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.