[syndicated by Los Angeles Times New Media, 9/99]
I'm looking at a snapshot of myself, astride my bicycle outside a New Zealand motel. I'm grinning as
I hold a hastily lettered sign that reads: CENTURY! It's a reminder of my most memorable day on wheels: the first time I
ever rode 100 miles in a single day -- a "century" in bike talk.
Touring exotic parts of the world at 12 miles an hour is one of my passions. But on this trip I was
also testing myself as I approached my own half-century mark.
Like many middle-aged Americans, I'm an exercise enthusiast, an aerobic acolyte. But I'm neither fanatic
about it nor particularly skilled. I have never won a tennis trophy, never run a marathon. My life has been spent in the
middle of the pack, pursuing sports without playing any of them truly well. Before I left for New Zealand, my biological jock
clock was ticking in a game without overtimes.
The 17-day, 700-mile, two-wheeled odyssey would be twice as long as any bike tour I had ever tackled,
and far more challenging. The route, via the subtropical rain forests, mountains, valleys and shoreline of New Zealand's
South Island, was reputed to be beautiful yet grueling. How would I measure up? Fitness dominated my thoughts during the long
flight from the U.S. Sure, I had trained. But riding in the gym or a local park is not the same as pedaling for days on
end.
On my first morning in New Zealand, my companions (13 Americans ranging in age from 27 to 60) and I climbed
aboard our rented 21-speed bikes and rode right into gale-force winds and rain. My cycling shoes were soon soaked and squishy.
My eyeglasses needed windshield wipers. I hopped aboard the "sag wagon" (support van) first chance I could get. When we reached
our overnight lodge in sheep-ranching country, I roasted my shoes over a pub fireplace.
Negative thoughts nagged at me. If I could barely handle 17 miles in a day, how could I possibly do
100?
Heavy clouds over the lake the night before [cont'd on Addt'l Clips2]
