On the trail again

JILL WORRAL/Timaru Herald JILL WORRALL/Timaru Herald JILL WORRALL/Timaru Herald JILL WORRALL/Timaru Herald JILL WORRALL/Timaru Herald JILL WORRALL/Timaru Herald

The Prices Creek Viaduct.

Rachel crosses the Manuherikia River.

Rachel silhouetted at Prices Creek Tunnel.

The Maniototo near Wedder.

The wild briar rose flowering in the Taieri Gorge.

The Ladies' Waiting Room at Galloway.

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We had the bike shorts, we had the water bottles and the scroggin, we even had a support crew. Finely honed machines we were – well, to be honest that was the bikes. It remained to be seen how I and Rachel, my daughter, coped with three days on the Otago Central Rail Trail. We were both fit but bikes were new territory. Rachel had planned a training day in Wellington but it rained so she went for coffee instead. I had had a 20-minute pedal around Pleasant Point which had started ignominiously when I overbalanced getting onto the bike and fell into a hedge. No wonder the support crew was looking nervous.

We started out at the Clyde railhead, the westernmost point of the trail which loops 150km through Central Otago to Middlemarch. The trail follows the original railway that once connected Dunedin with Cromwell (the Clyde-Cromwell stretch is now under the waters of Lake Dunstan). The line between Middlemarch and Clyde had taken 16 years to build with work starting in 1891. It served as a vital link between Central's gold-mining towns, then later was an economic lifeline for the farming community and most recently to transport materials for the Clyde Dam. It was closed in 1990 but a trust now operates the Taieri Gorge Excursion Train on the Dunedin to Middlemarch stretch.

For a decade the scenic line's tunnels, viaducts and bridges beyond Middlemarch lay silent until the Department of Conservation, working with the Otago Central Rail Trail Trust, opened it as a cycle, walking and horse trail in 2000. It now generates millions of dollars for the region's economy every year.

We scuttled into the Trail Journeys building beside the line at Clyde, relieved to see there were no "real" cyclists in neck-to-knee lycra and flexing their taut calf muscles in sight. Our relief was shortlived, however, when the man in charge of the bikes led us to our bikes that were emblazoned with the words "Giant". So much for disguising my bike shorts under regular long shorts. And then we were off ... intrepidly heading for Alexandra a whole 8 kilometres away along a dead flat stretch of trail. The support crew (alias Derek, my husband) would be waiting for us there after being sent ahead to find the nearest cafe. At that point we would assess over a latte how my new hip was coping with the cycling (before acquiring my new hip six months earlier I couldn't even rotate a bike pedal) and, in fact, whether we liked biking at all or would prefer to take our bikes back to Clyde.

We glided along past vineyards in full leaf and with goldfinches darting across the path. There were no other cyclists in sight to see our bikes already festooned in wild flowers or my perfectly rotating hip. And, so far, the tour was abiding by our ground rules – we wouldn't do hills, ride into head winds or battle through rain. You would never have picked us out from the real aficionados. Over coffee we agreed we were hooked and would at least struggle on until lunchtime.

Beyond Alexandra the trail began to climb gently, winding alongside the Manuherikia River and through outcrops of gleaming schist. The sun had emerged from the clouds and the warmth was releasing the aroma of wild thyme growing beside the trail. You can't smell that while whizzing past in a car.

We had had to change down (or should that be up?) a gear or two to make our ascent up what we decided to call an incline, not a hill. But so far neither legs nor bums were complaining. And, anyway, at Chatto Creek the support crew was waiting, lunch spread out on the picnic rug. There were cherries from Alex's farmers' market and a Riesling from an Earnscleugh vineyard. Probably not Lance Armstrong's regular pitstop fare.

Slightly soporific with wine, cheese and bread, we set off again, only then discovering that the next stretch to Omakau was the steepest on the trail. We would be climbing Tiger Hill, although at a sedate pace suitable for stream-train gradient of 1 in 50. That was just as well, given our over-indulgence at lunch.

So much for not doing hills. But, when we stopped to admire the view (OK, it might have been for a rest)) we were gratified to see how far we had climbed from Alexandra without getting too hot and sweaty.

At the summit we flopped down beside a small lake, dotted with maimais used in the duck-shooting season. Viper's bugloss was flowering in blue drifts around us.

Then the reward for the uphill slog – a long coast downhill into Omakau where the support crew had already ordered the cold ciders at the pub. How did the other cyclists manage without this essential service?

We spent the night on a farm near Lauder, 44km under our belts, along with a large dinner of salmon and chocolate cake. Eating, we had decided, was a guilt-free activity for these three days.

The next morning dawned cold and blustery. The trail snaked uphill through schist outcrops and cuttings where we met a woman and her dog coming down the track. "I don't envy you a bit going up there today,"' she called out cheerily as we went past. We peered ahead with some trepidation.

We reached the first of the Poolburn Tunnels and, as instructed, got off our bikes to walk through. Rachel was powering through, her headlamp bobbing purposefully in the dark. I assumed she was just feeling fit and full of joie de vivre but it suited me, it was rather eerie in the dark. I sped up a little more. When we emerged almost at a gallop at the other end Rachel let out a big sigh. "I didn't like that very much." I then helpfully told her that I had always been spooked in the Otira Tunnel after my father told me that a ghost of a long-dead tunneller was supposed to haunt one of the niches along the walls.

By now the wind was gusting across the track occasionally hurling a face full of rain at us at well. We were high above the Poolburn Gorge and I didn't fancy being blown down to the bottom. The sides of the Poolburn Viaduct, 37m above the valley floor below, didn't seem quite high enough in a strong wing. We both hung on grimly to our handlebars. So much for not doing hills, rain or headwinds.

But fuelled with gritty determination and last night's chocolate cake we prevailed, freewheeling wildly down the other side of the Raggedy Range into the Ida Valley. The support crew was standing by the track with a thermos of hot coffee, a posse of cyclists looked on enviously, or maybe incredulously.

For some reason, the trail across the Ida Valley was alive with lycra-clad cyclists but we were on a roll now, undaunted. Even reaching the high point of the track, 618m up in the North Rough Ridge above Wedderburn, seemed a bit of a doddle. Wedderburn was to be our overnight stay ... the joy of the rail trail is being able to combine cycling with time to explore some of Central's off-trail attractions such as St Bathans and Naseby.

Our last day on the trail began at Wedderburn and its goods shed immortalised by painter Grahame Sydney. We cycled under a vast Central sky of brilliant blue studded with scudding clouds. We boosted Ranfurly's economy along the way stopping for coffee and a browse in the art deco shops.

The final leg of our journey was through the Taieri Gorge to Hyde. The trail officially ends 28km further on at Middlemarch but we had to get home.

But we still had time to relish the rugged beauty of the gorge and to stop to sniff the perfume from the pink briar roses in full flower beside the track.

Fundraiser

This cycle was also a test-drive for the India cycle challenge in September. I am leading this fundraising effort for Save the Children which will involve 340km of cycling in Rajasthan. If we have 20 people we can raise $50,000 for proven, sustainable, well-managed child-focused projects in India. Information at www.savethechildren.org.nz.

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