The Cycle Tour

Text taken from the club newsletter.

THE CYCLE TOUR

InwhichHarrythecycletouristwiththebungkneeswhocursedclimbedandwas by HARRY SMITH

I came sweeping down the hill and there it was. The signpost. About a block long. Black letters on a white background. Lots of black letters. 85 to be precise.Taumata­whakatangihanga­koauau­o­tamatea­turi­ pukakapiki­maunga­horo­nuku­pokai­whenua­kitanatahu, it said. I pulled on the brakes and turned into the parking bay. I had made it.

Taumata­whakatangihanga­koauau­o­tamatea­turi­ pukakapiki­maunga­horo­nuku­pokai­whenua­kitanatahu. It felt daunting and hard to pronounce. It would be easier with a few hyphens, I thought. Taumata-whaka-tangi- hanga-­koauau-­o-­tamatea­-turi-­pukaka-piki-­maunga-­ horo­nuku­-pokai-­whenua-­kitana-tahu. But I knew it by heart. ‘The place where Tamatea, the man with the big knees, who slid, climbed and swallowed mountains, known as ‘Land-Eater’, played his flute to his loved one’. I had wanted to visit this spot for a long time and now I was here.

I had started that morning at the Tamaki River road- end in the Ruahines. I had camped there overnight with the trampers. They were going to walk to some hut.

I forget the name but I bet it wasn’t 85 letters long. I had cycled down into Dannevirke, then eastward into the hills, heading towards the remote east coast and the world’s longest place-name.

And there had been lots of hills. My map had 100 metre contours and didn’t show all the hills. Lots of little 40 or 50 metres hills could sneak in and plonk themselves down in between the 100 metre contours, I discovered. And there were several big hills where I collapsed exhausted at the top. But despite the hills it had been nice country, with very little traffic and some large tracts of unusual cabbage tree forest in the valley floors. And now here I was, at the world’s longest place-name.

The name itself actually referred to a hill in the distance to the west of the road. It wasn’t a very big hill. It hardly seemed to deserve such a big name. In fact, if you stood the signpost on end it would probably be taller than the hill. It seemed a strange place for Tamatea to choose to play his flute to his loved one. But then, I reflected, who was I to tell Tamatea where to play his flute?

swallowedbymountainoushillsdescribeshisvisittotheworldslongestplacename

I got my camera out and tried to take a photograph of the name but had trouble fitting it all in. I had to use my telephoto zoom lens just to see the far end of it. I walked from the beginning of the signpost to the far end and collapsed from the effort. It was that long.

Next to the signpost with the name was a smaller signpost describing the background to the name. I was disappointed to learn that the loved one referred to was actually Tamatea’s beloved brother, not his sweetheart as I had always assumed. Somehow that made the name seem a whole lot less romantic. But never mind, it was still the world’s longest place-name.

But then a twinge of doubt came over me. Call me a cynic, call me a killjoy, but is all this stuff about Tamatea actually a name? Isn’t it really just a long descriptive phrase? When does a long descriptive phrase become an actual name? To count as a name, surely you have to psychologically grasp it as a single unified whole? Can anybody claim to actually do that with this story of Tamatea?

But never mind. It’s recognised by the New Zealand Geographic Board and is in the Guinness Book of Records, and that’s what counts. I sat there basking in the sun, and in the achievement of having visited the world’s longest place-name.

Finally it was time to go. I was heading out to Porangahau on the coast to camp for the night. I got on my bike and took off down the road. By the time I reached the far end of the signpost I almost needed another rest.

Eventually I reached Porangahau and headed out to the beach. It had been a long day with all the hills. I had expected to get here at about 4 o’clock and it was now nearly 6 pm. Porangahau Beach was more built-up than I had expected—there must have been a couple of hundred houses there. But the beach itself was superb. It was long and sandy, with waves rolling in. It stretched away for kilometres to the north. And there was a free camping area under some pine trees at the back of the beach. I pitched my tent and went in for a swim, followed by a long walk along the beach.

As I was cooking my dinner in the evening I began thinking about names. Porangahau was quite a long name, but it wasn’t nearly as long as Taumata­whakatangihanga­ koauau­o­tamatea­turi­pukakapiki­maunga­horo­nuku­pokai­ whenua­kitanatahu. It wasn’t the longest name in the world. It wasn’t in the Guinness Book of Records. But then I suddenly had a brainwave. Why not give this place a new name? What an excellent idea, I thought. So I decided to call it The Place Where Harry, The Cycle Tourist From Wellington, Camped Under The Pine Trees At The Back Of The Beach And Went For A Swim In The Surf. Ta-dah! Take that! 113 letters! The world’s longest place-name!

On Sunday I headed back towards Dannevirke where I was due to get picked up by the trampers. I followed a broad valley northwards, and there were quite a few ups and downs which didn’t show up on the map, just like the day before. To make matters worse, it was swelteringly hot—the first really hot day of summer.

After a couple of hours I turned off and headed westward towards a saddle in the hills that leads back over towards Dannevirke. But the hills and the heat were getting to me. After a while I completely ran out of energy and collapsed exhausted in the shade of a tree beside the road, rubbery-legged, feeling light-headed and dizzy, completely drained. I gulped down over a litre of water, munched my way through a whole packet of chocolate biscuits, and just lay there sprawled out on my back in the shade for a good 20 minutes before I came right. But then I thought, if old Tamatea could have a place named after him for playing his flute there, maybe I could have a place named after me for having a rest. So I decided to name this spot The Place Where Harry, The Geriatric Unfit Cycle Tourist From Wellington, Collapsed Exhausted In The Shade Of A Tree Beside The Road And Gulped Down Over A Litre Of Water And Munched His Way Through A Packet Of Chocolate Biscuits And Lay Sprawled Out On His Back In The Shade Before He Came Right. Bingo! 241 letters! Another record for the world’s longest place-name!

I continued on up towards the saddle, pushing my bike up the steepest bit. At the top it flattened out, followed

‘When you have worn out your shoes, the strength of the shoe leather has passed into the fiber of your body. I measure your health by the number of shoes and hats and clothes you have worn out’.

Ralph Waldo Emerson by a superb long downhill run into Ormondville, to the north of Dannevirke. Just before Ormondville two innocent-looking bridges were marked on the map. At both of them the road dropped steeply into a gulch and climbed steeply back out the other side. Naturally neither of these gulches showed up in the 100 metre contours on my map. I dropped steeply down to the first bridge and ground slowly back up the other side in granny gear. I swooped around a sharp curve heading down into the second gully.

Then it happened. My back wheel started wobbling and rubbing badly. I ground to a halt at the bottom the gully and found my wheel was buckled. I had a broken spoke at the start of the trip and hadn’t got around to replacing it. But the strain on the wheel had clearly been too much and now I had broken two more.

Fortunately Ormondville was only a short distance up ahead. I pushed my bike laboriously up the far side of the gully and on into town. And fortunately, despite being a Luddite, I had decided to carry one of those new-fangled cell phone gizmos with me, just in case. I managed to get a message through to Anna, who was leading the trampers. Can you come and pick me up, I asked.

An hour or two later Anna turned up in the van and I loaded up my bike. But before we left I had one last duty to perform. Ormondville seemed a pretty poor and unimaginative name for this place, I thought. Surely I could do better. So I christened it The Place Where Harry, The Cycle Tourist From Wellington, Sat Relaxing In The Sun On The Verandah Of The Country Pub Appreciatively Sipping A Welcome Cold Beer And Munching A Mince Pie And An Icecream While Waiting For Anna To Turn Up In The Van And Pick Him Up (And Was Secretly Glad That He Had An Excuse Not To Have To Cycle All The Way Back To Dannevirke With The Heat And The Hills!). Now that’s what I call a place-name!