OK, it's short and it is a story! This is another from my Non-fiction folder ... and it is more than 25 years old. This is from the Millennium year of 2000.

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THE CONSENTING ADULTS RIDE AGAIN: A SAGA OF HUMAN PROPORTIONS

A decade ago, at the age of 40, I had three primary-school kids, a pre-school gravel-grazer, a mountainous mortgage, flaky job prospects and I was deep in a slough of despond, as the literate say.  Inexplicably (in my eyes) I had narrowly failed an exam, with no recourse to recounts or remarking.  The celebratory bottle of wine that had been sitting on the table in anticipation, seemed to mock me.

The Love of My Life, Stephanie, then came out with something quite out of character and I am still amazed by her forthright foresight.

“Let’s go away for a dirty weekend on the motorbike!” This crass offer was so appealing that ultimately we decided that we should share the opportunity with friends with similar burdens. Eleven couples were written to, and for that first year, six were able to share in the moment, so to speak.  And so began our Consenting Adults adventures. The formula has remained constant over the years.  We meet on an Autumn Friday night at a suitable venue, usually a country pub, and only couples are welcome - “wife or girlfriend, but not both – unless you have a sidecar.”

The same core of friends participates every year, and we have enjoyed and sometimes endured memorable nights in places like Whangamomona, Kawhia, Taihape, Porangahau, Te Araroa, Tuai, Takaka, Raetihi, Taupo, Murchison, Picton, Gisbome.  Some years there are absences for various reasons, and some years we’ve had guests, like the cravat-wearing “jolly hockey sticks” from England.  What they thought of us, less-than-always-refined colonials, was never ascertained.  We are sure their memories of the formal-above-the-table dinner at the Bushy Park Homestead would reflect upon us well, but we do wonder what they thought, when sweeping around a blind bend in rural Taranaki, to be faced with Janet about to throw two dead possums at them ... how she mistook their BMW’s genteel purr for our thudding old single-cylinder banger, I don’t know.

Every year is memorable in some way. Sometimes, it’s the weather, sometimes it’s the accommodation, sometimes it’s the ride … always it’s the adventure and the company. Every year as we explore New Zealand’s back roads, we de-stress and re-establish the comfy old friendships. The organisation of the weekend is rotated, and the variety has been wonderful.  There have been long rides, short rides, wet rides, dry rides and adventure rides including the legendary Mangatapu and Porika Tracks, but always the focus is on fun, exploration and the kinship of an annual gathering of old, dear friends.  It is true that the older we get, the greater we were. Past adventures become epics! Past amusements, hilarious!

For this year, the group’s starting point was to be The Pier Hotel in Kaikoura.  At the eleventh hour two couples had to regretfully cancel, one only after a pinched sciatic nerve prohibited Jim getting on the already-loaded bike.  Both couples make an immense contribution to the enjoyment of our trips, and it was sad not to have them along.

Steph and I left Wellington a day early, on a most glorious Thursday morning in mid-April. With the passing years, the time taken to begin relaxing is getting shorter. It used to take Steph until Sunday to stop fretting about the kids and their potential well-being.  Now even the packing of the bike is incident-free and the outward ride fun. “Seven-Fifteen Top Cat, eight o’clock Lynx, or nine-thirty slow boat?"

“Nine thirty slow boat ... there’s no rush!“

With Bessie, our venerable 1937 BSA, securely tied-up in the bowels of the Inter Islander, we settled down to morning coffees, the Dominion, a cooked breakfast and eager anticipation of four days doing it for ... us, us, us!!!  The freedom of this annual weekend always assumes huge proportions, and even the planning and preparation is savoured. The three-hour enforced idle-period seemed to be the ideal entree for yet another memorable experience, with the bonus of having hundreds of dolphins play with the cumbersome ferry.

As always, Picton looked cosy and engagingly sleepy.  In the warm early afternoon we made our way through to Waikawa Bay and away from civilisation on the little-used Port Underwood to Tuamarina loop.  At 15 km, after a winding steep ride through a mixture of pines, native bush, ferns etc., we reached a spectacular summit, with views out over mussel farms and the island of Horahora-Kakahu, where British sovereignty over The South Island was finally formalised in 1840. This was a beautiful spot to open the thermos and take in the natural beauty of the calm blue sea below us, with the intriguing ribbon of land mass stretching around in front of us like a craggy crooked arm.  This forms the area known as Port Underwood.  The open sea could be seen in the far distance to the south. Why have we never come here before?

The road wound down to the shores of Fighting Bay, where in times-gone-by old bones and broken skulls whitened on the foreshore. The narrow and mostly graveled road meanders along the wiggly coastline, climbing sharply away from the sea then almost immediately dropping back again into Oyster Bay, then again up and over to Kakapo Bay, then again up and over to Ocean Bay, then to Robin Hood Bay, then Whites Bay.  Although the road was often steep and very corrugated, which made Bessie’s antique front suspension bounce and jiggle frantically, the afternoon was wonderful.  It was just us, in this wonderful, neglected-corner of the Marlborough Sounds.  Bessie was magnificent, seeming to revel in the rough going, perhaps remembering her prime.  With no rear suspension, just a sheepskin and approx 25mm of movement on the miniscule pillion seat pad that she perched on, Steph was also magnificent … but with her rear end bouncing and jiggling frantically. Finally, we dropped down to the pine-lined, sweeping beach hamlet of Rarangi … to ride past its golf course, first seen from far above, looking like a lilliput model.

A brief rest at the Spring Creek hostelry was followed by a relaxing aimless wander around the shops of Blenheim.  Blenheim impressed us as no longer being just a provincial centre to support the burgeoning wine industry, or the sheep stations beyond … but now seeming to have a life and identity of its own, with a surprising variety of shops and cafes.  Lebanese kebabs took care of the body’s need to refuel, and a school-friend of Steph’s was sought out, for coffee and a life update. In the early evening, we rode the 30 km out beyond Seddon, to another friend, to take advantage of her hospitality.  Absences do make the heart grow fonder, and it was great to catch up with both friends.  Barb’s slightly ramshackle old country villa was a perfect stay, with an impromptu late night meal thrown together and washed down with an adequate bottle of red wine.

Friday morning saw us explore Barb’s farmlet, before taking the back roads to Lake Grassmere, the site of the George Skellerup-established salt works.  Never having travelled with a guidebook before, we marvelled to learn that the method for making the salt was just the same as that practiced by the Romans.  We also learned that the Maori name for the area, Kaparatehau, means waters ruffled by wind, and that salt-making depends upon having a site that always has wind.  This surprised us a little, as the day was impeccably still.  The guide book was a 1974 Mobil New Zealand Travel Guide to The South Island and Stewart Island.  This little gem provided us with snippets about battles and early settlers and road conditions, routes, time guides, a Maori glossary and a little about every town and village imaginable.  Why it was ever withdrawn from The Martinborough Public Library, I’ll never know.  It is a veritable font-of-knowledge, that always provided good reading at thermos breaks.  Mobil’s association with New Zealand began 10 years before the first automobile appeared on this country’s roads in 1898.  Quite a long wait for the pump attendant to serve his first customer! The days were a lot less rushed then.

Rejoining Highway 2, we headed South through the golden, parched hills that typify inland Marlborough’s autumn.  The Pacific coast was at its finest with the sea as blue as can be and the white-faced rollers breaking on the rocks in spectacular fashion.  There were seals and surfers and a curvy, undulating road that snaked along the coastline, teasing the straight railway line.  Bessie stuttered a little as we sped along towards Kekerengu and our next stop, but when you are as old as she is, you are allowed a little dyspepsia and indigestion.  Perhaps I should treat her to a sparkplug I mused, remembering that the one we were running on was an old French one that had been replaced in our Citroen, years earlier.  The spare in my pocket was a Bosch one made in India, that had been pulled out of Steph’s Triumph scooter when it fouled.  Yes, I determined, I would treat her to something like a Champion L7, or L10 or L85Y ... I wonder if they still make them?  But it is only a small stutter, and after all, it is only four days riding and, really, only two of them   are of any consequence.

The road crosses the railway at Kekerengu to regain the seaward side, which she holds for most of the remaining coast. Kekerengu is special for me, as the road-bridge over the river has an easy access to its underside for shelter.  More than once, I’ve slept there with only my motorcycle for company, although I have also treated Steph to the pleasure of this priceless venue.  In the past there was The Black Watch Beetle Cafe 50m away, for breakfast if the funds stretched that far, and a gas station if needed.  What a spot!  The Black Watch Beetle is now gone; the gas station is gone too, but not the magic.  The Store is a unique Santa-Fe-styled store, Post Office and eatery, with high vaulted-ceilings with large exposed rustic beams, bound with marine hawsers.  Unusual artworks intrigue inside, and outside there are sunny decks, private lawns and a most stunning close-up view of a particularly turbulent section of the coast.  With such a short ride to accomplish in such a long time, we fair wallowed in our leisurely coffees and snacks.  Another Wellington motorcyclist joined us.  Riding his recently-deceased brother’s all bells and whistles touring Honda, Adrian was riding south to walk The Milford Track, see The Warbirds Over Wanaka, then ride up the West Coast home.  As with many of these chance meetings, mutual acquaintances, pleasures and experiences are found. An easy couple of hours in the sun had fled by and it was time to head away again ... NOT!

Bessie is always a good starter, so I knew all was not well after the third futile kick.  I won’t detail the resulting embarrassing courier truck ride to Kaikoura, but suffice to say that once fellow Consenting Adult and mechanical legend, Dick, laid his hands on her later that night, she sprang back to life and no, I never did get to treat her to a new sparkplug.

The Pier Hotel is the archetypal two-storey, old wooden New Zealand pub.  As first to arrive, we were rewarded with the choice of the available rooms.  Unhesitatingly we chose a front room with double-doors opening out on to the first-floor verandah.  Looking across the bay, with its small flotilla of fishing boats, to the imposing Southern Alps is spectacular.  The house-specialty pies and the publican Scott’s special brew were both sampled, and heartily approved of.  As dusk approached, Steph and I sat on the verandah sipping coffee from our thermos, wondering who would be first to arrive, muttering  “God, isn’t this great!”.  We could see right across the town, and spotted Dick and Sharon on the Norton, with Reg and Pat on their Triumph Trident, when they were little indistinguishable dots silently coming along the seafront.  Triumphant caterwauling from Steph greeted their arrival.  An hour or so later, Andy and Kay rolled in on the Norton Commando, that Andy bought new in 1970.  Andy was grinning like a galah.  This was their first Consenting Adults’ ride since the very first (wet) one, and the afternoon had been sunny and warm, the 160 km ride from Picton a breeze.  Robbie and Janet would be joining us much later, as they were to dine with their daughter Sarah at Woodbourne, the Airforce Base near Blenheim.

At this time each year when we have assembled, hugged, undressed a little and found a refreshing drink, I always feel there should be the significant drum roll and the booming voice announcing "LET THE GAMES BEGIN."  We make do by just sitting there grinning at each other.

A common find in venerable old hotels is the long bath.  I’m sure in years to come, when I am recounting these unlikely adventures to grandchildren on my knee, I’ll be saying ”… and then we bathed two-by-two, in baths as long as garages.“  The Pier was no exception and soon, after small squabbles about badly-fitting plugs, the tap end, where feet should be put etc., we were all radiantly clean and  happy, tucking in to damn good food.  While Pat demonstrated her eating prowess on a crayfish as big as a basket, 80 km away Janet was forlornly singing to Robbie and Mac, their now apparently-dead Velocette.  With no cell phone, no farm homestead’s lights to be seen, and no town for miles in either direction, singing was probably as good a course of action as any.  What little traffic there was showed no inclination to stop until finally a car pulled over, the driver opened his door … and vomited onto the road.  Before he could move on, Robbie was on him in a flash and help was summonsed on a cell phone.  And so it was that they arrived at the Pier at 11 o’clock with the Velo on a tow truck.  We have never before had anything like this level of attrition ... carry on far enough and no one will get home!  Scott generously moved his classic 1960 Vauxhall from the garage, so the bikes could be corralled and put to bed for the night.

Eventually, the excitement faded and we all made our way to our beds.  Steph and I couldn’t resist leaving the double doors to the verandah wide open, so we could savour the view of dawn over the bay.  The morning saw Robbie disassembling Mac and confirming what he already suspected.  The condition was terminal.  The Honda piston, that had been in the bike for many years, had failed.  Janet would not be throwing possums at me this year!   I would miss her bawdy ripostes and enthusiasm.  Sadly, we farewelled them to Whale Watch and the repatriation of Mac the Velo.  They could still have their Consenting Adults weekend, just not with us.

After the obligatory cooked breakfast and team photo, Bessie led us away while the others packed and refuelled.  Much slower than the others, with only a comfortable cruising speed of approx 95 km per hour, we would always endeavour to get a headstart.  With our sights set on Amberley, 160 km further south, we eagerly followed the twisty coastline, in and out of small tunnels, around numerous bluffs, all the time trying to look at the Whale Watch boats scattered over the sea.  Soon we were climbing into The Hunderlees, enjoying the thrust through the hills to reach inland North Canterbury.  Finally, the others began going past, usually following in behind for a while, perhaps savouring the music of Bessie’s dominant single cylinder thudding exhaust.  The fleeting contact of an overtaking friend is always a small enjoyment; yet another little thing that the smug occupants of the pleased and proud family tin cans miss out on, as they silently and often swiftly speed by, listening to their CDs.  I love the sight and sounds of our Adults as they creep by.  Reg and Pat’s Triumph is a three-cylinder model that goes past with a soft wailing howl and the promise of menacing power.  Andy and Kay’s Norton Commando is a big parallel twin with a deep, even, rumbling snarl.  Dick has reconfigured his Norton twin internally, so it thinks it is a vee-twin like a Harley or a Ducati.  As he and Sharon glide by, I again try to categorise their off-beat exhaust sounds, and fail. It’s like a Harley, but not quite, it’s not as single-with-an-echo as a Ducati, it’s almost Vincentish ... and then they are gone.

Amberley gathered us up again with a sunny al fresco late morning snack.  Knowing we are to cross the main divide, and as we didn’t come down in the last shower, we are to a manjack (do you have womanjacks?) underclad in polypropylene from one end to the other.  This makes the sunny stops brief, and we are all eager to get the Canterbury plains behind us and get up into Arthur’s Pass.

Truly, there is wisdom with experience. In other words –  ”God, we were stupid when we were young!“  In our youth, Andy and I once rode from Wellington to Masterton (a distance of 100 km) and back in tee-shirts and shorts.  I must confess that I even rode my Triumph Tigress scooter in bare feet, and we both remember whimpering with cold and exposure at the top of the Rimutakas.  I remember the cutting pain of the small stones in the carpark on my feet, as we hobbled to seek relief and shelter in the toilets.  The passing years have lessened the need to flex our exposed biceps at passing girls, and now we concentrate on warmth and comfort.  It is a challenge to face the elements and win.  Someone, probably wiser and more intrepid than us, once asserted that there is no such thing as bad weather, only bad equipment.  Smug bugger!

Rangiora tried to get us lost, and Sheffield tried to deny us petroleum spirits.  We beat them both!  We even avoided Cust’s wicked spell. (Cust once enticed my old BMW to break its crankshaft after only 500,000 km, resulting in a terror-filled tow behind Dick, 400 kms to Picton.  He kept forgetting I was behind him, helpless on the end of the rope.)  Finally, it was farewell to the boring plains, and some of New Zealand’s most interesting scenery began to unfold before us.  The ski fields of Mt Hutt and Porters Pass were passed as higher up the valley we rode beneath imposing scree-sloped mountains.  A mid-afternoon brew-up and shared-snack in idyllic wild surroundings at Greyneys Flat gave us the chance to reflect on the enjoyment of the day, and to anticipate the final climb over Arthur’s Pass to the West Coast.

Arthur’s Pass is still steep and winding and still not suitable for caravans, as the signs have always said.  Great on a sunny, not too cold, autumn afternoon though, on a motorbike with the pillion of your choice behind you.  Soon we were looking over the new Otira Viaduct, then riding through the amazing civil engineering works going on at Candy’s Bend.  There were drilling rigs installing long rock anchors beneath the road we were driving on, while above us were impressive shields hiding more drilling operations.  Large crane-mounted drilling rigs were carrying out piling operations on bridge abutments amongst all this apparent chaos.  Within a few days of us passing through, the pass is to be closed for four weeks while a critical part of the works is carried out.  It is just too dangerous having the general public travelling through while the contractors expedite the works.

There wasn’t time to stop at Arthur’s Pass township or Otira, as the day was fleeing. Turning from the main road at Jacksons, we skirted Lake Brunner, passing through Moana and on to Stillwater on the Reefton to Greymouth highway.  Here we headed across the Grey River and were pleased to soon be easing into Blackball with Andy and Kay for company.  The others had already lined their bikes up outside the legendary hotel formerly known as The Blackball Hilton.  Gently exhausted, we proudly added the BSA and Norton to the line-up.  450 km had fallen to our ancient, spinning wheels.  Hardly had we a beer in our hands, when Robbie and Janet slewed to a halt beside us in a white van labelled Team Coach.  They had hired the van, removed the seats, popped Mac in the back and set off in pursuit.

Blackball is a tranquil settlement of about 400 people.  It nestles on a lip of a river terrace at the foot of the Paparoa Ranges and was formerly an old coal town.  The town today has one store, a renowned salami factory and of course, The Blackball Hilton.  In the late eighties the Hilton Corporation of New York sued, or threatened to sue The Blackball Hilton.  This rambling legal demand is framed on the wall, for all to see and mock the stupidity of large corporations.  As a result, screwed to the front of the elegant old lady, is a sign ‘Formerly’ … placed just above the main sign still proclaiming The Blackball Hilton.  A two-storey fading beauty, the hotel has a hint of decadence about her.  Run by two women, who were run off their feet during our stay, as this was the annual Unwearable Arts Award weekend, it is a memorable stop-over.  We all loved the relaxed ambience, and the girls particularly loved the feminist graffiti in the Ladies Loo.  I loved the gourmet pie meal!  The Unwearable Arts competitors showed imagination beyond imagination for those of us who don’t have any.

A stroll through Blackball on early Sunday morning, showed it to be a sleepy hollow of numerous weatherboard cottages with a few magnificent, elegant old villas and bungalows. Cars seem to die and rest inertly beside their replacements here.  There is no pretentiousness about Blackball.

Over breakfast, the night was reviewed with the beds getting a particular slagging as being probably the squeakiest ever yet encountered.  As the slightest movement induced an evocative sound, all night there was the urge to rush into the corridor and shout "We’re only turning over!"  During the night, Pat had the need to satisfy a call of nature, but found to her horror that the door had somehow locked itself. Of course, this became Reg’s problem as he had been last in and must have caused it.  Ever-a-gent, Reg regained his clothing and went out the window, down the fire escape and furtively back in the front door enabling his damsel the release she required ... well, you had to be there!

The store, which had a solitary pump dispensing 91 octane fuel only, did not open until 10 o’clock, so we spent a bit of time playing on the many sets of stilts that were outside for all to sample.  Andy and Kay had booked a mid-afternoon sailing, so felt they should head off straight up to Reefton and onwards. This was the shortest route, but Pat had an urge to see Greymouth and some of the party had not seen the pancake rocks at Punakaiki, so for the rest of us it was to be the long way home via Westport.

It had been great to have Andy and Kay along again, as we have known each other since we were kids. I’ve known Andy since he arrived at St Annes Newtown, as a nine-year-old Pom with a foreign name.  In addition to those handicaps, he then had to fight the other 11 boys to see how tough he was, race us all to see how fast he was, and pee against the toilet wall to see if he could threaten Robert Bouzaid’s ability to project a stream of urine over into the Girls.  He proved to be pretty tough, fairly fast, and no challenge to Robert Bouzaid.  We’ve been mates ever since, starting motorcycling together as fifteen-year-olds on an evenly matched Suzuki 120 and a Triumph Tigress scooter.  Kay lived across the road from Andy and has blossomed into the delightful adult that the shy child promised.  We hope they will show again next year. Andy, please work on her riding position and get her a sheepskin!

Reg didn’t want 91 octane fuel for his Trident and resolved to fill-up “down the road.”  It was another fine, dry, warmish day and Steph, Bessie and I led the way up the coast while the others had a quick look around Greymouth.  The lovely little settlements of Runanga and Barrytown were passed as we wended our way along the distinctive rugged coastline.  The signs of the Coast’s reputation for precipitation were obvious with lush greenery dominant.  House trucks and buses nestled in that greenery at regular intervals. The West Coast really is a last frontier.

We were first to Punakaiki and found 30 or more of the Ulysses Motorcycle Club pausing there on their southward journey from Taranaki to the Warbirds Over Wanaka.  Their bikes were modern and large and very impressive.  Nearly all had pillions and they had been having a great time.  The Ulysses Motorcycle Club is for riders over 40 (Junior Members) and their admirable motto is To Grow Old Disgracefully.

Although the blowhole wasn’t blowing, the stacked pancake rocks are amazing and a worthwhile stop with a nice Information Centre, Tea Rooms and Toilets etc.  A fifteen-minute loop walk enables the rock formations to be viewed close-up.  Most people seemed to be humming the Toyota tune Welcome to Our World looking for the sultry model on the rocks.  Not me though, as I knew she would only come out at dusk.  A lone dolphin or porpoise was lolling around near the blowhole entrance, but nothing much was happening, although we happened across a friend’s son Leon, and his young lady Anna, who were staying at the camping ground and doing bush walks and sundry physical exercises.  Leon asked the others if it was my belly that had worn most of the paint off the back of Bessie’s petrol tank.  This gave everyone a great laugh.  Well, again, you had to be there!  Where’s the respect, I ask?

It was here that Reg had to own up to being the ‘Plonker' of the trip, as he had neglected to fill up at Blackball or Stillwater or Greymouth, and only when he passed the No Gas For 85 km sign did he realise the position he was in.  Of course, they were able to transfer some petrol from Dick’s Norton, but the Plonker was still the Plonker.  It was a lovely coffee stop and some of the Blackball Hilton post cards were sent off.  We have all observed the growing sophistication of our eateries during the nineties.  Once upon a time, on our trips it was all pies and toasted sandwiches with steak and chips at night.  Now even the furthest outposts have panini and foccacia breads, croissants and the like.

After fueling at Westport, our route took us up the Buller Gorge.  The 63 km from Westport to Murchison follow alongside the river.  Initially the river was dark green and very slow moving.  The Lower Buller Gorge is steep-sided and well-bushed.  We stopped briefly to photograph the overhanging bluff at Hawkes Craig.  Early road-makers had carved a horse-and-wagon-sized groove through the sheer bluff.  I have a photo of my father and a friend standing beneath it on their bicycles in 1949.  The chronicle of their adventures makes great reading and one day I would like to follow their wheel tracks.

Our next rendezvous was to be at an icon for the road traveller, The Owen River Hotel, 20 km past Murchison.  It was mid-afternoon, our bums were sore and the rest and a good feed were appreciated.  This would be the end of the group as Dick and Sharon were peeling off to have a few days in Golden Bay exploring The South Island’s northern extremities, where Sharon had spent time as a lighthouse keeper’s daughter.  The Team Coach would turn off at Blenheim and only Reg and Pat would share the 6.30 pm sailing with us.

The last couple of hours were relentless, as after filling again at St Arnaud, the settlement at Lake Rotoiti, we soon breasted Top House and followed the boring, straight roads of the sprawling Wairau Valley.  This is when the benefits of a road-burner would come into their own, but Bessie valiantly did her best, putting another 450 km plus day under her 63-year-old wheels.  The misery of droning along the endless straights was only relieved by Steph popping chocolate Pixie Caramel balls in through my visor at regular intervals.  Usually accurate enough to find my mouth, she only missed with one, which I kept trapped against the front chin-piece of my helmet with the tip of my tongue for several minutes, while I resolved how I would recover this precious morsel.  Ultimately with a deft flick, a bump in the road and a bit of good luck, my tenacity was rewarded.

Finally, we rolled down the hill into Picton, and with Bessie murmuring on the over-run, I could catch snatches of singing from Steph on the back.  A couple of friendly squeezes showed she was still having gusts of happiness.  A minor drama, due to not having tickets, delayed us taking our place on the Aratere, but eventually we joined Reg and Pat in the snug little bar, where we wound down after four fabulous days.  The crossing was fun with lots of people uninhibitedly dancing to the jukebox music.  The Consenting Adults 2000 ride was over, probably our best yet!

And so the blinds came down on our little escape.  Next year ... aaah, I wonder where Jim and Jackie will take us?