At Murchison there used to be a decent café, now used by Roadworker staff only. I popped down to the Rivers café; a fair crew of elderly women at the craft fair next door, and vanloads of retiree tourists. An abominable apfel strudel was devoured with a good coffee. Getting back on the bike I started it up, got helmeted and gloved, affixed glasses, mounted and turned to leave. I stall the bike. My left foot goes out to hold the full weight of the in-turning bike and luggage, and slips on the gravel. I plummet to the ground, fall to the side like a stone. The bike is on its left side, the clutch is bent back, petrol is pouring from the cap, and I have turned the colour of beetroot poo, inside my helmet. Suddenly there are three 70-year old women attempting to pick up the bike and myself. Horror and embarrassment. I get up, turn off the motor, pick the bike up and put it on its sidestand. Nothing broken, clutch is fine, there’ s a small scratch on the bar end and the mirror and a bent indicator. That’ s it. Good. I’ m dying inside. I assure all and sundry I am alright, thank them, restart the bike and drive away slowly. A kilometre down the road, I stop, and seriously start to beat up on myself.

It takes a good few minutes and a stern talking to myself before I am approaching equilibrium. I try to straighten the indicator and the whole thing pulls off in my hand. Bugger. I get out my tool kit, but no amount of gaffer tape- that I carefully wound onto the handle of my screwdriver for just such a contingency – is going to hold the indicator on. I tape up the wires, count my blessings and call the Auckland crew. Sure, they can ship me a new one, it’ ll be in Wellington tomorrow. Nothing more to be done. But I’ m rattled. That was really stupid. But it happens, no one got hurt, move on, Peter. I did. A few minutes later I’ m rolling up the beautiful roads towards Nelson and a relative’ s hospitality, and a good bed. It’ s a terrific ride after that, the niggles settle, and the bike is as fantastic as ever. Nelson Port is tiny, but it’ s a great spot to sit and take stock. The South Island is almost complete; it was certainly a faster tour than it was meant to be, but that’ s down to some appalling weather chasing me up the island, and tomorrow I will be in Wellington- the bike will be repaired and I’ ll see what to make of the return journey then. I visit my brother in law. We talk nonstop for eight hours. I haven’ t seen him in a couple of years. I go to bed and pass out.