A Few Good Spokes.

I left my house in Campbells Bay with a tent and the essentials strapped to my bike. A plan to head North to reach the tip of New Zealand.

When passing through Windsor Park someone beeped their horn at me and shouted have a good ride! or good luck! I can’t remember.

It was a good start.

In Wellsford I stopped to buy tent pegs and asked someone on the road where I could find them, he was happy to see me and pointed me down to a hunting and fishing store. The man there was also pleased, and we poured over a map of the island together before he wished me luck. I reached Sandspit at about 3:30pm and felt slightly uneasy, I spent the evening talking to two elderly camper van goers, who were rude, I wanted them to give me some wine but I didn’t ask. The man spoke about catfish, and he showed me some coming into the spit. I then walked around the mudflats and went to sleep.

The next day was the hardest. I buckled from Sandspit to Uretiti, on my route it was 96km. I made a wrong turn almost immediately and found myself in Leigh looking up at the Pakiri hills. I listened to my book. I saw a pretty girl walking as I passed through Pakiri and smiled at her, she smiled back, and I sweated buckets as I went up the side of death. Two sheep ran out of the thick bush to my left, and I sprinted after them, they soon caused commotion round the bend with some traffic and I pulled my breaks all the way down the thick shingle of the hill. I waved to a man on a quad bike, and he stared at me. At the junction of Rahuikiri road, I stopped and drank. I looked at the map and decided to ride to Tomorata. The road was dead gravel and sucked the protein from my limbs, a ute came round a corner, and I dragged it down, I asked how much longer the road was like this, and they said 25km and continued, they looked unhappy. I passed a cafe and thought about the espresso on my tongue. I sat by a small pond and took a photo of my bike. Thought about filling my bottles in either the pond or the cafe, I decided to keep going. I listened to Brothers in Arms and loved each track. I smelt marijuana at some point and smiled. Past a creek and I thought I was close to the end.

In Tomorata there was a school that looked modern, but there were no taps to be found. That was the extent of the settlement. I continued and went up more and more hills, I ran out of water and went up more hills. At Mangawhuai they told me that the water was not drinkable. I bought two 1.5 litres, and a small schoolboy stood with his skateboard and watched me parch myself. I had not sweat before I left the town, and as I strained up the hill, my body made a wet mirror to the fat people in their cars. I felt their eyes and wished they would stop and put me to bed. At Waipu, I asked a lady in the gas station where her tap was, she smiled and pointed to a side door, I filled up and thought the ride was nearly over. The wind picked up, and I kept stopping and resting, the rest did nothing but tire me, and the winds became stronger. There was one bend when I thought something like “I’m over this” I passed a sign for avocados and wished I went in, I had one already though. The man at Uretiti was happy to see me and asked me for my details before he laughed as I told him I had booked. He told me I could go anywhere, I pleased as the campsite was practically empty. I perched next to a large Englishman and his wife and son. To the opposite there were four old people, the only name remembered is Keith. He gave me 3 cold beers, and his phone number and a woman gave me some plums. Keith said if anything went wrong on my ride, he would come and get me at any time of the day no matter where I was. He meant it. I called my parents. My grandparents said goodbye, I ate the avocado and slept.

In the morning, my right knee was sore, a part behind the cap. I had breakfast with the old people, they were quiet like the night before and laughed all together before looking down with stoney eyes. It was overcast as I rode on State Highway One. With every turn of the pedals, my leg would grow worse. Stopped pushing with the right leg and went slower, pulling over and stretching did little, some inflammation cream little more. After 3km, I thought about turning around. After 10, I called my dad, and he told me to keep going. After 35km It was 2pm, and I paid to stay in my tent on the floor. I was anxious, and a man came to my pitch and shook my hand, said I should walk up the hill, and I did. Two girls followed me from their car when I reached the top they were 3 old ladies. I meditated in the forest, and someone ran past me with their eyes closed, the flies landed on my face, and I felt a moment of content. I walked past a river into the port and bought ham, bread and coffee. I sat with Anne Karenina, and a man ran loops around the harbour. A rush, a subtle stream of elation brushed my neck as the young man, with a wrist cast and black singlet, sweating brow ean by and smiled at me.

The whole trip seemed to be worth it for those few seconds. At a playground a child hurt his head, and lots of people came over, three french boys were playing, I thought of my old love Marine and called out to them quietly in French. They didn’t hear me. My book was too good, and I left the playground with all it’s smiling rubbery footsteps. I saw the eldest Frenchman a como sava we exchanged for weary looks. I heard an Australian rapper and got lost in the mangroves, after 40 minutes two people walking their dog reassured me I wasn’t all that lost, and I was soon in my tent. It leaked, and I didn’t sleep at all.

Matsuo Bashō said it best.

Fleas, lice,

a horse peeing

near my pillow.

I had no pillow, and I wish I had a horse to talk to. The mind is on fire as my feet join the pedals. People in Whangerei told me not to ride to Paihia, said it was too far. It was the best day of riding. I screamed aloud in the nothingness, I couldn’t see for the glass had built up in my eyes and the road was dripping down into my mouth, I spat it out and climbed the hills, hauling myself and my mind. The sheep look at me, the trees look at me, the cars drive past blind in the fog, and the truck drivers are all waving at me. I saw a dog perched under a tremendous green lorry he stared, and I came off my bike. I thought I was dreaming and kept pedalling. The road was very steep, and I knew the fortresses were close by, Ruapekapeka to my right. Te Ruki Kawiti is watching me, I was screaming his name and the cars couldn’t hear me. I don’t think he heard me, I bought a kidney pie, and coffee from two fat girls they laughed at me and the truck driver asked where I was going, he ordered chips and was overweight, I told them all to buy bikes. He said I was halfway and he was the last person I spoke to before I saw Callum. It was raining when I called, and he was still working, I paid at the counter and hugged him in his room.

We sat with a girl, and she was smiling. I walked out into the rain, and an Englishman gave me some spliff, a German ran up to me and sold me some boots. Timberlands, $20 I said. I didn’t pay him, he had stolen them, and I put them on, they fit perfectly, and I laughed so loud that everyone went inside. Leaving my canvas greens in the wet wood. Callum and the girl and I walked into town under the rain, I filmed a lady from countdown who had a good day. I bought a beer and a pizza and was running low on money.

I stole two avocados from the countdown and walked to the next one, I hid them on the way and on the way back only found one. I ate it with some salt and walked past a spa pool which was overflowing with crazed young people, I jumped in and told them my name was Romeo, they believed me for 2 days and they were all lovely. Lottie at first was cute, then I was drunk, and they were all cute. There was a club, but I had to sleep. In the morning, Callum watched the Inbetweeners and went to work, the whole place was filled with England, we watched Chicken Run as it rained. Lucy cuddled me and asked me to put my number in her phone. I went outside, and we found a trike behind a container. We fixed it and pulled each other around in it on skateboards, we longed for nothing, but something was sapping the air. There was promise, and I wished I could stay. We went round in circles, and I haven’t pumped up my tires since the mechatronics student helped me. The beds were the comfiest I ever felt.

It didn’t rain after that. The smoky curtains were illustrious, and the people all lived in limbo, I needed a map so I went to the centre of town and there was a girl who talked me off the motorway. The grey didn’t fit on the cycle trail, and it took twice as long as planned. In Opua, the boats were all haggard and rusting, brand new and never to be sailed. I couldn’t open the gate and bent my panniers as I pushed my bike through a mouse-hole. The railway was a good start, I was dangerous and sang to the coal filed brisket bars under me, rattling and running close to the edge of the bridge. The whole place sang something but I couldn’t hear it. A fisherman waved at me, and I had tried to wave back, he didn’t see me behind the reeds, and my knee was hurting again. I made a bed on the railway and met a man on a bike made from flax and pewter he was strange, and I don’t think he knew what he was saying, or I didn’t, maybe his beard was stealing all the letters. The meat factory stank, but I knew it from times before and rode swiftly past. There was a dog in the middle, and he walked with his tail to me, I kept going and got stuck in all of the junctions. I almost called the emergency number that was written on all of them, they had made a fence to stop cars, but it was too small to fit a bike with four bags, I looked closer and saw that it wasn’t a number. I bent another pannier, and the pack started to get sick. A week later it died. I rode over the railway again, and a car window bridged an arm and hand, fingers still the wrist shaking at me and behind the glasses, a smile and the car was round the corner too quickly. I stopped and was worried. I looked at the map, and an old man asked me how his day was, I was the old man and I didn’t reply. He told me the town was close by. I know I said and I overtook him, he had no wheels, and I had two.

I crossed Kawakawa and was too soon past all of the water and food, and I ate the little apricot bar that I didn’t want to, I wanted a chocolate one, but my prior self had put them all at the bottom of the bag where I couldn’t reach. It started to rain but stopped instantly. I came off the cycle path and onto the road and then thought better of it, the trail turned to sand, and I returned to the road, the road was all mush and people were nowhere. The app that the signposts told me to download said to me that people got robbed all the time here. Soon sour stinking strewn cow skin was in my way, and the gargled head was all mashed up and demon looking. Someone had moved a large boulder in front of the gate, and I threw my bike down a gulley to the side, and my back bled as I pushed it out again. I moved quickly on and worried about thieves in the bushes. A car went past, and I ducked out of sight, another came past, and I was standing on their driveway, they waved at me, and I drank water once again. A container blocked me after two bridges. I rolled myself into a tube and slid through, there was an albino horse on the other side who smelt of yellow and sickly pink. I heard dogs barking at me, and a tattooed man asked me a lot of questions. I was on his driveway, and I had no choice but to answer, I was happy when he drove away even though he was friendly. I saw no-one for hours after except one truck crossing an all too modern bridge for this desolate thistle estate. I saw another car and got very scared, they didn’t even see me and my phone rang. Are you available next week for an audition? No.

When I reached Kaikohe they heckled me. Shouts and whistles or do I imagine this. No they are yelling at me, my bike is expensive, and my black and gold UFC t-shirt is not for this place. I cannot stop anywhere, and I turn around when I reach the end of the town. More calls and I reach the other end. A small sign cries camping, and I meet Janette, and she is happy to see me, I ride past a bus and one other car, she walks me to the cowshed and says I can pitch up anywhere. I pull up a chair where Anna Karenina joins me again, Janette is bringing me some tea bags, but they’re nowhere to be seen. I walk up to the house, and she’s in the shed with a young girl, Ghrelin, who shakes my hand and is nice. They have three dogs, and you’ve never seen such friendly creatures, I ask the first creature if they need a hand on the farm tomorrow and she comes back with a yes from Alan. That night three English skateboarders join me in the cowshed and cook vegetarian sausages, we fight with the insects which are enormaous and they teach me monopoly deal, we drink wine from coffee mugs and they room is full of old. We stay up late and laugh heartily.

The holes they told me to dig are easy after I remember how to use a spade. A lot of time is wasted before this and Tom looks at me with a kind sense of disappointment. He likes MF Doom, and we don’t talk much, he goes away, and I take off my shirt, I dig two holes for concrete slabs for picnic tables, and I water the paddock with my salt. I meet Alan, Eing, Logan and Eric. Alan owns the farm is kind and is very grateful for the help, there is so much food I am shocked. I have four helpings, and they ask me to eat more. Logan is well-read, and we discuss artificial intelligence and American politics. Am I also well-read. Eing is winsome, and we discuss Tango, and I tell her about wine, she teaches me about life in Northland. Eric is loyal and quiet, he tells the dogs off and is kind to me. He cooks us all a lot of food. Gregarious grapes, grab colour, stretch sails, I drink all the wine and they ask me to stay.

I walk back to my tent. Sleep steals me.

Oats and water have fed me each morning, and I don’t stop now. I cannot bring myself to take so much from these people as three meals a day. I dig another hole and have tea with Alan after lunch, Ghrelin calls 5 toasted sandwiches, and I have tea with Alan. Don comes over, and he says very little. Don calls every night and is on the phone for a long time. He sits with us, and we all stare at the valley. Don invites Alan around to skin a lamb, I ask to join them. Go back and digs holes even though Alan says I’m done for the day, it’s harder now with glucose in me, but the exertion is magical. I walk around the campsite and wait for 7 o clock to come. After kicking stones and drinking tea Eric and Alan almost leave without me, and we arrive after the lamb has been killed. Don has it strung up on a small crane and is slicing away at it, I take his knife and receive advice from all three, Eric tells me to use my fist to break the skin away, and Alan helps silently. He asks if I’ve done this before and I say no as I drop the innards to the floor. I meet Don’s son, I think his name was Kenneth, he was simple and friendly, Don told him to go inside. I take the skin in the back of Eric’s car and string it over a fence by my tent.

The stench: municipality dating black copper.

I send a photo of the skin to Ormerod, and in the morning Julius calls me from Laos. I sit by the neighbour’s horse, and he licks grass and oats from my hand, I wave at a mother and her daughter who have risen early to leave and catch me talking with the brown beast. They walk away and don’t come near me, I’m entirely alone and sit here for an hour before reporting to the house for duties. I’m asked to clear out the cowshed and to come up with an idea for a new use for the milking station. Rip away the stringing yellow and meet a hundred spiders, wrenches drawn from back pockets bring great pipes down from above, the rain is soft on my hair and a great barn is rummaged, wood everywhere, a fridge, countless bottles, frames, pieces of kits, empty bags.

I can’t figure out what to do.

In living with my father, I am faced with a decision. He was born in London and after some time moved to Edinburgh. At which age I am unsure, but he grew up in Scotland and left it when he was in his late teens. Zaffre malted waves threw upon the matted dank deck, oil sky flushes grey thunder worts. Andrew passed silently over the theatre, sheathed, medical officer at the stern of the ship. Upon a straddled siren did great dynamite buses catch adrift news of the feathers in the water. Poised, Practiced and perched fingers dialled a crying breath. I carried on back to the cowshed. A quick wash of my hands and to the dinner table we were running, I talked of seafaring theatres. Striding to a bench of oak, the pair sat. I breathed a sigh, squared away and turned away. I speak here more than at home. It’s a long walk to roam, isn’t it? I quivered and parched on thick dear avocados. I think about what to do when I return home.

We drive to Waipapa for some supplies, a gigantic pinup board and some DVDs. I buy three cans of baked beans and then plunge into incredibly deep water, I swim down, squashing my head under borders of bold foam, glacial boulders around me and a gasp. The jump from the top is some 5 meters, and I try to dive like I did when I was a boy, it’s lost, and I slap down front ways into the mess of leaves and clandestine water. A young boy is cheeky, and I bridge to the cold rock, taming rays, rooted to pores pressing glee, grill wash of warmth. On the way back I run into a Thomas from Paihia who I met three days previous, patting and laughing we joke in the serendipity and I look at the sheep, the many utes parked on a bridge holding a broad family party, cackling with their thick packed beer and sunglasses. We barge in on blueberry pickers 5 minutes before closing, and someone hands me a big beauty gushing with cream, cobalt fruits tacked tight, a smile within sight as I thank too many times. Back again to the farm for a barbecue from Eric with brown sugar and garlic. This is easy, and there’s no rush to leave. I feel the wine in my toes and ears. It tucks me into a tent before I here three skaters return. They have driven more than I will ever ride and have returned to the cowshed.

This time we find more significant bugs and we talk less, laughing and jibing, changing tack often, and all of us are grievously tired.

Wait around for Eing and Logan to wake, I sit perched on the rough paddock fence with the horse from nowhere, occasionally glancing at the bus that they live in for signs of movement. We are soon driving to Kawakawa in their little pearl carriage, deeply engrossed in talk of American politics and Northland’s issues, Logan works for the council. They were dancing the night before, the sting of electric elation fell from them. We meet a dancer at a cafe, and the owner makes plenty of jokes, all too soon we are back on the farm and back to work. I strew my hands through the continental vegetable, ripping, tearing houses apart, tugging high carrot stalks, garlic monasteries, earthen seas and the infinite grass. I’ve flipped society on it’s dirty head, the ants; in ferocious silence dance and crash. Mantis, sooty and brown clampers through the ash, scrambling alongside thick deranged worms and streetlight crickets. Ahead the bees are safely raiding the anther and stigma of it’s invisible ale and I fall back on pungent bootlegged grasses. Someone drags me into the house for a shower long overdue, and I sleep on the crumpled yellow thing I found in cowshed cupboard. It’s so loud when the world around commutes, shaking their great yodelling legs. I’ve slept better, but I’m questioning it.

There’s a man here with sunglasses on. He’s talking to some Swedes as I wake up, he is skinny and has a big haunting smile. They are smoking by my tent, I walk past, and they call to me, something like “it’s alright” as I fumble under the milk stand and a congested “how’s it goi” tumbles from my lips. Soon standing in a quartet and passing the little Ritchie between us, it’s dense, I finish it, and he passes me another, I finish this one too, I never know what to do with the burnt ends, the stingin rogers. I pocket it and look anxiously at the three of them. The come up is bright, and I feel the homely warmth, the crucifixion of illicit barriers and barred frowns crash on me. “Do you want to buy some” or something to that effect says the skinny man. I’m following him to his car, and he shows me the raw umber he has in a pouch. It’s crinkled and dead, I tell him I’m alright, and he isn’t pleased, he shows me his Kauri gum carvings, they look silly, and I’m not sure if he’s joking, I’m sure that he’s mocking me.

I turn away from him and remember a job I had to do. I’m soon holding the great grass trimmer in my hands, my mind an ethereal mess of confusion and I’m quite scared. I drop the instrument and walk up the farm road to the house, I soon find myself diving head first into a bush and listening to someone talking, I’m embarrassed at my folly and turn back to film the fencepost. This place is a dream, if I was sleeping, I would be able to tell. I’ve got this video somewhere, and I remember it as a dream. This is my last day here. Tom; standing arched over the russet concrete mixer asks me if I’m looking for a job, I remove my pink shrouding sunglass and say no, a little more sternly than needed. I start again on stripping the paint from the milking poles. I play Claire De Lune and send it to my Nana, I’m almost in tears, and my veins bleed from the strain. I still think of this scene when I talk to Debussy today.

In the morning it’s time to leave the farm. I prepare, packing and while riding to the house my bag splits. A horrendous sound that I’ll never forget, stomach bursting like an iron gnome clawing his way out. I ask Alan for some rope and he points me to the workshop, I find old tow tape and do a bad job of patching it up, I can hear Jordan Peterson berating me, “When you know you could have saved yourself and you still end up drowning, that’s when you’re in trouble”. I say my goodbyes, and soon Kaikohe is long behind me. I’m pissing into an endless field within 20 minutes. I found myself at another strange intersection, I either cycle 56km down to the Kauri coast or I go to Opononi, I have no idea how long this will take but Jannette said the sand dune sunset it a must-see. The morning is crisp, and soon the sun is warming my back and neck. I meet the Takeke River and drop the sheepskin on the bridge side, I use the rope to fasten the loose bag, I said goodbye to the dead woollen mash still laden with sombre fence flies. Road and river lock cajun waltz into each other and I’m gliding in the middle, the logging trucks are closing in. I see a boy and his horse, he sees a boy and his bike. Waima is passed quickly, and up a great hill to Omanaia where I’m met with countless dog skins, I can smell their little faces, eye sockets and tails pinned to the fence I wonder how old they were when they were stabbed up like this. A whole manner of houses that say keep out without a signpost. I know not to go knocking here and press on. A guttural, primeval explosion blasts from behind me, a baked beans can and aluminum tools run onto the road in front of me, wheels lock, whistle and pad scraped and swerved. The bag has split and is leaking metal, the cars are fast approaching, scramble off the highway and grab my things, a man in his corolla pulls up with a beer and asks if I’m alright. I don’t even think about asking for a beer but it was a nice afterthought. He’s gone too soon but I didn’t like the look of him. I sit next to my bike and call my dad, it’s going to be alright, get a backpack in the next town he says.

The next shop is 60km either way but it was nice to talk to him. The broken bag is strapped to the front, three there, one behind me and I’m hesitant as to whether my spokes are healthy. There is little space my fingers move from my brakes for the next few hours. These hills are enormous, surely nobody knows these roads are even are here? It’s hot now, I can’t listen to anything except the thought of another explosion at any minute. What will happen when this heavy bike and myself are in that ditch strangling each other. I’m sure it’s coming any minute. An old man greets me at the top and says it’s only downhill from here, he doesn’t know where I’m going, but I smile. He’s right. Nah he’s completely wrong. I’m climbing again, A backpacker is walking ahead of me, he’s a black ghost, and some insane wailing scares me out of my skin. A gigantic bull with bright searing eyelids has howled the very dead from the sooted sand, I almost want to hear it again, I ride past the man and say something, he doesn’t reply, I speed along, filled with a serendipitous blue vista. I arrive at Opononi at 2pm, I don’t know what day it is. There’s a man across the street looking at me as I guzzle down water. We say hello and I cross to shake his hand, he’s from Exeter, the next city along the coast from my birthplace. He dislikes the color of my bike, but he and his wife agree to take my broken bag in their car the next 60km leg for me. I shake their hands and never see them again. It was a strange feeling watching their little car go round the corner. I turn the other way, and turn to the Waiotemarama Gorge Rd. I felt a flush of happiness with the lighter load and sped hastily ahead, soon morale was crumbling as the bike showed it’s weight against deep mountain sand.

This was the only stage I ever pushed my bike, the ground was peeling away beneath me, even my shoes were slipping, the little canvas pumps around my souls, a matchbox in this smoky topaz canyon. Gritty, mountain stone out in bare necked clumps, crumbling drowned sunlight stacked in my eyelids. A coughing walk, burnt stomach sloshing. Reaching the top after an hour or so I clamped my teeth to the brakes and pinned my eyes open and clear for any car coming up this shingle of a path. As I slide down, I take a left, for what reason I don’t know, some impulse dragged me starbourd and I was greeted by a great mock up Elephant, standing nonchalant on the lawn of a little cabin. I dismounted at the stairs and walked up, a little old lady was sitting there knitting, she barely looked up as we talked about my bike ride and her last trip to England. Soon her massive husband came to join us, and they showed me around their puzzle shop. They’re flying to Sydney in the morning, the temptation to take a lift to Auckland with them is so great, but it would be silly to stop now. They warn me of a truck that comes down the little lane, and as soon as it passes I charge out of the valley, I catch up with it and swerve round and round the sheen, fridge panel corners and ashen moats. At the end of the road there is a carnival that is closed, I catch my breath and lean, coughing over the handlebars. I have a photo of this signpost somewhere. From here, caravans and lollygaggers whistle past me and the hills start again. I’m waiting for a forest, someone told me that to bike through it is amazing, I thought it would be here, but there’s nothing but minuscule towns and I’m low on cash. I ride for hours uphill and finally some canopy arm pats me on the shoulder, the shade, oh the shade is welcome here. The corners are magnificent, wheels turn to streams in here, the pedals are forgotten in a blissful shimmering slope. Kauri hulking above me, my neck a lock, a boat bridge lifting, towering to meet them. Ghostly knights stand fast, silent rally and dead guards of the forest. I stop at Tane Mahuta. French tourists sit with me and all silent apart from me, I munch down three one square meals and litres of lukewarm squelch. I nod at the beast, crumple the wrappers and move on as a local guide starts parading stories about the tree.

It’s downhill for a while, and Sam Harris talks me through this darkening, windy grove, there’s a cafe right in the middle of the wood with accommodation, but it’s closed. I start uphill again and keep stopping, stop too frequently. It’s a whirlpool of mental strain. Continuing up, up and up, the forest slowly slips away, but there’s no time to stop as the sun goes down over the Kauri coast. It’s quick-moving now as the road turns to sheer cliffs, plunging down at incredible gravity I push my bike through the evening. I don’t see a car for two hours, and Sam Harris is discussing vegetarianism in my ears, the only thing in my bag is avocados anyway. The cows all stare blankly at me. If only they knew. When I arrive at the campsite, my bag is safe and sound, and this office closed behind me as I pitched my tent. I suddenly realise that I’ve been here before with my parents nearly a decade earlier. I wade into the water and catch an eel on my foot, and while I cook dinner, an English couple bring their bikes into the kitchen. They tell me about Rod, a fisherman who does crossings across the Kaipara harbour. I decided to give it a shot.

Climbing out of the valley and immediately the logging trucks are on my back. Like some deep-sea creature they careen through me, turbulence ensues, and I’m left rocking at high speed, drowning in the swift afterglow. I’m going downhill most of the way, towards the sea. A large hare spots me and races me through a field, a large bull spots, and we stop and look at each other, I sing songs to him, and he groans back. An information centre looms upon me, and two large folks sit on the porch in their rocking chairs, dismounting the metal steed I sit on the step with them, and they preach Dargaville to me. Good advice is shared, and I start on again on my way to a tavern a while down the peninsular. A lady from Texas greets me at the Tavern and suggests a hearty pie for me. Two men enter and sit outside smoking, I approach them when I’ve finished my meal, and we start talking. Roger and Chris, they are called. Both look like dripping bronze skeletons, undead dancers, grand husked voices and constant laugh. I’m laughing with them, and Roger suggests that they take some beers home and have a few joints and coffee at his house.

They leave, and when I arrive at Rogers ancestral home they both laugh heartily, not expecting me to come. They are endorsing chaps, commending me on this little ride, they tell me to bring my wife and kids back to Te Kopru someday to meet these decrepit sages. Roger is a brass collector, and his house is one big cabinet that holds these golden gifts. They roll a copious amount of ganja up, and I am soon filled to the brim with paranoia. People come and go, some are introduced, some are friends. Roger says I can stay the night and Chris is apprehensive, almost jealous, he warns me, and I’m scared, who are these capricorn corpses I’ve stumbled upon. We park my bike right by the exit, and there’s no way I’m getting it out in a hurry. We eat some oven bake Indian tapas for dinner and play Grand Turismo 2 on Rogers playstation; he’s clocked all the maps. We walk up to Reg’s house, and I glimpse the shattered town. Roger says that it used to have three schools, churches and supermarkets, now there’s only one little store and gleaming faces in the windows. The police are constantly patrolling, I haven’t seen police in weeks, and they’re out here at the end of the world. Reg has no teeth, but that doesn’t stop him from talking. The news is disturbingly manipulative in these small towns, or am I just making it up. Suddenly a zombie bursts into the room, Reg tries to communicate my bike ride to him, and he screams at me “Why would you do that!” he slams the door and I sit down, panic stricken, Reg gives me a Dumbledore twinkle of reassurance. Roger soon goes home, and I’m with Reg listening to Hugh Laurie. He talks too much, and I end up closing the door on his conversation.

Roger makes me a coffee. I don’t remember if I drank it. I’m on the road too soon, and he overtakes me 30 minutes later and gives me my watch which I left behind. He turns around back to that little town, bubmling back in his little car, I think of him sometimes.

This is the road to Potou. The ill-advised route. It’s quite rough, luckily I was expecting far worse, and the 56km ride is over quickly and uneventfully, I see only one truck and 2 cars in the day. There is nothing at the end, six or seven houses, 5 people in the village. I meet them all, they are very kind. I splay myself out on the grass and smile deeply, I was convinced I would have to call for help while attempting the last leg and it was no trouble. I walk down to the beach, three fisherman stare at me, I try to speak to them, but they have none of it. Shower in the village hall and heat up some beans on the stove. I hang my clothes up on the line, and suddenly someone from across the road is yelling that the boat is early, I dash down to the beach and see these two cyclists dismounting the cragged vessel. Their bags are unclipped, my bags never had clips, so I take my knife to the cable ties and tear them all from the bike, Rod comes to the bow and tells me to hurry up, the other two cyclists help me aboard, and Rod ties my bike to the concave front. I move to the cabin and walk past sleeping hoods and draped yellow coats. A short woman feeds me two large pieces of quiche, I swear if I weren’t so skinny, I would have died of hunger. A cup of tea from Rod, sitting on the hot seat I feel comfortable and anxious. It’s 5 hours till we’re in Helensville, so you better get fishing he says. I straddle to the top of the boat and look out at the high dunes we’re living behind. The short woman hands me her rod, and my head is swimming.

We fish all day and after dropping everyone off at a small wharf sticking out of nowhere me and Rod meander the boat through the mangroves in the dark. He’s been doing this for fourty years he tells me and can’t see a thing. Neither can I and I just stand in the cockpit laughing at this pitch black sailing. Little pilot lights stutter ahead of us and the gloom slowly lifts as we shunt into the back of Helensville. Park the hefty boat on some wooden quad structure and carry the bike down onto a little craft, I skip over the struts and land on the grass while Rod comes round the bend in the little dinghy. We pull all kinds of gear up to his house and meet his lovely wife. She cooks us fresh snapper and shows me how to do it, I’m weary and soon fall outside to sleep in the little caravan they have in the yard.

As daybreaks I feel life bursting from me, so alive was I, so free and so ready.

I waved off the friendly fisherman and huffed it, way back to my house.