The East Cape, without a doubt, was the most exciting, eventful and emotional part of my journey.
Although it added 184km to my route, deciding to avoid the gorge and the 700m climb had resulted in my brain falling into relaxation mode. ‘There’s an easy road ahead’ it told my body, as I made my way through Gisborne toward the coast. This, it turned out, was not the case. Although there was no one big climb, over the next few days there appeared to be innumerable smaller hills. That is to say, I would spend up to an hour at a time cycling uphill, instead of two…
Coming to the end of day one around the East Cape, despite the surprise for my legs, I was really enjoying myself. The landscape, a mixture of coastal views and curving hills spreading into the distance, made all the effort rewarding.
Views out to ocean as the road heads inland
Suddenly however, in the final few kilometres of my 90km day, I was met with what, at this point, felt like a never ending, indescribably steep hill and my whole body just seemed to scream for no more. For a few awful moments I thought I was going to have to get off and walk. Now you may be reading this and wondering where the problem is, but I had so far been capable of climbing every hill, even if breaks were needed along the way and to me, getting off and walking would be like walking the last mile of a marathon, you couldn’t go away and tell people you ran a marathon because you didn’t, not quite.
I made it, somehow, felt relief wash over me as I began my descent and then cursed as I realised there was another, smaller incline to go. I slowly learnt that it was best never to assume the last hill was the last hill, it resulted in an unnecessary mental battle, convincing my relaxing muscles they needed to re engage, quickly.
My campsite that night was in Tokomaru Bay, a tiny, middle of nowhere coastal town. On first appearance I wasn’t even sure the campsite was still open and I never actually did see the owners, or work out where the reception was. I confirmed all I needed to know with a man sitting in the field by a small, permanent looking, dirty yellow caravan.
I found out the following morning his name was Kevin and he lived there as he could no longer get about very much due to an injury to both his legs. I found all of this out when I went over to ask him if there was, on the off chance, anywhere that sold bicycle tyres in the town. I had discovered, as I puzzled over yet another flat tyre, that the actual tyre (not the inner tube) had worn so thin there was a hole in it. At this point, I was around an hour, by car, to the nearest big town.
My prospects seemed very limited. I was stranded. I could hitchhike back to Gisborne, but it seemed very unlikely someone would be able to take my bike as well and could my morale handle having to redo yesterday’s 90km all over again? I wasn’t sure. So was this it, did I leave my bike here, make my way back to Gisborne and continue via bus?
It was at this point I made my appeal to Kevin, without really much hope. He told me there wasn’t a shop that had bike tyres, as I expected, but maybe someone in town could get one from Gisborne by courier. I felt like this could be more expensive then it was worth. Then, all of a sudden Kevin had an idea that became my saving grace. “What about my bike? Maybe one of my tyres would fit?” He had a dusty bike decorated with cobwebs leaning against his caravan, no longer used due to his weak legs.
So it was by 9am, only an hour later than planned, I was back on the road. I couldn’t believe my luck!
Much later, after a long day along a continuously undulating road, I would need to remind myself that I was happy to be cycling, to still be able to complete my journey. Because my body sure didn’t agree!
A long steep descent as the sun began to set filled me with relief. The graph in my cycling guide showed my destination just after this.
It lied.
I continued around one turn after another, each small incline feeling like it was about to destroy me. So exasperated that I was fighting the urge to camp right there on the roadside. Worried because it was getting darker by the second and although I knew the town was there somewhere, each rotation my legs made seemed to bring me no closer to any kind of civilisation.
I almost reached my breaking point that evening. Still cycling 40 minutes after I had been convinced my journey was over, not knowing how much further I needed to travel, when I was exhausted and the darkness was closing in. I’m sure I don’t need to describe my relief, finally seeing Te Araroa as I rode over the crest of a hill.
Being past 5pm on a Sunday, the only shop was closed, and the campsite was another 6km north. However, knowing where I was and how far I had to go rejuvenated mind and body and I near sprinted the distance, all the while thanking my lucky stars the road was flat.
The following day as I reveled in a much needed day off, I sat peacefully on a bench looking out at the expanse of ocean, bordered on both sides by jagged cliff walls. As I indulged my craving for baked beans, eating them straight from the can, my mind passed over the past few days and the different places I had eaten as I gazed out at a breathtaking view. It was moments like this, I thought, that made my trip magical.
