Cycling NZ26 - Day 12 - The Trials of Life

Good morning. A quick sit-rep before today’s thoughts….  

I’m still hacking and snorting green goo. Leg muscles and joints hurt. So was another great great idea to be kind to myself and break today’s journey again up in the hills at almost 3000ft just before the rain set in. I think i got the last room in the town. 

I’m still feverish during the night. Hacky and achy during the day. The monsters that materialise in the sleeping space between my ears when I close my eyes were particularly gruesome last night. I’m on the paracetamol now too. This cold is absolutely butchering my plan. And me!…

Aw c’mon. Whats happening here?  Am I on a cycling holiday or is someone or something testing me?  I’m a bit old to be joining the SAS and I don’t think the clergy if they would have me would really appreciate my sermons. Look what happened to Jesus for Christ’s sake!  

I hear them whispering. Crucifixion would only let him off lightly. Nah, we can’t only do that to him. Nah this man, a man who is compelled to poison us all with his preaching must be punished. We must try to break him. We must find out just what is driving him. A world full of Waynes would be a very dangerous place!

So I have to prove myself do I. To show that under this fragile blubbery exterior is [I hope!] a good heart. Go on then, bring it on! 

Firstly thank you Kathy Pathetic for introducing me to the latest strain. Yes I did see how your Malaysian au-pairs would wander around inside your high flying test tubes, fraternising firstly with the disease carriers - the Hoi Polloi. Wearing their hazmat suits and then with shared towel swabs in hand caress my lips gently with a wine or two to help so effectively spread the killer germ. 

Yes that must be where I became infected. It must. You knew that I was on a cycling holiday. Yes you did. My bike was in your hold.  Yet you still gave me the germ. Thank you!

I lay as I type with hot dry eyes and oh so painful legs. And just to say after inspecting the contents of my hankie I’ll never ever eat lemon curd ever again. 🤢. 

Yes I know I’ve got a temperature!  I have no need for a thermometer.  Cos Ma Boys are singing Swing Low Sweet Chariot, coming for to carry me home!, harmonising with Our Lass and Ma Boy every time they swing past in their skinny hammock in the cool airs around my knees!  

But to also awake the children from their deep sleep. Why did you do that?!  That’s plain cruel. Not a peep from them over recent cycling years. But oh no YOU had to cast the Charm of Making. Anaal Nathrak!  Give him his broken knees back! … and so you awoke the children in their watery tombs.

And with a thrust, YOU made Our Lass stick an ice pick into her bedroom ceiling. Ow! Feck! My effin left knee!  I fear the awakening of her twin, Ma Boy too.  He’s Baaad!  Soon to rise from his water bed with his mighty sword in his hand!  Well, he is 15 with his post puberty and newly discovered socialising problems you know…

That was not enough was it?  Oh no!  Let’s put into the mix a strong headwind on 30 degree days, into the face of a man and a square rigged bike that has not been built to sail even close.  Blown dry by the world’s biggest hairdryer. A man who now makes cracking noises every time he smiles at a pretty girl!  Still not enough??

Right let’s get clever and scramble the brains of his crap navs to be 100 percent sure that he will always set off in the wrong direction. To never know where he is going. 1000 miles of cycling is just not enough!  His tolerance to failure must be tested!

More MORE!  Which fecking square head locked the fecking link door here at the Adventure Hostel in Waimerino forcing me to walk in bare feet around the outside of the building on loose sharp granite chippins carrying a cup of boiling hot tea back to my room!  Aaaarrrgghh!!  Ooh ooh ooh!  Yes yes, I heard the rapid tapping too. Yeah there’s the fecking German in room 4. Yeah the one who could not spell his Thai boy wife's name when registering, watching me through a crack in his lederhosen. Tugging furiously.  Knocking his pinky on the glass. Taking great enjoyment out of watching the fat Englander struggling to walk back to his room.  Gahhh!

Flagellate him with the Sun!  Thrash him with the wind and the rain!  Zap his mortal coils with lightning and thunder!  We need  More MORE!!

Do your damnedest I say. I will not be subjugated nor beaten. Like Ben Hur I will survive this trial. I will conquer. Nonetheless, I will be merciful. And I will forgive.  I will be kind.  I will become a better man. 

For surely that is who I am. It’s something which just cannot be taken away….

Ask my mum. 

Ciao for now.