The next morning we assemble early and again head south under threatening skies. We stop down the road in Taupo for breakfast of scones and coffee, and outside it begins to sprinkle. At the bikes Jim struggles to pull rain gear over his leathers while the rest of us have only to zip up our Aerostich and BMW suits. As we ride out of town the rain becomes earnest. We plan to ride around Lake Taupo before heading south for the coast and Nelson. Taupo is New Zealand's largest lake and world famous for its excellent fishing.

     Twenty miles later we're plodding along in heavy rain and looking ahead at a solid wall of black thunderstorms along the south shore. We hold a hasty roadside conference and decide to abandon any attempt to ride further. We turn around and flee north and east towards the coast. Somehow I've not gotten the Darien pants sealed properly and I can feel cold wet seeping into my crotch, and the pounding rain is wicking down inside the front of my Darien jacket. As we ride my bike is buffeted by wind gusts from the storm front. I click on the heated jacket and hunker down, cold and miserable.

     We're fortunate and are soon out in front of the storm and riding in sunshine. We race ahead of the weather across the Kaiangarora Plains and into the rugged hill country north of Hawkes Bay and Napier. I'm dry again and thankful that my Sidi totally waterproof boots, are.

    We pass through the outskirts of Napier, one of New Zealand's more fascinating towns. Most of the city was knocked down in a violent earthquake in 1931. More than 200 residents died in the quake and the survivors camped on the beach for days while fire swept the city.

     When the smoke cleared the undaunted city fathers promptly hired architects to plan a new town.  At the time Art Deco was the rage here in New Zealand as much as it was in America, and the city was rebuilt almost totally in this popular style. Napier is now considered as one of the best examples of Art Deco architecture in the world. More so than any other place in New Zealand, you would swear that in this little city by the sea you have truly stepped through a window back 70 years in time.

Te Mata Overlook

     We press on south of Napier, stopping for lunch in the village of Havelock North. Then we're off to search for the road to the Te Mata Peak overlook, whose view Tom tells us is well worth the ride. It is.

Stress, stress, the stress of it all--John , Vicki, and Ron

Pavlova                                                                                         Annabelle and Matt

      The afternoon is wearing on and we scramble to meet Al Walker in the village of Waipawa (Smoky Waters) to receive directions to tonight's farm stay. Matt, Harry, Dion, Bruce and I are scheduled to be hosted at a sheep station a mile or so from the village.

     A word about farm stays--it may seem a bit awkward moving as a complete stranger into someone's home, but the Kiwis are so friendly and open that in no time you're as comfortable as visiting a favorite relative.

     We arrive at the farm to find our hostess Annabelle and the animals in the driveway to greet us. We unload our gear, pack the fridge with beer, and follow David our host on a tour of the farm. He is a small spare man with the look of someone who has always been his own boss. His pride shows in his eyes when he talks about his farm.

     Dinner at the big table is family style and features, you guessed it--lamb. Matt brings up an observation that he has made earlier in the day, "Why do we not see any black sheep?"  David explains that it is easier to dye wool black than go to the trouble of raising black sheep.

     Dessert is Pavlova (above), a traditional New Zealand whipped meringue treat to die for, named to honor the 1929 performance of the noted ballerina.

    We use our host's PC to fire off email. Dion writes home to Reno that "this farm has twenty thousand sheep and I've narrowed my choice down to two, but can't make up my mind."

     Before we depart the following morning David and Annabelle show us the wool shed where the annual sheep shearing is in progress. Professional shearers work in small groups and move from farm to farm during the season. Two men are shearing. Each pulls a sheep into the shed from an adjacent pen, flips the docile animal into position clamped between the shearer's knees, and expertly guides an electric cutter to peel away the wool, finishing off an animal in not much over a minute. Then, with a swift backwards kick, the shearer boots the shorn animal into a chute that ejects the dazed creature into the yard outside. Matt says the process we're watching "is rather like the relationship between the government and the taxpayer".

     As the two men shear, three women gather and pack the wool into bags. Even the smallest scrap is swept up to be made into felt. The work is hard and the men sweat at the task even though it's cool in the shed and we're comfortable watching in sweaters and jackets. There are better ways to make a living.

     We leave David and Annabelle waving goodbye and ride off into a brisk wind, headed today into Wellington, New Zealand's capital city. We've planned a back roads route that takes us through rolling hills dotted with sheep and the occasional farm. As the day progresses we skirt rain showers and battle a rising wind. Matthew is just ahead of me in the lead and each time I see him bobble I learn to expect a gust a second later.

     As we start up the winding road into the Rimutaka mountains that ring Wellington, the temperature falls and the wind picks up in intensity and becomes turbulent as it is channeled down the mountain canyons.  We alternate between almost calm when riding in the lee of a rock face, to suddenly being rocked by violent gusts when the road again turns into the open canyon. Rounding one curve Matt is buffeted so badly that it looks like his bike almost stops. A moment later I'm also in the turbulence wind, hanging on to the weaving bike for dear life. The gusts are like a hand beating on my chest and helmet. I've never ridden in wind as violent.

     We battle our way to the top of the pass and stop at a cafe I remember from the trip in 2000. We park in the lee of the building for fear that if left in the open the wind will blow over the bikes. Inside we drip on the table as the balding middle aged proprietor pours hot coffee and cheerily asks, "You fellows having fun"?  He tells us it's the wettest, coldest, and wildest spring in memory. Still stunned from the ride up the hill we thaw our numb fingers on the warm cups, while outside the rain is blowing sideways.

     We take advantage of a break in the rain and start down the hill. Below the crest the winds begin to diminish and the remainder of the ride into urban Wellington traffic becomes more pleasant. The Able Tasman Hotel is conveniently located downtown, a quick shot off the motorway. Happy to be at the end of a long and tiring day we stash the bikes in the basement garage and cram into a tiny elevator for the ride to the lobby. We learn at the desk that everyone else is in safely, but during the day Bruce's F650 clipped the rear of Tom's R1150GS, slightly damaging both bikes. Tom is unhurt but Bruce required a hospital visit.

Tom overlooking Wellington Harbor

     We find Bruce upstairs propped up in bed, glassy eyed from pain pills and being tended by Al. Bruce's left leg took the full force of the collision and, while not broken, is badly swollen and ugly looking. To our surprise and fortunately for Bruce, we learn that Al Walker is a trained nurse. The no travel day tomorrow will give Bruce a break to recover. After that if he's not able to ride Al will load Bruce and his bike into the van.

     Plans for dinner develop into a spirited discussion, with part of our group suggesting Chinese while others would prefer a good fish and chips shop. We start a walking search of the neighborhood and within three blocks of the hotel we see a hole-in-the-wall Chinese food place with a fish and chips sign in the window. Both are great and we will eat there again the next evening.

     Good weather for the free day in Wellington and several of the group ride north to visit a car museum. I elect to spend the day in town and visit the National Museum.  John Paul is also headed there and tells me he has tickets for the Royal New Zealand Ballet that evening.

     Wellington is compact city and one can walk almost anywhere in the downtown area in 30 minutes or less. As John Paul and I wait to cross the street to the museum entrance, Matthew rides by and waves.

   Te Papa, the National Museum, is world class. After an hour of tramping the four floors of exhibits I retreat to the museum coffee bar and, with a hot cup in hand, sink into a deep leather chair positioned for the best view of the cafe's centerpiece, one of John Britten's stunning V-1000 motorcycles. The fluid lines, vivid colors, and dramatic artistic details of the bike bespeak Britten's background as a glass blower and artist. Respected as a work of art, this beautiful motorcycle is also a seriously fast machine, and its creator is held in esteem by his countrymen as a national hero.

    Our last evening in Wellington Tom and Al have arranged a bus tour of the city, and even Bruce hobbles on for the ride. The next morning we form up in the street and parade to the inter-island ferry that will take us and the bikes across Cook Strait to the South Island.

Click the Ferry to Continue to the South Island