There were boats and trailers and kayaks and people out in the summer holiday sun, not water skiing, but fishing … bastards! At Alexandra I could stand it no longer. I came down the long straight into town and over the bridge, rolled through the township and found a boat ramp car park above the road bridge. It took 20 minutes to get all my road kit off, get out the fishing gear, assemble the rod and reel, and set up a lure. I was fishing in bike boots, road jeans, and a t-shirt, baking in brilliant sunshine. Several boats came and went, a couple of Jet-Skis zoomed about on the perfect navy blue waters, including one obnoxious dork on his screaming orangeliveried Honda. He swished in and out against the trees and banks, alarming the ducks and zooming by at 50 knots above the five knot limit. It was NOT going to be a place for trout. I undid my rig, repacked it all and redressed for the road and moved on. The decision was reluctantly made to give the fishing away, unless I had the time to concentrate fully for an hour or more. It made for a trip where I revelled in the one thing that I was doing; riding my T120 around the country. As a result I relaxed, stopped regretting every river I passed over as an opportunity missed and just let the extraordinary beauty of our country wash over me. It was the best decision I made. I revelled

in the mountain country and zapped up some back roads round Queenstown to meet some friends who lived on the forefoot of Coronet Peak. I spent some hours happily tootling around the farmlet, and that evening met a delightful couple at a nearby Arrowtown watering hole, and, in the late gloaming, sat on the hillside above their home watching the miracle of the last light leaving earth above the Shotover River. That vast mountain landscape erupting against the quilted, fissured surface of the land, clarifies the mind. Maria remarked that the mountains look like cardboard stencils against the glowing dark blue sky. It was one of those moments. Stillness, the land exuding the warmth from the days sun, and the smell of dew beginning to form on parched grass – petrichor- and a deep peace filling the heart and soul. No wonder the real estate is so fucking expensive. I went back to where I was staying with a dear friend’ s uncle, who had generously agreed to house me in the spare room for the night. He’ s a fantastic character, 84 and sprightly, a true original – he welcomed me back- stark naked on his crutches, chatted for a few seconds and then tootled off to bed. One knee operation later, and he will be back on the mountain – teaching telemark skiing once again.

26 KIWI RIDER