If you give me a minute, I definitely know the difference between clockwise and counterclockwise, but the process might include me making circles in the air with my hand, squinting my eyes, and looking, momentarily, at my wrist. Oh sure, I know what those words mean conceptually, but when you say to me, as the woman at the bike rental did, “You’ll want to do the loop clockwise, to make sure you’re getting the fun long, descent,” I might have some trouble deciding whether to go right or left at the trailhead.
I’d booked this day of riding from my desk in Massachusetts after reading a lot and watching some videos. Even then, it was the lady in the bike shop who’d said, “Don’t go to the bike park. It’s dusty, and if you like a solo adventure and want to see a bit of the bush, then do the K2K loop from Kinloch over to Kawakawa Bay and back.” Well, ok then.
In my defense, it had taken a lot to get here. 9,000 air miles. A day-and-a-half of travel, then some driving on the other side of the road for a few hours, south from Auckland. Consultation with those nice folks at the bike shop. Getting the right size bike. Looking at maps. Figuring out where to leave the truck while I was riding. Etc.
So I turned right when I ought to have steered subtly left instead.
My stomach was abuzz with stress, excitement and three cups of coffee, and so even as the hill heaved upward in switch backing ribbons, I didn’t think much but plowed onward. Some variation on that last phrase might reasonably grace my headstone.
And to be honest, I was having a real nice time. The New Zealand bush is relentlessly beautiful. Enormous, prehistoric ferns fan out in every direction. Palm trees rattle in the breeze. Despite the heat, it’s all moist, all breathing, and anyway I like to climb.
Kinloch is a quiet little place, one bay over from Taupo on its eponymous lake, a big, bustling, tourist town. I felt glad to drive away from that, through green farmland, and then down a long, narrow road into the small beach town. I expected signs to tell me where to park. I expected to have to pay something to stow the truck. Nope. Park in the big lot across from the beach. It’s free. No one cares.
The trail I was on, or “track” in Southern Hemispheric parlance, takes you along the beach to this loop that connects to the even smaller, remoter, idyllicer Kawakawa Bay, where people loll about on the decks of their anchored boats, or camp in a little cluster on the shore while their kids swim in the shallows.
So yeah, I did the whole frontside climb. Up and up and up for an hour or two. Time faded into the background. My breath sawed in and out. I was doing it the wrong way, but it felt pretty right to me.
Eventually, the trail spills you out on a road, which rockets you back down a bit, to a shelter with a trail map next to a parking lot. There I met a couple on eMTBs, and they said, “Have you just come from there?” pointing to the climb they were anticipating enjoying an awful lot in the opposite direction. That’s when I confessed to them that I’d been told not to ride that direction, but done it anyway, possibly because I’m American and our clocks spin the other way round, which they either thought was funny or humored me on. They didn’t seem nearly as tired as I was.
After a bit of friendly small talk, they told me I would still get a fun little descent, just not nearly what I could have had, and I contented myself with the fact that I’d done a lot of hard work, enjoyed myself, AND done it without pedal assist. I think this is what is called a Pyrrhic victory.
And so I rode the twisty way down to Kawakawa Bay. The ecology changed a bit, with more pine and marsh, and that made me glad I’d not just turned around and taken the descent I’d earned. By the time I got to the bottom I was well exhausted. I dunked my head in the cool water, whereupon my sunglasses flew off my head and into the lapping tide. I knew I was cooked, because it took me a few minutes to fish them out with a stick so as to avoid completing the ride with wet feet.
I plopped myself down against a rock and ate a tamale, a Kiwi store brand energy bar, and a double espresso gel. A hiker happened by and asked me if I was ok, which alerted me to my level of dishevelment, so I gave a thumbs up, and then took a minute to put myself back together, cosmetically if not emotionally.
I’ll be honest with you. The climb back up and over to Kinloch was not insignificant. Was it shorter? Sure. Was it steeper? Maybe. Was I just real tired? Yup. Frankly, if it hadn’t remained so persistently beautiful, I might have given up and leapt off the high cliff into the ocean, but it did, so I kept riding. And as often happens when you keep riding, you get to the end, which in this case is the beach in Kinloch.
I knew I was going swimming, but I also knew I needed a massive infusion of calories, so I hit the very convenient store, next to the parking lot where I left the rental truck, and acquired a full gas coke, an ice cream, and a large bottle of seltzer. Then I rode back down the beach, past the families and the young couples frolicking in the water of Lake Taupo, so I could do unholy things to the soda and ice cream before staggering into the shallows in nothing but my chamois.
I love New Zealand. I love its beauty. I love how friendly everyone is. And I love that its set up for adventures like this one, with easy, free parking, ready-at-hand ice cream, an uncrowded beach, and after I’d completed my transformation back into a human being, a clean little beach bathroom with a place to rinse, dry and get dressed again, before the peaceful drive back into the hum of Taupo.