Kindness of Strangers

Monday, November 24, 2008

Editor’s note: This blog post is dedicated to Mark Monda and Dave Bodette, the only real bicyclists I know.

Somehow, this idea wormed its way into my feeble brain: rent a bike and peddle your way through New Zealand wine country. In dissecting this decision, I can vaguely recollect when the seed was planted. Months ago I read a posting on the Lost Girls’ website, recounting their totally awesome experience cycling through sun-dappled fields in some New Zealand wine region. They made it sound idyllic and perfect, and I wanted a piece of the experience. I imagined a leisurely spin down quiet, dusty lanes, dipping in and out of boutique wineries as sheep smiled from green pastures. I would be reducing tipsy driving while enjoying beautiful countryside at my own pace, a win-win situation.

We hadn’t initially planned on exploring New Zealand wine country. Instead, we were banking on a hike in Tongariro National Park, which our Lonely Planet touted as “one of the best day walks in the world,” to the summit of The Lord of the Rings’ Mount Doom. When gale-force winds and thick banks of clouds dumping bucket of rain quickly derailed our plans, we submitted to Plan B. Hawkes Bay, a well-known wine-growing region, was forecast to receive impeccable weather while the rest of the country was socked in.

Without much time to plan or research our bicycle tour, I employed a highly rational decision-making process: I chose the company with the cutest-sounding name. Reservations were made, and we were soon equipped with helmets, water bottles, maps, and, of course, mountain bikes. I was a little concerned when I studied the map and noticed that we would visit five wineries over 23 kilometers. It seemed like too much cycling and not enough drinking. But I pushed those thoughts out of my mind, focusing instead on the smiling sheep that would soon crowd themselves into my field of vision.

I hadn’t been on a bike in nearly 20 years. Once I started driving I never saw much need for a bike, and my parents eventually sold my teal Schwinn beauty at a garage sale. But you never forget to ride a bike, right? While true, I felt awfully wobbly and petrified as I took my first tentative peddles down the driveway. As a kid, I didn’t remember feeling preoccupied about falling off my bike, but now it took all my concentration and will to keep myself stable. We started down the road towards the first winery, which turned out to be not so much a road a busy thoroughfare. Within five minutes, my butt was aching intensely. “I don’t remember riding a bike being this painful,” I yelled to Tim, over the din of the traffic. “What?” he screamed back.

We pulled into the first winery, a commercial affair lacking charm, already working up a sweat. By the time we reached the second winery, heaving ourselves up the modest hill, I was exhausted. I didn’t understand how the gears on the bicycle worked, and as I madly rotated my hands on the gear shift, trying any conceivable combination, I found myself either peddling with the mania of a speed addict or the lethargy of a whale. We stumbled into the gorgeous Mission Estate property, the oldest winery in New Zealand, a converted church draped in lush, green vines. I should have been taking in the scenery, but all I could think about was the next winery, located at the top of what looked like a giant hill. “I’m tired,” I said. “How far have we come so far?” “About two kilometers,” said Tim.

After a long lunch on the white-washed veranda, where we dined on the best of local, seasonal cuisine, I felt fortified and ready to tackle the hill. Within minutes I was roasting in the midday sun, my helmet sitting askance on my drenched locks. Cars zoomed past us as we steadily made our way up the hill, with no more than a thin strip of pavement to call our own. I quickly gave up and began pushing the bike. “This isn’t what I had in mind for a bike tour through wine country,” I yelled over the rush of traffic. I kicked an empty, amber Tui beer bottle out of my path as my front tire crushed a soda can, forming a neat shape over the wheel. The gap between reality and imagination ever-widening, I soon grew upset, muttering a mantra that Tim rhythmically peddled to: “I hate this I hate this I hate this I hate this.” Where were the country lanes, the sheep, the wineries?

I soon began crying, and was sobbing by the time we reached the crest of the hill. Downhill seemed like it would be a breeze, but I soon found myself gripping the handlebars for dear life, panicked that my brakes would give way or that I would be hit by one of parade of cars careening past us at 100 kilometers per hour. Visions of open wounds studded with shards of gravel danced across my mind. I was completely rattled — literally and figuratively — by the time we reached Moana Park, the only boutique winery on the tour. We took a seat in the tasting room, ruby-red from sun and exhaustion. “On a bike tour, eh?” asked the cellar door manager.

We spent a lovely hour on a cushy stool at the winery, tippling a wide range of wines and learning about New Zealand’s burgeoning wine industry. While it still only produces a fraction of their Aussie neighbors (about .02% of the world’s total share), Hawkes Bay produces a wide range of lovely varieties, Martinborough is gaining ground with their pinot noirs, and the Marlborough region is renowned for their sauvignon blancs. We talked about the world’s changing viticultural landscape (France’s exports to the UK is dwindling), and had an all-around great chat. But the bike beckoned.

We nudged ourselves back on the seats, our butts aching more than ever. We found ourselves commenting on how plush the tasting rooms’ stools were. Anything felt better than that bike seat, which was akin to sitting astride a great two by four.

Within moments we were into the “stunning countryside” that the tour had promised. I saw sheep! And orchards! And vineyards! And pastures! Now this was a bike tour, I thought to myself. The sun gleamed through puffy white clouds as I glided down largely-deserted streets. But the moment didn’t last long. A large power plant loomed on my right, and within minutes the cars began their march back into my life. We rode down a bonafide freeway, and I was too terrified to even notice the stretches of green farmland flanking the road. “This wasn’t what I had in mind!” I yelled, about every two minutes, over the scream of traffic. We hoisted our bikes over a rustic stile so that we could cross over to…another freeway.

We breezed by the lavender farm and the chocolate factory, a slow blur as we cycled by. To borrow a Kiwi turn-of-phrase, I was totally knackered by the time we reached the fourth winery on our tour. I sniffed at the two dollar tasting, and rushed out to make the final winery of the day. It was closed by the time we made it, but it didn’t matter: I wanted nothing more than to get off these bikes for good, the sooner the better. But first we had to negotiate a narrow, one-way bridge. Maikael and Tim confidently peddled on, but I lagged behind, teetering, as an entire row of cars waited for me to cross. “Is there anyone else?” a woman in the line yelled to me from her car as I passed her. I just smiled and bobbed my head, too afraid to break my concentration with talking.

I slowed to a snail’s pace as we approached our destination, having nearly completed an entire loop of town. I was sunburned. My hands were raw. My butt ached. My legs screamed for mercy. It was then that I passed a young boy on a bike. “Don’t go so f&*%ing slow!” he yelled at me as I carefully negotiated around him. Kiwis are an extremely friendly and polite bunch of folks, and I was so shocked that I was left speechless. It was the cherry on top of a great sundae of a day.

When we returned our bikes, we were asked to sign their guestbook. I was miffed at the route they had planned. What kind of a wine tour goes through heavily-trafficked areas? I asked myself. But I realized my real problem laid squarely with heightened expectations, which has the ability to ruin almost any experience. It’s one of the demons I struggle with most, and it reared its ugly head all day. I seem to be incapable of experiencing something for what it is without letting ballooning expectations get in the way, and if I could overcome one thing on this trip that would translate to my everyday life, it would be learning to lower my expectations. And I was reminded, once again, that trying to simulate someone else’s successful travel experience always blows up in your face.

After a few moments of contemplation, I finally settled on a message for the guestbook. “A memorable day.”