Test Eagles in New Zealand Part 1

Mark Woods takes us to New Zealand to ride with the folks who are behind the game-changing brand "Zerode" on their annual junket, where they explore several seldom-ridden back-country trails. Part One: When Unicorns Get Feisty

When the invitation came to ride some of New Zealand’s seldom ridden backcountry trails with a group of wily industry vets, including multiple heli drops and Oceanside lodges, I couldn't resist.

The two page itinerary read like a quest lifted from a Sinbad script. I was in.

The annual Junket was into its 13th lucky year, but was officially referred to as only Junket 14, for obvious reasons. Fate would have its own way regardless as it turns out...

‘When Unicorns get Feisty’ (every Junket receives its own working title) would offer once again, as is the legacy of junkets, a series of epic trails that run up and over mountains and deep into Kiwi jungles. Boxing my bike, I traversed hemispheres leaving behind a wet & wintry North Shore for the promise of primitive single track under a tropical sun. Walking off the plane into the heart of a New Zealand summer, I arrived in Aeteroa, land of the long white cloud...




New Zealand is a unique place, filled with dramatic scenery, spectacular landscapes and often imposing terrain. White sand beaches lay at the foot of 10 000 foot mountains, glaciers stretch in giant tongues from massive peaks to meet the ocean's tide, ferns grow to the size of trees here, while bubbling mud pits belch their sulphurous gases. The pounding Pacific carves strange forms in the eroded shores, etching bizarre creations over eons, like the Punakaiki rocks for instance, that look strangely like stone stacks of pancakes, some hundreds of feet high. The country is made up of two giant Islands, each with its own distinct character. Our journey would take take us to the heart of the wild and rugged South Island.

But before the Junket got underway, my first stop would be Rotorua in the North Island. Roto Vegas, as it's known by the locals, is an unearthly place. There are erupting geysers, active steam vents and bubbling mud pits scattered throughout town. It also has heaps of riding, including a regular shuttle bus that takes you to the flowy trails of Whaka forest, the perfect spot to get my mojo working before the Junket began. I made my way to Bike Culture, to meet up with my old friend Mike Metz and see his new shop along with co owner Rob Smail.

“Welcome Back Mate!” Mike threw me a cold Steinlager as I checked out his new digs. It was a cruisy shop, including a comfy lounge area across from the work stands. I kicked up my feet, eating a sweet curry lamb pie, laughing along with the locals, who rotated shifts having a go at the owners any chance they got. They shot it right back, all the while yanking cranks and bleeding brakes throwing high end rigs in and out of the racks. It’d been a few years since I'd been in NZ, but I remembered why I liked the place so much; it felt like home.




Talk soon turned to the Junket. Smail put things in perspective. “Maybe half a percent of riders here have ever ridden these trails.” His words emphasized the difficult logistics the routes presented. The Junket holds legendary status in the inner circle; World famous in New Zealand, as they say. Seldom ridden ‘bush tracks’, these trails were remote and untamed. For ten days, with the help of helicopter, boat and shuttle van, we would pedal ancient Maori footpaths and pioneer trails, maybe even following in the footsteps of Giant Moas. These trails, I would soon learn, would challenge the fit and beat down the unwary.

Since the junkets began, the attendees have fluctuated. The mainstay on each has been its Chief Organizer, Mastermind Peter Worrall, or Skoda as he is known to all. He holds perfect attendance. “We began a long time ago, scouring topo maps in search for the Holy Grail,” he laughs, the ever present spark of adventure in his eyes, “it’s gotten us into more than enough adventures!” Past trail planning has been a combination of scant third party reports, grandiose assumptions and overzealous conjecture often resulting in hours in the bush, searching for trails, and eventually any route off the mountain. But it has also rewarded the riders with some exemplary rides on long forgotten paths, and these would be mainstays for future junkets, culminating to this day in a deep cache of routes from which to pick and choose. In a way I felt guilty that I’d only shown up for dessert.




The Junkets are an invitation-only experience that few refuse. To be invited implies consent. To decline could very well mean it's your last. My invitation came via Rob Metz, Mike’s brother and long time engineer/racer in the Kiwi bike industry. Metz is a past National DH top three from the John Kirkaldie days, standing atop the podiums alongside brother Mike. He has designed frames for major bike brands and is presently engrossed in bringing to market his co designed gearbox bump eater, the much anticipated Zerode. For the duration of this Junket, Rob would be riding his trail version prototype.





Easily the fastest rider in the group, Metz would be the unofficial ride leader. First one into the bush on every occasion, he would set pace as Test Eagle One for the full length of the journey. I would flounder in his wake, frantically trying to keep pace as an overzealous Test Eagle Two, at least when Ritchie wasn't around. I would pay the price for my ambition on more than one occasion.




After a few days of acclimatization at Rob’s lakeside estate, now apparently with a jump track through the sheep pasture from recent reports, we made our way to the Rotorua airport. Our Junket began with a flight to the seaside town of Nelson in the South Island. In the boarding lounge, I struggled with my over packed bike box, bulging at the sides, looking like a pregnant snake. Rob casually deflated his tires, turned his bars sideways and nonchalantly wheeled his priceless prototype onto the scale. His girlfriend Alice & I looked at each other and laughed. It was typical, he seemed to make everything look easy. When he came to visit me on the Shore in the late 90s, I watched incredulously as he cleaned Boogey Man then Empress riding one of his early prototypes. It was his first time down the trails, clipped in, sans armour no less.




As we made our final approach into Nelson, the coastline was unveiled. The sinuous shoreline was pocked with countless bays carpeted with tropical greenery and crescent beaches. A backdrop of rugged peaks rose from the turquoise ocean. It looked inviting to say the least. After touch down, we made our way to Kimberley House, our Oceanview mansion for our first four days. I found Skoda in the foyer, happy as a hobbit busily organizing boxes of food, crates of wine and cases of beer. My mouth was agape at the booty. “Decadence is always in fashion!” Skoda, always quotable, and most certainly always indulgent. We would be exceedingly well fuelled throughout the journey, starting tonight, at our Kia Ora welcome feast, where I would meet the rest of the crew.

The Kiwis themselves are an intriguing lot. They are a peculiar juxtaposition; soft spoken, polite and warm, with a penchant for afternoon tea. Yet they have a surprisingly savage lust for endangerment and outrageously wicked enterprise. A reflection of their "live and let live" culture is the fact you cannot sue anyone for compensatory damages if you are injured here. Liability is sensibly at the user's risk, a far cry from the trepid culture in North America. Know your limits, then exceed them, with only yourself to blame. As it should be. Being the birthplace of bungee jumping says heaps about their lust for peril. It is a country that bore Sir Edmund Hillary lest we forget. The people, the land, the culture-New Zealand is a place that has Great Spirit, and a style all its own. It also has endless gobs of single track, if you know where to look…

As the riders arrived one by one, bikes were slowly built, beers hastily drank, tales of past rides shared and new friends quickly made, as is the culture of bike. The Junketeers were a varied group, a combination of downhillers, XC racers, adventure race masochists, record label execs, engineers and bike industry moguls. Thankfully, there were also two doctors thrown in for good measure-always a welcomed essential on backcountry sojourns should the inevitable occur. And according to junket lore, the inevitable was assured. Bloodshed and broken bones were nothing new in the history of junkets, and this voyage would prove to be no different. Paul Turner, RockShox founder, and long-time junket attendee, still holds the junket record for quickest debilitating injury, suffering a punctured lung within 5 hours of his arrival, impaled by a stick through the rib cage. The list of carnage on past excursions is exhaustive; a dislocated shoulder here, a severed leg there, countless stitches and of course, the now-legendary Stigmata Incident. The legacy of Junket carnage would continue, starting from our first day out.




The bikes ranged from sub 25 lb carbon fiber xc machines to overbuilt, near 40lb all mountain ogres (mine). Ritchie Goldsbury, undoubtedly the Kiwi version of Kramer, openly mocked our store bought bikes, giggling all the while the way he does, believing both he and his wife’s home built gearbox machines superior. Upon closer inspection, his machine looked like a post apocalyptic creation from the set of Mad Max. It was awesome. And it worked exceedingly well. Despite the heft of his unit, (which upon lifting his, made me feel better about the weight of mine), Ritchie shared lead Test Eagle duties with Metz on each of the two rides he was able to join the Junket. Those of us with heavy bikes would pay on the climbs, but we'd relish the reinforcement on the technical descents, of which there were plenty.




On our first morning, we woke to clear skies and an ocean breeze, eating bacon and eggs on the seaside deck. Departing from our front door, we'd climb to Peaking Ridge for our Junket warm up ride, as it was dubbed, for a total of 2400 feet of elevation. We were hungry to get things underway, pushing our pedals and skipping off curbs as we made our way through Nelson, returning frequent smiles from passerbys in the bike friendly town. Pedaling through streets lined with brightly painted houses and Victorian hedgerows, Tony Hutchinson pointed out a huge cement staircase he bounced down on one of the past junkets, explaining how he'd careened between the metal guardrails the whole way, leaving him bruised and bloody barely a minute from the mansion. Fate can be a fickle mistress…

Once out of town, we entered the mystical Maitai Valley, following the contours of a rushing river. It was easy to see why Peter Jackson decided to shoot Lord of the Rings here. A Kiwi himself, he knew the scenery would fit the epic tale. Sharp peaks rose abruptly on either side of us as we inhaled cool morning air climbing for nearly two hours. Rob kept us entertained with no handed wheelies while he & Ritchie shot stones at each other with a quick flick of their front tires, pinging off rims and frames alike, all of us chuckling away with every clang, keeping our minds off the big climb.




Once at the top we readied ourselves for the descent, hungry for our 2400 ft plunge. When the trail turned downhill from the rooty ridge, we dove in with all cylinders firing. It wasn't long til disaster struck. The first significant rocky steep would have its way with Gordon Mains, a steam engine of a rider with tree trunk quads, whose specialty was multi day adventure races. He was undoubtedly a masochist. Throughout the Junket, the more we suffered, the bigger his smile. Unbeknownst to Gordie and his beaming grin, he would be our sacrificial lamb of the day. Cleaning the chute, in the way his 230 lb build insists most difficult sections conform to his will, he scraped his leg upon the rocks on the loose exit. Brushing the dirt from his leg, in his own words “My fingers slipped into my calve.” He had opened a significant gash in his leg that would require stitching. Nothing new for the frequent junketeer, he took it in stride. After all, it was he who suffered the infamous Stigmata Incident on a prior junket in which the puncture wound on his hand suffered from a flight over the bars left a divot that was deep and perfectly centered in his palm. Today would be the first test of our trailside medical team, who had him gauzed, taped and ready for the descent with the stealth of a Formula One pit crew. Much to his credit, Gordon would finish the ride in charging style, riding all the logs and ladder bridges as the trail gathered speed, opening up as we charged through forests of beech on tight rooty singletrack, exiting once again into the fairytale like Maitai Valley.




As we pedaled along the river’s edge back to town you could feel the general consent. It was a fantastic first day in the saddle (despite Gordie's gash) with lots of laughs and some fine riding. Now officially warmed up, we were ready for the much larger epics that awaited us. We sent Gordie off to the hospital and looked forward to tomorrow with great anticipation. It would be our first date with a unicorn. Unfortunately, not our last date with the hospital...

Part 2 coming tomorrow, When Test Eagles get Hairy. Unicorns are not always a mythical beast. Dr. Alice and Mrs. Hyde. Things get hairy.

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