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