ROUTE SIX KICKS
Nigel Crofts and son Luke went DIY with a self-organised ride around the high spots of New Zealand
Right on cue, it started raining as we collected our rental bikes in Auckland. It was proper stair rod stuff, and forgoing the sat-nav we spend a sodden age trying to escape the city, sweating under excessive layers. Fearing the glistening tar on the faster water-washed bends, we had 180 miles to cover, an ominous start as we rooster-tailed through raincloaked scenery, all joy stolen. Mercifully, the rain eventually abated with blue skies revealing glorious stretches of sand-dune coast to our left.
After a visit to the volcanic White Island (a bumpy 31 miles by ferry, but worth it to view such natural spectacle) the sun was still shining as we rode 60 miles
to the ‘sulphur city’ of Rotorua. With our soaking behind us, jet lag receding and sun blazing above, we enjoyed the ride and appreciated magnificent surroundings. We also visited the excavations of a village, once buried by an eruption, at the nearby Pink Terraces (eighth wonder of the world), some of it still interred beneath the outfall. A raft ride down the seven-metre Tutea Falls was awesome and terrifying at the same time, and we took the Skyline Gondola to view the city from above. A Vegas-styled sign at the top underlined how Americanised NZ seems, not the England away from home we expected.
MOUNTAIN HIGH
A lashing torrent next morning saw the bikes bogged in three inches of water in the B&B’s gravel yard. Paddling out, we avoided the huge floaters her tiny dogs had set loose and headed for Wai-O-Tapu, a ‘thermal wonderland’ and Lady Knox geyser. Once again, Mother Nature waved a magic wand, the rain ceased and the sun warmed our spirits. It grew chilly along the shore of the magnificent Lake Taupo, and even colder over the heights of the stunning Tongariro
National Park, where the landscape changed dramatically, thick forests now replaced by acres of flax, snow-capped mountains and in the distance, steaming volcanic vents.
Next day we rode 200 miles south, winding through mountain passes, skirting pretty lakes and encountering some long, straight runs which at least munched the miles, finally hitting the coast north of Wellington. Resting at the quaint Pukerua Bay, we were dive-bombed by a flock of crazed gulls – put us right off our sarnies. That afternoon we caught the ferry to South Island, a three-hour trip. Half asleep, I was surprised by the rush to exit the ferry, getting left behind while I struggled with unstrapping my bike, clobbering up, attaching my phone and connecting it to a battery pack I wedge under the seat.
The 70-mile jaunt from Picton to Nelson was amazing. Straight off you hit Queen Charlotte Drive, a spectacular road weaving through coastal hills in its constant rise and fall, including severe switchbacks that would have been hideous if wet, but despite some rough surfaced sections, this was biking nirvana. The sun returned and temperatures rose as we cruised into Nelson, blown away by the glorious turquoise views across
Tasman Bay.
Morning saw wide blue skies framing crisp scenery, and in balmy weather we traversed more hills and sub-tropical forests in our cut to the coast, stopping at NZ’s longest swing bridge across Buller Gorge. Here we ruined someone’s day by pointing out that a bird she identified as a kiwi was in fact a duck! More long sections of road awaited, arrow-straight to the horizon, but the endless vibrant band of vivid blue ocean stretching to our right made up for it.
We ended the day at a beachside cabin after
215 memorable miles. It was a warm evening, with a cacophony of birdsong against the lapping sea, fire flies in the bushes, Southern Cross in the sky (albeit low and upside down), and wine on the stoop – bliss. Back on Route 6 the following day, we turned right on the 73 to ride the fabled road to Arthur’s Pass. Some contend that these helter-skelter mountain passes are what riding NZ is all about, but Route 6 takes it for me, with its sublime snaking caress of sea and lake, and kiss of tantalising mountains. Today’s trip from sea to mountains to sea (warm, cold, warm) covered 120 miles, before our second night in the cabin – it was good to lounge again.
After another day ride and cabin stay later we had 250 miles to do down Route 6 – still wonderful, though Luke was finding the CB500X uncomfortable and was having to stretch an aching back at every stop. Despite the upright riding position I was getting a stiff neck, though our only other gripe was with the Givi screens and buffeting over 50mph. The Hondas might be a tad underpowered, but given the strict 62mph max (and I’m a slow rider anyway – sorry Luke) it wasn't an issue. Leaving the Tasman Sea and turning inland toward the Southern Alps we entered a stunning valley pass, waterfall columns cascading white within the green forests, before breaking out into the Lakelands – skirting Lakes Wanaka and Háwea we discovered one of NZ’s hidden gems.
On to Crown Range Road, the highest in NZ. Expecting colder climes, we overdressed as the hot spell caught us out again – it was 24 degrees at the summit. The climb was gradual, the descent swift by
contrast, via tight hairpins with gasps at the sight of looming sheer drops. Down in Queenstown our hotel nestled on the lakeside enjoying an unsurpassed balcony vista, and all was calm. That was broken next morning as we took a jet boat ride through the narrow gorges, screaming up and down the Shotover River to the sound of two raging V8s.
Turning off the gorgeous Route 6 we followed the 94 west into Te Anau, a sweet town on the banks of its own immense lake, its watery fingers branching off, feeling their way into the vast Fjordland National
Park. Next day consisted of a 150-mile round trip to Milford Sound and the only accessible fjord. A seasonal ferry port and small airstrip are all that exist here, and we took a boat trip out to the Southern Ocean, cutting through the ridiculously deep, high-sided fjord. Again, blessed with superb weather, though we were plagued by sand flies. The sheep-lined ride to get there was reminiscent of bonnie Scotland, the road even losing its yellow centre lines as it unrolled across a glacial plain.
An adjacent river, crisp and clear rather than peaty, was bordered with fields of purple lupins, which at a glance looked like swathes of heather. Then it wound higher, twisting through pine-like forests to summit among melting snow, though even here it wasn’t cold. Finally, as we rode through a dripping tunnel the road fell at an alarming rate into Milford Sound, and a challenging climb on the way back.
BLUFFING IT
Next day’s 280 miles was dull in comparison. Though it did include a pilgrimage to Invercargill and the world’s fastest Indian (meets world’s slowest Honda). It was overcast and chilly most of the day, and this time I had under-dressed, getting decidedly cold over high passes, but I stubbornly ploughed on, Luke laughing “I told you so”, while cosy in his full touring kit. To be honest, compared to our recent wondrous rides, south-eastern New Zealand is not something you’d fly 12,000 miles for. It's mostly a featureless glacial plain with very long, very straight, very dull
roads, aching in tarmac desperation to span it. It has its merits, in the endless green fields and gentle rolling hills, which are perfect for sheep, but a bit dull for us. We were reluctant to add miles by detouring to the most southerly point (almost) at Bluff. Still, the reward for today’s arduous ride was the final few glorious miles beyond Dunedin, sweeping along the exceptional Portobello Road, hugging the edge of the natural Otaga Harbour. A superb snaking ride and ridiculously pretty, the sun returning to light the way. Dunedin has a similar vibe to San Francisco or Boston and included a trip to ‘the world’s steepest street’ (34.8%, according the Guinness Book of Records), but we resisted the urge to ride up and down it for fun.
The following day’s 200 miles was peppered with more uninspired mile-munching, but the rewards came later. We headed north on Route 1 to view the Moeraki Boulders, then veered inland on Route 83, following the mighty Waitaki River upstream, its flow stifled by several dams, forming impressive reservoirs to our right. Manmade though these were, they formed some very appealing recreational lakes, pleasing bends tracing the watery lap, and as our friendly sun again burned to colour the scenery with stark greens and vivid blues, the tone was set for the remaining ride.
Diverting on to Route 8, we passed through Twizel to stop at the head of Lake Pukaki and a Mount Cook viewpoint, its snow-capped peak standing tallest amongst the sublime Southern Alps, shimmering like a perfect mirage beyond the pristine turquoise water. We stopped at another lake that night – the tranquil Tekapo – having travelled more than halfway back across the island towards our favoured west coast and Route 6.
As we neared the west coast our rekindled exhilaration was short lived, for we were then faced with a dull 170-mile procession home, continuing on Route 8 to join the 79, taking us on to a demoralising stretch of Route 1, running parallel with a railway line most of the way to Christchurch. Even traversing NZ’s longest bridge was thoroughly disappointing, or maybe it was the end of holiday blues, something reflected by the despondent guy who signed our hire bikes back in. On reflection, that didn't matter because we'd had a fantastic holiday.
New Zealand has got some superb biking roads. Surfaces are predominantly in good condition (unless you encounter the prolific shiny patches in the wet or happen to stray on to one of the gravel sections), and for the most part are surrounded by a varied array of utterly gobsmacking scenery. NZ is a similar size to the UK, but a sparse population aids the illusion of stupendous scale; an often sublime expanse of seemingly infinite panorama.
This, along everything else in our 2000 miles, will ride in our minds forever.