On the UP

For those who have missed the headlines of the world's newspapers, and shame on you if you did, Auckland now has a plan. I know, good isn't it. And it's not just any ordinary plan. No, this one is a Unitary Plan. No longer will we have a Proposed Auckland Unitary Plan, or PAUP for short.

So what is it? Well from now on, Auckland has a plan that will guide the growth of the city. It will dictate where tall buildings go, like in the city centre, and help planners decide where larger homes - those with gardens and the like - are best placed. Like on the outskirts for example. Obvious really. What is surprising is that it has taken over two years to decide this. Two years? Really? Have these planners never played Sim City? It has certainly kept Auckland's planners and lawyers busy for two years, and far be it for me to suggest that this was the reason it has taken so long......

When I arrived into Auckland, those short two years ago, the office was awash with talks of the PAUP. Being new to both the office and the country I didn't want to show my ignorance by asking what, or who, it was. For a short while I thought the head of the Catholic Church had recently become interested in planning matters in New Zealand's largest city. 

"Oh, the Pope will help clear that up," said one planner colleague to another at the coffee machine

"I wish they would hurry up and release the Pope," said another.

"Where's Sandra?', asked another

"Oh, she's working in town in the Pope"

Eventually I had to ask and the whole matter was cleared up - and I'm glad that I did because I was very close to making an absolute pratt of myself. And in danger of offending a religious order.

Matters of religion aside, Auckland really does need a better plan then the one it had. Which was nothing. So on that basis the PAUP, or I suppose the AUP as it should now be called, it's a vast improvement. It does seem to be the very epitome of lack of foresight to build the country's most populous city on the narrowest neck of land. And it really is quite narrow. At its narrowest point Auckland, and by extension New Zealand, is little more than 2km wide, which not only presents a transportation nightmare but also makes a mockery of the country's coast-to-coast walking challenge as most people would complete the trip on the way to the shops. 

Against that backdrop, it's crazy that Aucklanders still yearn for the Kiwi ideal. Ask the average Kiwi what is their dream home and they will tell you that they want their own place, surrounded by greenery with perhaps a few chooks and sheep to complete the rural idyll. To you and I this is actually called a farm, but to a Kiwi it's a 'lifestyle block'. Presumably they would complete the picture by getting up at the crack of dawn, working until it's time to get up again and complaining about how nobody understands how hard their life is. Tscchhh, these city folk!

So the very idea of wanting a lifestyle block in the middle of the urban metropolis should seem a little....well ridiculous. Well no. And whilst there are no farms in the centre of Auckland, there are plenty of properties with significant land within shouting distance of the CBD. That's not to say that there aren't any office blocks and tall buildings in the CBD, of course there are. But I do wonder how they got there. Maybe an avaricious neighbour decided to sub-divide their property and sell some of it off to a developer? I can imagine the conversations they would have with the adjoining property as the tower cranes moved in;

"Wow, that's a big crane. You having some work done?"

"Err, yes. We're building a granny flat for mother-in-law"

"And you need a crane that tall? How big is the flat going to be?"

"Errr, no. It's going to be a bungalow....."

"So what's with the crane...Hey, you've not sold your land to one of those city developer types have you?"

"......err, no. Of course not."

"So what about that crane?"

".......errrr.....well......its......errrr......oh, it's for the shopping innit! She's going to need some help getting the shopping out of her car"

"Of course! What a great idea..... Can we borrow it?"

Property size is one thing. And that is contentious enough. You would think that, having announced the plan, that everyone would be relieved that the city would have some direction. But no. There are those that are concerned that their property will be caught up in the wave of urbanisation. And in some cases they will, but that unfortunately is the price of progress. And there are others that think they are going to be evicted whilst a multi-level dwelling is built on their land. It would take a particularly nasty planner to forcibly evict a family from their home whilst a larger capacity dwelling is constructed. Quite easy in Sim City but no so much in the real world.

And then there are the transport issues. This is where the plan has been quite clever, ground breaking even. The larger areas of population growth have been identified as those nearest transport corridors; motorways, rail lines and the like. This has mostly been greeted with appreciation of the city planners' foresight buy some didn't like the idea. Why? Well they complained that their motorway connection into the city would get even busier because of the extra people using it. When it was suggested that they could get the train they responded with a look that suggested they'd been spat at.

And there, in that vignette of interaction, is the problem. You see, Aucklanders are hooked on their cars. I know of plenty of work colleagues who would jump in their car to drive less than 1km to the shop, those who would park up 100m from the office to grab a coffee before continuing their journey, and those who shiver at the very idea of travelling with other people. You think I'm making this up? Our main client's office is in the CBD which is a short train journey away, fifteen minutes at the most door-to-door. It's not unusual for people to drive to these meetings, spend half an hour trying to find a parking spot and then complain on their return about being late and how there is never enough parking in town. Do they modify their behaviour? Of course not.

Removing parking to ease congestion and improve public transport is a contentious issue. Transport planners know that it makes sense but equally they want to see some improvments, rather that see their project get bogged down in months and months of debate, after which the removal of parking will be quashed and they and the city will be no further forward.

Auckland is trying. New train links, improved bus services and simpler fares are on their way. Ferries help shuttle people into the city from neighbouring suburbs and cycle lanes are popping up everywhere. Some of this might rub off. It's going to take a huge shift in travel behaviours and a realisation that not everyone who chooses to travel on public transport is unwashed and down on their luck. Well, there was that one time when I got a bus back from a half marathon where I was, ahem, less than clean. And a little fragrant. But otherwise public transport is quick, cheap and environmentally advantageous. Letting the train take the strain.

I'm sure Auckland will get there. It has to. Either the temptation of quick and cheap travel will pull Aucklanders out of their cars, or being stuck in traffic from hours on end, day-in day-out, will eventually push them onto public transport. And once they do, just think what can be achieved with the spare time they suddenly have! Well for a start, those chooks won't feed themselves.......

Two Years.... is a Long Time in Politics

Two years. Two. Years. It's hard to believe but we have been living and working in New Zealand for two years. It seems like only yesterday that we were stood in the supermarket wondering if $5.60 was good value for two pints of milk and if Tasty Cheese really was tasty......

It can't be two years. Can it? Well they say a week is a long time in politics so let's see how two in NZ  stacks up against the same time in politics.

Well it all kicked off with the Scottish Referendum. Whilst the campaigning was well underway before we left, the vote took place just a few short months after we arrived. Some work colleagues were astounded that we weren't able to vote on the future of our country. That's was, at least, until I explained that I wasn't actually from Scotland but England. "But you do sound Scottish," was the reply I often heard. Well I suppose I used to think that Aussies and Kiwis sounded the same so fair dinkum. Anyway, the Scottish voted to stay in the UK and a mightily relieved Prime Minister showed his appreciation by asserting his Englishness, trumpeting "English votes for English people!" or something like that. During all this, the Labour Party in Scotland was fatally wounded, partly because it had sided with a Tory government over the referendum and partly because it was a little bit rubbish. Let that be a lesson. Then again.....

Next came the General Election, the outcome of which appeared to hinge on whether the leader of the opposition could eat a bacon sandwich properly. He couldn't. But then again no one can. In fact I challenge anyone to eat any fried food filled sandwich, knowing that cameras are recording every bite, without getting at least one colour sauce down your shirt. But the die was cast and a Tory government returned to Parliament, helped in no part by the aforementioned Labour collapse in Scotland, the rise of the buoyant SNP, and the purple peril of UKIP enticing would-be Labour and Conservative voters to their cause. Which is to have the UK removed from the EU. But no one is buying that are they?.......

In the aftermath of the General Election, the leader of the Labour Party resigned and the search began for his replacement. There were many candidates in line for the role and, except for gender, all pretty much alike. Except one. Jeremy Corbyn, in a last minute rush, managed to secure enough nominations to get his name on the ballot paper. JC was a bit of an anachronism, a socialist MP in the Labour Party so presumably those who'd given him their nominations did so as a bit of a joke and to get rid of the loony left once and for all? Typically of the left wing, JC spoilt the mood at the party by gathering hundreds of thousands at rallies accross the UK and going on to win the leadership election by a huge margin. The biggest since the war. Although exactly which war was never really defined - it's so hard to tell these days since we go to war an awful lot. Maybe it's to get away from the British weather?

Take Syria for example. Syria was tearing itself apart, the causes of which are far too involved to go into in this simple blog, but something needed to be done. Or needed to be seen to be some perhaps? And what better way is there to bring about stability in a country than to drop bombs on its people. Yes, that'll do the trick. And so, after a televised debate in Parliament, the country voted once again to go to war, Hilary Benn was applauded for making a stirring speech (the main purpose of which appears to have been to remind us that he's nothing like his father and cement his reputation as the next leader in waiting) and everyone patted themselves on the back for a job well done and then sloped off to the subsidised bar for a drink. Allegedly.

Meanwhile, in New Zealand, the Prime Minister John Key decided what everyone wanted was a vote on a new flag. They didn't. But when in politics does what people want actually stop a politician from doing what they wanted to do anyway? And so, at the cost of millions, new designs were drawn up and the electorate were asked to pick one which they did.....they chose the existing one. Hurrah for democracy. Meanwhile families were sleeping in cars because of the lack of affordable housing..... Who  in their right mind would hold a referendum that no one was asking for and then be shocked when the vote doesn't go the way they were expecting......

Back in the UK the Tory right were taking note of the threat of UKIP, and longed for the days when England were good at cricket, when you could speak your mind without fear of being challenged for your dated views and for a time when the sun never set on the British Empire. To put this prehistoric rabble to bed, and to help ensure a General Election win, a referendum on the UK and the EU was offered by the prospective Prime Minister. What could possibly go wrong?

After a very bitter campaign, where each side accused the other of lying and questioning their parental heritage, the day came when the UK voted on its future. After months of incrimination and accusation, it boiled down to "should the UK remain as part of the EU or leave?". The result is now well known. But I can't help but wonder if the question should've been "Should the UK wreck its economy, devalue the pound, promote racism, remove health and safety protection from its citizens, threaten peace in Europe, enter a deep recession.... or not?" Maybe the outcome would've been totally different?

Apart from signalling to the rest of the world that the UK was a bunch of racist bigots, the referendum resulted in the resignation of the Prime Minister who, quite sensibly, wanted nothing to do with clearing up the mess he'd created. With the PM gone, the spotlight turned on those who led the campaign to leave, looking for guidance in our hour of need. Embarrassed, they looked at their shoes, fidgeted with their shirt cuffs, mumbled something about it not being their idea, made their excuses and left. With stunning efficiency, a new PM was chosen - a Margaret Thatcher MKII - along with a new right wing cabinet and the country was teleported back to the heady days of 1979. 

To reinforce the feeling that we've all been having a bad dream, and the Labour Party never really was in power for over fourteen years under Tony Blair, the Parliamentary Labour Party rejected their leader in a mass resignation. Citing he fact that he unelectable and, perhaps ironically, unable to control his party they demanded he resign. A coup was initiated by Angela Eagle, who was soon joined by a born again socialist Owen 'Who' Smith and the second campaign in twelve months for a Labour Party leader began. The choice, or so we are told, is simple; either keep the current leader, who has the overwhelming support of party members, but will never be elected as PM; or chose another leader who will never be elected a leader but someone who meets the Identikit New Labour Leader specification. To prove his critics right, thousands queued to attend Corbyn's rallies. It would take a huge mis-step on his part to damage the support he has; shouting at a baby on live TV or trying to eat a cooked sandwhich might do it. 

Meanwhile, across the pond, things were going swimmingly. Okay, I lied but I was just trying to make you feel better. After months of shouting, telling huge porkies and threatening to build walls, America took another huge step towards giving the keys to the Whitehouse to an megalomaniac with a IQ less then his shoe size. Not to mention the keys to a huge nuclear arsenal. Should people's worse fears come true, at least the last few moments of the earth as we know it will be entertaining.

Speaking of nuclear arsenals, one of the first acts of the new PM was to hold a debate on the future of Trident. It was a bit off holding the debate so soon, especially as the opposition were busy pointing fingers and blaming each other for the dire situation and letting the Tories run amok. Meanwhile the Tories did exactly that; announcing the return of Grammar Schools and trying to start a new Cold War by pissing off the Chinese and halting the construction of a nuclear bomb, sorry reactor, somewhere in Somerset. Then, just as the Chinese officials started to become indignant at the very suggestion that there was anything untoward or shady with the whole deal, a Chinese company who formed one third of the consortium was accused of espionage. I'm not making this up.

And this is all playing out against a backdrop of Europe being torn apart by random, casual terrorism. Except it's not but that's what certain sections of the media would have you believe. 

Still at least all was calm in the world of sport. I that was until Leicester City were crowned champions  of the Premier League, and as cheers from every neutral football supporter rang out, Manchester United demanded that the season be started arson because they weren't ready and didn't notice it had started.

With all this madness going on, it's no surprise that David Bowie and Prince decide to call it a day.

When we arrived back here after our trip to Europe it was with a certain sigh of relief. Yes, we missed home but being so far from anywhere does has its advantages. Yes, the broadband may be slow, there's little football coverage and you can't get a decent pork pie, but at least we're not worried about a bad tempered idiot having access to nuclear weapons, wondering what public service will get cut next or eyeing up our neighbours with suspicion. And they're Australian!

Yes it's safe to say, a lot has happened whilst we've been down here, and whilst it's not healthy to cut yourself off from the northern hemisphere for too long, sometimes, just sometimes, New Zealand does feel like the safest and most reassuring boring place to be. 

 

Secret Service

I'm not sure this blog will ever see the light of day. You see, it may have to remain secret for a long time. Hushed up if you will, on the QT and definitely, definitely off the record.

3 March 2016

Why? Well we have decided to make a surprise trip back home to attend a family celebration and catch up with people we haven't seen for a few years. Not a problem, you might think, but in the digital age where everything is shared, liked and commented upon its not that easy. It only takes the slip of a button and, hey presto, it's out there. Horse bolted. Gate unlocked. Even writing these words is a huge risk. What happens if I forget to save it as a draft and accidentally publish it? Blast, I've jinxed myself just by admitting there is a possibility I could get it wrong. What happens if something gets arsed-up, as they say in tech savvy circles, and all my drafts are published without me knowing? 

That's just the half of it. My parents are keeping an eye on our UK bank statements. It would only take the use of the wrong credit card when booking something innocent like hotels or flights for awkward questions to be asked. 

"There's an odd charge on your credit card"

"Really?"

"Yes it's for a hotel in London?"

"Oh!"

"Your card must've been cloned"

"I guess so......"

Then I would have to go through the charade of cancelling my credit card, and rebooking everything. You see it's a huge gamble, and a reminder why I would make a rubbish spy. I'm sure James Bond or Borne would take it all in their stride but I'm a nervous wreck.....

4 June 2016

We're now five weeks out and so far, so good. All booked and so far the cover is not blown. I nearly slipped up a few days ago. Our YHA membership cards had arrived in the post to my parents' house, courtesy of the Royal Mail redirect service, and my Dad offered to send them to us. "No, it's ok we'll pick them up when.....errr yes please that'd be great". Disaster averted. I think. To blow it now would be a real shame.....

24 June 2016

What the hell is going on in the UK? Shit, I hope the borders don't close before we get there.....

2 July 2016

We've just uncovered a problem. Plug adapters. Which ones do we need? We have a mixture of UK and NZ plugs and will be calling at, as well as the UK, France and the US. The idea was to travel light to leave enough room for new clothes. At this rate we'll have a bag full of plugs.....

7 July 2016

I had a bit of a wobble tonight. Surely lying to your parents is a bad thing? Technically I haven't lied, I've just not told the whole truth. But it amounts to the same thing doesn't it? And then there is the fact that by not telling them in advance I'm denying them the opportunity to get excited by our visit, however brief it is going to be. And what if they are not at home when we pop by? 12,000 miles is a long way to go to turn around. Hhhmmm.

8 July 2016

Last day in work for nearly three weeks and it's the usual hectic finish - trying to get enough done so the wheels don't come off whilst we're away. And a lovely surprise from admin - a going away cake! How thoughtful and a lovely gesture. If we were in the UK I would be concerned that it was to celebrate three weeks without us....but Kiwis are so lovely that I know that won't be the reason.....

9 July 2016

I'm definitely going to hell. As we're going to be 'offline' for a week I thought I'd ring. 

"Are you up to much this weekend?" my Mam asked

"No, not really - quiet week at home"

Surely lying to your mother is one of those 'straight to hell' moments. Little did she know - because I had deliberately not told her - was that within 12 hours we'd be travelling 12,000 miles, towards the northern hemisphere.

10 July 2016

Well, we've finally arrived back in Europe. Which is more than can be said for our bags - they went missing in San Fransisco during the transit. "Oh, this happens a lot" said the woman from Air France and with a typically Gaelic shrug, filled in a claim form,  "You should get them back....maybe 48 hours?". I don't know much about air travel logistics, but if bags go missing a lot then perhaps the system is not working properly? Anyway, we were far too tired and smelly to put up much of a fight, and it wouldn't have made much of a difference anyway. 

Begrudgingly, we got into a taxi and headed into the city. "No bags?", the taxi driver asked......and immediately wished he hadn't!

Jesus, I'd forgotten how mad driving is in Paris. There are cars everywhere and seem to arrive from every angle and at high speed. If they drive like this in New Zealand there would be carnage. Well more carnage than there already is! The taxi driver was certainly taking no prisoners - taking the Luc Besson movie far too much to heart - we were just happy to get to the hotel in one piece.....

11 July 2016 3am

Jet lag is a bitch. Wide awake but still no bags.

11 July 2016 5am

Still wide awake but good news! That missing bags have arrived in Charles De Gaulle so presumably we'll get them this afternoon. Hurrah for French efficiency!

11 July 2016 5pm

We've had a great day, wandering the streets of Paris, sipping coffee in quiet back streets, oh and shopping. The need for clean undies far outweighing the need to see the Eiffel Tour. But no bags! Surely it can't take 12 hours to deliver two bags from an airport that is less than 20km away? Time to ring the helpline....

11 July 2016 7pm

Helpline? I think the first thing a helpline should do is actually be helpful! Air France don't have a clue when our bags will be delivered, probably before we leave for London in three days time but they can't guarantee it? And no, we can't go and collect them in person. Sarah has just accused Air France of robbing our bags - not far from the truth. I think it's because we're not French, although I've been told that's slightly racist. Racist or not, two days in Paris and I'm beginning to understand why Brexit might not be a bad idea!

12 July 2016

Took a train to Versailles and joined the rest of the tourist population. It was awful, mostly anyway, as we shuffled around a stately home in searing heat. Luckily we're not claustrophobic. It was a relief to get out into the gardens and enjoy the space....helped by quaffing a bottle of Bordeaux over lunch! Hopefully our bags will arrive tonight.

UPDATE: OUR BAGS HAVE FINALLY ARRIVED!! They were delivered by courier at 10:30pm. Stop the clock...... It has only taken Air France 41 hours to deliver our bags the 20km from the airport. Absolute shower.

13 July 2016 11:30pm

It wouldn't be correct to say it was the only reason we made the trip, but it certainly helped justify the expense..... just back from the Bruce Springsteen concert! I don't know how he does it - three and a half hours without a break! It was fantastic and great to see him in a (relatively) small venue. Now I have to try and get to sleep and be fresh enough to tomorrow to catch an early train to London and our first of two surprise visits.........

14 July 2016

Back on English soil for the first time in nearly two years and what a strange feeling it is. Sights that look familiar, but seem out of place at the same time, speed past the train carriage window. How can I be feeling apprehensive, nervous and exhausted at the same time?

After checking into our accommodation, we had a quick shopping trip in Basingstoke town centre - desperately scanning the crowds to make sure we didn't accidentally bump into anyone we know. Then, at 6pm, we decided to casually walk to visit our relations.......

They were chatting to a neighbour in the street as we approached. "Hi Cathy!"......

What a great reaction! Sarah's sister was speechless, her husband aghast and we got huge bear hugs from our nephew. 

Mission accomplished.

17 July 2016

Decided it was time to speak to my parents so called early this morning. "Hi, have you got any plans this week?" I asked.

"No, nothing much" came the response

"Good, can we pop by for a visit then?" I asked.

Laughter was not quite the response I was expecting then I realised that they thought I was joking. 

"No, seriously, we're in the UK so can we come up?"

Confusion soon gave way to smiles and travel plans were agreed. We'd arrive back in Northumberland at 11:10

"We'll explain everything tomorrow. Promise!"

Fifteen Minutes

Was it Andy Warhol or Kirsty MacColl who said something poignant about fame? No, I can't remember either. It's surprising how easy it is to get those two mixed up.

Anyway, whatever it was, I rather suspect that my fifteen minutes has been and gone. Did I enjoy it? Well it was a nice surprise - a bit like putting on a coat you haven't worn for a while and finding a lolly in the pocket. Unsucked obviously.

What am I talking about? Well, unbeknownst to me, the Rotorua Half Marathon organisers had chosen to use a photograph of me from last year's race as the promotional picture for the 2016 event. I know - mad.

I first became aware when Sarah showed me her Facebook feed and there I was, beaming from ear to ear in my bright orange Stirling Sport Half Marathon vest (it's really comfortable - honest!) . I first assumed that there was some clever algorithm at play - one that chooses the promotional picture of a Facebook friend to encourage other to enter. Pondering on this theory on the way to work, I'd decided that it would be far too difficult to achieve. How did they link the participants race number to a Facebook account? There are some clever programmers out there, and social media is creeping into every facet of life, but surely this would be too large a step?

The answer came within a few minutes of arriving at my desk when a colleague piped up "How are you on my Facebook feed?," before adding, "It is you isn't it?". And with a quick flick of his wrist, I was face-to-face with my image once again. So it was true then, I was an internet sensation. Who'd have thought it. At my age!

Comments generally fell into one of four categories;

1/. Did you do this yourself? 

2/. Did you enter a competition?

3/. How much did you pay?

4/. Oh, I didn't know you'd won the race!

I don't know whether I should be offended that people thought I'd take the time to mock up a fake advert, or that I'd be so vain to enter a competition to have my image used for advertising material. And the fact that I'd pay for it was quite frankly ludicrous - obviously they don't know that I have Yorkshire heritage. I do, however, quite like the thought that they thought I would be good enough to win the race. Maybe one day?

As far as the photograph goes, I remember it well. I had recently reached the highest point on the course and was running back through the Redwoods - a stunning spot and definitely worth a visit - and although there was still nearly 10k to go, it was pretty much all downhill from here. I was riding a wave of euphoria, or maybe exhaustion, when I saw the photographer and out went the arms. 

It's a great shot, if I do say so myself, especially when most of the other pictures taken of me whilst running make me look as if I've lost control of my limbs, whilst simultaneously taking part in a gurning competition.

My only regret with this brush with fame is that, had I known, I might have made a bit more of an effort. Chosen smarter running gear, had a quick refresh around the corner or done something with my hair?  Okay, maybe not the last one, but certainly a less orangey top wouldn't have gone amiss!

A Virtual Breakdown

You know you're have gone too far when the reason you can't get 'out' on your bike is because the server is down. If even typing that sounds ridiculous, then the truth is even more so.

Of course I don't blame myself, but instead direct my ire at the careless drivers of Auckland. With the days at their shortest, and the city plunging into darkness at 5:30pm, two options face the slightly-keen cyclist. Either get lights and run the risk of being mowed down or retreat to somewhere safe. Not wanting to do battle with traffic - God knows I've witnessed enough near-misses in daylight to know that cycling at night is only asking for trouble - this year I've decided to invest in a bit of technology and retreat to the safety of the garage. And why not? It's well lit, dry and devoid of nutters in steel boxes. 

So with a bit of faffing around..... Okay a LOT of faffing around.... I was all set and ready to take the plunge into the world of virtual cycling. With the training gizmo wirelessly linked to a laptop I would feel every undulation and hill of a virtual course. Want to take a trip down Langdale Valley in Cumbria? No problem, just search for a suitable route and hop on. How about Lauterbrunnen in Switzlerland or test your legs against an alpine climb? Easy. And all while you watch a rendered virtual world, or if someone has taken the time to video the route, a helmet camera view. And it doesn't end there. Want stats? You got 'em. The laptop screen is full of them; heart rate, rpm, speed, slope, distance elapsed. And, yes there's more, if you're finding this virtual world a little lonely you can hook up with other riders and enjoy the virtual company of another cyclist whilst you tour the back roads of France. But without the smell and the endless talk about gear ratios.

Or at least that's the theory. Initially it was more head scratching than pedal turning. 

"Why won't the training unit recognise the laptop? It's there - right in front of you for goodness sake!"

"What do you mean there's no wireless network? Of course there is! Look my phone's found it so why can't you?"

"Shite, the battery's died on the laptop!"

"Bollocks, the power lead won't reach the power socket!"

After a lost hour of training, I was underway and off around Central Park in New York for my maiden journey.

"Bloody hell I'm too hot. Why am I sweating so much Oh, hang on a minute! I don't need to wear this helmet! Idiot! Right where was I? Blimey, this is hard work. Oh, here comes a hill......"

It was a revelation, and even if the wifi signal in the garage wasn't quite strong enough to get the helmet-cam movies to steam properly, it was a vast improvement over staring at a wall and definitely better than inspecting the underside of a truck. 

That lunchtime at work, I found myself browsing the available routes with the glee of a child in a sweet shop who has been given their parents' credit card, furiously saving them to my favourites. I had become a virtual tourist and tonight I had opted for a quick spin through Colorado before heading to my old stomping ground in Darlington. It was going to be great.

Thankfully my meetings all ended on time and I set off towards home, the Rockies and County Durham, even catching the bus to get there more quickly - the irony of which was lost on me in my haste to start cycling. 

Within minutes of arriving home, I was changed and setup ready to go......

'The server is offline whilst we undertake some important maintenance. Back soon'

"Nnnnooooooooooo".

I waited. Five, ten, fifteen minutes but still nothing. I was dressed up but with no party to go to. Virtually stood up. What were they doing? Twenty minutes and still nothing. It was getting lonely sat in the garage. And cold. The server eventually came back on line an hour later but by this point I'd lost the motivation. The Rockies would have to wait. I can say with absolute certainty that this was the first time that I have not been able to ride because of a server failure. I can also say with equal certainty that it won't be the last. I guess one of the perils of being at the forefront of the time zones, is that server maintenance is going to happen, more often than not, during our waking hours.

Well it's a small price to pay I suppose. I have been back in the saddle since the breakdown and, whilst I can't say I've enjoyed every minute of it, it certainly helps fend off the boredom and helps keep things a little interesting. In fact, other than the real thing, it's almost realistic. The only thing missing is the opportunity to stop at a cafe for some cake and tea. But that could be arranged. I wonder if Sarah would oblige? I'll have to ask.....but then again maybe I do fancy my chances against a truck after all?

Best laid plans

I like to think that I am good at planning things. It is, after all, my job. And there is plenty of empirical evidence, you know actual hard facts, to back up this rather boastful claim.

There are, for example, countless examples of trips away with mates where I have come up with the idea in the first place, sorted out travel arrangements and practically packed people's bags for them. Yes, there was that incident where, having done all of the above, I forgot to take my wallet. But I like to consider that as an isolated incident and besides, it could've been a lot worse. At least we were only in Oslo and not the Amazon. Not a that a credit card would've been much use in deep jungle but there are McDonald's everywhere. Right?

So planning is my thing. Or at least I thought it was until today.....

It was an easy enough mistake to make. Being Sunday, the day most runners go for their long run, we'd arranged to meet a friend at a nearby station. In fact the station closest to their house and only a short twenty minute journey for us. From there we were going to do a gentle 18km run around Onehunga ending back up at the station. Simple.

The train was slightly late, but only a couple of minutes or so, so I was still convinced we would be there first. Let's say promptness is not on everyone's priority list. As the train pulled into the station I saw that my predictions were correct. No friend. It was then I realised my mistake. I didn't specify where in the station and this particular one had two separate platforms. Doh! Never mind we'd just check them both out....

Empty. Both of them. "Typical," I thought to myself, "I'd better check my phone to make sure she'd not backed out and decided to have a lie in."

But no new messages. "Hhmmm," I pondered, "I'd better check the original message to make sure it was 9am...."

"Oh!," I quietly exclaimed before promptly going quiet.

"What is it? Is she ok?"

"Errr she's fine, she's just at different station...," I replied, my voice trailing off.

"Well how's that happened?" came the response. 

Before I explain, it's was an easy mistake to make. Especially when you consider that, before selecting this route, I had a number of different options and permutations in my head. When you look at it that way, I'm surprised I only got it a bit wrong...

You see, and I'm sure she will see the funny side of it eventually, I simply got Penrose mixed up with Panmure. I know, virtually identical aren't they! Both start and end with the same letter. And hey, they even both have an 'n' in there as well. It must happen all the time! It's just a shame that Penrose, where we were supposed to meet, happened to be a five minute walk from her house and Panmure was a good 5 miles away. As the crow flies.

No matter, this could be fixed. I was a project manager after all. After a quick call and email to let her know we were fine and not to worry, we jumped on the next train and headed up the line to where we could catch a connecting train. We'd be there in no time. Yup, a quick change in Westfield, hopefully with time to grab a coffee or light snack, and we'd soon be at our new alternative destination. 

Unfortunately Westfield station didn't quite have the facilities we were hoping for. No cafe, not even a snack machine. In fact whilst we're on it, no seats, shelter or toilets. It was so basic I was actually surprised that there was a platform and that trains actually stopped in preference to getting you to alight by jumping for your life. Westfield, and I'm being generous here, was nothing more than an afterthought of a station in the middle of an industrial estate. For those who have had the pleasure of travelling with Northern Rail, think Allens West but without the character.

At least we wouldn't have long to wait.... 

But we would. This was New Zealand on a Sunday. The next train was not for another 45 minutes. There was nothing for it. We'd have to call a taxi. At this point our concern for our stranded friend had waned and we were more than a little concerned for our safety. Not from physical violence, you understand, but from being flattened by one of the many heavy goods vehicles that were scooting around, seemingly oblivious to two oddly underdressed people loitering on the street corner.

Our concern for our own wellbeing was heightened further when the taxi dispatcher stated she hadn't heard of such a station adding, "Are you sure - is there a platform?" After finally establishing that I wasn't deranged or sending them on a wild goose chase for the hell of it, a taxi was duly dispatched and it would be there "Within five minutes". Predictably, the taxi arrived just as the train pulled into the station. 

Another running route was hastily arranged en-route, along with a dozen or so grovelling apologies and mental note of the nearest accident and emergency centre just in case I needed to get a Garmin watch surgically removed. But being such a nice person I wasn't greeted with a barrage of expletives but with apologies; for not realising I was an idiot and for not suggesting I'd got the stations mixed up. I know, remarkable.  

"I did think it was a bit random!," she said before adding, "It's not the easiest place to get to."

I was about to comment that at least she had a shelter for her hour wait but thought better of it. I was quite attached to my Garmin watch after all.

Fortunately the new route was a success and although not half as convenient as the original, once we'd left the busy highway, we were treated to a serene run along Half Moon Bay. Plus an opportunity to nick some lemons and oranges from an abandoned tree. Or at least it looked like it was. Honest. Victory was definitely snatched from the jaws of defeat.

I'll let you decide the moral of the story; whether it's don't accept instructions blindly, always have an exit strategy or all blokes are idiots - even those who seem to know what they're doing. I'm sure you'll have an opinion, although I rather think it'll be the latter.

Numb

I'd forgotten, I really had. But more fool me because the signs were there but I chose to ignore them.

It really should have hit home when we set off from Raglan, the air was cool and the car windows were covered in condensation. But no, I was still oblivious to the fact that the clothing I was wearing was wholly unsuited to the climatic conditions. We continued our journey inland, climbing over the hills to the east of Raglan and started our descent into the mist-bound Waikato bowl, as it often is early in the morning. The mist blanketed fields and forests were stunning to look at, like something out of a Hans Christian Anderson fairy tale. Stunningly beautiful but stunningly cold. 

It took a dashboard light to make me finally make the connection, but it was a slow realisation. At first I thought that there was a mechanical fault with the car. I'd never seen this warning symbol before and with most of the surrounding text in Japanese it was far too difficult to decipher. And besides, I hadn't had my morning coffee so was not up to logical thought or technical analysis of the car's dashboard. But there in the middle was a digital, pixelated ice crystal. If that wasn't clear enough then besides the flashing display there was a zero. Yes, the temperature outside was officially freezing. Could it be right? Surely it isn't that cold.....

Thirty minutes later I found out the hard way and realised the true nature of my mistake. I was about 500m into a 5km run and I could no longer feel my nose, fingers and my toes were a distance memory.   I definitely hadn't run in anything like this cold for over two years and I'd forgotten how much it hurts - each icy breath I took was a painful reminder that I'd gotten far too complacent. 

As the route turned the corner and crossed the edge of the lake on a boardwalk, the cold foggy air enveloped my legs and I suddenly felt under-dressed and a little bit exposed. I even had to glance down to make sure I'd put my shorts back on after a visit to the loo shortly before the run began. "I was in a rush, after all, I thought to myself. Maybe the cold had fuddled my brain....". I began to reason that someone surely would've told me if I hadn't....and then stopped. This was New Zealand and, sure it would've been seen as a little odd but she'll be right. Thankfully I hadn't made a clothing faux pas and I was wearing shorts. Not that it felt like it mind.

It took another two kilometres before I started to feel comfortable and suitably warmed up. The air was still cold but the sun had finally burnt through the fog and was starting to warm everything up. I was reminded of a conversation with a tour guide on Waiheke who claimed "I'd die if a snow flake fell on me" and started to understand his point of view. It wasn't snowing, that would be a cataclysmic event, but it was by far the coldest I have experienced for a long time. 

The weird thing was that I missed it. For a little bit anyway. I guess it's easy to miss something painful when you know it's only fleeting. I knew that, once the sun had got its arse into gear, the temperature in the afternoon would be back into double digits and I'd be on the beach in shorts and a t-shirt.

I have resolved to not be so complacent in the future, take notice of the weather before setting out and put some gloves in the glove box of the car, that's what it's for right? A perfect place you might say. Right next to the sun screen and mosquito spray.