Story: Peter Elliott
A JOURNEY IN
SOME PARTS
HOMEWARD BOUND
t’s loud, damn loud. It’s 5am. Thunder
is crashing, rain pouring onto roofing
iron with the sound of the Niagara
Falls. I wriggle under the covers. It gets
louder. I look out the window, its coming
straight down. So much water is pouring
out of the sky that you could leave a toilet
outside to flush itself in seconds. It’s a
good thing the bike was in the garage
under the house.
Sleep had fled, leaving dark thoughts
about clothing. I hate those cheap wet
weather pants. I’ve seam-sealed them,
sprayed them seven times, Gaffer-taped
them. I got up, dressed in everything I
had with a Gore-tex fishing coat over
the top. By the bottom of the driveway I
was drenched. Top half dry. Bottom half
running like the Waikato. I gently made my
way out of Nelson and over the winding
roads down into the Rai Valley. Usually this
is one of my favourite roads. Not this time.
Now it’s trucks and spray and survival.
The grimy wash from every passing truck
obscures my vision completely, and these
are not roads to get wrong. Once again I
regret the lack of Rain-ex.
It’s not until I’m entering Havelock that it
stops. The crickets came out and started
chirping like crazy and I knew that’s it for
the wet, for a while. I packed all the damp
crap into my pack and rode in jeans and
Peter’s final instalment of his
bucket-list tour around New
Zealand aboard his Triumph T120.
jacket round the most glorious, twisty,
wriggling demon-spawn roads all the way
to Picton. I was nearly sick with the sheer
pleasure of back and forth and round
and back. I changed the ticket, got onto
the ferry, flat calm sailing again (!) and by
lunchtime I was at Motorad in Wellington.
By 12:30, the bike was repaired from
my mishap - the indicator and headlight
bracket straightened, the bars re-centred,
the indicator replaced, wired up, working,
and all done with a smile and a happy
wave.
Bloody brilliant service!
I get back on the road again. I have no
plan. I have an idea of where I want to
go. Friends asked me to get in touch as
I passed through Waikanae. Neither are
home that day.
At the Bulls Bridge, where I ticked over
10,000km on the outward leg, I pass
12,700km on my way to Whanganui. Going
straight on at Bulls is newish country for
me. I’ve been to Whanganui twice. The
last time in 80s. I recognise no part of
the country heading in that direction. It
is blazingly hot. I realise that under my
leather jacket I am soaked with sweat. I
stop and buy an ice block to think. It’s so
hot in the sun I begin to pass out. I move
down the road to shade and drink water.
Lots of water.