Outta Auckland and into the storm

It's day 2 of my bike trip across New Zealand, and I have a rough day ahead of me.

I've been in my hammock all morning waiting for the rain to stop so I can start my day. It never stops, so I gather the courage to exit the warmth of my sleeping bag and trudged through the mud to start riding. I still don't have rain gear, so soon I'm soaked.

I'm in the middle of Auckland suburbia, and it sucks. I encountered the only mean people in the whole year I stayed in the country. One asshole forced me to veer suddenly and I blew up my front saddle bag. I went on a side quest to get tape for my saddle bag and a mechanic helps me out. He is convinced my plan to bike around NZ is suicidal. He advises me to find a girlfriend and move in with her so I can live rent free, then offered me a job and a free mattress, but I declined.

I make it to Great South Road, the main road out of Auckland. Traffic is heavy and unfriendly to pedestrians. The side walks are narrow and end abruptly, forcing me to cross the road many times to stay on pavement. Some intersections only allow pedestrians to cross once every few cycles, and I spend most of my time waiting to cross streets. The city never ends.

To add to my misery, I keep having bike trouble. My saddle bag attachment hook fractured, my all-in-one bike tool goes missing from my broken bag, the zipper that keeps my rear bags together broke, and both my front and rear axle catches and hopelessly gets tangled in the stretchy chord of my rain covers.

I make a quick stop in a store and when I return some weird-looking guy is hovering over my bike, and he asks where I'm going.

I generally avoid pre-judging people, but first impressions are not good. He's dressed head to toe in dark waterproof overalls, the kind of gear you'd expect a butcher to wear. He's also completely covered in shit. So I cheerfully, but vaguely, respond "out of Auckland". He offers me a ride east (the direction I'm heading) and a stay in his hay barn. The offer is tantalizing, but I don't want to commit yet while I am assessing if he's a serial killer.

I meet his mom, who is also covered in shit. She noticed me on the road and thought, "I bet this guy has no idea a big gale is about to hit him". She pulled over and sent her son to offer me to stay in their hay barn until the big storm passes. We became quick friends and I took up their offer!

They invited me to sit up front, and I say that I shouldn't because I'm very stinky. She answers, "have you not noticed that we're two farmers completely covered in cow shit?"

Touche.

They move all the chickens to the couch in the back and I sit between the two. It turns out they've done a bunch of cycle tours around NZ and Europe, and are full of advice and stories.

As we're arriving at the farm, she stops in the middle of the road and had a full conversation with a very vocal bull named Maestro in a paddock to see how many bales of hay he wanted to eat that night.

I made myself at home in a shed full of hay. They told me to help myself to as many chicken eggs as I want, and I boiled about 15 a day in my little camp stove. There wasn't exactly a store nearby. I had several hens as roommates. They had dug out little nests into the walls of hay and were puffed up sitting on their eggs. I slept soundly in the hay until the cocks woke me up at 5am!

The next day was perfectly beautiful weather. So was the next. I was becoming doubtful about the supposed storm that was about to hit, but I dutifully lounged around reading my book, listening to music, and watching the chickens with their antics.

That storm arrived on the second night. The wind was howling and rain was driving in sideways. I stacked up a tall wall of hay bales to shield myself from the storm. The next day, the farm was a big mud pit. The farmers come back and I help them herd some cows. They give me yet another boost to the Miranda Hot Springs, where we had a great dip in the hot water and bid each other farewell.

After the stay on the farm, I couldn't eat a hard-boiled egg for about a year.