Let's Twist Again...

 Mike Bodnar chooses a lesser-travelled road for a solo ride on his Royal Enfield motorcycle...

A 'buttock-clencher' approaches...

There might have been a slight frost overnight, but now, where the sun has touched it, much of the narrow winding road is dry. Except for some of the dark corners, overgrown on both sides with pines, tree ferns, or other natives, where sunbeams have yet to penetrate. Here the surface is damp, and I throttle down, changing from third gear to second, with an ever-so-slight touch on the rear brake pedal. There are some corners I take a little too fast - buttock-clenchers I call them. This is not a road for cavalier riding, so I slow down even more. There's no rush.

I'm on the Akatarawa Road in the lower North Island of New Zealand. My bike is a 2019 Royal Enfield Classic 500cc, the lineage of which can be traced back to 1901, in Redditch, England, but whose modern pedigree is based in India. It's a story as long and twisty as the road I'm on, but if we take a shortcut we can just say that after Royal Enfield Motorcycles ceased operations in England in 1970, production continued in Madras (now Chennai), India, as India had been assembling Royal Enfield motorcycles there since 1962.

It's a great success story, and today Indian-made Royal Enfields are exported around the globe, and have gathered an almost-cult status due to many of the models looking pretty much as they did in the 1960s. It's often confusing for onlookers who see the bikes outside cafés or in car parks; one of the most common questions is, 'How long did it take to restore?', or comments such as, 'Beautiful bike, looks almost like new.'

The bike: 2019 with a 1960s look - always draws attention

So here I am, worming my way along the Akatarawa Road, on my Classic 500cc single-thumper, which at first glance does indeed look like it's 60 years old. But apart from me there's nobody to look at it, as on this sunny Tuesday morning I have the road pretty much to myself. At the western end of the road, where I joined it, there's a cautionary sign advising that the route is unsuitable for long vehicles, to turn around now, and if you are continuing, not to trust GPS instructions. Consequently I see only three vehicles in the whole 25 kilometres (15.5 miles), but of course you never know what's round the next buttock-clencher, so I'm riding carefully. In my favour, the road is sealed and in overall good condition.

The road borders the Akatarawa Forest, and is lined for much of the route with lush vegetation, which, in places, overhangs the road. Appropriately, Akatarawa means 'trailing vines.' The proximity to the forest is no accident, as the road itself originally provided access for logging. In early days there were bush mills, and even a few industrial tramways to service them, though there's little or no evidence of these now.

An Akatarawa tramway in 1903

In the 1870s the route was briefly considered for a railway line, which would have linked the Hutt Valley in the east with the coastal settlements to the west, however a different route was settled on and nothing ever came of the rail venture. There is, however, as I ride through the twists and turns, a chugging noise - the sound my single-cylinder bike makes as I occasionally accelerate on those bits of road where I can see a reasonable distance ahead. The thump of a big single is one of the aspects of these bikes that endear them to their riders. It's a sound that provides more smiles per gallon.

I glance frequently at my speedo, though not to check my speed; I have another reason for taking note of my progress, and we'll come to that a little further into the ride. But speaking of numbers, the Akatarawa district itself is sparsely populated - there are only 2.1 people per square kilometre, so my chances of finding someone on the road round a corner are slim. I do wonder what 0.1 of a person might look like though.

The roadside bush hides farms and dwellings very effectively. There's the occasional giveaway fence, or a driveway tucked away in the trees, but you could be forgiven thinking that nobody lives here. And yet they must, because, well, the road: there has to be a reason for the road. I ponder what it must be like to live out here in the middle of nowhere, getting home from your fortnightly trip to the supermarket only to realise that you forgot to buy milk. I suspect those who do live here 'in the sticks' are resilient, and somewhat self-contained. Unfairly, the duelling banjos theme to Deliverance enters my head as I turn yet another leafy corner.

Not a place to forget the milk

Slowly the road begins to become a bit wider, the curves less tight, and I'm able to use third
and fourth gear more; the Akatarawa River becomes visible to my right, and I know I'm coming to the end of the valley road. Suddenly I'm in a suburb called Brown Owl, and it's time to join State Highway 2. I turn left, glance again at my speedo, do a quick mental calculation, and realise that I have to abandon my plan to head over the Remutaka Hill to Wairarapa. Instead, with a rumble in my tummy to rival the thumping from the bike, I'm reminded it's time for lunch.

I don't particularly like riding on state highways. My Enfield's top speed is not much more than 120kph (about 75 mph), and while that's not bad, it's not really what the Classic 500 is built for. However, most of New Zealand's open road speed limit is 100kph (62mph), and I don't have any trouble maintaining that - it's just that it's nowhere near as pleasurable as burbling and weaving along country roads at a more sedate pace. But I know of a place for lunch just up ahead, so that's where I'm headed.

Aston-Norwood formal gardens, my lunchtime view

Aston-Norwood is mainly a function and wedding venue, but with a pleasant café, and I find a seat in the sun overlooking the well-tended garden. Here I do some more calculations, check Google Maps, and decide on my next destination, which, of necessity, cannot be more than 15 kilometres away. Not because I'm running out of fuel, or time - I am on a mission. Which is, to be riding in an area where it's easy and convenient for me to pull over when my odometer ticks over to read 123456. Yes, a once-in-a-lifetime event is about to happen, and I want to take a photo to document the occasion. Which is why I've abandoned my planned journey over the Remutaka Hill - it would be too dangerous - if not impossible - to pull over on the side of that hilly, twisty road to take a picture.

A simple thing, but nice

So after a filling lunch of loaded fries and a drink, I find myself retracing my journey by nine kilometres, turning left at Te Marua, and heading out through a rural area called Maymorn. 

Here the roads are flat, largely straight, and clear - perfect for what I want to do. My head nods up and down as I ride, which is me frequently checking my odometer reading, and looking ahead to gauge where the Big Event will happen. Silly, I know, but sometimes it's the simplest things in life that give the most pleasure. And then I have no more than two-tenths of a kilometre to go and I'm approaching a corner with no idea what's round it, so I decide to turn around and slowly go back so that I'll be on a straight stretch for the final click-over. And then it happens, conveniently at a quiet driveway to a rural building complex. I whip out my phone, select the camera app, and shoot at least six pictures of my lovely odometer, smiling the whole time.

As I'm in the rural area north of Upper Hutt I choose to take a country detour to get back to State Highway 2, and prolong my merging with the busy road. Instead I ride mainly flat and clear rural roads, through Whiteman's Valley, and along the more twisty Blue Mountains road, which eventually winds its way smoothly down, twisting and turning, to join the main highway.

And so I head home, the late afternoon sun on my right, the harbour of Whanganui-a-Tara to my left, its blue waters barely ruffling in the light breeze. I'm finally riding top-gear territory, and feel it's almost the equivalent of giving a horse free rein after having it compete in a tight and demanding gymkhana. 

We are  very lucky in Aotearoa/New Zealand that motorcycling can be a year-round activity, unlike, say, the UK where many (most?) motorbikes get tucked up by their owners from November through to April while winter does its worst, and the road crews spread salt and grit on the icy roads. The temperature for today's ride has been about 14 degrees Celsius, with ups and downs to that on the Akatarawa Road. Some dark corners the temperature would suddenly drop, reminding me that it's technically still winter, and yet on the sunny bits the warmth was palatable. Spring is coming.

It must be over 25 years since I last rode the Akatarawa Road, and I certainly won't leave it that long again (I mean, I am 71, so if I did I'd have to still be riding at 96!). If you'd like to do the trip yourself, here's a Google Earth 3D map (above), along with one (right) showing my full journey on the day.

Those who know the region will see that I've done my best to avoid State Highway 1 and Transmission Gully. Coffee was in the sun at Pauatahanui.

Maybe I'll do the Akatarawa trip again when my speedo's about to read 234567.