Loretta Henderson – Page 30 – Solo Female Cycling Around The World

Dyslexic Wonderland!

Down under in New Zealand in the lower hemisphere, the stars sparkle with a gesturing ass over tea kettle come hither. After having spent 9 years in Alaska, the land of darkness and minimum pollution, I have become accustomed to looking up at the clear stars. Looking up at the stars here is like looking down from on top of them. They are upside down. For instance, the North American big dipper that normally looks like a big dipping spoon looks like a hat, the kind of hat that Davey Crochet would wear, furry with a long beavers tail. The little dipper looks like Davey Crochet’s raccoon hat smaller twin sister. The stars are so bright in NZ that they spread their internal glow the same proximity as a freshly squashed road killed carcass.

The brightest planets are the deeply colored stars which can mostly be found in the left hand part of the sky in North America.In the lower hemisphere they are located in the right hand part of the sky.When the new moon looks like a tiny slice of cheese, the section showing is to the left not to the right as in the northern hemisphere.I met a very jovial man last week who was visiting New Zealand from Alaska.He was convinced after drinking too much New Zealand wine and perhaps smoking who knows what that while looking up at the sky he was looking at a different galaxy.It is the same galaxy down under but completely flipped ass over tea kettle, tangled up into a dyslexic wonderland.

When flushing the toilet due to the gravitational pull the water circles downward to the left counter clockwise and not the right. Sometimes I flush the toilet 5 times like a toddler just to watch it swirl again and again or until someone else enters the public washroom and reminds me that New Zealand is a country that believes in the conservation of water. Flushing the toilet never seems to get old and it is always nice to procrastinate getting back to cycling.

Today after dismounting the magic bicycle after a 103 km (67 mile) beautiful bicycle ride I walked through Geraldine, the village in the foothills of the Southern Alps mountain range, the range that runs down the center of the South Island of New Zealand. Crossing the colloquial street on foot is an activity that requires a helmet. Looking left then right and not right then left is something I have been taking for granted for far too long. That or perhaps I have developed dyslexia and it is flaring up all of a sudden.

The car steering wheels are on the right hand side of the car, the motorists drive on the left hand side of the road and exit the vehicle to the left as well. It makes it interesting when cycling by parked cars and often there is a near ass over kettle incident of me and the magic bicycle getting nailed by a opening car door. Prior to garnishing my helmet to cross the street on foot, the closest near miss while cycling was today. I quickly swerved the magic bicycle around a parked car and avoided the projectile of a car door and started laughing. The woman was so startled she hopped back into the driver seat of her car. I apologized and waived but she still looked a little frazzled. I was laughing because no one got hurt and because perhaps we should all be wearing helmets at all times on a day like today.

Coffee

Winter is approaching on the South Island, NZ, south west of Christchurch in the Canterbury region, which is where they filmed the majority of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I am cycling in the morning with big over gloves and a winter fleece with the hood up. By midday a bikini would be the most appropriate attire for the weather. Each morning and evening there is a freeze dried frost in the air and hot coffee percolating everywhere.

May I have a coffee please? The response is long black or flat white thank you? Ahh, long black with milk please. The cafe clerk responds ahh, that’s a latte thank you. Ok, sorry, latte please. The next day in attempt to simplify things, I said, could I have a cappuccino please? The response is would you like chocolate or cinnamon in that thank you? I quickly use deductive reasoning and think that chocolate in a cappuccino is a mochaccino, isn’t it? But no, mochaccino is coffee, milk and chocolate not a cappuccino which is coffee, milk and chocolate or cinnamon. I still have no idea what flat white coffee is but I have learned that some people put a wee bit of milk in their long black but it is not called a flat white or a latte. And cinnamon in coffee? Well, that’s just called plain old good.

The folks here also say thank you when the North Americans say please. Just to add to the colorful conversation surrounding the amazing tasting drinks of confusion that arrive no matter what ends up happening during the ordering. I do have a college degree and I am of average intelligence but still can’t figure out how to order a coffee with any reasonable amount of confidence. It is a good thing they don’t offer the North American standards of skim, ½ and ½ or whole milk, I guess that’s because they wouldn’t want to complicate things.

Cycle Touring in an English speaking country should be far easier then in Asia where language barriers pop up like a bunion on a toe in sandals. But at times English to English translations are a necessary part of getting a beverage. When I was in a pub in Ireland I spent an evening translating for Jessica a cyclist from Holland who spoke fluent English. I translated fluent although accented English to North American English that the Irish folks who also speak English could readily understand. Jessica’s bicycle which was parked close by was also named Jessica so Jessica and Jessica tried to order a pear cider to drink. The bartender brought her a guinness. I drank her guinness and my guinness then helped Jessica and Jessica order a pear cider. I figured I better keep translating English to English for Jessica and Jessica before I ended up so saturated with guinness that I couldn’t speak at all.

In New Zealand the most popular expression I hear is good on you. Whether you cycle in New Zealand, eat 7 home baked cookies instead of 1 or camp for free by the river, the kiwis will say good on you. The Irish will say well done and in North America they will say good job. In South East Asia they will give you the thumbs up and in Mongolia you get a motorcycle honk. As long as the world remains this much fun I’ll enjoy my coffee here, there or anywhere with a honk and a good job topped off with a splash of cinnamon. Thank-you or is that please, who knows.

Blow Me!

I think there might be something wrong with me or with my kind magic bicycle. I have been peddling like a fly caught in a spider’s web. Pulling into camp after dark and barely making it. I may have turned into a moldy old lady in the past few days. That was my original thought.

My second thought came to me as a beautiful old man started teasing me about the wind. Apparently it is blowing with a vengeance right now. I knew the wind may have been slowing me down but unbeknownst to me I didn’t realize that most local folks on their bicycles call it quits on a windy day. I am a hearty Henderson and do have a tendency to take things a wee bit far some times. I am from a family of hearty weathered Canadians in which weather just doesn’t become a factor. Some people cancel on birthday parties and x-mas due to a snow storm or any other inclement weather. Not my family, we truck on no matter what without much thought or concern, a handy family trait I am grateful for at times.

I have been figuring that as long as the bicycle and me are going forward things are ok, until last night when I almost lost the tent. I staked my little tent to the ground and then weighted the inside down with the bicycles bags(panniers) and other gear. I went for a walk to find some water. On the way back with the water I noticed my green little tent taking a tumble through the grass on its way to the beach. It is not the first time I have witnessed a tent become a kite but it is the first time I have chased a tent loaded with gear, through the wind, barefoot, at top speed over rocks and grass. Ouch!

After some research I have learned that New Zealand is smack dab in the middle of “the roaring fourties”, an area between latitudes 40° and 50° south in the Southern Hemisphere, where the prevailing winds blow persistently from the west. The roaring forties have strong, often gale-force winds throughout the year. They were named by the sailors who first entered these latitudes. Basically if you draw a line around the earth at that latitude the entire area on either side of the line becomes more like a wind tunnel of variable winds. It explains a lot about my turtling pace and also why a few days ago while practicing my new hobby of bombing down hills as fast as possible, I was able to clock myself at a whopping 63km(40mph). Bombing down the hills of the Southern Alps mountain range of the South Island of New Zealand is great fun especially with a little extra wind power at your back. That’s the same speed as an old motor home, ok maybe not that fast.

However at times I peddle as fast as possible down a hill and barely go anywhere and at other times the wind pushes me along. The wind makes for some tricky bridge crossings. In which the wind pretty much just launches me and the bicycle sideways and hopefully not into traffic. My hands are a bit raw at the moment from squeezing the wobbly handle bars so tight on the breezy bridges.

When this business of cycling the world began 9 countries and a year ago I found myself contemplating the best vehicle for travel. I was almost sold on the idea of a sailboat and in fact cycled around Ireland boat shopping. The bicycle is my beloved vehicle of choice although my brain often drifts to how to rig a sail to this bicycle. Kite boarding and kite surfing are all the rage at the moment and perhaps kit biking is next. Dare to dream of the next adventure sport to hit the market, the Roaring Forties Kite Biking Company. At least I know of one customer who will be standing in line.

Loretta Henderson The Chicken

I would like to introduce Loretta The Chicken. This is her debut. She is an accomplished athlete. She is a triathelete she swims, runs and bikes. She is an ambitious bird with lofty goals and she mentioned that she would like to be the official bike around the world mascot. She is a successful bird that Shiny the character in the following story would be very proud of. A special thanks to Jeff Henderson for the photo of his heroic bird Loretta Henderson The Chicken.

As I sit listening to the river cascading over sand white rocks into a crystal blue pool of reflection I smile and wonder if this day really happened. Last night I met Marc a local mountain biker and after visiting over a map we decided come early this morning to head out of town together then Marc would circle back into town after about 10km(6.6miles) and I would carry on. We peddle out of town, opened a farmer’s gate and headed to a road known only to locals, a manageable rocky dirt track that climbs for 50 km(33miles) towards a saddle. I was unsure what exactly a saddle was but was soon to find out it means peddling through three river crossings and carrying your bike and belongings over a rickety metal suspension bridge that stretches over a very deep canyon. The suspension bridge is narrow and weathered and really shouldn’t be navigated by anything bigger than an anorexic chicken. The path then continues on descending down a dirt road over many rocks through a long old growth beech forest and emerges many hours later in a mountain pass back on the main road.

After having spent the morning navigating the saddle I emerged on the main road and began peddling for the rest of the day to my final destination of some hidden river hot spring pools. I am grateful to Marc for adding beautiful backcountry adventure roads throughout my hand drawn South Island map. It will be dirt farmer’s roads and swing bridges when I can find them from here on in.

Up ahead on the road as I peddled into the late afternoon I notice a small pickup truck has stopped. As I approached a man bounces out of the truck and I am greeted by a shining toothless grin and a very loud hi y’a. I suspected that this man was short on hearing and teeth although large on heart and innocence. The shine and energy from the man’s grinning toothless face had enough wattage to illuminate a stadium. Turns out Shiny, my loud talk’in new visitor had been driving for hours, hadn’t seen much traffic, was a wee bit lonesome and wanted to chat.

I have been travelling without a book to read for some time and I have never been one to pass up a good hearted character so I parked the bicycle and fastened my seat belt to enjoy his story. Shiny was concerned about the relationship between our birds cats, dogs. Shiny feared that because birds don’t make any money that our planet would be fresh out of birds in the next 100 years. And that it was a sad fact that if you don’t make any money on this planet nobody cares about you. Too many cats and dogs and how much people care about them were compounding the bird problem. Nobody caring about birds and caring of only cats and dogs had Shiny noticeably worried. The threatened extinction of the entire bird population due to their lack of purposeful employment had definitely been on Shiny’s mind for some time.

At some point while Shiny was humorously babbling his way to Babylon, Shiny took a look over into an expansive empty field. He then told me he believed in home killed meats because they taste better. Killing at home is less stressful for the animal. The animal produces less adrenalin and therefore makes for a better tasting meal. He pointed towards a bloody carcass of some sort that was hanging upside down from the raised rusty bucket of a front end loader. Freshly killed, skinned and richly dripping of bloody humanity. Umm, umm good!

Shiny chatted on about New Zealand being a peaceful land without any predators. He told me there are no bears, alligators, crocodiles, poisonous snakes and very few spiders. The livestock animals are not native species and have been imported. The first flock of sheep was imported in 1800. White tail and black tail deer and a couple of Moose and elk from Canada were brought here after that. Shiny thought that there may have been a predator in the early years of settlement that ate a human once but it was a giant dinosaur bird that was now extinct.

Shiny continued that the rivers are clean of pollutants, drinkable and the people are as kind and trusting as people get. The national symbol is a bird, The Kiwi. The Kiwi can’t fly and is rare and protected throughout the country. A bird is an appropriate symbol for a country that has more species of birds then anything other critter or creature.

It was nice to see Shiny the man concerned about the birds glow with such pride of his national bird, the Kiwi, purposefully employed holding the very dignified position of national symbol. The sun began to set and there wasn’t a chance that I was going to find the hot springs today but it doesn’t matter because Shiny and his illuminated tale was much more refreshing then a mineral bath.

Red or White?

I pushed the breaks with a ferociousness that could only be found in the aftermath of adrenalin. With the bicycle break clamped tight, I closed my eyes and hoped for the best. All I could hear was the skid of a car and a woman on the sidewalk screaming.

The roundabouts of NZ are a unique breed. A pedigree unlike those found in Europe or North America. Instead of yielding around a large circular grassy knoll, there is a skinny center post to maneuver around. No motorist forced to tackle such an obstacle truly enjoys the roundabout. The motorists accelerate in an attempt to leave the insanity as quickly as possible. Out of fear of being committed and straight jacketed to a cemetery they exit across several lanes with a heavy footed vengeance. A sane tiny woman on a bicycle amidst such lunacy goes unnoticed.

At a pause in the screaming and the noise of the car skidding, I opened my eyes and had a look. To my surprise I still had 2 legs, 1 head and a bicycle. The woman out of breath from screaming on the sidewalk probably needed to change her pants and was therefore in worse shape than me. I couldn’t blame the women for letting out such a shriek, audible by dolphins and bystanders in the 100 mile vicinity.

The New Zealand government is presently concerned about the rising death toll of cyclists. The government realizes that most accidents go unreported so they have launched a well publicized campaign and national hotline to encourage motorists and cyclists to report all accidents. The data collected will be used to make road safety improvements. The roads here on the North Island are rural and few and far between so drivers and cyclists must take the same road, the popular option of the cyclist taking secondary roads doesn’t exists. This motorist and cyclist relationship can get complicated when trying to exit town via the roundabouts.

With my 2 grateful legs and 1 intact head, I picked up my bicycle and pushed it out of town into the beautiful Marlborough wine region. As the sun was setting over the aftermath of the rowdy roundabout, I find myself sitting at a picnic table near the village of St. Arnauld drinking a fresh bottle of red wine. After most of the bottle, I am grateful to know that although there won’t be any more roundabouts until I get close to Christchurch there will be more New Zealand pinot noir.

Bus-ted

While contemplating being sent to ant heaven by a triple length logging truck at an early age during NZ’s winter, today, I took the bus off of the beautiful coast road south of Napier into Wellington. While cycling in Europe and Asia and now New Zealand the viable option of taking the bus always hovers near in anticipation like the overtime period in a Stanley Cup hockey game. The bus is always an option but the hesitant decision always sinks in like a possible defeat to a women travelling on a bicycle.

I have taken the bus exactly one other time since embarking on this world cycling adventure. In China, to stand at the epicenter of the once in 100 years full solar eclipse, the bus was necessary in order to catch the phenomenal astrological event of the sun and moon. Being out run by the inching movement of the sun and the moon is surely humbling even for Pandemic, the magic bicycle.

Wellington, North Island is the diving off place for the South island, NZ. The islands are connected by an ocean ferry. Cycling onto the ferry that crosses the Cook Straight to the South Island, NZ then disembarking into the oncoming winter after a bouncy nauseating three hour journey is a voyage the belly will remember for a lifetime. I am grateful my bicycle “The Pandemic” is a distinguished green due to the fact that it will blend well with the shade of my woozy face. The bird flu pandemic that has wreaked havoc in Europe this past year hasn’t stretched her wings over New Zealand however the Cook Straight ferry crossing is all the illness that is needed here.

Disembarking the barf boat by bicycle on the North island, NZ, I was invited by fellow ferry voyagers to a famous local accommodation. The talk of the famous chocolate pudding cake and ice cream served free nightly to the ferry crowd has stretched across both islands. Sleeping inside for the first time in weeks served to be a pleasant scoop of warmth and comfort for my drunken sailor legs and ocean green belly.

Are You My Mongolia? Archive Post 08/20/09

I am cycling through the Gobi desert on my touring bicycle, a place that is as close to a church as you will ever get. It is a strange terrain for a cyclist, a place where spaghetti trails beaten into windswept sand and clay roads by horses, motorbikes and the odd old Russian military Jeep, are distinguished only by the occasional cropping of yurts (gers). The traditional circular elaborately decorated felt tent/homes of the Mongolians. I have been peddling through the tough clay sands for hours, successfully keeping the sun on my left and to the east. My legs push, pull and pedal furiously; propelled by some internal motive I did not completely understand. I am averaging 80 km about 50 miles per day and I am on a mission, hell bent on making my way to the Northern…..to the region of the reindeer herders and Siberian shamans, before it gets too cold for my little tent.

There is a chill in the air,, the temperature is beginning to drop. This change makes the desert landscape more startlingly beautiful. Mist hovers in the air, drawing out the intensity of colors. The big bright orange sun spreads across the unbroken sky, casting warm shadows on mounds of sand, which twinkle like they are laced with mirrored glass. The horizon line is seamless, blending softly into the edge of the land.

Aside from following the draw to head north quickly before the deep Siberian winter sets in, something in me has drastically changed. I am at peace in Mongolia. The absence of sidewalks, street lights and neon signs sooth me. I am on shared land with fellow nomads from the Oxford of the old school. Here movement is not just accepted but expected and embraced. Staking my little tent in a different serene spot every night somehow cuts me off at the root, makes past and future almost irrelevant and has stopped all brain chatter from rattling around in my head. There is something more than that though, something about the country, it’s people and culture itself that has opened my heart. The longer I stay, the more alive I feel. I have peddled through 9 other countries in less than 7 months and have never felt as alive as the way I do here. I am in love with Mongolia. It seems to me to be the place I have been rushing towards my whole life. I vow that from this day forward until death do us part, in sickness and in health that if anyone asks what I am looking for in a relationship I would have to say Mongolia. A “place” filled with raw simplicity, unspeakable human beauty and open to all things possible. With every push of the peddle another must capture this moment feeling, a special kind of spiritual photography that focuses the soul.

Pine Soul

Images of beautiful pine forests after beautiful pine forest fill my every waking and sleeping thought. Thanks to the history lesson that the Akuhaia-Brown Maori family taught me, I have learned that many parcels of land on the pacific east coast have been forested with pine trees, a profitable export at the moment. Not even the conservation minded locals mind the pine trees being cut down because pine is not a native species to NZ. From what I have been told, the locals feel the same way about their pine trees as they do about possums. There are just too bloody many of them. Possums, the large tear drop shaped rodent are responsible for nibbling up thousands of native plants every day and of causing a general nuisance. Possums were brought to NZ by the Australians and from what I have been told about the long standing sportsmanlike rivalry between the two countries, possums are just another good ironic joke that the Aussies (Australians) have played on the Kiwis (New Zealanders). And that leads me back to where I started and why I am boring you about pine trees and plants. A good ironic joke…

Daily since leaving the Auckland airport on my bicycle about 900 km or 600 miles ago, I have been passed by many a car and truck. Now that I have ventured into the densely forested east coast, the trucks are getting bigger and more fully loaded. They are loaded up with huge freshly cute pine logs being shipped for export. Double and even triple length commercial trucks cruise by me with a great gust. Most of the trucks smell really nice like a freshly mopped kitchen floor. The logging trucks and their drivers seem to be the only New Zealanders on the roads hurrying with great speed towards a deadline.

While cycling on the hilly coastal road, the logging trucks and their cousins the wood chipper trucks create a special kind of suction which is a little hard to describe. Just picture an industrial strength Hoover vacuum verses an ant and you will get the right idea. It’s a good thing I did some praying at Saint Mary’s, the Maori church back in Tikitiki. The first dozen or so trucks on any given day are really pretty entertaining, some of the drivers honk and wave as they blow by. It must be hard to drive that fast with their arm out the window. And, each morning while peddling on sleepy legs, I am grateful to the logging trucks for they vibrate me awake far faster than a cup of strong coffee. By the 37th truck of the day, I am feeling a little less empowered and a little more like little ant about to go on a tornado ride.

At the end of a busy day in the life of an ant, a bicycle and a logging truck, I can think of no better place to sleep then in a densely populated old growth pine forest. My bike slips quite perfectly under the old wooden fence and off I go deep into the most majestic peaceful pine forest I have ever experienced.

This particular platoon of old veteran pine trees has survived the battle of export log production. Every night the veteran soldier trees stand guard, silent and proud of all their years of dedicated service and accomplishment. And similar to a soldier on duty in a war zone, the cool shade of the forest glimmers with the aura of wisdom and responsibility. Free camping deep in the beautiful veteran pine forest is not exactly within the “code/rules” but according to some neither is cutting down all the trees.

Shalom from The Akuhaia-Brown Maori Family!

Here I am in the southern hemisphere for the first time, where the kindness of the people is familiar. A similar familiarity to growing up in the small town of Cobourg, Ontario, Canada, population 13,000 on Lake Ontario. Back in the day when neighbors borrowed eggs and the kids played in the street until the street lights came on. The simple safety of it all is still lived daily by the Maori people in Hicks Bay, North Island, New Zealand. The folks here invite strangers in for tea and a bed to sleep in. With a strong belief in family secular and extended, they take care of each other and the strangers they meet along the way.

The Henare and Joyce Akuhaia-Brown Maori family invited me in for tea this afternoon. They introduced themselves and their home. Joyce told me she had named their home Shalom which means peace in Hebrew because she felt it was a beautiful word that said so much. They laughed when they told me that the origin of the addition of the word Brown to their name was unknown. This was only the beginning of how much they were to teach me about the Maori culture.

The land along the pacific east coast of the north island, NZ is Maori owned and cultivated. Family trusts own large acreages of land that stretch for miles upon miles. The Akuhaia-Brown clan has a long standing history of attracting strays like me. Although, I was the first women travelling alone on a bicycle they have ever had in for tea. Other new comers, tourists and strays have stumbled upon them and stayed for days, a few stayed for years. People stay as long as they need to or want to and the lessons and knowledge exchanged are always welcomed as a gift of spirit.

The deeply spiritual Maori clan has been living by this patch of sea since the start of the known history of New Zealand. Henare laughed that some history books claim that the explorer Captain James Cook is said to have discovered NZ because the Maori people were already living here. New Zealand translated literally from the Maori language means land beneath the clouds. That is how it is believed that NZ was discovered to begin with. It is said by most boaters that a cloud always hangs over NZ which is a great beacon to those looking for land from sea.

Joyce traces back the Maori language to perhaps a linguistic similarity to the Polynesian languages of Hawaii. Kia Ora is a great Maori word which means Hello/Good Luck/Good Health all at the same time. As we sat together at a round table drinking tea many different cousins and aunties came to join us, sharing a little bit more of their Maori ancestry. Many stories were told about living from the plentiful sea and about positive choices made throughout the years.

The Maori people have faced many of the same challenges of the indigenous people throughout the globe. Land and culture has been taken away by the predominant government only to be renegotiated and maybe given back at a later date. The Maori people have assimilated courageously and with great grace holding on to a rich strong history while moving forward into a healthy modern existence. The Maori language is taught in schools and the Maori people have a loud voice in government. Maori culture and language are woven within the mainstream. Town names, road signs and architecture influences are found throughout New Zealand. I sat drinking my tea immersed in the amount of knowledge, wisdom and beautiful passion the group possessed about their heritage and life by the sea.

After tea, I was invited to spend the night, they said the southerlies were going to blow and to stay inside their house and not outside in my tent. I was trying to politely decline the generous offer but I knew that Henare and Joyce had the instinctual inside scoop you might say on the weather. Within the hour, the southerly winds kicked up and if that little tent of mine had been outside it would have definitely been blown out to sea.

The wind was blowing with such velocity that entire trees were swooping over as if they were tiny blades of grass. The noise of the storm against the house made sleeping a bit of a challenge. I eventually drifted off full of gratitude to the Akuhaia-Brown clan for bringing me in and sharing so much of their Maori culture and home with me. I was sad to leave the next morning although this passed as I turned my bicycle down a sharp turn in the hilly ocean road on the way to Saint Mary’s, the Maori church in Tikitiki.

For The Birds!

So, I am sitting in my tent laughing at the birds outside. It’s like being in a surround sound IMAX auditorium, the volume of the birds singing all around me is so loud that I almost feel like I need earplugs. I haven’t figured out quite yet what kind of bird species they have here in New Zealand but they are loud enough that they must be as big as dinosaurs. I hope they aren’t upset at me for free camping under their tree out here on the river bank. As long as they are not like the birds in Alfred Hitchcock’s epic bird horror flick, I should be alright. The nice thing is they are singing in complete harmony so I have taken to calling them The Supremes, so I can sing along with them, Stop in the Name of Love before you break my heart ….Stop!!!
I think it is Mar 22, I lost a whole day to get here. I flew across some imaginary dateline somewhere over the Pacific, they take away a day when you do that. I guess it is like a day bank. Like an investment, I will get my day back later. That day will likely be more fun then because it will be like new because it has been in storage so long. I feel like my cycling strength must have been in storage as well. I am counting on getting that back as well. I have only made it about 110 km in two days on the bike. I was so keen to be back on the bike after a 3 month break that I headed straight south out the Auckland airport. I headed south on two new tires and two new tubes and my trusty patch kit. I hadn’t expected to encounter anything my patch kit couldn’t handle and have come ridiculously accustomed to cycling without a spare tube. But as Murphy ’s Law will have it, I did bust a presto tire valve, something I have never done before. I was a couple of km down a side road camping out in a farmer’s field this morning when I the valve blew off like an erupting volcano so I figured no better time then the present then to go meet my neighbors and the folks of NZ.
Alan and Carol Chase not only called around to find a place open on a Sunday but then Alan drove me there and then insisted he help me fix my bike. Afterwards we visited over tea and some crazy good muffins that Carol had made. I listened to their concerns about the present drought in NZ. NZ is known to be green and clean. It is very clean here but brown. Every shade of brown dried grasses and crops speckle the hillside. I wish the cows and the sheep all the best and hope they are getting enough to eat as I peddle by. I am presently in Ngalea, North Island and can’t wait to see the Bay of Plenty, South Pacific Ocean tomorrow afternoon. Today I am grateful for the little bit of rain NZ got last night, for Alan and Carol’s kind hearts and that the supreme bird choir have finally sang their hearts out and have gone to sleep!