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Day four. Hump day, they call it, and they’re not wrong. It’s the one that’s always lurking, that silent thief of energy. Over the years, I’ve come to know it too well - the day the body starts to turn against you, the sun comes up a little dimmer, and the thrill of the road begins to wear thin. It’s the day when your seat feels like an instrument of cruelty, when the chatter dries up, replaced by the sound of tyres spinning and the hum of numbers ticking up on the trip computer. Even the toughest riders start to fade, retreating into that quiet, inward place where the only company is discomfort.
But this crew? This bunch of misfits and maniacs? They don’t break. They bend, sure, but they don’t snap. Not for anything. Not for rain, not for hills that look like mountains, not even for the sullen grey clouds that threaten to ruin the whole epic day. There’s this thing they have, a kind of unshakable energy, a hum of joy that buzzes underneath the pain. It’s the kind of happiness you can’t fake, the kind you get from being stuck in the grind with people who know what it means to ride through it, together.
We rolled through the town before the first light of day, the streets still half asleep, breakfast just a promise. Bacon and coffee, greasy and warm, as the ocean breeze whispered in from the distance. We were keen, we were ready, but not too far down the road - just a few kilometres - and we pulled up again. A false start, a quick grumble, but no one really minded. And then, like a gift, the sunrise caught us, all soft and golden over the water, lighting up the morning just for us. It was the kind of sunrise that makes you believe everything’s going to be alright, even though our legs suggested it might not be. That was the last of the sun, though. After that, the clouds closed in like a lid, but for a while, it didn’t matter.
A few kilometres from town, the first sheep appeared. The ripple of “look, sheep” ran through the group like some sort of collective spark. It’s funny, the things that excite you when you’re riding through unfamiliar land. But this was no ordinary land. This was New Zealand, with its wild, green hills and endless vistas - land of the sheep, yes, but so much more than that.
The road ahead was long. 138 kilometres, 1640 metres of climbing. The hills rolled on, one after the other, each one taking a little more, giving a little less. This was supposed to be our ‘rest day’. It felt like anything but. By the time we reached Tauranga, the clouds, which had been gathering all day, finally burst, their weight landing squarely on the end of the ride. At least it wasn’t the start. That would’ve been cruel.
But there’s always a silver lining. The Road Crew had our backs, as they always do. A tireless bunch, always ready with a bag of lollies, a room key, a massage, a smile. They’re the kind of people who make you remember that it’s not just about the ride. It’s about the people who ride with you and the reason we all ride – to raise funds for children in need.
Tomorrow will come. And with it, more roads, more hills, more moments to remember. We’ll be ready.
