No matter how far you have gone on the wrong road, turn back. -Turkish proverb

As a yogi though I dedicate everything to peace and harmony, not that it can always be so, it was also with determination and an intrinsic sense of fun and adventure that I recently attempted a long dreamt of touring-bike-with-panniers cycle ride from Picton to Bluff. 

I knew it was the wrong time of the year to do such a ride, and it is Xmas time and my kids are in Wellington, and I have a recently-born grandchild, and my daughter’s birthday is at the beginning of January, as is my friend’s, and my sister and niece are over from the UK -- their departure date the day before I was due to arrive in Bluff -- but despite every reason for being in the North Island here I was travelling south by ferry to Picton on December 28th to start cycling in a sou-westerly direction. 

I soon met up with severe unseasonal sou-westerly gales, at all times varying between either a direct head-wind or a vicious cross-wind. It was hard enough climbing to St Arnaud on that squally day, but the next day (supposedly “going down”) through the Buller Gorge was like riding through several invisible brick walls, as the wind screamed furiously at each of the many points that make up the snaking road, only the weight of the panniers preventing me and the bike from being scooped up and dumped into the gorge below, I imagined. It was so tough, I still get flashbacks even today. That day I made Inangahua Landing, a place in the middle of nowhere having a friendly backpacker hostel named Swaines, with more than friendly people to welcome me.

The next day I set off early to find the wind had thankfully eased, and though still grey it was relatively warm. The road ahead looked desolate, nothing but empty countryside, with ghost towns from times long past's gold rushes. As I pedalled and pedalled, on and on, with relative ease -- without any more aforethought I found myself weeping, not at the haunted desolation nor even self-pity; but perhaps the delayed shock of the reality of the seemingly nightmarish previous two days' rides. As I rode on along the long grey road which stretched out ahead of me, I eventually did sank into  morose self-pity and, feeling like Forrest Gump on a ride to nowhere, wondered why I wasn’t up North with all my loved ones? Then I had one of those Big Thoughts you get when cycling – surely love is all around, as much as the invisible air is all around, even perhaps throughout the entire cosmos? 

Spirits much lifted by this mysterious epiphany I travelled on and, half seen out the corner of my eye, I passed a sign-post labelled Perseverance Road. I pulled up quickly, turned back, to take a picture. The road wasn't pointing my way, but perhaps, surely, this was a further sign that all was to be well? My thoughts became bright and lo! At Reefton the sun was out, there were people all around, and it almost felt like summer and, after a cup of tea and a chat with other happy cyclists (sensibly travelling in a north-east direction) I set off much revived.

A small hill out of sunny Reefton, the last major hill before Greymouth, presented no problems. But once down in the valley, grey clouds once more loomed low, while the sou-westerly wind once more blew hard against me, and once more the long grey winding road stretched ahead, on and on into the grey distance. My left knee began to give me trouble -- yesterday it had been the right knee. I suspected my cleat position, and stopped often, desperately trying to position it correctly. 

Mercifully, not helped by lugging over half my body weight on a bike, my knee gave in 35km out from Greymouth (“Grey by name, Grey by nature”). I let my left leg sit limp clamped in its pedal, turning lazily, while my right leg did all the work – I was determined to distinguish between pain and discomfort – finally decided on the last hill into Greymouth when, on the side of the road having stopped for the umpteenth time that day, staggering backwards I almost blacked out. 

Staying at Noahs Ark in Greymouth I spent a happy rest day on January 1st in (as it turned out) sunny friendly Greymouth, where I met lots of other fellow chatty cyclists, recounting tales of our rides in the hellish weather. The next day, as the weather once more turned grim, I jumped on a train to Christchurch. As the train came out of the long Arthur's Pass tunnel the weather had cleared. In the sun, towards stark brown Porters Pass, alongside us weaved the old dusty Cobb and Co stage coach trail where, the train manager informed us over the loudspeaker, in times past horses carted such heavy loads they lasted only seven months before their knees gave in.

As I looked out at the beautiful alpine scenery, I tried not to imagine what happened to them after their knees gave in, rubbing my own swollen knees, thinking to myself: I'd only lasted  4 days -- but hey, I wasn't a horse, and I began to count my blessings. After an overnight stay in Christchurch, I jumped on a train to Picton, and the ferry back to Wellington, where I sensibly carried on having fun by driving further North to where the sun and my loved ones were, to earn lots of brownie-points for coming back, safe.