This evening I am sitting in my wet frosty tent crossed legged inside my sleeping bag with my bike light torch in my mouth. My rained soaked figureless gloves are challenged to keep my fingers warm enough to type. I am also typing this really fast because my computer battery is frozen and about to grind to a quick frozen halt. It has been drizzling with rain daily and freezing up at night since Invercargill at the bottom of the south Island of New Zealand. Each morning my frosty tent and super warm sleeping bag beckons me to dream another dream.
Today I cycled along a dirt road that dead ends on the water on the south side of Queenstown. Mountains have been hugging me all day as I scribble Pandemic round and round down the dirt path. Listening to music has become my crutch and my cycling rhythm has become more of a dance. A dance that will no doubt eventually lead me into crashing into a ditch but for now with a captive listening audience of many cows and sheep, I sing and dance on, happy to be finally heading north to warmer climates before the onset of a rainy cold winter.
This is the New Zealand I had imagined. A spectacular mountainous backdrop highlighted by rivers, the picturesque perfect location for my opera debut. The road was washed out today in two places. The first river crossing Pandemic and I rolled and splashed through the trickling brook in a rhythmic tango while singing to my new tunes. The second river crossing was beckoning to take me and Pavarotti the musical magic bicycle for a cold wet last dance. Therefore I removed my dancing shoes and pushed Pavarotti the musical magic bicycle through the water, the current peculated with a crisp sopranos’ harmonic good morning. This road has quickly become one of my all time favorites. I did not see anyone for about 70 kilometers and at the end of the Congo line I found a restored early 1900’s steamer boat to transport me across the Lakes into Queenstown. The snow is accumulating up high on the mountains and every other person I have met in Queenstown is waiting to go skiing. It is time to Macarena my way to the north western side of the Southern Alps mountain range before Pavarotti the musical magic bicycle and I bellow ourselves into a ditch while peddling and singing in an ice storm.