Cycling Central Otago- Part One

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Fueled by daydreams and determination, Big K is the perennial adventurer... she just keeps cropping up for more. Few have heard her tales, but most know her next destination point, whether it is the deserts of Sudan, Sydney's sunny harbour, or an outrageous costume party.

Big K excitedly joined the cycling escapade from a crackling phone connection in Rwanda....ccchhkkk... "Oh Sophs, New Zealand sounds great...ccchhhkkk.. Count me in!" Any previous notion that she'd concocted in her mind of shipping Nanan over to meet in Mozambique had been tossed instantaneously. Nanan was keen and fit, and so it appeared the bike tour would have to be designed to accomodate the fam. I began researching our options, and much to the delight of the Lancaster Ladies, I found a 150 kilometre trail that seemed perfect.

The Central Otago Rail Trail follows a history of boom-and-bust through the eastern plains of New Zealand's south island. A railway line was put in place after the gold rush of the 1850s to service the mining towns and inland homesteads. In 1990, the Minister of Transport announced all train lines in New Zealand would be closed, as roadways and monster trucks had made railways financially obsolete. Some savvy government officials saw a golden opportunity and raised enough capital to buy a rail section from Clyde to Middlemarch. After ripping out rail and sleepers, installing gates, and adding gravel, the "rail trail" opened to recreational riders from far and wide in 1993.

When the time to do my duties as the family travel agent arrived, only Big K had confirmed. My grandmother had either become apprehensive of her fitness levels, or was anticipating the arrival of her baby baboon by post; she suddenly withdrew her enlistment in the bicycling brigade. I briefly entertained the idea of touring on a tandem with my mum, but dismissed the idea as logistically foolish, and one bordering on self-inflicted pain. It would be hard enough to carry Big K's gear in addition to my own. The last thing I needed was a mother in my luggage. No two rims in the world could support that much physical and emotional baggage.

I organised our itineraries to meet at a bus depot in Dunedin. I spent a few hours that night rearranging my pannier bags to fit all the essentials; the rest was donated back to the Salvation Army or sent by post to future destinations. All the same, my 40 litre saddle bags were bulging, and Big K had two smaller bags rigged to her frame with a medley of bungee cords, twine, and a stout stick.

As we pedalled downhill to Dunedin Station, mum told me all about her illustrious career as a cyclist, and then got her first lesson in how to use bicycle gears. Despite having owned at least three bicycles in her lifetime, these contraptions on either handlebar had always eluded her. Until 2006, Big K had only pedalled in one gear. On her first bike, she'd pedalled hard in first gear. On her second, she'd favoured third. It came to light that she never actually travelled on the third bike; the hard seat of the 10-speed was pronounced unbearable and sold at a garage sale.

Our crash course in gear usage had lasted four downhill kilometres; it appeared to serve well as a confidence booster, and we sat down for our pre-departure cappuccinos all grins and giggles. I was doubtful that she had mastered the concept, but we would find out in a matter of a few hours, when our train deposited us at the side of a dirt track in Pukerangi.

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Photos

Ready to Ride
Big K: Perennial Adventurer