables of nine were set awaiting our arrival. A quick round later we were seated, feasting on the pre ordered breads and dips.

Strangers became acquainted and cycling psuedonyms were introduced as part of the in race shenanigans.Reluctant recipients received awards for less than outstanding performances.

After a hearty meal of protein with extra lashings of pre race banter, the cautious team members headed off surreptitously one by one for an early night. A hardened handful lasted an extra forty five minutes showcasing their supremacy.

20/2/12

The 6am iphone alarm heralded the new day. The 27 strong team shuffled and mumbled dairy cow like over to the breakfast area. Pre booked continental and hot cooked breakfasts were woofed down in anticipation of a long 170km ride.

Obligatory first day photos were taken in the overcast morning light. The whistle went off and we rolled out into the subdued streets of Balclutha. A full contingent of 25 riders. The vans followed cautiously as we found our confidence riding in such a large group vaguely aware of the directions.

We had all been pre-allocated a cycling psuedonym to while away the many hours. Previous strangers struggled with real and made up names and they were fined dearly for their erroneous ways. An OSH approved skirt and matching fluro anklets were also awarded to a lucky cyclist to wear to advertise any particular stuff up on their behalf.

The first stop was The Whistling Frog cafe only 68 kms away. The undulating hills through the Catlins proved a feast for the eyes. Spirits soared and climbed along with our snaking peloton. With only one puncture, we were on schedule and pulled into the cafe, whistling and leaping.

Southern hospitality was at its best as our pre warned vendors welcomed us with open arms and warm scones. We basked in the mid morning sun bathing in the ambience of this wonderful spot.

About half an hour later we re-cleated and departed, richer for the experience thus far. Swathed in serenity we enjoyed a lengthy downhill.

Another 60 km in the saddle before lunch. More climbing plateaued our spirits, with conversation reduced to the odd throwaway line as the pace intensified. One of the downhill turns proved too technical as one of our team got up close and personal with the roadside hill. A sheepish grin and an adrenalin fueled sprint reunited him smartly and also guaranteed him a day in the skirt tomorrow.

Scone calories long ago consumed left us dangerously weak and no amount of glorious vistas proved distracting enough. Our grainy eyes peered longingly into the distance in search of the aptly named, Stirling Tides cafe.

The staff eagerly dished out the sumptuous delights to a long and grateful audience. Filled full of filo, fish and fresh salads we gazed out at the stirling tides lapping comfortingly at our door.

Choosing the van as a restorative option of self preservation for tomorrows crawl up Bluff Hill afforded me a kindy nap while the rest of the team boxed on in the wind with their filo filled tummies.

Accompanying the support crew we drove on and I witnessed the ride from an acutely more attractive angle. Using the vans as markers , the team knew when to sprint and where to turn.

Invercargill never looked so good after another 45 km of solid riding. The Monarch Motel appeared like an oasis in the distance.

Much back slapping and hand shaking ensued as day one was officially completed.

Massueses arrived on schedule at 4pm. 3x3 many of the team had the hills kneaded right off their muscles. The rest watched on relaxing on the finest of motor inn furniture.

15 February 2012

Vacancy

Today I semi-retire. From motherhood. It is the first day of the rest of my baby’s life. My vocation will never be over. The hours may be less and I may be required at fewer meetings but like a doctor or a comedian, I will never switch off.

My career began twenty nine years ago. Instinctively, I chose a mate exhibiting favourable genes, set up home and procreated. A long term career goal had been achieved; two baby girls within two and a half years of each other.

Fast forward two decades.

With one already deposited offshore for five months on a university exchange, and the other poised to begin her tertiary education in another city, our nest now lays vacant.

I watched a wildlife documentary recently depicting arctic birds actually leaving their nests for the first time. There were no practices. Once they exited from their high rise apartments they had one way down. Their parents did fly alongside them but couldn’t fly for them. Some chicks managed to adopt the concept of flight seconds before impact, other didn’t. Those that survived the crash were then often carried off to their imminent deaths by opportunist wolves. There is a lesson to be learned from the natural world here I am sure. Watch out for wolves or never leave home, it’s too dangerous.

Friends and family comment, “It will be so quiet without them and won’t you miss them terribly?”
Granted, it will be silent, can’t see any negatives in the resulting serenity. As for missing them, what will I miss? Miss having to wrestle for the sky remote, miss watching repeats of Jersey Shore, miss multitudes of teenagers grouping with intent, miss having to grocery shop everyday, miss sneaking around your home until midday as not to wake the sleeping cherubs and miss being woken by explanatory texts in the wee hours and with odd request for a taxi? I think not.

Let’s face it, offspring aren’t the most altruistic individuals. If I was to liken them to a disease, I would choose eczema, flaky, irritating and untidy on the surface but harmless. Comes and goes under stress. If I was to liken them to anatomy, I would call them blood. Vital for life, a constant flowing through every corner of your body. You can do without the odd pint but you are never truly your best without your full quota.

It is the end of an era. The candidates have undergone rigorous training as part of the ultimate succession plan and my exit strategy is in place. I shall join Rob Fyfe on the benches of self imposed retirement until my next gig ‘turns up’. The university holidays, I imagine. I think I may contract out myself for that job. Same job, better conditions.

With wolf detection kits packed amongst all 46kgs of baggage we will embark on our drop off today. I have been afforded a forty eight hour window of transition before I return home on an air ticket for one.