#TBT: People Who Were Nice To Me, North Island Edition
Apologies in advance for not having photos of most of these wonderful people. Somehow it feels rude to ask.
Jermo and Eline: A couple of Dutch climbers I met on the road to Arohena Landing. There was supposed to be a campsite right on Lake Arohena—indeed there is; see picture above—but the road to it terminated in a locked gate with a giant herd of cattle on the other side. You may remember this entire saga started with a detour circumventing the Tasmanian Trail’s official trailhead because an angry bull lives up there. Getting gored was a bad idea then and a bad idea now.
Plus, that time there was just the one bull, as compared to a mob of them here. I didn’t see what else to do other than ride back up the hill and find somewhere else to camp. Then I crossed paths with Jermo and Eline, whose GPS showed the Arohena Landing campsite was exactly where I thought it was. Unlike Booster and me, these two were bull-proof in their rental car. So they provided me with Secret Service protection and we all had a nice time eating dinner and enjoying a clear night of absolutely stunning stars.
I still had to ride past all the bulls the next morning, by the way. In my nervousness I forgot the words to the Litany Against Fear, but pleasedon’tgoremepleasedon’tgoremepleasedon’tgoreme worked well enough in its stead.
Maggie the Dog: Played fetch with me at my Airbnb in Matamata. She is a very good girl.
The University of Wellington Philosophy Department: They hosted me for a talk, fed me all too well, and served as the perfect anchor point for a highly productive week of research and writing. Special thanks to Sondra Bacharach, who coordinated the event, taught me the correct pronunciation of kumara, and also co-edited the fun, provocative, insightful LEGO and Philosophy, in which Yours Truly has a chapter on the Dao of LEGO.
Kiwi Steve: I met him on the Timber Trail at the same time we both met an Australian dude named Steve. I have to keep us straight somehow. Anyway, Kiwi Steve has a $10,000 e-bike and when he heard I’ve never ridden an e-bike before, he passed his over to me without question. Hot damn! It’s like being fired out of a slingshot. In Boost mode you can climb anything.
Heather and Case: A charming, down to earth couple I almost literally ran into on the Timber Trail. They were coming down the same hill I was coming up. Fortunately for all three of us, they were moving cautiously because the guy ahead of me had swerved right into their path. Case asked, “Are you the American?”
“That’s me.”
“Good on you staying to the left, then. The last idiot veered right.”
How he knew “the American” was riding this trail I didn’t know. Maybe he watches Tasmanian news? Turns out the dude ahead of me was none other than Kiwi Steve, and he warned Heather and Case that the American behind him might also veer the wrong way.
Case and his wife Heather are doing retirement the way it’s meant to be: on the road. They’ve been cycle touring together for close to fifty years, and now they’re slowing their pace just a bit. They put a bike rack on their kickass blue and white campervan, the only one of its kind because Case built it himself out of a Japanese bus. They insisted I stop by his creeation at the next campsite because they’d have some trail notes and a cup of tea for me.
In addition to tea, trail notes, and excellent conversation, I also got the healthiest camp dinner I’ve had yet, thanks to Heather raiding their camper for fruits, veggies, and protein. I left a few kilos heavier, I’m sure. She invited me for breakfast the next morning too, but we only had tea. Otherwise I’d never have been able to climb the next mountain.
Vicky the Chef: She runs the kitchen at Blue Duck Station, which in my head can only be a Lonesome Dove reference but in NZ apparently it’s a real bird. Blue Duck is the last stop before the feared Kaiwhakauka-Mangapurua Track, and it’s best to be well fortified before taking that on. When I got there, the station restaurant was closed for a private event, but I didn’t pick up on that. I saw one occupied table, figured the place was open, so I just wandered in and sat. The manager said it was up to her chef whether I would get food or not. Vicky not only served me but gave me the Wi-Fi password, told me the best place to camp, and told me what time to show up tomorrow morning if I wanted a bit of (still private function) breakfast before riding out.
It turns out Vicky is a kindred spirit—a runner more than a biker, but she rides too. She gets type-2 fun. Ready to retire but she’s still working because Whanganui National Park is a pretty damn cool commute. Her son challenged her to a marathon and she trounced him, not by finishing before him but by being able to walk for the rest of the weekend. Gotta love it when one of us old-timers puts a young’un in his place.
Gordon the Renegade: He’s the guy who gave me the intel on taking Highway 6 straight to Nelson instead of the obnoxious three-day detour in traffic. Best advice I’ve gotten on this whole ride, and that’s saying something.
Kate the Doc: this is the same Dr. Kate who keeps re-passing me at twice my speed. We first met at the bottom of the Kaiwhakauka Track. I had stopped to inflate my tires back up to gravel pressure and she stopped to see if I was okay. Then she rode with me for a few kilometers, which is an incredibly generous thing to do at the end of a riding day, breaking your natural pace. We were each pleased to hear the other had similar stories about how kind everyone is to bikepackers. The random gifts of food aren’t just for me; one Christmas she was biking in Iceland and someone gave her an entire stollen.
Nellie the Dog: Good girl! One reason the TA is so much easier than the TT is I rarely have to carry more than a liter of water. There’s almost always a farmhouse where someone is happy to top off a bottle. But on one particularly hot afternoon I struck out. Three houses in a row, nobody home. In a country that’s been so generous to me, the last thing I want to do is start climbing over fences to steal water.
At the fourth house I’m greeted by a dog but no person. Nellie barked and barked, ran halfway to the house, barked again, ran three-quarters of the way, barked again, in what was very clearly a Lassie moment. “What’s that, Nellie? Some random tourist is out here like a dumbass riding without water? Where is he, Nellie? You show me! Good girl!” I never did get the name of the woman who came out to give me water, but let’s face it, she and I are only secondary characters in this scene.
Tim the Economist: Met him on warmshowers, a gross name for a cool thing (a couch-surfing network for bikers). We met when I was at the University of Wellington; then, when I had a mechanical failure on the Rimutaka Rail Trail, I texted Tim and he put me up for a couple of days. I love economists. They think like philosophers but they ask very different questions. My reason for being on this earth is good conversation, and Tim provides that in spades. Plus he’s a damn good cook.
Petra and I Am So Sorry Dude But I Forget Your Name: Also good cooks. She’s Petra. I have his name in my journal, but journals are heavy and I mailed that volume home already. It’s a Czech name and I’m pretty sure it starts with V. Sorry, man.
Anyway, Petra and her beau pulled up beside me in their campervan to offer me cookies. Then we crossed paths again in a parking lot near Tane Mahuta and they invited me to join them for lunch. After lunch they actually tracked me down to apologize and because they didn’t give me Czech candies for dessert.
The Gilchrists: Lovely, lovely, lovely people. I met them at Booklovers B&B in Wellington, three generations (mum and dad, their son, his daughter) where at first sight they invited me to play cards. We shared a couple of meals together over the next few days, and some deep philosophical conversations too. Somehow I have the strongest feeling we will cross paths again.
Honorable Mention: The Douchebag Bus Driver Who Shall Remain Nameless: One of those guys who exalts in the petty abuse of power. You know the type. He had no intention of letting Booster on his bus from Auckland to Bay of Islands. (That’s the first half of the way to Cape Reinga, a very important leg of this journey!) He gets to make that decision because the rules say luggage is a matter of the driver’s discretion. I give him an honorable mention not because he was nice to me but because after I reasoned, begged, and pleaded with him, his boss, and anyone in the office who would listen, he relented. Doesn’t count as being nice exactly, but hey, it’s something.