The Tour Begins--Destination Fish and Chips.   Monday morning, 4 November, and we are milling around the Barrycourt parking lot loading excess baggage into the van, initializing GPSs, cleaning helmet visors, and struggling into riding gear. I'm ill at ease, for Matthew, who has an uncanny sense of direction and usually assumes the lead position, has suggested to me, "Why don't you lead today?"  The prospect of leading four other motorcyclist through Monday morning Auckland traffic has me nose down in the city map trying to memorize the turns that will take us to the main motorway headed south. Already I realize that I've made a serious error by not bringing a tank bag that would allow me to mount a street map for reference. The GPS will be little help in the city because we have only Garman's World software loaded and it lacks street-level detail.

     Ah, well, I can delay no longer, the group is mounted with engines running and looking at me. Feeling poorly prepared and mumbling to myself "mind the left," I lead the string of five motorcycles out of the parking lot, up Gladstone Road, and left at the cathedral down Parnell Road. A mile further down the street in busy traffic I've still got the group together but run smack into a major difficulty. The street I've memorized as the turn that leads onto the motorway is one way--the wrong way. I cannot make the turn and there is no suitable place to pull over with five bikes, so we continue on up the street. With my map folded away out of sight in my jacket pocket I have no clue where the find another onramp. 

     The traffic light ahead turns red and I stop, wondering what the hell to do next. A bicyclist arrives on my left.  I raise my visor and yell, "Say mate how the hell do you get from here to the M1 south?"  He notes the accent and the hint of panic and smiles, "Not a problem, turn right here and the onramp is one block just on the right".  Hallelujah, I'm saved!  The light turns green before I can say thanks.

     I lead the group onto the motorway like it was all part of the plan. We punch up the speed and head south riding in loose formation, moving in and out the fast lane traffic. I begin to relax and enjoy the ride.  Dion and Jim have never been in New Zealand and I'm pleased that I managed not to lose them in city traffic. Also I'm relieved that I finessed the onramp error and didn't blow the lead by becoming lost within the first few blocks away from the hotel. In this group such a gaff would cost a lot of beer this evening.  My, my, this might turn out to be a good day after all.

     Ten miles south on the motorway and a  mile or so north of Papakura we shoot down an offramp and begin to work our way east on country two-lane roads towards the west coast of the Firth of Thames. We're now riding along at a pleasant pace in rolling green farmland on a road mostly empty of traffic.

     We pass through several quiet villages, wind up and over a wooded ridge line, reach the coast, and turn south along the beach. A few miles further south we reach our first destination, lunch at the Kaiaua Seafood Restaurant and Takeaways. Housed in an unremarkable blue building this place has twice received awards for the best fish and chips in New Zealand, and it's true.

     We arrive in time to catch up with Tom Van Beveren who is departing with a group of first timers in tow. Tom assures us that the food is as good as when we stopped here in the spring of 2000. Dion, Matt, Harry, Jim, and I share two orders and it almost more than we can eat. The fish is light and flaky, and served with a mound of chips that is sure to extinguish anyone's grease low-level light--all properly wrapped in old newspaper, to be eaten with fingers. It's a four-star meal.

     Back on the bikes we continue down the coast and catch the road that bisects the Coromandel Peninsula, a road that is a favorite day outing for Auckland riders. The road winds over the mountains in a constant series of sweepers. We pause at the top and Dion admits "I'm beginning to think there may not be a straight stretch of road in New Zealand."

     We descend into forest through a series of curves and begin to make our way down the East Coast towards Tauranga and Rotorua where Al will meet us with our baggage.  For the final leg of the day from Tauranga to Rotorua we've decided to abandon the direct route and try a yellow line on our maps that indicates an interesting looking road running south of Tauranga over the mountains through a wide spot named Pyes Pa and ending on the north side of Lake Rotorua.  Matt and I plug in a guess for the Pyes Pa turnoff into the GPS and we're off. 

    Blasting through one of the three roundabouts exiting Tauranga, Dion, Harry, and Jim disappear.  Matt and I  make the turn onto the Pyes Pa road and pull over to wait for them to catch up. They don't. Matt and I ride back a mile and find Harry who has pulled over when he lost sight of Dion and Jim. We three wait.

Steam Vents Near Rotorua

        Thirty minutes go by and Harry, Matt, and I conclude that Dion and Jim have turned back to the main road and are making their way direct to Rotorua. Ah well, they're big boys.

     We go back and start down the Pyes Pa road which turns out to be as interesting as it looks on the map. We circle the north end of the lake and intersect the main road to Rotorua, where with perfect timing we overtake Jim and Dion just north of town, and we all ride in together, passing hissing vents of steam which give off the distinctive smell of rotten eggs caused by the high sulphur content of the vapor.

      We fuel the bikes and arrive at the motel to find Al with the room keys. We dump our gear and Dion and I drive off in the van with Al to the Air New Zealand office so Dion can shuffle an airline ticket. Somehow he has paid twice what the rest of us have for the flight from Christchurch to Auckland at the end of the trip. We explain the problem to the Air NZ agent who tells us that airline regulations do not allow the expensive ticket to be exchanged or refunded in New Zealand because it was bought in the United States. Huh? Dion, a retired airline captain, reflects a moment and asks, "Can I buy a second [cheaper] ticket here and have the [expensive] original refunded when I return to the United States"?  "Yes, and not a bad idea," he is told and a credit card later we're out the door to meet Al who has been off looking for a part to fix a bike problem.

     On the return drive to the motel Al kindly makes a detour to search up a pack of Monteith's.

     Lake Rotorua lies in an ancient caldera and the area is famous for its thermal activity. The town of Rotorua is a popular vacation spot for New Zealanders, and is in the heart of New Zealand's Maori culture. This evening a special treat is planned.  We pile onto a bus and join a dozen or so tourists from all over the world for the drive to a Maori village for a show and Hangi (feast).

     It's a bit of a tourist trap but good fun, particularly when John Paul, our group's designated leader for the occasion, is called upon to make a speech, and later when he and several other of our group are lured on stage for instruction in Maori 101--how to make your enemies weak in the knees by bugging your eyes and sticking out your tongue.

    The dinner buffet after the show is welcome after the hard days ride. Seated across the table are a young couple from Sweden who speak excellent English, and a two ladies from the States who have escaped on a lark from a management conference. They shake their heads in unison when they learn that we were motorcycling about a strange country on the wrong side of the road.

   Continued on Page 4