A Body in Motion

I had never been on a mountain bike, much less an e-bike.

My husband Richard and I were on holiday in New Zealand.

When rough weather forced cancellation of our flight over the Southern Alps, Richard suggested we e-bike a nearly fourteen-mile trail from Arrowtown, a quaint gold rush town settled in the 1860s, to Queenstown.

Hiking in New Zealand had quickly taught me that the Kiwis’ definition of “easy” was not quite mine. At home on Tybee Island, I ride my rose-colored, wide-bottomed Walmart cruiser. I pedal around the flat, mostly paved roads looking like Miss Gulch in The Wizard of Oz.

I was not excited about biking. My 70-year-old body had been repaired several times over the years. I had made a bargain with myself, however, to say “yes” when my brain wanted to balk.

“Okay, honey,” I said to Richard. “But I read that the trail has some steep sections, and that you ride on the road with cars. My brain is already bent by the driving-on-the-left-side thing.”

“That’s why we are renting e-bikes,” he replied, giving me a hug. “The turbo setting powers you up the hills.”

“But I’ve never been on an e-bike before.” My tone was slipping into a whine.

“Come on, it’ll be fun!” Richard said.

So. We rented e-bikes.

Jake, our young bicycle wrangler with a delightful British accent, loaded his trailer and drove us to Arrowtown. Along the way, he pointed out our route past rugged mountains, budding vineyards, upscale golf courses, and the historic one-lane Edith Cavell Bridge.

“Wait,” I said, putting my hand on Jake’s arm. “Where’s the bike path on the bridge?”

He laughed. “There isn’t one. Pick a car going in your direction and follow it across. The path starts up on the other side.”

My mouth dried out like day-old bread.

“Just use the middle gears and keep pedaling,” Jake said after unloading us and offering a quick tutorial. “Call me if you have any problems.”

And off he went.

Richard and I strapped on our helmets and wobbled toward the gravel path, experimenting with the different power settings along the way.

The unpaved Wharehuanui Trail reminded me of the dirt road at my childhood farm—which was a quarter-mile obstacle course of potholes, ruts, uneven stones, and broken concrete blocks. As I now pedaled unsteadily, I recalled a stunning spill.

I was nearly 13, about to ride my 24-inch blue Huffy bike.

My sister Sheila, four years older than me, was in charge.

Sheila was all tomboy. I was 100% nerd.

“Go!” Sheila said, her strawberry-blonde hair glinting in the summer sun. “Watch out for the rocks!”

The bike swayed, but I soon found my balance. The wind tugged at my hair. The smell of freshly tilled soil filled my nose. This was starting to be fun!

At the end of the road, I turned around and saw Sheila cheering and waving her arms. As my confidence grew, I decided to rough ride over the chipped concrete blocks.

The bumps made my teeth chatter. Without warning, the front tire reared in the air. I pulled both brakes hard, jerking the bike to a full stop.

A body in motion remains in motion.

I flew over the handlebars and tumbled onto the concrete. My bare left leg began burning.

“Are you okay?” Sheila yelled out, sprinting toward me.

“I don’t know,” I said. My entire body was trembling.

I limped back to the house, sharp needles stabbing my leg with every step. My left leg—from knee to ankle—looked like raw hamburger.

At the time, I sported hobbit-like furry legs and feet. Now, the hair on my legs was matted and sticky.

“We need to clean you up,” Sheila said, guiding me to the bathroom.

My leg throbbed. She helped me sit on the closed toilet seat.

Sheila examined it. “This is going to hurt,” she said.

She retrieved a pile of supplies: a washcloth, soap, Mercurochrome, Band-Aids. And a razor.

“I don’t think we have a choice. I have to shave your legs. The hair is way too gummed up.”

The room was whirling, and so was my stomach. With three older sisters, I understood the drill about shaving legs, putting on makeup, and going to bed with hair rollers.

But I was still firmly in kid-dom.

I liked my brown hair tousled and unruly, like Misty of Chincoteague’s mane. I liked my feet bare and dirty like Huck Finn’s. And I liked my undershirts and pull-on elastic band shorts—and fur on my legs.

I wasn’t ready.

“On a positive note, Wendy, you can start wearing pantyhose now.”

The dam burst. Hot tears spilled down my dirt-stained shirt, mixing with watery drops of red on our pink-tiled bathroom floor.

A jolt from loose gravel slipping under my bike tires pulled me back to New Zealand. You got this, Wendy, I thought.

The trail wove across hills covered in new spring grass. Ancient rocky outcroppings rose from one side of the narrow path, and a sheer drop-off to valley fields below formed the other.

If that didn’t keep a lump in my throat, the tight hairpin turns certainly did.

Aquamarine streams gurgled under metal-gridded bridges, and everywhere, the tussock high plains stretched out, filling the air with their musky scent of peat.

Below us, Queenstown crowded the shores of turquoise Lake Wakatipu.

We stopped for a rest and a drink at Gantley’s Tavern, just steps off the trail. We snapped photos of tiny lambs that seemed to pose for us, ears perked and tails wagging, their mothers close by, keeping watch.

Richard and I remounted our bikes. The one-lane bridge was coming up.

Richard led the way, following a Mini Cooper moving in our direction. I pedaled hard and switched to turbo. The glacial water of the Shotover River roared under the bridge, but I kept my eyes fixed on his back.

Holding my breath the whole time, I made it to the other side and let out a long sigh. All downhill from here.

On the last leg of the trail, I heard a bell dinging just as a 10-year-old boy in a teal shirt whizzed past me. He turned around and grinned. He was probably taunting his family, but I took the bell ringing personally.

I pressed my bike’s turbo button and pedaled faster. Within a few seconds, I sped past him.

Heart pounding, I laughed. He waved, a shock of sandy-colored hair falling into his blue eyes.

I crossed the highway. Two orange cones sat on the path in front of me. I switched from turbo to eco mode.

But not soon enough.

As I approached, I could see deep gullies carved into the trail. Turning my handlebars to avoid a rut, I instead steered the front tire dead-on into a raised edge. The bike stopped abruptly.

My body kept going. I hit the ground. Hard. As I lay there, I realized my left leg was again the injured party, along with my left arm and chest. Did I crack a rib?

 “I fell!” I shouted to Richard, who turned back toward me.

The 10-year-old, now reunited with his family, reached me first.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” he asked with an Australian accent.

“Did you see that spectacular fall?” I asked in my flat American one.

“No, ma’am. I just saw you on the ground,” he replied earnestly. “Do you need any help?”

“No, sweetie, I’ll be fine,” I said, now standing and dusting off the dirt. “But thank you for stopping.”

A lamb bleated. The sun, now lower in the sky, sent long shadows across the buttercup-covered ridges.

“You okay?” Richard asked as he pulled up.

“My chest aches, but I’ll be fine,” I said.

Richard said, “I’m glad you’re all right.” He paused and looked at me. “You’re going to write about this and blame me.”

“For sure!” I replied.

I took a deep breath and immediately grimaced. My left knee stung.

I remembered I hadn’t shaved. My leg was probably a hairy, bloody, matted mess.

I pulled up my left pant leg to inspect the injury. Crimson drops stained the scar left from my childhood bike accident. But this time, sparse, wispy hair lay unfazed on my bruised shin.

Smiling, I got back on my bike.

Wait ’til I tell Sheila.

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Check out other travel stories: Dirty Laundry or Hometown Hero or Where the Rio Grande Roams