Awoke to overcast skies in the pretty little campground, the brook tinkling nearby. As we finished breakfast and I started readying the bikes, a fellow camper shook his head and pointed up, saying, “Not looking good for a bike ride today.” I laughed. “Have to try.” Hopped on the bikes.
We’d discussed what to do the night before. Baldwin street, the “steepest street in the world” would be first.
Only a few blocks from the camp site, we easily found the famed avenue. The main road ran along the bottom of a small valley, the branching grid extending up the hillsides. Baldwin didn’t look any more formidable than any other, then you realized it stepped up twice in it’s short run, the pavement giving way to concrete only 1/3 up it’s length.
Still didn’t look too bad. Since my bike had a small twist in the chain that caused intermittent jumping off the sprockets, we exchanged bikes so I could try the monumentally stupid task of biking up.
Not bad at first, I shifted into “granny “ gear and tried to conserve my energy. Every pedal stroke an effort, I could feel the tire squat and compress as I pushed higher. Standing now, I passed a group of girls coming down, who stopped and cheered me on. Pushing, pedal stroke by pedal stroke I slowed, grinding. Burning lungs, I was way out over the front tire to keep it on the deck, trying not to spin the rear as I concentrated on revolution after revolution, my vision tunneling tighter as the bright floaters began crawling into my periphery.
No! Grrr. I pushed on, calves starting to ache, lungs and back feeling the increasing strain. Unable to continue to track straight, I crept inexorably toward the curb.
It’d be so easy to hit the curb and blame it on halting you. So easy.
No!
I continued to push, specks now floating directly in my vision, ragged breaths. The rear tire scuffing audibly against the concrete, slowly angling from the safety and excuse of the curb.
Each pedal stroke a huge effort now, making balancing between lunges necessary as any forward momentum gained by the last push was easily and insignificantly swallowed by the ever increasing angle.
Finally, I could go no more. My head ached from the effort, my heart hammering away. I’d seen my heart rate at 190 in the gym before the trip, it usually makes me want to crap and puke at the same time. I’d swear it was doing more now. Those who know me know endurance is not my forte, but I can usually overcome this with sheer determination and single-minded brute force. Not this time. I stopped in the middle of the street, not even ½ way up the steeper portion of the street. Butt officially kicked.
I reclined on the grass beside someone’s driveway, trying to get back to aerobic metabolism, as I’d been deeply hurting for quite some time. Lungs raspy .
Just then a scrawny, shirtless resident came out of one of the fenced yards, where I’d seen him smoking, working on some deck rails. Easily 60, maybe more, he effortlessly strode up the hill, passing my gasping carcass.
“That’s a Sheila’s bike!” he said as he drew even. “Yep….mine…skipping gears…traded….my…wife…” I panted.
He continued uphill, saying that it was easier going if I crisscrossed the street as I went up.
Thanks.
I eventually got up, pushing the accursed bike with it’s suddenly immensely heavy bulk to the top, where Denise waited, having walked up as I gasped for breath.
I sat at the bench, waiting for the “goingtohurl” sensation to go away.
Being a gymrat in university, the sensation was strangely familiar. All you can do is put your head down and wait.
Finally, I regained enough to continue. Adjusting the brakes, I rolled down the hill, shaking my head with the ease of descending that which took so much to ascend.
Back at the bottom of the street, we rode down to the Speight’s brewery, where a well received tour occurs frequently.
The Speight’s brewery is a bit of a landmark in Dunedin. Firstly, the front facia has a tap outside, which allows anyone to come and fill up from their artesian water supply, untouched by the city and filtered through limestone, the same water with which they make their beer. 400 people a day come to the tap. They’ve estimated it takes 67 years for the water to get back to the surface here, so you’re drinking filtered 1941 water.
The brewery guy was great, friendly and knowledgeable. Speights uses gravity to make beer, the raw materials loaded up to the top floor and allowed to descend under their own weight. Nice system.
Old memories of wooden “kegs”, “gyres”… massive kauri wood fermenting vessels starting to get used again their trademark “Distinction” ale... the original recipe.
Copper vessels from Britain everywhere…
Inside some of those huge vessels....
Hops, the hop shortage also was felt here, although they have a 2 1/2 year supply stored. ( Not very “hoppy” beer here, by Pacific Northwest standards. )
The best part, at the tour’s end, we were set loose in our own taproom for ½ hour, our tour guide left, we were unrestricted in the pours/samples to try. Excellent.
Finally kicked out by our host, we got back on our bikes and headed downtown, to the famous “train station”….
As I’d seen a clipping of the opening of a Scotch bar there, apparently over 300 different scotch whiskey brands collected there, including rare/reserve bottles from tiny and/or closed distilleries. Tried a couple of 25 yr old “drams” (45cc’s, an ounce and ½).
Nice…..
Old still in the foyer...
The bar wench earning her pay trying to find he bottles I wanted.....
Hungry, got back on the bikes and pedaled back to the campground to enjoy some pan fried lamb (Denise, not so much) and wine in our cosy little van.
Sleepy, tired. ‘night.
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