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.