THE LONG DRIVE

If you're thinking that looks a long way, you don't know the half of it

There are two kinds of people in this world... those who look forward to a road trip and those who would rather just send a card.

New Zealand isn't really all that big. Compared to places like the States and Australia, most of our main thoroughfares must seem more like long driveways. The idea of taking more than a day to drive somewhere in this country is simply anathema to us kiwis. That'd be like living more than an hour away from the beach. (Is that even possible?)

In saying all of that, there are a few local trips that require a little psychological preparation. The Auckland-Wellington run, while straightforward enough on a map, can be hampered considerably by heavy traffic around both cities. Driving in the South Island is beautiful of course, but geez it can be boring too. Going anywhere in the Coromandel is guaranteed to cause carsickness for at least 50% of your passengers, but you get that. The trip I was facing this weekend was Red Beach to Hawkes Bay. And back.

This was not a surprise. I knew it was coming. It wasn't like I'd been summoned to a secret headquarters based in Havelock North to join a covert league of superheroes to fight an evil genius in his attempt to take over the world. Admittedly, there are a couple of obvious flaws in that scenario; 1) I don't have any superpowers, 2) Hard to see the strategic advantage in basing your covert HQ in Hawkes Bay (unless the evil genius was targeting sauvignon blanc and stone fruit production) and 3) If I WAS on my way to a meeting of superheroes, driving would be a pretty uncool way to arrive. A FLYING car might be okay. Flying in WITHOUT a car? Even better.

No, the Domestic Manager and I had been invited to a wedding, so we'd had plenty of time to plan air tickets. (You know, just on an ordinary plane) However, flying down isn't quite as easy as it sounds either. To start with, it takes anywhere from an hour to 4 days to get from my place to the airport - there's a harbour bridge in the way, you see. What's more, it's not like the wedding was happening at Napier Airport. Apparently, a reputable Havelock North winery provides a slightly more romantic atmosphere than the sound of jet engines and a view of the tarmac. That means hiring a car and the whole weekend ends up costing an arm, a leg and a couple of vital organs to boot.

Therefore, a 6-hour road trip was really the only viable option, and when I say 6 hours, obviously I mean 12. After all, no matter how good a time you're having, you have to come home eventually.

Personally, I don't mind a bit of a drive - as long as I'm the driver. What is this curious explosion of physics and biology that causes my face to go numb the moment I have to navigate 2 consecutive corners as a passenger? If the Domestic Manager suffers even a fraction of the same affliction, it's no wonder she dreads a long-haul with such fervour.

As a result, the Domestic Manager has perfected two highly effective methods of passing the time. The first is to fall asleep. How she achieves this is a mystery to me, because not only do I find it next to impossible to nod off in the passenger seat of a moving car, but she's is also a keen contender for the title of "World's Worst Sleeper." Usually to achieve more than a few hours slumber, Domestic Manager requires complete darkness, absolute silence, at least 3/4 of the available bed space and all the stars and planets to be in alignment. Get her out on the open road though, and suddenly she's Rip van Winkle!

The main reason I can't sleep while driving (apart from the fact I'm usually driving) is the incessant head-loll. The tip back on acceleration, the tilt forward on brake. The ever-so delicate thump against the window while cornering. Domestic Manager seems completely immune. Is her beautiful head mounted on gimbals? (I actually have no idea what gimbals are. Cool word though)

This provides me with a bit of alone time, so I can really get stuck in to the important stuff driving requires. You know... picking your nose... humming the wrong lyrics to songs under your breath, that sort of thing.

The Domestic Manager's other favourite pastime is telling me how to drive. I've heard many husbands complaining of the same thing, but the exception here is, she's usually right. I'm a TERRIBLE driver. Just useless. I need all the advice I can get. Of course, I have to PRETEND to be annoyed and angry - it's a dumb man thing. Secretly I'm eternally thankful she pointed out that oncoming freight truck, or we'd both be mincemeat.

Recently, these entertaining marital exchanges have been curtailed somewhat due to the miracle that is Nokia Drive - the GPS installed by default on all Nokia Windows Phones. It's simple, it works and now we never argue about directions anymore - or so I thought.

Sadly on this trip, for the first time ever, Mrs Lumia let me down. I call her Mrs Lumia because I've selected the female voice with the UK accent to tell me where to go.  Mrs Lumia has successfully navigated me all over the place for the last year, even in Australia. But this weekend, for some reason, just when I needed her most, she made a powerplay for control over the husband and she was never going to win that battle.

After 7 grueling hours (I know it was supposed to be 6, but you have to stop for food, you know. And the toilet. And to replace forgotten jewellery) our destination was in sight. I mean that literally, the little finish line flag had popped up on Mrs Lumia's screen, our ETA now down to single digits. All that lay between us and no more driving was Hastings. No offence, Hastings, but you're stupid. Why do you have 2 Heretaunga Streets and why do you have to drive around the block to get from one to the other? The real question here is, why did Mrs Lumia tell me to go that way when the Domestic Manager had pointed out a clearly signposted bypass several kilometres back.

I don't know if it actually made our long trip any longer, but every roundabout we were forced to round as we zig-zagged our way through the Hastings CBD was like another nail in Mrs Lumia's coffin.

That's how I learned a valuable lesson about long distance driving in New Zealand. While Mrs Lumia may SOUND like she knows where she's going, it's always, ALWAYS the Domestic Manger who is ultimately to be obeyed.

This is me driving. Why the headphones? That's not important

HOW I BECAME A REAL MAN THE DAY AFTER NEW YEAR'S DAY

Can you catch ebola off a drink bottle this dirty?

Brace yourself. I too have a serious cycling confession. I did some. Cycling, I mean. I did some cycling. Specifically, I did mountain biking. Up a real mountain.

"What's happened to you, glennzb?" I hear you ask. "You're not the lay-about, B-movie watching cheese-melter we used to know. All this talk of bridge-jumping and triathlons, it's like you've morphed into some kind of thrill-seeking adventure dude!"

Admittedly, that's quite a specific sort of comment for me to metaphorically hear all of you make at once, but work with me here...

"Now all this talk of mountain biking. Up a real mountain," you say (even if you don't say it, you're thinking it now) "What's going on with you, glennzb? Have you some kind of death wish?"

The answer is no. I do however, have a mate called Craig. He's a bit of a bad influence on me. This works well, because I'm a bit of a bad influence on him too. While my influences usually revolve around creative ways to get yourself under the influence (I'm talking cocktails and boutique beers here, and nothing else. Don't jump to conclusions) His influences often result in me ending up covered in mud, water, bits of tree or all three.

Craig's suggestions always seem so innocent when he first makes them. "You feel like taking a drive round my mate's farm?" he asks, which then turns into me off-roading my way along the bottom of a giant mud pool. "Shall we get a bit of exercise tomorrow morning?" he asks, which culminates in my 2nd placing in the inaugural Pataua Triathlon. "Why don't you bring your bike camping in case we want to go for a ride?" he asks, which obviously turns into another hair-raising foray into the world of extreme sports.

I do, as it happens, own my own bike. To call it a mountain bike would be a slight over-statement. The only mountains it's ever scaled had roads, footpaths and controlled intersections all over them. I didn't pay $4000 for it. I didn't pay $400 for it. I got it from the Warehouse for $140. Actually, it might have only been $120 - I know it was a pretty hot deal although I did have to assemble it myself, which may go some way to explaining why I've never really got gears 1, 7 and 13 working properly.

The point is, when I mentioned I thought I'd bung my trusty steed on the back of the car to go camping, you can understand why the Domestic Manager said, "Are you nuts? You'll snap it in half!" I assume she was talking about the bike.

Craig had assured me it was a very easy ride, ideal for a rookie like me and the risk of bike snappage would be minimal. You see? What a smooth talker. The guy could probably sell cats to Gareth Morgan.

Fast forward to January 2, 2013. The last full day of glennzb's life-changing camping experience. Time was running out - if this "easy ride" was going to happen, it'd have to be today.

I didn't realise we wouldn't be able to cycle TO the mountain we were going to ride over. Instead we had to enlist the services of Domestic Manager to chauffeur us there. I magnanimously took the back seat, a move I regretted 20 minutes later as we ascended a disturbingly winding gravel road. As the first face-numbing symptoms of car-sickness began to take hold, I started to wonder just how rookie-appropriate this ride was going to be. My apprehension heightened even further once we finally reached our starting point, the end of the road, the beginning of the track. Except I couldn't see the track. Where was the track?

Ah, a small gap in the brush that dropped away... steeply. Domestic Manager looked even more worried than I felt. She drove off with one last look back, the kind of look a soldier's wife might give her husband before he ships out. When I turned around Craig seemed calm enough. In fact, he was taking this opportunity to widdle in the bushes. That's how we mountain bikers roll.

Then we rolled.

I didn't try to keep up with Craig. He had a proper bike. His tyres were 3 times fatter than mine. For all I know, he even had access to gears 1, 7 and 13. I was just trying not to fall off the world. There was mud. There were branches. There were roots, ruts and rocks. It was a steep learning curve. Most of it was just steep.

My forearms were screaming. My armpits were streaming. We were 2 minutes in.

Weirdly, the trick to mountain biking seems to be avoiding the track wherever possible. If you get stuck in the track, you could find yourself sunk up to your crank in no time. Nothing worse than sinking up to your crank, take it from me.

I'm sure it was scenic, I'm sure it was beautiful, but the only time I had a chance to look up was when we stopped for a drink. Here again Craig completely outclassed me - he had one of those backpack bladder things with a straw. I had a plastic drink bottle in a holder on my bike. A bottle that was now completely caked in foul-smelling mud and assorted detritus. At least I HOPED it was mud. I was bloody thirsty though, so I drank and tried not to breathe through my nose.

We eventually made it to the end of the track, where Craig revealed the full extent of this particular adventure was still ahead of us. First we were making our way back the way we'd come, then we'd take on the gravel road we'd driven up. In a car. A 4 wheel drive car.

Uphill mountain biking is easier because it's not as fast. It's harder because, well, it's uphill. I'd say, on balance, the harder part is harder than the easier part is easier. I almost fell off in slow motion about 16 times... but didn't. Craig rode into a tree at one point. That was satisfying. He had his revenge when we got back to the top though.

I figured we were in for an easy-going coast back down the road to our prearranged pickup point. Craig had other ideas. He hurtled off round the first corner and that's the last I saw of him. There's only so fast I'm prepared to cycle down a gravel road because, well gee, IT'S COVERED IN GRAVEL! Even at my nana-ish pace, there were still a couple of bends I thought I may have underestimated. In those situations, there's really nothing you can do but sit back and hope for the best. I tried to rationalise the situation with what little I know of the basic laws of physics - you know, gravity, torque, how shit-scared you're feeling. Apparently those laws just don't apply to Craig. That guy's insane.

I lived to tell the tale, in case you were wondering. Not sure if I'm going to take it up as regular pastime though. Maybe if I had a bike with gears 1, 7 and 13.

This is my badly bruised arm after my harrowing ride. Oh, sure it got better, but if you use your imagination...

HOW I BECAME A REAL MAN ON NEW YEAR'S EVE... MORNING

Why does that guy look so utterly miserable? And where are his goggles?

I still have no idea how it all happened. I wasn't drunk. I wasn't delirious from sun stroke. No-one was holding my family against their will to make me do it. 

The Inaugural Pataua Triathlon. The ultimate test of man VS ocean VS cycle VS run... Well, for 5 pretty out-of-condition blokes on the morning of December 31, 2012 it was pretty darn ultimate, anyway.

I'd been training hard for this event ever since I first heard about it; the night before. Apparently a mate of Craig's invented it while under the influence. Swim across the harbour, bike back to his place over the bridge, then run from there back to the bridge, then back along the beach to his place. He thought it'd be a good way to get into credit for any New Year's Eve festivities to follow that day and into the night.

If we survived of course. 

I had no idea who the other entrants were, I'd never met them. They could have been depraved, homicidal pranksters for all I knew. (I've never actually HEARD of an evil genius going to the trouble of organising a fake triathlon in order to lure someone to their grisly demise, but I'm sure it's probably happened)

I also didn't know if I'd been able to swim that far. (About 400 metres across the channel) It was only 6 months since I had dislocated my shoulder and the last time I'd tried to swim a few lengths, I'd only made it about 50 metres before my arm froze up and I started going around in circles.

Still, I was fresh from the heady success of my now famous bridge jump and feeling pretty super-human, so when Craig asked me if I was keen, I said, "Keen as."

New Year's Eve dawned hot and sunny, although reports of the water being much colder than previous days were a little off-putting. Settled weather overnight meant no rushing about trying to stop the rain getting into our tent, so I was relatively well rested and almost looking forward to the challenge ahead. To be honest, there was probably a bit of bravado there. Just quietly, I was starting to shit myself. Too late now though. Once you're in, you're in.

Turned out to be quite a long walk around to the start line. Craig and I hadn't really allowed enough time for the 10 o'clock kick-off, so we had to hustle somewhat to make it. This meant we were half shagged-out by the time we got there. When I say, "Start Line," obviously I mean Craig's mate's backyard. Yup, things were fairly informal. All 5 of us still had to register though... on the back of a paper plate. It was with some relief we were informed there were a couple of volunteers on kayaks to assist with any issues on the wetter leg of the event.

Our almost-late arrival meant no time for second thoughts or backing out. With an unspectacular but significant splash, we plunged into drink. It was quite a while before any actual swimming happened though, the seabed remained conveniently placed at wading level for at least the first 50 metres. It was about this time I realised some of the other guys were wearing goggles! Who the hell takes goggles with them when they go camping? This was going to put me at a significant disadvantage. Being short sighted, ocean swimming can be disorientating enough, but with no eye protection at all, I'd pretty much have to stroke and hope. Meanwhile, those flash-Harry goggle-wearers surged ahead.

Many minutes passed and the opposite bank that had appeared so close from the shore, literally started drifting further away. Damn, my wonky-shouldered circle swimming! I reverted to a bit of breast stroke, partly to recalculate my course, mostly because I was starting to feel pretty buggered. The current in the channel was troublesome and suddenly, somewhere slightly behind me, Craig seemed PARTICULARLY troubled.

"Are you okay?" I called out. "No," he answered flatly. "Seriously?" I asked. "TOM!" he answered, less flatly. I turned back, but it was hopeless. I was already too late.

Oh, no - don't worry, Craig didn't drown, I just meant it was hopeless me trying to reach him before Tom did on the kayak.

I turned around again to made my final splurge for the beach and finally made it. By this stage, just hauling my fat arse out of the harbour was no mean feat. Who knew swimming sucked all the oxygen out of your LEGS as well as your lungs and arms? Luckily Domestic Manager was waiting for me with the support crew (my kids) to cheer me onto my bike. If I'd been alone I think I just would have lay down and gone to sleep.

The cycle was short - too short for me to catch the pair of blokes in front of me, especially given the 2 major challenges of this leg; negotiating a crowded foot bridge and the fact I didn't really know where I was going. We'd walked to the start along the beach. Now I was cycling down the road, with no idea what the bach looked like from the front.

It wasn't until I saw the other two running out of the driveway - BEHIND ME - I realised I'd overshot the mark. But by now I had my legs back and suddenly I realised there was a remote chance I could actually win this stupid thing.

Or not. One guy wasn't much of a runner. I mowed him down mercilessly at the first corner. The other guy was younger, faster and I never saw him again till we were back at the bach.

And that's how I finished in the top 40% of the field in my first ever triathlon. Not good enough to win the 2013 calendar awarded to 1st place, but not last, so I didn't win that prize either. (Also a calendar) Still, a beer has never tasted as good as the one I was handed at the end. Even if it WAS only Speights. Glad Craig didn't drown.

Official times and placings. Very official

HOW I BECAME A REAL MAN ON THE EVE OF NEW YEAR'S EVE

What do you mean it doesn't look like a very big bridge? Close up, it's massive

I'm no camper. I don't do flappy walls. Can't abide a dodgy loo. If I'm not driving, I'll get car-sick after about 4 and a half consecutive corners. But this year I said, "To hell with it!" and we did 6 nights in a tent. I'm not telling where. I've been sworn to secrecy. Apparently if the location gets out, everyone will go there and there'll be casinos and skyscrapers and gelato shops before you know it. 

Wouldn't have minded a gelato or two, to be honest. Mr Whippy did turn up one day, but he was on the other side of the bridge and it was hot and whoever went and got the ice creams would have ended up with snowfreeze dribbling off their elbows by the time they were halfway back. That bridge is integral to this particular story though. In fact, the bridge IS the story.

What is it that makes us want to jump off things? Cliffs, aeroplanes, bridges. We just love it, don't we? You build a perfectly functional footbridge to get from one part of Secret Location to another, and you can't walk over it for all the idiots queued up to hurl themselves off it.

You don't have to spend much time in Secret Location before it becomes clear bridge jumping is quite the thing to do. Men, women, children, pets - everyone's at it. The trick seems to be getting the tide right, then you can just float down the estuary to your waiting beach towel. (And a crowd of admiring bridge jump fans, presumably)

The trouble with Quite-the-Things-To-Do is sooner or later someone suggests you go off and do them. Regardless, I'm not the kind of guy who does things just because everyone else is. Frankly, I'm the opposite of that guy. Ordinarily I'm the guy who sees holiday-makers plummeting from a bridge and suggests a climb UP it.

But bridge jumping isn't just any old trend. It's one of those right-of-passage activities - like getting your license or losing your virginity. You wouldn't want word to get out you didn't jump when everybody else did. What kind of incredible wuss would you be then?

You've got the ever-present parent factor as well, of course. It's not just your reputation you're trying to protect, you've got to set an example for the kids too. Admittedly, jumping from a bridge may not seem like the kind example you would normally set, but somehow this ended up being one of those feel-the-fear-and-do-it-anyway situations that's supposed to teach us a valuable lesson about life. And possibly about gravity. And water safety, maybe.

The point is, it was the day before New Year's Eve and I'd just survived a flooded tent the night before, so I was probably already feeling pretty Man VS Wild.

It's a weird sensation, walking the path to your potential watery grave. Especially because you can't wear your jandals. Or your hat. Or your sunglasses. I felt strangely naked. Perhaps I should have kept my rash vest on. Looking at the photos, I definitely should have kept my rash vest on.

Then suddenly I'd done it. Well, more specifically, suddenly Craig had done it. He just got there and jumped straight off. What a jerk. So obviously I had to too. Why we had to go back and do it a second time still doesn't really make much sense to me, but presumably it makes me twice as tough. Manliness well and truly intact I can now hold my head high. Turns out it's not really that hard to jump off a bridge. Swimming across a harbour though? That's a whole other story...

Really regretting my wardrobe choice. And my beer gut