Thank You Bike South Australia

I've admired galahs gathered in a field at dusk - in their grey and pink gorgeousness. I've marvelled at a sun-dried snakeskin left in the grass exactly where the snake grew out of it. I have cycled in the early morning sunshine through an avenue lined with hundreds of glistening spiderwebs, each one a work of art and as unique as a fingerprint. I've borne witness to the heartbreak a physically harsh place like this can bring to farming families who have simply walked out of their homes and businesses. I've seen the kind of beauty in those big skies and open spaces no photo can really capture. I have listened to the most sincere, warm, heart-felt, proud - and yet notable for its word economy - welcome speech ever delivered by a cow cockie to a group of total strangers visiting his small town. (Yeah... welcome... how you goin' Orrright? Good.) I've warmed my hands over a roaring log fire while gazing up at the stars scattered like bright jewels on black velvet. I've met experts who have willingly and generously shared their knowledge of this region. I have experienced the rollercoaster of pain and releif, hot and cold, anxiety and peace of mind. And most of all I have had a lot of laughs.  Now I can look at my map of the Lofty Ranges, the Barossa Valley, the Clare Valley, the Flinders Range - and in my mind's eye run my finger along that ridge. From Adelaide into the bush straight towards the outback. Like running a finger along the rippled crust of a pie, I can now trace my journey on the map, feel it immediately take on three dimensions, and remember so many - too many to describe - special moments. What an adventure...!

Back to New Zealand

My flight arrived 45 minutes ahead of schedule due to a brisk tail wind - the same one responsible for the chill factor that kept us cold the whole time in South Australia - coming from the sou-west. Like a horse that knows its on its way home, the trip back happened all in a rush. This comes as a reality shock. Spent the day working out how to pick up the pieces of my business and social life sans diary after the smash and grab; no checkbooks, files and other important materials such as some recent drawings I had done for a client. That's life I guess. But suddenly I wish I was once again simply concentrating on the task of riding my bike from A to B for the hell of it, while someone else works out how I will be fed, sheltered, and where at the end of each challenging and eventful day.

Recovery In Adelaide

Glad we made the decision to take the shuttle bus back to Adelaide for the necessary rest, warmth, and some luxury. This was our only opprtunity to get transport back. Now or never situation. I tried to update the blog too, but the site has been off-line for a few days, plus access to internet cafes has been intermittent, the update remained overdue. Instead made a visit to the State Library. Read Mawson: A Life by P. Ayres. An excellent biography on the man after whom the trail has been named. In short, the Mawson Trail is named in dedication to one of Australia's most celebrated explorers.  Born in England in 1882, then moved to Australia at the age of two years with his family. Received an excellent education in Sydney where as a teenager one of his head masters, in 1898, made the prophetic remark "What shall I say of our Douglas as an acknowledged leader and organiser? This I will say: that if there be a corner of this planet still unexplored, Douglas Mawson will be the organiser and leader of an expedition to unveil its secrets." He became a qualified scientist specialising in Geography, Geology and Chemistry. A well respected man, and a natural leader. His fame as an explorer comes mainly from his Antarctic expeditions. Esp the expeditions of 1911 - 14 and 1929 - 31 which resulted in Australia claiming 40% of the 6th continent.  The sole survivor of a 300 mile trek, Mawson was a scientist of high stature, natural talent and - it seems - a man with providence on his side. These explorations were for British King and Country and to expand the Commonwealth. He was an Australian through and through -living in Adelaide most of his adult life from uni student days to his life as a married man with two daughters, until his death at the age of 76. He died in 1958 exactly 50 years to the day after setting out on his first explorations of Antarctica. Amazing!

Laura to Melrose.

Rained during the night. But tent dry enough. Sleeping bag still a bit damp from previous nights where it had been touching the sides of the tent and attracting dew. Cold as usual. 57 Ks ahead of us today - should be easy. This morning's ride took us almost immediately off the town's asphalt road into a mire of thick red loam that was EXACTLY the consistency of biscuit dough. My front wheel clogged, then the breaks filled up, then immediately the forks jammed sending my front wheel into a T-bone siezure. Lept off before falling off and walked to the side of the track getting taller by the minute as my shoes collected inches of puggy red dough underneath. Of course I immediately headed back to the asphalt. WHY am i making things so difficult for myself, I wondered. Cleats were useless as they were filled with muck, making them difficult to click into place - or worse - impossible to undo when I needed to take my feet out of them. Rode without using them for the rest of the day despite many attempts at digging the stuff out with sticks and sharp stones. This is where the Lofty Range meets the Flinders, and the marshalls were saying the trickiest bit is yet to come. Wheat fields rolled away in all directions in these valleys. Huge grain silos reminded us of where we were even when baz and I cheated and took a smooth road to the nearest town, Willoughby I think its called, to do a bit of gift shopping (and avoid the rough). Even though it rained, the mess in my brakes caused them to rub and the head wind kept our pace down a bit we felt like we were flying compared to what we had been doing for the past 8 days. We crested the last rise in the road to see the town nestled at the foot of Mount Remarkable - a dark and brooding presence. Mountain Bike trails on this forested mountain make this a mecca for enthusiasts but its the last thing I will be doing on our rest day here tomorrow. My main priority is to get rid of this chest infection, and the infection developing inside my l. elbow. Baz also is struggling with his chest cough. So we discuss our options while we have some. We are told we have to make a decision tonight to secure the last 2 seats in the van. A walk to the local bike shop introduces us to the latest in mountain bikes - light weight, sleek, efficient with soft ride seats, soft shocks on the front forks and the latest in tyre technology to avoid punctures. I do the cyclists version of "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" and receive the comment "you're doing it tough, girl. This bike weighs a ton". Well perhaps that was one more incremental shift towards reason, but discussions with a doctor on the ride convinced us we should take the bus out of here to R and R in Adelaide... Jan and everyone else in our group knows somethings up when we arrive for dinner in the hall, and I announce the decision to take a break from riding. They think we'll be resting for a day off the bikes, then resuming the ride after that. When I deliver the postscript there is a small silence. You could read a million shades of meaning into it. Some had a look of envy in their eyes. Others shock. You're giving up....? Now? When there's only 300 and something kilometers to go? (Precisely.)

Spalding to Laura

So many Aussie towns are named after women, and it seems impossible to find them. The towns, not the women.  As it happens, this ride is well attended both by men and women, but they are of the tougher variety than what I'm made of. I notice that many of them are lean, ultra-fit and sport skin-graft like patches on their thighs and calves where a spill has resulted in a severe case of gravel rash. Of the permanent variety. Not my idea of fun, really. But I'm here, enjoying the amazing scenery, and remind myself that I wouldn't be looking at any of this if we'd come by car. We are on a trail, very isolated from anywhere at times, and ever mindful of how easy it is to get lost. Today's ride was tricky in the sense that it was even easier than usual to get lost. The trail entered the forest and immediately there was confusion as to what bit belonged to the trail, and didn't. GPS once again saved us from possible disaster, and we could look up once in a while from the tricky terrain below our wheels and enjoy the scenery. Sun dappled eucalyptus trees to our left, sun bathed pasteres framed by the slender trunks of younger trees to our right. The wheat fields turned silver in places, with a tinge of blue as the breeze tilted them to one side, enabling them to reflect the perfect blue sky above. All this to the continual sound track of cawing crows and bickering magpies. We are still heading to the Flinders ranges which are darker and more sinsiter looking than the undulations of the lofty ranges we have been following till now. The countryside closes in a little more each time I look around me. For a brief moment the classic road cyclist indide me was indulged as we followed the asphalt for a few Ks. If road riding is a classic waltz then mountain biking is break dancing. And the analogy becomes more apt as I am reminded time and time again of the pain in my elbow from my fall. Lots to see but too nervous about getting lost so i don't stop to take photos. Moments are consigned to memory though. One particularly lively moment when a kangaroo hopped effortlessly over the fence, missed Baz by inches, bounded across the road without breaking stride, cleared the fence on our right and headed away at speed - biong biong... then watched us from a distance. Laura finally appeared from behind the trees. Tonight's dinner was another extravaganza of great food organised by the local community. we have been well treated and well fed every night so far. Ray recited a funny poem written by a local poet. Much laughter and fun - as usual - at the end of a good day's riding.

Tooralie to Spalding

Only 59 Ks today. Beautiful weather today, thank goodness. Woke up about 5 times in the night shivering from the cold, and so keen to soak up some sun, but this takes time with the temps so low every morning. 0 degrees when we got out of the tents, I was told.Chest cough is taking a turn for the worse for both of us. Easy riding though compared to other days. No wind, sun, a few challenging bits to keep it interesting, but mostly good terrain. Stopped to look at an abandoned homestead. So very sad. Someone's dreams lie in stone ruins. A drought, a plague or a flood who knows, but the decision was made to walk away from the farm. A couple of dead sheep dot the foreground as we apparoach the house, just to add further poignency to the picture. Pigeons and a barn own wheel out of the torn roof while we walk in the open front door. Lingered there for a while, and counted my blessings. The landscape became tame once again as we progressed towards our town for the night. Rolled into Spalding in time for lunch as it happened, a walk around the town then dinner in the town hall complete with cutlery, proper plates and serviettes. We could be turning soft!

Burra to Tooralie

After a quick bike check, we made a start on the 69 Ks to Tooralie Station where we will camp out once again. After 2 nights in a beautiful cottage including a laundry we will be coming right back down to earth. Our coughs and colds have improved slightly after those nights in the warmth, and we set off full of energy after our rest. We rode up into the Lofty Range further, and the terrain changed from farmland to scrub. We began to realise how isolated we were when we looked down and could see only one farm homestead for hundreds of kilometres in the valley below us. Looked onto the furtherest possible distance imagining I might see the next city - Melbourne. But the horizon simply dissolves into a blueish haze. I am reminded I'm in Australia, not New Zealand, where from a lofty vantage point like this you'd be able to see the next town, and the next, and the next city beyond it. As we turned our backs on the vast but empty view scrubby low lying trees (don't know what they're called, but I'll refer to them as Lavatrees because they're handy like that) made the surroundings feel closed in compared to the open wheat fields we had been passing through.  Baz noticed he'd left his back pack behind somewhere about ten minutes back where we'd stopped for a quick rest and a bite to eat, so he went back to look for it while I rode on to morning tea where we agreed to meet again. I waited and waited but no sign of Baz. He had left it back in Burra, as it turned out. But someone (Justincredible as it happens) saw it and had it with him in his ute. With that in hand, we carried on without it knowing we'd get it from him at the end of the day. Called in to Sir Hubert Wilkinn's childhood home, which is being restored at the moment. He was an amazing character known for his intellect and explorations. I can imagine that living in that desolate, cold and isolated place anyone with a curious mind would be driven to explore other horizons.Too cold to linger long though so we kept riding to warm up, and rolled into Tooralie Station in time to set the tents up, put on as many layers as possible and eat dinner with the gloves on. Pre-dinner drinks were enjoyed on campstools in the dying rays of sunshine, but as quickly as the light faded were seeking warmth inside the big marquee. Dinner conversation lingered briefly in the form of vapour as the words left our mouths, but soon the tent warmed up with the aid of big gas heaters, hot food, and lots of happy people seated at cosy distances around tables adorned with assorted bottles of velvety red wine - from South Australia of course.

Rest Day in Burra

This would be a good time to describe the beautiful scenery we have seen so far. Rural South Australia has put on a special show for us after the recent rains have nourished the soil; as if an artist has touched in a landscape painting rimming edges with black where crop stubble has been burned off and touching the hills with shades of silver, blue-grey and green. Immaculate... Add twisted gum trees of a venerable age to the foreground and you have an interesting vista each time you care to look up from the handlebars. Rounded clouds cluster like sheep in the distant sky, casting deep and dramatic shadows on the low hills that form the horizon on each side of us. Burra signifies a change to the landscape as huge modern windmills of the power generating type march across the ridgeline like massive wind-up daddy longleg spiders. New to the landscape, alien to look at, apparently necessary as we run out of fossil fuels - and controversial. They turned at a steady pace, as if marking time and progress itself. Personally I don't mind them, but others do, and have moved across Australia, selling up to live out of their range. Apparently they create a low hum in the ground causing headaches and other symptoms of ill health for those living within a few kilometres of them.

We're In Burra!!!

It's beatiful here. Historic, picturesque all with a rural backdrop. Old stone buildings - exquistite!  After getting off the bikes the first challenge is to get our bags and bikes from the oval to our accommodation up the hill. Luxury after freezing damp tents for the last few nights!  Mmmm a hot shower first..  but Peter and friends have our key and they are nowhere to be seen. Pretty soon one of our group appears telling us that Pete has got chatting to an older lady in her front garden. Long story short, she has offered the use of her car to solve our transport problems. Pete arrives with the car, but within minutes he has been summoned back with it because her son has hit the roof about her being "sweet talked" out of her car by a total stranger.  So Pete delivers our bags on the way back with the car. Fun while it lasted, but a little foreshortened as he had also been offered the use of it for the next day as well. Our rest day so we can look around the town. Oh well. Nice while it lasted.  A night's luxury... dinner, bath, bed. Couldn't stay awake. Next day: rest day in Burra. Priority, a hot shower, and a stroll into town for brekkie. First car that passes us is the same one Pete had borrowed. Pete's in the back, being chaffeur driven around town by the lovely lady herself! Even better! Next year she 'll probably have a fleet of cars. In a town without competition she will do well. When Russell our tour manager heard the story he just shook his head... "Been coming here for years with this tour and never before...". According to the Historic Guide of Burra there are 43 places of interest but the only place of interest to me is right where I am at the moment.  It's nice to stop. For once. So I'm in total relaxation mode: a little coffee, T.V., reading and an afternoon nap. And I'm happy.

Just Incredible

Day 4. Riverton to Burra. 87 Ks. The nights are getting more chilly, A mouse scurried out from under the tent as we packed it this morning. The weather has totally cleared and we have a day of hard riding ahead, apparently. Justin, our ride mechanic has worked wonders on Barry's bike, as he's had one problem after the next with it, eventhough he had it checked and serviced before the ride. His visit to Justin's van is turning into a daily habit. When we were introduced to him as Justin our tour mechanic I quipped "Justin case" ha ha ha. Two days later I have renamed him "Justin time". His overnight efforts have given Barry a new lease of life on the bike today. I am however not feeling so good. Justin asks me if I'm OK and I tell him not really. He has the knack of taking an interest, and offering good advice at the same time. I have now re-chrsitened him "Just incredible". Without his amazing input at luuchtime I possibly wouldn't have got through this afternoon. But I'm glad I did. The downhill run into Burra was amazing fun - even if I have shaken every part of myself and my bike in the process. And the views! Just gorgeous. I love this part of the world. It really is beautiful. But the personal highlight today was a morning tea stop in Clare which is where Barry and I almost-met 13 years ago on the Great South Australia Bike Ride. Long story - won't go into it now. But ahhh the memories. Baz once more put foward for Mawson Man award. Instead presented with a pair of cute rabbit's ears - to be worn under the helmet - the ears poke through the gaps - until passed on the following evening to another desrving recipient.

Invisible Trail Signs Cause Havoc

Day 3. 78 Ks Tanunda to Riverton. Chateau Tanunda is gorgeous and we don't want to leave. Left with confidence on the bike telling myself I can do this I can do this I can do this, but many moments of indecision caused a loss of momentum over and over as we took wrong turns repeatedly. The trail signs are the size of a $5.-- note, the colour of dust and placed in long grass. They are a joke. This ride is turning into a game of Where's Wally, not a cycling trip. Ride 5 minutes, check the ground for bike tracks, look for a sign - oh there it is right there hidden in the grass... Many times over several intelligent people were gathered looking around and unable to see the signpost that could make the difference between getting there or getting lost. The writing on the signs is the size of my credit card signature - I'm not kidding. Figured out the best solution was to keep an eye on a rider with a GPS system. The only sure way. Even so Barry and I did get lost, and were spotted in the distance by friends who raced on to others with a cellphone who could call us back. Anyway now I'm here in Riverton, the sun is on my back as I write, perched on a camp stool on the grass on the edge of town. And once again I am happy to be here. So all is well. 

Forest, dirt, and ruts

Day 2 Lobethal to Tanunda. 73 Ks Woke up this morning with tears streaming from my eyes. Wasn't sure if I was weeping from anticipation and pain or from the headcold I'd developed. While putting my hemet on I noticed it was looking fine on the outside but broken on the inside (I know the feeling!) from my fall. Still no sympathy !!! Rode into impossible terrain again. Mountain bike skills are building but I am most definitely a road cyclist not a mountain biker. As I was feeling a bit sore, and it was raining and its well known I can get lost anywhere - even in the campsite - I decided to stick with a ride marshall. Barry had promised to stay behind me all day so if anything happened to me he'd find me and fix it. The flaw in that plan of course was that if one us accidentally left the trail then we'd be in deep trouble. Well put it this way, I left Lobethal at 8 and then I left Lobethal at 9. Meanwhile Barry is powering ahead trying to catch me. I was a bit deflated at the realisation I'd wasted so much energy so i just went into automatic. Today's ride summary: long periods of close inspection of clay, sand, and gravel with intermittent periods of magnificent scenery. Ab-so-lutely beautiful. Found Baz at lunch. He'd already been to Tanunda to look for me, and come back. We are both coughing now, so that was a big effort for him too. Stories all round of riders getting lost, so I'm not the only one. But we are here at Chateau Tanunda now in the big dining room having a lovely Black Tie dinner - so all is forgotten for now. Tonight is the night The Mawson Man is introduced to us all. An award for feats of bravery and or stupidity on the trail. The vote is for Baz - overwhelmingly. His reward - the macho looking doll called the Mawson Man. There is also the Wilkins Woman - the female equvalent. Baz gets the vote because of his extreme bad luck with flat tyres; the final straw being the new one - after so many on the trail - put in at camp just before dinner which immediately exploded with a resounding BANG!!! as he walked confidently away from his bike. Plus of course his bright ideas about keeping me safe on the trail by staying behind me all the time... say no more.

Today I took a really heavy bike for a long walk up a steep mountain

DAY ONE of the Mawson Trail
Apparently an easy day to begin with. Only 40 Ks straight up hill. You may remember I have already admitted to lack of technique when it comes to mountain biking. Well combine this with a man size, heavy mountain bike and you might work out why I was walking most of the trail today. The breaking point was a fall - which  lots of people behind me saw and yet NOT ONE WORD of sympathy by the way - which meant I couldn't get back on the bike anyway... and so it went from there. At least until I got to the top, and remounted for the downhill run. Persistent drizzle turned the "Dust Nuisance" signs into a sad joke as I poised myself over the bike (bum off the seat) to assign the correct amount of weight to the front and rear wheels while using the brakes to slow the headlong rush towards certain doom - again. Too much brake caused an alarming sideways slewing motion as my knobbley tyres were filled with slick, wet clay and therefore useless for traction. At times it was better to let gravity guide me along the deeply rutted groves, the exact width of a tyre, rather than trying to control the bike. An act of faith at times. A fine balancing act - in every sense. I was getting really good at it too, but I discovered I have the unlady-like habit of riding with my mouth wide open, and collected several mouthfuls of thick mud as it flicked up from my front tyre. Lost all my mates after a flat tyre delayed departure from morning tea, and soon found myself riding with no one. I was sure my friend was just behind me, but I HAD been waiting for ages as a small collection of riders passed me. I was getting cold and wet, and then began to think he'd passed me with that small last bunch and I was standing all alone in a forest for no good reason getting colder and wetter by the minute. Got in to camp and noticed he was not there, so therefore must have had a breakdown. If he was feeling anything like I was it could have been of the psychological kind, but knowing his fitness levels and strength of character I figured it was a mechanical one. So I asked the powers that be what happens to riders who break down on the trail, and was reassured that there is a really late tail-end Charlie who sweeps up the last of the riders at the end of each day, but here's the phone number to ring if I was worried about him. So being the devoted friend that I am, I sat down and had lunch, deciding that another 20 minutes might do the trick. Another unlady-like habit was revealed to me (2 in one day - how will I cope!) I like to lean on my elbows at the dinner table! I know this because my elbows were one of the really hurtie bits after my fall. Took a good look and there was blood seeping through my clothes! This should win me some sympathy. But I didn't get any (again) because at that moment (precisely 20 munites and one delicious lunch) later he staggered dramatically in. Three flat tyres! Wrong tube! Disaster! All the sympathy I could have got was cruelly redirected. (Personally I don't think he desrves any at all.) But I'm over it now. Its amazing what a hot shower can fix - even if it is in the back of a truck... Now the only problem I have for today is to figure out which drink is the most effective way of removing the taste of mud from my mouth. This could take some time, so I can see a long evening at the pub ahead. (Any excuse, I know!!!)

Disaster!

It's the eleventh hour  - almost literally - and some @*!!--# has smashed my car window in and stolen my briefcase. Its MY LIFE as in my business, personal stuff, diary, paperwork. So if I actually get on the right flight tomorrow it will be a miracle! I lost my carefully composed travel list for packing light too, so I've packed in a last minute hurry (today was taken up with other things,as you can imagine) and my bag is a shambolic mess of unrelated items. But hey, they didn't steal my pedals! And my passport wasn't in there. Things could be a lot worse...

PartyTime!

I'm at the bach sharing the festivities as its my bro's 50th birthday, as well as Easter, as well as ANZAC Day...soooo much going on. I am unsuccessful at keeping to the prescribed training schedule as the party atmosphere is all-consuming and too tempting. Its a very small place, but about 100 party-goers arrive. Massive amounts of food arrived with each guest too. The festivities began soberly enough with a Karakia (Maori blessing of the food) and prayers, but once that was out of the way we began to party. At least a dozen guests turned out to be musicians, picked up various instruments and somehow jelled together. They were still playing as the sun came up - at about the time when I should have been getting on my bike...  But I knew it would be like this. I had cut myself some slack. Besides, by now all the hard work has been done. In fact I only brought the mountain bike with me because it needed a good wash to get last weekend's salt and sand off. Guilt however eventually got the better of me and I took it out for a 50 K spin in the hills later on. All good until I got back and found my cleats had rusted shut. Landed softly in the thick grass that grows over the septic tank. Many willing hands to get me back up on my feet... but it must have looked funny. Lesson learned: always wash your bike after ridning through salt water puddles!

"Well Isn't it ironic..."

Went for a powerwalk at 6am in order to fit everything into my rapidly dwindling pre-trip days. You may remember I kept all my training notes in pen on paper format. (It's one I understand.)  Getting all this onto a blog post has been an unresolved task hanging over my shoulder for weeks. So last weekend I took a deep breath, found a blog site, signed up, got a password, went live (!) and spent five hours writing it all into the blog post box. The winking cursor invites you to "go ahead, you are now a live blogger!" or whatever the cheery little message said to me at the time. So I did. Well I felt like a silly old blogger by the time I'd realised I'd lost the lot as soon as I'd finished and hit the save button. So I tried to go live with my blog by myself. I should have known better. After all I'd just finished writing about the importance of asking for expert help when you know its out there and you are clearly in need of it. (The irony wasn't lost on me.) Stayed up late and did it all again. Another five hours later (yawn!) it's all in Word Doc. I'm too scared to even open up my blog site by this point, so today I accepted the kind offer of a techo friend who is an expert in these matters. She took me through the process by phone, patiently waiting for the lightbulb to come on with each step... An hour later I know how to do things I didn't even know existed in the world of blogging, website links and e-mailing! I have climbed an amazing learning curve and feel good about it as well! (And there's so much more...!

"With Friends Like These..."

Training for the 900 kilometre Outback Odyssey Ride.

Late January 2011: Well blogger me!! I’ve been asked to write a blog, and I’m not sure what one is. I’d better find out. I suppose the quickest way would be to ask someone who’s about 12 years of age. (Meanwhile I’ll put everything in simple note form. As in pen and paper.)

Late February 2011: Well that took some time! I have finally been given a few blogging tips, and I’m going to start. As soon as I begin my training. At the moment there’s nothing to tell, because all I’m doing is power-walking the dog every day for an hour, and I’ve been doing that for years. But I’d better get moving because last year my once-a-year cycling buddies convinced me to sign up for the Mawson Trail, apparently a gorgeous bush walk in Oz somewhere. Or something. Anyway they were all raving about it. I wasn’t really listening. I’d just bought a house. Money was going to be tight. “I’m not going anyway”, I thought. We’d just done the Rail Trail in New Zealand, which was the trip I’d planned last year with more emphasis on hotel bed comfort at the end of an easy day’s flat riding, and as much pub-centred entertainment we could fit in between. Everyone was high on endorphins, fun and trans-Tasman friendship and wanted to repeat the magic. Eventually I said yes to whatever this Mawson Trail was about because I didn’t want to miss out, and I trust them – then I lost track of time.

Late March 2011: I now realise I have misplaced my trust and we have only 32 days to go and my fitness is at an all time low so near to a bike tour. (Yes – somewhere along the way between last March and this March I realised it’s a serious bike ride.) My excuse for fitness failure? The end of a romantic relationship, shifting into a new house/suburb (alone) and turning 52 – all in the space of 6 days.  And just before Christmas - classic stress recipe. My normal routine was out of whack and it was showing up 4 months later as laziness. Then I got sick and high on three rounds of antibiotics (injected directly into my bottom – ouch!) and steroids (ker-blam! on the scales). With no fitness routine, and a haphazard approach to cooking-for-one, it was time for action. After a comprehensive internet search I found a promising local gym, and phoned to make an appointment at Club Physical, Birkenhead. Sometimes the best course of action is to enlist expert help. And, looking at myself in the mirror – flaccid bits where good cycling muscles used to be - that time had come.

Wed 30^th March:

As soon as I walk in I’m impressed with my choice of gym. It has the atmosphere of quality about it. Gaylene meets me and makes me feel really welcome. There’s no constant stomach rumble of workout machines vibrating on the floor of a vast and characterless room. This place sits on the penthouse level of a shopping mall with handy basement carparking below, has panoramic water and city views, and has been divided into intimate spaces. The floors have a solid feel to them, designed for their purpose – some of them raised a few inches onto platforms to take extra punishment. I can hear the distant clink of weights touching in another room, and inspiring workout music all round. I’m given lots of choices, including the services of a personal trainer. I have never had one before and am excited by the idea so I say “Yes!” After a tour of the gym I have a young personal trainer who I shall refer to from now on as Rawiri (because that’s his name) and a goal, although I can’t tell him much about the cycling I’ll be doing on the trail because I don’t know yet. All I know is it’s off-road, its two weeks and its 900 Ks long. (No-one is answering my questions about the daily miles, the terrain, the accommodation, the climate, the snakes, the crocodiles - but I’m becoming very suspicious…) Rawiri does a double-take, then makes advance appointments with me twice a week for the remaining four weeks, adding that I’m his most challenging client because of the tight 4 week time frame. Ouch, like I need reminding! Then I am put through my paces. He does some calculations. Then says I’m quite fit really. But I notice the chart he’s referring to has “50 plus” on it. I ask him if that means I’m fit for a 50-something year old… I look around the room and my eyes snag on a “before” picture of someone clearly representing an average customer and possibly about my age. Its not a good look. “And what exactly does that mean anyway? Does that mean it’s based on the average over 50 yr old? And have you looked at the average 50 year old lately?” He remains calm in the face of my mounting hysteria and self-doubt, and reassures me I’m in pretty good shape. I finish a dummy run of my new gym routine feeling like I’ve taken a significant step forward in my training already. In fact I leave feeling pretty pleased with myself. “How hard can this be?” I wonder as I drive away. About then I realise I’ve just driven out the NO EXIT ramp of the carpark onto a busy highway nearly causing an accident. The polite couple in the other car swerve aside, stop and point out the sign I have failed to see, which is about the size of a movie screen, and I apologise for my mistake. I drive away, backwards, feeling less smug.

Thursday 31^st March:

Only 30 days to go. I take my dog for her usual walk, which is an hour of bush walking, and we make it brisk. I’ve also added wrist weights for added measure. I begin my Personal Training sessions next week, but its up to me to go to the gym and exercise on at least 2 other days a week by myself, too. So I get my diary out and make appointments with myself at the gym on 2 other days a week as well as my appointments with Rawiri, starting tomorrow. I figure that if I treat appointments with myself the same way as I do with other people, I’ll certainly show up, and on time.

Friday 1^st April:

I have an appointment with myself at the gym, so I race off to be on time, and feel a satisfaction in doing that. I realise I’ve committed the faux pas of not bringing a towel with which to mop up the sweat I’ll soon be dripping everywhere, according to gym tradition. I don’t break a sweat until its time to leave and I almost make the same mistake of driving down the NO EXIT ramp again, and the whole experience flashes once more before my eyes. I back up – armpits getting damper by the nanosecond - and try again, but it seems this carpark has no way out of it. I execute a 3 point turn in every dark, dead end corner on every level, dodging the same shoppers with their trolleys several times on different storeys until I find the way out, and I finally leave the building with as much dignity as I can muster.

Saturday 2^nd April:

I take the dog for her usual walk, but feel inspired to run this time. The run we do has lots of steps, tree roots and rocks so I must concentrate, but the harbour scenery is wonderful so I stop to enjoy it at a place I’ve dubbed “lesbian corner”. (It’s another story, but you probably guessed that you see some interesting sights if you hang out in secluded parts of the park enough times.) I plan my cycle training in my head as I run. I’ve only been out on the bike 3 times in the past 2 months, but I tell myself running is a pretty good supplement if you go for at least half an hour at a time. So I run for precisely half an hour – not a second more. But I’m still in the dark about the ride itself. I need to know how long the days are, the type of surface we’ll be riding on, etc but still no one is giving me straight answers. However I suspect we will be in for a decent effort because I’m hearing words like “100 k days” and “tough riding” sprinkled in the conversation whenever I talk to my riding mates over the Tasman puddle. They’re organising this trip, and I’m going along for the ride – as they say. (But am I being taken for a ride…?) Perhaps a more fitting metaphor would be “like a lamb to the slaughter”. (I feel like one.) Or “with friends like these…”

Sunday 3^rd April:

It’s time to increase our distances on the bike. Jan and I have a base level of fitness that allows us to do 40 ks of hill training more or less anytime. This time we plan to do 50 ks with hills and to get off the road before the Sunday morning traffic builds up. We set off in the pre-dawn glow, rolling our ride vests up higher round our necks to shut out the cold wind we are generating by our own movement through the 10 degree night air. 5 ks down the road my back tyre blows, and we spend 45 minutes trying to find the hole in the half-light, repairing it, and pumping it up again. By this time the sun is an orange ball of fire appearing from behind the hills we are about to climb, and we are in the line of sun-strike. And we’re sharing the road with dozens of early morning boaties keen hit the boat ramp, which is also on the other side of those hills. The day turns out to be one of those perfect I’m-so-glad-to-be-alive moments. We stop at Kawakawa Bay to buy something to eat from the diary by the beach. We chat to some guys taking a break from their motorbikes, and upon hearing that I’m an interior designer one of them tells me about the new place he’s just bought. It’s an old historic bank, with a very old locked safe in it. He gets a safe specialist in to open it, and inside there are several deeds of title rolled up, secured with red ribbon. He’s given a large sum of dough to keep quiet about it, and thereby ends up buying the whole building for only ten grand. I love hearing stories like that. I listen with rapt attention. I’m stuffing my mouth with Easter eggs and banana so I can’t interrupt anyway. Meanwhile seagulls wheel overhead against a brilliant blue sky, and gleaming sunlight scatters into millions of glittering diamonds from the horizon right to our feet. The air is refreshingly cool, and yet the sun is warm on our backs. What a perfect day for a ride!

Monday 4^th April:

Today I have an appointment with Rawiri for my first Personal Training session at Club Physical. I’m unaware that he’s been creating ways to take me to the limits of my physical strength - but I’m about to find out. The session involves a lot of rushing without stopping from one activity to another, weights, stamina, core muscle groups, and back again doing it all again continuously so that I have the experience of my mind being several seconds behind my body. He tells me no more than I need to know at any time, so I am blissfully unaware of what I’m in for, and I’m kept so busy I don’t realise what I’m doing until I’ve done it. The 30 minutes fly by. I can’t honestly say what I’ve been doing for the last half an hour, but my abdominal muscles give me a few clues later. This evening I walk, rather than run the dog, and we enjoy the harbour view at a sensible pace all the way this time. After that workout, I deserve it. (I promise myself I’ll run next time.)

Tuesday 5^th April:

This is my designated rest day. I’m tired but satisfied after the last six days of increased activity, all on levels. In just under a week I have increased my riding distance, joined the gym, am running more and added wrist weights to my walking. That’s quite a lot.

Wednesday 6^th April:

My second P.T.session at Club Physical… Rawiri has another completely different session planned for me. This time we move around from room to room more, and I have to run from one activity to the next so there’s no resting. I keep tripping on those raised floors that take the thump of constantly pounded treadmills, but he pretends not to notice. While he’s adjusting the equipment he makes me run right round the perimeter of the gym through the small side rooms and a corridor, and back as fast as I can. Apart from wasting time getting lost in a cupboard I did quite well for speed, apparently.

Thursday 7^th April:

This isn’t supposed to be a rest day, but I’m knackered. I need a rest so I don’t do any exercise today. Not even a walk. Its OK, I’m not going to give myself a hard time over it. Guilt won’t get me any closer to my goals. Instead I go shopping for high protein foods, with lots of veges and soy milk, being sure to avoid the Easter eggs. I have been eating compromised meals, mainly due to getting out of the habit of cooking for others. It’s time to sort that one out too.

Friday 8^th April:

I’m due to meet myself at the gym again today, so I leave in time to make the appointment. I do the workout Rawiri has written in my personal workout booklet. Its fairly easy to do, but not so easy that I want to make it harder either. Rawiri has it just right for me. Afterwards I feel like running so I take the dog and we do our usual run together by the harbour. I make a mental note of how long its taking so I can notice any improvements to my time, or add some more minutes on when I get fit enough to do them. Right now I’m happy with running for half an hour, with a ten minute power walking warm up before and a ten minute slow walking warm down after.

Saturday 9^th April:

I have another appointment with myself at the gym, so I get there to meet myself on time again. After my workout I realise as I reach the car in the basement car park that I’ve left my card somewhere in the gym. I know I haven’t put it back in the box under my name. But I’m too tired to face climbing those stairs again. I figure someone will see it and hand it in. By the time I get home I tell myself I should be running again today, so I put in another half hour effort, but somewhere during the first ten minutes my legs ask my mind to change that plan and suddenly walking seems like a better option. I take no notice, and my stronger self takes over the rest of the run, which I manage to do in even faster time than yesterday. I manage this by playing the “What If” game. What if I’m an avatar right now? If I was an avatar I’d bound effortlessly through the undergrowth on strong, nimble, athletic legs (that just happen to be blue, striped like a zebra and adorned with a long tail). It works. But my knees are jelly by the time I make it home. I run a bath and relax the lactic acid out of my muscles in comfort. I realise that I haven’t had a drink of alcohol for days. I don’t want it. I feel half drunk from tiredness nearly every night anyway. I notice my Mawson Trail Ride Guide has come in my e-mail inbox. I print it out and read it late at night in bed while sipping a hot cocoa. O.M.G!!! Frightening words like “single file cycle tracks’ and “legs like iron” leap off the pages at me (all 28 of them), but I still don’t really know what to expect, because there’s no graph or elevations. I need a map. I need some sleep. I actually NEED A MIRACLE! But first I get out of bed and check my legs in the mirror. They don’t look like legs of iron.

Sunday 10^th April:

I’m supposed to be riding today, but I’m tired. Tired, tired, tired. Instead I meet a lovely friend I haven’t seen for a while and we walk along the beach with our dogs while they frolic in the sand together. Very civilised. Very restful. And good for the soul.

Monday 11^th April:

P.T. Session three. Rawiri has yet another tortuous session planned for me, involving a lot of running up and down stairs. And that’s just while I’m taking a break from the really hard stuff. “Come on, you can do it…!” he says over and over. (He’s very convincing.) The goal is to increase my core body strength as well as my stamina, and so far he’s found ways that I have never heard of. I’m somehow balancing on a Swiss ball while lifting weights and concentrating on keeping my back straight, tummy in, and shoulders back. I’m surprised he doesn’t get me to juggle a smaller Swiss ball between my toes because they’re the only parts of my body doing nothing. They’re just sitting there inside my shoes, and somehow compared to the rest of me they suddenly feel lazy, like they’re not pulling their weight. I become obsessed by all ten of them. It’s a lot to think about, and once more the 30 minutes skim past in mere moments.

Tuesday 12^th April:

My designated rest day. I’m enjoying the time out. And I don’t feel guilty that I had 3 rest days last week, instead of 1 either. Well it was my first week! And this is a new week full of new possibilities. Clean slate and all that…

Wednesday 13^th April:

P.T. session 4 with Rawiri. He’s giving me everything he can think of to take me to my limits of physical strength. I’m lying on my back with barbell weights hovering over me on swaying arms. Just five more? Staring up at them, I think on about number four, they’ll come crashing down and separate my head from my body. Or at least ruin the rest of my day. How does he actually know that I’m silently scanning my mind and body once again for those last reserves of strength - but this time coming up with a “maybe not” answer? He must know because its at that precise moment that he reaches down, takes the weight and gets me to jump up and rush onto the next thing before I have another moment to dwell on it. He has me doing more impossible feats, like passing a Swiss ball from my feet to my hands while lying flat on my back, and then over the top of my head using straight arms to almost touch – but not quite – the floor, and then back again to my feet where the ball must almost but not quite touch the floor using my legs in a fully extended position. Several times - over and over. I begin to wobble, losing strength and control on my fifth one. I wonder out loud which part of me isn’t working properly, when he says “well, we smashed your abs (his words) doing the first half of this session, and you are doing advanced core body work now. So you should be feeling proud of what you can do, not frustrated.” Music to my ears. Is this why people fall in love with their personal trainers? They rescue them at the eleventh hour, thereby taking on hero status, and say all the right things to make you feel like you can do anything, thereby adding that glow of seeing yourself in your full potential in the same way that a lover does. Hard to beat that combination…Perhaps a personal trainer is a good substitute for the real thing. (Just ask a certain well-known TV presenter here in NZ. It was enough to take her from her kids and husband and suddenly become a lesbian. Go figure…  Maybe I just did.) Most people choose chocolate. Interesting concept though. Perhaps I will test this theory some more. I mean the part about the chocolate, not the other. I can finally see a scientific reason for eating chocolate on a regular basis. Afterwards I decide to take the dog for a run, only she’s had so much exercise lately that she doesn’t want to come with me. So I go alone. Perhaps she’s trying to tell me something. It seems weird.

Thursday 14^th April:

I decide to just walk today. The P.T. sessions have been taking it out of me, and I need an easy day so I walk for an hour at power walking speed. My dog is happy with this arrangement and so am I for now. I notice my posture has improved, especially around my stomach and I’m walking taller. I have coffee with a friend and he points to a women’s magazine cover featuring 4 of our top world-class sports women at an awards ceremony, dressed in shoulderless evening gowns. He stabs a finger at each one. FOUR. GOOD. REASONS. NOT-TO-OVERTRAIN. I take a closer look. They are looking rather thin, lined about the face, and displaying muscles kind of bolted on to those gaunt arms and shoulders. “They look like pre-pubescent boys wearing red lipstick. Don’t loose those lovely womanly curves”, he says to me. Yeah right. Like that’s going to happen. I’m hardly in danger. I don’t carry the sense of determination in my soul to generate those particular lines of exertion about the mouth and eyes. I’m too lazy. I lack proper discipline. Besides, I haven’t changed a bit. I know. I weighed myself this morning.

Friday 15^th April:

I have that usual Friday appointment with myself at the gym, so I go and I’m happy to find myself there. The half that’s already there is pleased to see me arrive on time too. It’s a good arrangement, but soon I realise that I’ve lost my workout card. It’s gone. No one has handed it in. I blame myself, but I can’t decide which me it is that’s been careless enough to lose it, or which me was too lazy to go back for it, for that matter. The argument doesn’t last too long though, mainly because it’s all too confusing. Besides its impossible to get too philosophical while your body is getting a thorough workout - again. I think I’m on the brink of a fitness breakthrough. That felt easy. I follow the gym workout with a run - nothing different distance-wise, and no faster either. But I feel good.

Saturday 16^th April:

I’m getting good at this. I’m on time once more. I meet myself at the gym for my normal work out. This workout is getting too easy for me, so I move the weights up one, two or even three notches. I once again get mixed up while trying to leave the carpark, and so I make a point of watching what happens to other people. I notice there are lots of drivers who want to go out the way they came in (it’s only natural after all and there’s no other daylight in sight) but then I see that the design has been cunningly set up to divert you at the last possible moment through the Burger King drive through. Its either the drive through, or backing up (against a mounting queue behind) to find the way out (or going out the NO EXIT way like I did, which is a bit like going onto the motorway offramp when you want the onramp). And I saw a lot of hesitation right at that point, with people looking left and right trying to work it all out. But here’s the thing. More than half of them went through the Burger King drive through. The exit isn’t marked at all. Clever huh?  Making myself unpopular (again) I back up to the hidden turn I keep missing, and drive home. I had planned to go for another run afterwards, but the rain spoils it for me before I set out, and I stay dry instead. I feel a bit lazy doing this, but it’s too cold to run in the rain. Winter has arrived.

Sunday 17^th April:

Jan and I decide to take our mountain bikes out for a spin. We are now aware we need to practice our off road skills, so we head out for a vast and empty forest growing out of acres of black sand dunes on Auckland’s harsh, inhospitable West Coast. It is well known as the go-to place if you suddenly find yourself with a dead body on your hands and a shovel in the boot of your car. We’ve never ridden here before, and we are road cyclists, not mountain bikers, so this is uncharted territory for us in more ways than one. The riding is difficult with a mix of soft sand that slips like satin beneath our tyres, pine needles, puddles, loose gravel, and slush. The hills at times are impossibly steep for the loose surface, and test our legs, as well as our patience. Never mind there are strange delights and distractions like the saucer sized bright orange mushrooms that at first glance look like amber traffic lights and have me reaching instinctively for my brakes. This is horse riding heaven, obviously. Not a shallow grave in sight - only a small scattering of very-much alive (and clearly happy to be so) humans clambering up impossibly high, soft sand dunes on fit-looking, sweating horses (who may not be sharing their joy at that moment - but I can’t speak for them) over the whole morning. But mostly we are alone in the forest, with only the deer bounding away from us further up the track and the faint roar of the sea carried to us on the wind above the trees to remind us where we are – riding in a secluded oasis of calm on Auckland’s wild and windy west coast. But do I detect a faint frisson of social discord each time we offer a cheery “Good Morning!!!” to our fellow riders? Are they looking down on us because they’re high up on great big horses? Or are they looking down at us? We soon find out. A rider slows her horse to talk to us. We are in the wrong part of the forest. This part is the designated horse-riding part. Cyclists several kilometres that way. Woops.

Monday 18^th April:

P.T. session number five. I’ve been on this training schedule for 19 days now. Rawiri tells me he will be doing some tests to measure my improvements on Wednesday, our sixth P.T. session. Meanwhile we are committed to keeping up the good work, and we get straight into it. No time for small talk today because he’s in charge of my breathing (keep breathing, yes that’s it… in – out…) while moving me up to more difficult exercises. I make the mistake of saying “that wasn’t so bad” (or “thhhaaaaat whaaaaasn so-baaaa…”) after the first set, so he makes the whole thing harder again. And again. Yet somehow I manage it all – with a little help from an unseen hand taking the weight every now and then. I can feel yesterday’s ride in my legs, but its OK because he knows this, so most of today is working on the upper body. (Rawiri clearly knows his stuff.) I’ve already been for a pre-dawn power walk today, in order to fit it into my day - so no run this time.

Tuesday 19^th April:

Day 20. Rest day. I treat myself to a cream doughnut. Not sure whether to enjoy it or feel guilty about it. I tell myself it’s a reward. Test day tomorrow. I wonder if I’ve got any measurable results to show for the past three weeks…?

Wednesday 20^th April:

Only 9 days before I get on a plane…! And there’s a lot to do between now and then, believe me! P.T. session number five reveals that I haven’t changed my weight but my fat folds are smaller. In other words I am replacing fat with muscle. And as muscle weighs more, I must be improving. This is good news. The pain Rawiri has been inflicting on me has been worth it then. As a reward Rawiri gets me into a pair of boxing gloves so I can hook into him doing upper cuts, side swipes, under cuts, mean cuts, lean cuts and every other kind of punch he can get me to do in rapid-fire sets, in ever-changing patterns. He walks backwards holding up the pads, and I follow and try to keep up with his ever-changing instructions and those forever-moving pads.  He keeps me on my toes in more ways than one. I’m not sure whether my arms gave in before my mind lost concentration or visa versa. I should have tried the “what if” game pretending to be Mohammed Ali, but I didn’t think of it. Next time! Took the dog for a run straight after and added 5 minutes on. Felt really good. I must be getting fitter! This is most encouraging. Especially after only three weeks. I know I couldn’t have done this alone. It occurs to me that getting a personal trainer is like getting in a designer. A professional approach will usually yield better results than a DIY effort. As they say, you don’t know what you don’t know.