Sauna-yoga for crazy people

Recently I did something a little bit out of the ordinary for me. I went along to a Bikram (or hot) yoga session. This strange form of  slow torture was developed by a guy called Bikram Choudhury. The idea is that you go through a series of yoga positions in a room at around 40 Celsius and at 40% humidity. Our old mate Bikky was convinced that injury prevention and stretching was aided by the heat, and that stress and tension was also reduced. A Bikram yoga session runs for 90 minutes and does through a sequence of 26 specially formulated postures and 2 breathing exercises.

The idea goes that when you perform a pose (or asana), you are performing a compression and this removes circulation to a certain part of the body.  The heart then pumps more blood around the body in order to counteract this blockage, which is known as an extension. Apparently this process can remove toxins, bacteria and other bad stuff from your system: the change in volume and intensity of blood flow releases all the bad stuff.

My flatmates were enthusiastic about trying it and some of that must have rubbed off on me, because I was soon persuaded too. Before I went along I had a mental picture of what hot yoga would be like. The spacious room would be steamy like a sauna, and tastefully dressed with classy fixtures and cool dark tile. In that space, 30 or so gracefully figures would run through familiar motions honed to controlled, localised perfection. The women would be long limbed and lithe and uniformly tanned, while each man would seem closer to Adonis than the last. All would be barely clad and breathing easily in the Amazonian conditions, a light sheen of sweat glistening on their skin. Limber would not even begin to describe the poses they could assume. The idea was both terrifying and stimulating.

In the meantime, I would plod in already sweaty, breathing heavily through my mouth and generally disrupting the scene. I would heave my shapeless bulk onto a mat and force my baggy body through a series of motions attempting to reach the set poses, each more unobtainable than the last. I would groan and sigh and struggle terribly: between sets I would lie on my side and pant like a hot tired seal stuck in the unrelenting sun. Delicate noses would turn skywards in disgust at my weak, pathetic efforts. The gaze of the others in the room would occasionally turn sidelong towards me, despite their best efforts to pretend I wasn’t there. I would struggle my way through the session and then trudge out completely depleted of fluids, while the regulars swept out looking fresh and pretending I didn’t exist. I would slink home tail between legs and devour a tub of ice-cream in an aching ball on the couch.

It turns out that basically all my assumptions couldn’t have been more wrong. The room was a cheap and cheerful space on the second story of a building on Tory St, and was filled with all kinds of people. None were particularly intimidating. The instructor was a lively young blonde thing who seemed immune to the heat. She was very positive and friendly the whole way through. All of her instructions were verbal – she didn’t actually demonstrate the poses as we were going. This surprised me greatly. However, from watching others it was fairly easy to pick up on what it was we were supposed to be doing. Actually doing it was another matter entirely.

I have to admit I was a bit cowboy about the whole thing. I assumed that because of my bike fitness, I wouldn’t have too much trouble. Sure the heat would be unpleasant, and I wouldn’t be flexible enough (or coordinated enough) to get into most of the poses, but it would basically be fine. It would be a little awkward, like most things the first time – but it would be okay.

Well, after entering the room (you are recommended to go in early, so your body can acclimatise) I felt fine. The heat was bearable, enough to know you’re in a heated room but not enough to be too uncomfortable. There was a large sweat stain on the floor next to where I set up my mat, however. This was ominous.

The class started with breathing exercises. Then it was into the poses. It became clear after one set that this whole yoga business was a lot more difficult than it seemed. Suddenly, my body was glazed with sweat. The problem was not my fitness. The problem was strength, or more specifically, the fact that I don’t possess any. The effort required to achieve some of the poses is mind blowing. And that’s before you even hold them for the required time.  Then you lose balance, curse silently, and look over to see a little old lady effortlessly performing the motions, face serene. It’s an interesting scenario which will either break you or make you more determined to push through.

By 2/3rds of the way through I wished the class was ending. I’d sweated an ocean: my towel was heavy, my skin slippery everywhere and all of my clothing drenched. Many of the poses require you to grab and hold onto a part of your body. This had become near impossible because of the thick layer of sweat lubricating every inch of my skin. I looked over at the instructor and she has a thoughtful, slightly puzzled look on her face. She talked quietly to one of the more experienced participants “do you think it’s getting colder in here?” Apparently it had been. The heat goes up.

Ahhhhhh. Not good.

The last half an hour is a bit of a blur. The pain is completely different to anything I’d dealt with before. It doesn’t compare with anything cycling has put me through. There’s no searing, white-hot burn as you force already tired muscles to keep repeating an action they’ve long since grown tired of. Instead you get this dull ache from trying to make yourself very still, even though you aren't quite strong enough to fight the resistance of your body. This leaves you shaking with effort. But the real pain comes from stretching yourself out in so many unusual ways: that’s the real purpose of the poses. And you soon find out just where your limits of flexibility are, by repeatedly going just past that point. The payoff is quick though, as you can see improvement even between reps.

The class ended with a breathing exercise, and I was pleased it was over. It is recommended you stay in the room as long as you can afterwards – I treated this as a kind of warm-down and stayed a while. I am pleased to be able to say I had a go at all of the poses, even though there were stages when I really didn’t want to.

Will I go again? It’s hard to say, Bikram isn’t for the financially challenged so that will definitely be a factor. However, at this stage I would like to have another go. If it yields half of the benefits it promises then the payoff is probably worth the investment. 

Makara peak: the Grand Loop Challenge

My Saturday night was a very late one so I slept through most of the Makara peak festival. However I did make it up for the Grand Loop Challenge. The format was simple: racers were released at 20 second intervals and had to complete a short sharp lap of the park. In theory the fastest riders left first so there was no traffic, just good times. It also meant there was always someone to chase, a great motivator. Best of all, no one was taking themselves too seriously, setting up a great atmosphere.

Due to a horrendous overestimation of how long it would take me to get around the course, I seeded pretty poorly and ended up leaving second to last. On the plus side, this gave me a whole lot of people to chase after. I went out hard and started making up time from the outset, starting to catch people a few minutes into Koru. I held a strong pace up through the track and rode cleanly, reeling in several during the initial climb.

By the start of missing link I was breathing like a steam train and needed the break of the downhill into Missing Link. As far as downhilling goes I’m not much and my descent was a bit sketchy in the ultra-dry conditions. Luckily for me there was plenty more climbing to be done and I soon got my lungs back into that good burning feeling.

I have it on good authority that I was still going strong up the 4wd into Aratihi but popped soon into the track and had to back off a bit as my legs were starting to feel as though they’d been well curried. On the way to the summit I pulled in a few more people. The top section was tough going because of the noteable wind rushing the top sections.

By the time I got to the start of Ridgeline the air was pretty determined to go in a different direction to the one I was going, and was pretty keen to take me along for the ride. It was tricky to hold the lines I wanted so I was particularly pleased to get to the start of the descent proper with only one foot down moment.

From here it was all fairly placid going as I rode as hard as I could while making sure I got to the bottom. Ridgeline was pretty rough on the rigid but as always I had a blast. The top of Ridgeline extension was only marginally less rough the Ridgeline and I was a happy man when I got into the flowwy stuff on SWIGG and starfish. SWIGG is probably my favourite track and I had a great time pumping my way to the bottom.

 After the race I indulged in some banter while we waited for everyone to finish. The vibe was great; it seemed like everyone had a good time and there were no major stacks. A big ups to everyone involved with the race and the festival – organisers and the marshals in particular. It was great to have the chance to tackle one of my favourite loops at full noise, and I was well pleased with my time of 43 minutes flat. I look forward to more races like this one to come.

Ruts of the bad kind

Disclaimer: this one is really just for me, rather than because I have been doing anything particularly interesting or noteworthy.

I’ve been stuck in a bit of a rut recently, which has meant that updates here haven’t been as regular as I would like (although to be honest they were sporadic at best anyway). It’s a funny thing how you can go through phases of motivation, and as I have had a lot going on in my life and as I was without anything to really train for I haven’t been working very hard on the bike. This in turn means that when I do ride I feel slow and that in turn takes some of the enjoyment out of it.

I have also been struggling with motivation because I feel as though when I do ride, I am not making any gains. Rather, I’m going backwards: less skills, less fitness, wrong headspace. Don’t get me wrong, the good rides are still good, but they are too few and far between. I’ve also been eating badly and hitting the sauce far too regularly.

Tied in with this has been the stressful period of finishing up all of my honours work, competing in a lot of races (and not to the best of my abilities), a new job, exam marking for the old job, and a very sudden, unplanned and unideal house move which was out of my control.

The thing is though, all of these are just excuses. There is always an excuse if you look for one, and for the last few months, I’ve been looking. But it’s one of those lose-lose situations: I get on the bike and feel slow (lose) or I find an excuse, don’t get on the bike, and feel guilty (lose).
So what does all this mean? How can I interpret this? I think it is mostly mindset – at the moment, mine is currently bad. From here on out I plan to turn mine around, which is why I have written this piece. It is time for me to start focussing on the positives, particularly the progress I have made. I need to remember it is no good comparing myself to my friends on the bike, needing to accept that they are both fitter and more experienced than I.

I want to have a crack at Karapoti this year and from my limited understanding of scientific training, I think that means I need to start now. I’m looking forward to this. I know I’m not going to be a top 10 finisher or anything of the sort for Karapoti, and don’t really think I can crack the 3hr mark, but a vague goal time of 3:15 to 3:30 seems plausible.

To this end I am going to start a second blog, specifically for Karapoti training, as a form of motivation. I don’t really expect many (or any!) people to read it, but maybe it will provide an insight into this sort of training for some of my ‘less athletic’ friends, should they stumble across it. I am also going to write about a few of the biking experiences I have had recently, the PNP series, a well overdue write up of single-speed worlds, and a positive reflection on the progress I have made with biking so far. I’m also going to reflect on my year of honours, something that was a pretty tough time for me.

So there’s a bit in the pipeline, and all of it is something to be positive about. Life’s taking a turn for the better with a great new flat, and the hard work for honours has paid off too, so all in all things are good.. Hopefully I will soon be out of this rut for good.

One-speed wonders

With an acronym like WDSSWC: DC, it would be remiss of any bike loving management student to have passed up today’s Single speed race up at Makara Peak. As a staunch advocate of the one-gear philosophy, I was really looking forward to meeting some people of a similar mindset and having a laugh at the inevitable shenanigans.

The race may have been on the Sunday, but the punishment started on the Saturday night. For some reason, halving a cask of wine with a friend sounded like a good idea. Throw in some vodka shots and you have a recipe for a messy night. Fast-forward to 3am and I’m catastrophically drunk in a taxi, slopping a mince pie all over myself. This was maybe not the best pre-race strategy but definitely in keeping with the spirit of the event.

’Luckily’ for me I had cleverly pre-entered the race, motivating me to scrape myself off the sheets and drunkenly pedal up to the skills area, arriving with minutes to spare. I quickly suited up in a flattering mesh top, fairy wings and pink wig combo and then the race was on.

I won’t go into too much detail on the race, except to say that it was treacherously muddy, wet and windy – blown off the bike windy. Going up Ridgeline, a slippery and rocky downhill track, was a unique experience I’m glad to have had but won’t be rushing to repeat.

For me, today was everything I love about mountain bike racing – a good morning out with some mates and some laughs, no-one taking it too seriously and everyone out to have a red-hot go to the best of their abilities. It was great to be able to share a few beers around at the end and meet some very good sorts. Unfortunately the weather didn’t play ball but well done to everyone tough or stupid enough to come out for a punt – and shame on those who didn’t for missing a good time.

The ride home was miserable but after a long shower, a pizza in bed and a solid nap it was soon forgotten.

Chur to Andy and Owen for putting the event together – you boys created a great casual atmosphere, a fun course and some sweet spot prizes. Mad props for those brave enough to risk the elements and help out with marshalling etc, and to the sponsors for putting up some goodies. I even managed to bag myself worst dressed, netting me a cap and some surprisingly comfortable socks. I look forward to more of these sorts of outings in the future.

Free sock goodness

The right way to use a sunny Sunday

Recently the first (hopefully) annual Wellington peaks points race was held. The format was simple: starting from Northlands, competitors had to get to the top of nine of the bigger hills in the central Wellington region and back to the start, taking photos at the top of each mini-mountain. The fastest person to do so was deemed winner. The course was up to the individual, as long as they stayed away from areas legally marked no riding.

Officially there were nine locations check off: Tinakori Hill, Mt. Kaukau, Johnston’s Hill, Makara Peak, Wright’s Hill, Hawkin’s Hill, Mt. Albert, Mt. Crawford, and Mt. Victoria. However, I thought I’d add a tenth, and I liked it so much that I spent most of the day there. This location is known as the hurt box and it isn’t very scenic.

The day started a mixed bag. I woke late after a night out. However, conditions were perfect – the sun was shining and there was no real wind to worry about. I haphazardly sorted out some gear and food for the day, took a last (and first) glance at a map, and set off to Revolution to register. After registering I chewed the fat with some of the others silly enough to enter, including the inestimable Andy King, who deemed me a worthy riding buddy for the day. The important things done, I looked into breakfast. The Four Square offered a nutritious solution in a sausage roll, a cookie time, and an iced coffee.

By now it was getting close to starting: so close in fact, that I was caught eating sausage roll far from my bike when the race began. Shovelling lukewarm pastry into my mouth, I was soon away riding towards Tinakori. The climb up to Tinakori was one of the steeper of the day, and it became clear that I was going to be in for a bad time physically.

This was because I was on my trusty single speed, a bike which was going to be less than optimal for most of the day. However, when you have a fleet of one you work with what you’ve got. The problem was that it meant I was always in the dog – and the gear ranged from whimpering puppy to angry wolf over the course of the day.

Anyway the driveway up to Tinakori was steep and demanding, but eventually conquered. It was mentally good to get one of the peaks ticked off so early. In the same vein, Andy and I went after the big sucker next: Mt. Kaukau. Knocking this off would be a big mental boost.

The ride there was fairly uneventful except for almost buying the farm in a nearly unseen water rut coming off Tinakori. Our navigational skills weren’t particularly flash so we ended walking up the Simla road track to Kaukau’s summit. This may not have been the most exciting way to get there on a bike but it was a beautiful track. On the way up we saw some of the fast boys heading back down (on foot), they were smashing it. It’s harder than you’d think to push a bike for that long and we were both grateful to reach the top, calves burning.

After a quick bite it was on to Johnston’s via Skyline walkway. This is a track I had never ridden end to end, to my regret. The track is stunning on a clear day, with amazing views in all directions. I found bits of it pretty tough on the SS though. We saw one poor guy who had put his derailleur into the rear wheel. It was great to see lots of people using the track for all kinds of reasons, but we did have one old codger demand we get off the track – he looked like he would have pushed us off if we hadn’t moved. This wasn’t enough to ruin the day, and we soon made it to Johnston’s.

Next we moseyed along to Makara, avoiding the downhillers. Varley’s was hard as always but I found myself riding most of it, only forced off through poor lines around a couple of switchbacks, a great improvement from last time I had been those ways. From here it was up the 4WD track, with a couple of sad hikes thrown in for me. Makara signalled a peanut butter and jam sandwich and a banana.

(Imagine a photo of me holding my bike up and grinning cheesily on top of Makara here: unfortunately the photo didn’t come out).

We both agreed that single track would be more fun down, and were soon heading to North Face. Andy easily rode away from me and I just enjoyed myself all the way down to the car park. We regrouped and headed up Salvation and along the road to Wrights. At this stage I tried to wind the pace up a bit as we headed around rollercoaster.

We hopped off rollercoaster after a sustained descent and got onto the gravel road, then got onto the sealed road leading up to Hawkin’s. This is a hell of a climb but I managed to grind through the whole thing. After summiting Hawkin’s, I felt like the back was broken for this ride.

We headed down Tip track, which I had never done before. On the rigid SS, this was a bone jarring experience. In some ways I was pleased when Andy’s chain came off into his guide as it gave my wrists a break. However it was soon back on and we headed towards the bottom, and out to the coast on our way to Mt Albert.

The ride on the road involved me sitting at a pace just below spinning out, which was far from the break I needed. We headed up Houghton Bay Rd to Mt Albert. At the top we ran into the Revolvettes, who soon sped off towards Mt. Vic, and also a cyclocrosser. The three of us then shot off down the other side towards Kilbirnie, the CXer quickly dropping us on the road.

From here the ride's a bit vague as I was feeling it. We decided to take the road up to the prison entrance simply for time, although we cut out the middle section by going along a walkway with some stunning views. Reaching the top, there was only one possible way down: Jailbreak. It was riding awesomely and we both had a blast smashing down it.

With only one peak left we were both feeling pretty shattered and again took the road option. In Miramar we again ran into our CX friend and rode together along the main road. He split from us as we up through Haitaitai to the summit of Mt. Vic. The little pinch right at the top nearly had me vomiting, but it felt glorious to knock off that last peak. Our CX friend ran into us at the summit again. We cruised down some of the tracks towards town and idled round the bay, enjoying the sun.

However, we still had one climb to go: the ascent into Northlands. I think I made the call to go up Garden Rd, a decision I quickly regretted. Approaching the top I tried to give Andy a little race, but we both didn’t have much left, and slunk into Revolution to finish in a time of 5:16.

It was an incredible feeling to be done; this was one of the harder rides I have been on. I celebrated finishing with an ice block and a fresh up. It was great to meet some new people and catch up with others I hadn’t seen in a while. Andy nipped home and got some beers too, which was the perfect finish to a tough day. Lynskey also stopped by fresh from a shoot and harangued people with still-warm goat legs. He was good enough to give me a tow up into the hills to my house, where we had more beers and pizza while I tried to avoid moving too much.

The event was excellent fun and in great spirit, highly recommended to anyone looking for a good time and a tough challenge. A big thanks to Andy for riding with me, you rode strongly and made it look easy when I was breathing so hard I was nearly losing a lung. Also, cheers to Asher for putting it all together, it has all the makings of a classic Wellington event. Bring on next year!

The Moonride

When you do something for the first time it’s best to ease your way in. Start with baby steps and all that. Best to learn to walk before you run. There are plenty of clichés that convey this solid advice and the logic is simple – start small, become accustomed, get a feel for what’s going on, and gradually increase the difficulty as you gain experience and become more adept in your chosen pursuit.

So it’s probably not a bad notion to hold when starting out in mountain bike racing. Regretfully, I can’t tell you for sure because my first race was a 12 hour solo - the 2010 Cateye Moonride, in Rotorua on the 8th of May. Now, while 12 hours of racing isn’t as bad as it sounds, it’s still quite bad.

The trip started early Friday, or was meant to. The standard delays did their thing, but we still got out of Wellington in fairly good time. University got the axe so we could get there in time to get a little bit of low-key riding in that day. As the proud owner of a stylish and powerful automobile, I was lucky enough to be behind the wheel for the duration of the trip. This was the cause of great fear for my passengers, which led to a lot of sick pleasure for myself. Sometimes it’s very satisfying to give someone a ‘slight’ scare. I may have taken the concept a shade too far, but we all got to our destination alive and possibly better for the experience.

Several of us went up for the event. Two brave friends tackled the 24 hour category, whilst I was going along to race with another friend in the 12 hour. My carload consisted of the 12 hour friend, a 24 hour support person, our support person, and a mate who was going to Rotorua for a 21st.

We arrived mid-afternoon and after setting ourselves up at the backpackers we went out for a bit of a skid. It was my first taste of the kind of single track Rotorua has to offer, and I was taken in from the start. Beautifully crafted, flowing, and consistently attention-grabbing, the single track was everything the aspiring mountain biker could hope for. Although we only got out for a lazy hour or so, the ride left us feeling pretty damn good about life.

An integral part of preparing for a race is to get a balanced and nutritious meal the night before. We decided we had better load up on the good stuff, and couldn’t think of a better place than Valentine’s for some all we could eat action. It turns out Valentine’s is pretty bad, and it also seems we can eat an unhealthy amount. Special mention goes to the deep fried section, which consistently over performed by being the only section to attract a queue for the entirety of our meal. Top marks. The average body shape of the clientele made it clear why the deep fried goodies were so popular. Points were also given to the guy at the table next to us, who got savage on a heaped plate of prawns.

Afterwards, a trip to the supermarket quickly highlighted that the food required for 12 hours of riding was not inconsiderable, and cost about as much as a week’s food for the canny shopper. Following this, we headed to registration, picking up our pink solo caps. Then we headed back to a different supermarket to really make sure we were stocked up. Part of this stocking up involved a trip to the liquor store to get a bottle of Grant’s, to satisfy any post race festivities. It also involved a creepy manikin groping us on a couch made out of beer boxes. Back at the backpackers, some last minute preparations rounded out the evening. We were in bed early enough, but shared a dorm room with two others who weren’t so timely. This made sleep patchy at best.

Rising early enough, we tucked into an athlete’s breakfast of croissants and bananas, washed down with steaming mugs of special blend – only the finest coffee for us. We went over the bikes, loaded up the car, picked up some last minute necessities, and then got out to the venue. At this stage we were starting to run a little late. Even more worryingly, our crew-woman was somewhere en route from Tauranga. This meant we weren’t able to go through the procedure with her, something which proved irrelevant as she did an excellent job. Last minute preparations involved the ever-unpleasant lubrication of the perineum area – bad to do on a cold morning but even worse to watch.

While lining up I was feeling fairly nervous. I had no idea what to expect. To make matters worse, there was a two kilometre road section at the start. This was in order to thin out the truly huge pack. It was unfortunate for me as I was riding a single speed, which meant that once I got up to speed I was unable to change into a ‘harder’ gear in order to go faster. The road section left me in the unfortunate position of being well out the arse of the field when we hit the single track.

I won’t go into too many details about the race itself. There is no way to truly describe a twelve hour race to someone who hasn’t done one (although a damn fine effort can be found here), and no need to describe it to someone who has. Basically, it was good to start with. Then it got worse. Then it was less bad again. Then there was a spell of awful. And finally, it was dreadful. Then it was over.

There were a variety of little dramas throughout the day. When passing, it is good form on the passer’s behalf to warm the passee with a cheerful “on your right/left”. At one stage, I heard a request to pass on my right, and began to move left accordingly. However, the pillock passing me may have spent some time locked in a freezer at some stage because he was actually on my left, meaning I almost hit him. I understand that people sometimes get their sides mixed up, especially in intense situations such as racing. However I didn’t understand the need for the torrent of abuse heaved at me. Apart from this, people where generally very courteous.

I also had a bit of a mare with the whole light set up thing. I had never used night lights before – never mounted them and never ridden with them. It took me three laps to finally get them set up so they weren’t pointing either a foot in front of my tire or into the trees to my left. Unfortunately for me, they also ran out of battery before the race ended, meaning I had to complete the majority of one lap with only the safety ‘get-home-now’ mode to guide me. This mode is about as bright as a normal handheld torch, and should have given me reason to slow down. It was a reason I ignored and I paid the price. While trying to pass on the outside of the track, I hit a stump hidden in the undergrowth and was sent sprawling. The physical damage was minimal, but it was something I was emotionally unprepared for, leading me to slowly ride back to the tent village to call it a night. I was deeply disappointed as I would like to have tried for another lap, but I guess that’s how racing goes sometimes.

Prize-giving also proved to be a fiasco. I was called up on stage in second place, which I knew wasn’t the case as at least one person (my friend) was ahead of me. I mentioned this to the organiser at the time, and then went to speak with him afterwards, but nothing came of it on the night. It turns out there were problems with the electronic timing system and I was actually seventh with 25 laps of the nearly 8km course. This is a result I’m fairly happy with considering it was my first race – around 200km ticked up isn’t a bad day out. My friend in the 12 hour category ended up fifth. This was a fine result for a couple of clowns on single speeds.

To treat ourselves we headed off to Dominoes for a large pizza and garlic bread each, which disappeared into the void. The possibility of hitting the Grant’s was mooted and rejected in favour of a long hot shower and a hearty nap. Both were exquisite.

The next morning I woke up early and went for a wee stroll around Rotorua, although I quickly wished I hadn’t. I ended up in a manky little ‘cafe’ at about 8.30 in the morning, eating croissant and chips and watching the early morning street theatre. Two rather large fellows were strolling around the street. One of them was awfully keen on a fight with anyone walking past. The standard chest slapping and challenges surprisingly didn’t attract anyone early on a Sunday morning. That kind of thing only happens in Rotorua (I hope).

I headed back to the backpackers to wake up my friend. We somehow found ourselves in conversation with one of our dorm-mates, who turned out to be a bit of a crawler. He seemed convinced he could have facilitated a sexual rendezvous with another human being the night before, had he not been so highly inebriated - a suspect story to say the least. We quickly excused ourselves and loaded the car, grabbed a coffee, and then met with the girls - who looked like they had been through a big one the night before. After the necessary McDonalds stop (in which one of us was served a burger with a big burger bun top and a small burger bun bottom) we hit the road.

The trip home was smooth apart from a stop in at KFC. The weirdest part was when I discovered my friend had been secretly taking photos me driving both ways. Not normal behaviour. It was with great relief that we arrived in Wellington, the trip had definitely reached its natural limit.

Overall the trip and the race were both first-rate. The company was great, the event was well-run, and our support person was aces. In fact it was all so good that I’m already contemplating my next 12 hour race – I’ve developed a bit of a taste. As far as an introduction to mountain bike racing goes, it couldn’t have gone better.

Un tempo fangoso

There’s mud everywhere.

Your team-mate completes his lap. You slap hands, and you’re off. The track through the tent village is like a bog and you can’t clip your shoe into your pedal. You bash your shoe on the pedal a few times and finally clip in. Out of the tent village, a hard left sends you up towards the gravel road. You’re working already – the mud is tacky and to ride through it is like forcing your way through a thick jelly.

You hit the gravel road and start picking up the pace. With a slight uphill gradient, its singlespeed bread and butter and you increase the tempo. Into the single-track of Westside now and the gravel is new and loose, but at least its holding the track together. You wind through the twisty track, shocked by how difficult riding is due to the soft surface. Then it’s briefly back onto the gravel road before entering Beeline extension.

This is an interesting little piece of track. At one point the track splits into easy and hard routes. The easy option is not to be thought of, so you take the plunge over a steep little drop and hum into a rooty, slippery wee descent. The wheels slide around but you get through it with a combination of balance and luck. The next bit is a twisty sloppy mess but you power through and out onto the four wheel drive track which runs past the tent village, via a little jump placed for the spectators’ viewing pleasure.

After passing the timing checkpoint you head back up the four wheel drive track and then head left around the side of the motocross track. The mud is unbelievably thick and your legs really start to burn as you dig it in. The entrance to the single track is a wide puddle of six-inch-deep mud and it saps all of your speed as you splash on in. Trying to negotiate the narrow single-track, your handlebar hits a tree on the right and you are nearly thrown off. The track winds out and back, a little extra loop thrown in before the main climb begins.

Reaching Jungle Gym you can tell that this track has been around for a lot longer than any of the single-track ridden so far. It’s firm and settled and seems easier to ride despite the uphill incline. The track winds its way up the hill vaguely parallel to the main road into or out of Wainui. However you are completely oblivious to this as you focus on winding up the speed, getting past other riders and embracing the pain. There’s a neat series of switchbacks which you power through, the big 29er frame hugging the outside of the track. Then you keep the pace on as you race through a rolling section, before attacking a steady climb. The legs and lungs really begin to burn, with sharp pain down the side of both calves. You thankfully reach the top of Jungle gym, breathing heavily, but can’t afford to slow down.

You soon pass through the top of Labyrinth and start on Snails. Despite the race conditions you can’t help but grin hugely as you flow through the wavy, rolling track. The track is like a pump track at the top, gradually losing altitude. The bottom section is a series of wide switchbacks which you swoop into, hugging the berms. The descent gives you a chance to catch your breath but you have to concentrate to avoid taking a spill on the flowing track.

Now you are out on another section of gravel road which you speed through before skidding through a 180 degree turn and charging into a wide fast piece of single-track known as the Wetlands loop. This track lets you really wind it out, only having to slow significantly when entering and exiting an elevated wooden boardwalk section of track. After this you come out onto another four wheel drive track which takes you back towards the tent village.

You come out into a swampy field and really push up the speed. Next is a car park which you scream through before re-entering the hard slush that is the track through the tent village. You’re already sweaty, very muddy and tired as your friends cheer you on. You know you have to finish another lap before you get a break. The course is fierce but also very, very fun. You can’t believe how much that first lap has taken out of you but you surge on and into the next lap, knowing there will be many more to complete over the course of the day.

A festive affair

The Food and Wine Festival has a bit of a misleading name, in that the word order suggests a focus on food. At the very least, you couldn’t be blamed for thinking that the food and the wine aspects would be equally represented. The website even advertises the event as “the food show”. However, to the veteran campaigner, it is known through hard-earned but enjoyable experience that the wine tends to take precedent, becoming exponentially more relevant as the day goes by. The reason is, those small samples add up fast. With entry at 20 bucks plus a near-compulsory fiver for a wine glass (so you get bigger samples), the event isn’t financially ruining. We were in for an afternoon of cheap, messy fun.


A quarter-assed Google search didn’t reveal how long the show has been running for, but it’s well established. Last year the event managed to coax slightly fewer than 20,000 assorted individuals out to jostle with each other as they walked slowly around in circles in the outside ring of Westpac stadium. The food show claims to be “the undisputed market leader in consumer culinary events”, and certainly there’s a wide array of delicious foodstuffs available to sample, but predominantly it’s an excuse to get drunk and sweaty for an autumn’s afternoon.

This became apparent early. In the hustle around the first stall we went to, ‘generic-wine-brand’ wines, I struck up a conversation with a short, balding, middle-aged gentleman in a slightly greasy leather jacket. This exchange was a great chance to touch base with some of the “affluent, sophisticated audience” promised on the website. The gent was quick to enquire about my aspirations towards the “the 300 club”. Membership, I was informed, was to be gained by partaking in 300 alcoholic samples over the day. With such a wonderful prize up for grabs, we went straight into it.


Participation always starts sedately enough. People are still sober enough to use any manners they may possess. Sampling is just that – a small amount on the end of a toothpick, to give the would-be connoisseur a taste of what the gastronomic world has to offer. It’s the perfect time to try the delightful range of boutiquesque food products the New Zealand market has to offer – and all while never missing a wine or liqueur stop.


While insignificant details such as product and brand names are hazy, I do remember several such samples which enchanted the heart and the mind. One particularly impressive product on display was a full blown meat smoker, with samples of the tasty small meats that it could produce available. There were many different types of oils for sampling. I mostly went for those infused with chilli, and was rewarded with a variety of full, spicy flavours. Particularly good and quite different was a type of oil which was made out of macadamia’s. This oil was light and subtle. There was also a wide range of pesto and hummus type products which were particularly good, some well-crafted mango yoghurt, and a range of gourmet honeys which were very worthwhile. Of course, there was a whole lot more, but my memory was in no state to provide specifics.


On the alcoholic side of things, there was more wine than anyone really knew what to do with, a few beers, and several honey or lemon liqueurs. I tried Syrah, I tried Gewurztraminer, I tried Pinot Noir and Pinot Gris. It would have been foolish not to have some Rieslings, and I was anything but. I stayed safe with the Savs and the Merlots and the Chardonnays. There was a lot of wine to try, so I did. As to colour and type, I didn’t discriminate.


Now this quantity of wine made things increasingly sloppy. At the beginning, we were a tight knit group of five. We went to stalls together, we waited patiently for each other, and we went with the flow. Then the booze kicked in. We fragmented. We met new people, we saw old friends - we diverged and converged and reached the lost-control verge. Technology is always a boon in these situations, as it’s very enlightening to receive a text like “Phm lost1 wryou?” and have no idea where you are or they are, but anyways you’re so drunk the screen is swimming.


Our conduct also deteriorated. Queues were things to push through or ignore. Handfuls of samples were the norm. It was a challenge to see how much cocktail sausage would fit on one toothpick, and we were comfortable in shamelessly going back for seconds or thirds. I even got caught signing up to a web mailing-list multiple times, because each time earned me a ticket for a bacon butty. My (male) friend went and used the women’s bathroom, and didn’t realise he’d misrepresented his gender. He just thought it odd there were no urinals. Things were unravelling.


In Wellington, we are generally blessed with a wide range of attractive women out and about – the food and wine show is no different. However, part way through the show, with a strong wine filter, all of the women began to look pretty good. We were leering like depraved beings, pushing and jostling with the sweaty, urgent crowd. We stank of wine - it was spilling all over us. Strawberry daiquiri’s had appeared from somewhere. I had an extra wine glass, hung stylishly across my torso on its lanyard. Our endurance was flagging. We needed to sit down, needed to eat, needed more samples of wine; we pushed ourselves aimlessly around the stadium. We had a rest in the Hoegaarden beer garden, and I left with one of their pillows as a souvenir.

And then it was over for another year. The logistics of regrouping and getting home where mind-blowing, due to the states we’d all gotten into. We stopped for more wine at the railway station and I smashed my glass all over the floor. I had been pretending to present it to a friend on the stolen pillow. Some friends took a taxi; it had ticked up to $40 before they even left the railway station, while they waited for everyone to get there and get in. Others stumbled home in the rain, bleary eyed, in the early evening. The night was young and ripe with possibility. We weren’t quite sure what had happened, but we knew we had liked it. We would be returning next year.