I was totally fed up with life. I quit my job, moved out of my apartment, gave away my cat, put all my stuff in storage and left America behind me. I can't pinpoint exactly what led to this, but it was a growing sense of directionlessness and pointlessness.
One day I was sitting at my desk, in my office, in the crowded city, when I opened a magazine and saw the article that was my epiphany. It was about a guy who and rode his bike around New Zealand. He raved about the friendliness of the people and the beauty of the countryside. It could have been about Kathmandu, Xanadu or Timbucktu for all I cared. I was gone, that day I handed in my notice and two weeks later I touched down in Christchurch in the South Island of New Zealand.
That was 6 weeks ago. Here I am in the middle of nowhere pedalling alongside a vast river with the Southern Alps as a backdrop. My bike panniers are loaded to the gills with gear, my legs are tired, my back aches, I'm sunburnt – I'm having the time of my life. It is everything I thought it would be. In fact it is more. I'm so far removed from my previous life I'm finding it harder to remember who I was. Being out here by myself in the big open country has given me lots of time to think and find out who I really am. I didn't like who I was and what I had become. When I eventually return to the States, the name on my passport will be the same but I won't be.
It's the middle of February, and down here that's the height of summer. It doesn't get dark until 10pm and every day dawns sunny and warm. Well most days. This is heaven. I have lost some weight from all the riding. My legs are strong and shapely and I could crack a walnut in my butt cheeks. I've got a bit of a tan, and in all modesty it suits me. I've let my hair grow out and free, in fact I don't give a second thought to what it looks like. It really is a new me.
So there I was riding along highway 6 south towards the great lakes of Hawea and Wanaka. I was in no rush. I stopped when I wanted, rode when I wanted, camped where I wanted. Occasionally I go to a motel when I arrive in a town and have a hot bath and a good meal, but mostly I stick to myself and take it as it comes.
I was getting hungry for some dinner, so I took a detour off the main road and crashed my way through the bush down to the banks of the river. I would camp here for the night. It was a beautiful spot, the river was at my feet and the towering Alps were all around.
I kicked off my cycling shoes, sat on the riverbank and put my feet in the water. It was magic. I peeled off my t-shirt and bra and threw them in a heap by my shoes. My cycling shorts and panties followed. I had long ago lost any inhibition about being naked in the forest. This part of the country was pretty much empty, there wasn't a town within a 100 kilometres, plus I was camping off any trail. No one would find me here.
I got out of the water and opened one of the panniers on my bike and took out some soap, shampoo, shaving cream and a razor. I lit my cooker and filled a pot with river water and left it to boil.
I plunged back into the crystal clear water. The coldness rang my bell and certainly chased the kinks and soreness away. These South Island rivers are fed from the tops of the mountains and were cold to say the least, even in summer. I paddled over to the bank and squeezed a generous dollop of shampoo into my palm and lathered it into my hair, I took the soap and scrubbed my body from head to toe whilst I sat in the water.
By now the pot was boiling, I removed a flannel from my toiletries and dunked it into the pot. I tipped some cold river water in the pot to cool it down then scooped out the flannel and placed it over my crotch. No way could I shave with cold water. I waited a few minutes until my skin had softened then removed the flannel and applied the shaving cream. I hadn't shaved my pubic hair for almost a week and it was getting kind of prickly.
I had decided after the first week's riding that my pubic hair had to go. My groin got very hot and sweaty and it was embarrassing when sweat stains showed through my bike shorts around my crotch. My pubic hair absorbed a lot of sweat, no hair – no stain, simple. Once my groin was well lathered I started shaving. As any women will testify, it's a tricky business at the best of times, but sitting on a river back with my legs spread wide certainly brought new challenges. I eventually finished and cleaned up by again dunking the flannel in the warm pot water and wiping away the excess cream. Et voila, one smooth little pussy if I do say so myself. I dived back into the river for one more rinse off then got out.
I rubbed moisturiser into my legs, arms and torso. I enjoyed accidentally on purpose giving my nipples a bit more moisturiser than was strictly necessary, but what the hell. I retrieved a bottle of baby oil and tipped some into my palm. Baby oil is far better than moisturising cream when it comes to preventing razor rash. Plus the other upside was when I rubbed it into my secret folds it got me wet. I massaged the oil over my pubic mound and around my lips. My fingers danced over my clitoris and I slowly felt that little buzz start deep within me. I rubbed my clitoris more vigorously and alternately dove my fingers into my now wet vagina. I could feel my orgasm building now.
I was never lonely out here, but I am alone. I had rediscovered the joys of self-fulfilment to help ease away the day's pains and give me a warm glow. I was very close, I had two fingers inside me that I flicked back in forth like squirming pythons, I used my thumb to roughly massage my clit. Oh my God! I shrieked in delight and came. I little jet of liquid spurted from my vagina and the rest tricked down into my butt crack. I slumped back on the grass, gently working my fingers trying to prolong the dying wave of my orgasm. Now that was relaxing. I had never really been a big masturbater back home, I could probably count the amount of times I had done it on one hand - so to speak. But down here in New Zealand, I swear it had been once every day maybe even twice. As I said I was rediscovering myself. I removed my fingers and bought them to my lips and licked my dew of them. I was doing things I had never done before, nor had even considered to be normal. But cleaning up my cum covered fingers didn't faze me in the least.
I rested for another ten minutes then got up and removed from my panniers some loose fitting shorts and top and slipped them on. Hey I had too cook, boiling drops of water splashing on my skin was not my idea of fun. I ate dinner and climbed into my sleeping bag. It was only about 9pm. But I found myself getting to sleep earlier and sleeping longer. It must be all that fresh air, sun, riding and masturbating.
I awoke the next morning feeling rejuvenated and alive. It was going to be a big day. I was heading up through Haast Pass and from my conversations with other cyclists, the haul to the top of the pass was a killer, but once over the saddle it was all downhill. After breakfast I was out of there, I retraced my steps though the forest back to the main road, mounted up and was off. Another day, another piece of spectacular scenery, life was hard.
All morning I slogged uphill into the Pass. To the say that the scenery was nice is grossly understating the matter. Finally in the middle of the afternoon I reached the top and pulled over to the side of the road into a lay by. What a view! This is what I had come here for. I felt a sense of accomplishment at how far I had come literally, emotionally and figuratively. I took the drink bottle off my bike and stood at the protective barrier, swigging from my bottle and admiring the view. The cars barrelling past behind me were a distant whoosh, I was in a world of my own. I don't know how long I stood there, I was lost in the splendour.
With great sadness I remounted my bike and took off down the hill. I really built up some speed, my bike odometer read that I was doing 66 kilometres an hour. I don't know how fast that is in miles per hour, but it was bloody fast. I was flying.
"Don't move."
What the? My head felt like concrete. I tried to open my eyes but couldn't.
"Try not to move" said the voice again. I couldn't, that was the thing. I couldn't feel my arms, legs or anything. All I knew was my head felt like a concrete block, my eyes like glue, my mouth like kitty litter.
I tried to speak, failed, tried again. "What happened?" I croaked.
"You fell off your bike." Came the male's voice. "I've got a wet towel on your head, you could be quite badly hurt, you've been unconscious for some time."
Oh sweet Jesus.
"I am no expert," said the man, but try to wiggle your fingers and toes to see if you're okay."
I did as he said, and yes they were there – I think.
"Okay, very slowly move your head." I did so, very very gently. I felt his cool hands on either side of my face supporting my head. My neck felt very sore, but nothing seemed to grind or snap so that must be a good sign.
"I'm going to be sick." I turned onto my side and threw up, unfortunately on the man's arm and leg. "Sorry" I croaked.
"Don't worry about it." He eased the towel off my face and used it to wipe my puke off him. How long had I been out for?
"I came across you a few hours ago, you've been in and out of consciousness since I found you."
My head was swimming. "Thanks" I whispered.
He gently used the towel to wipe the puke off my face. I looked at him more closely using my eyes to look around instead of my head. He was obviously a cyclist like me, his bike was leaning up against a tree nearby. To the side of it was my bike. What was left of it. It was totaled.
"The near as I can figure, you were coming down the hill and your front wheel went into a deep pothole, you've flown over the handle bars and landed in the forest some twenty feet from the road. I almost went in the same hole myself, but I saw what was left of your front wheel and a saddle pack in the ditch and stopped to investigate."
"Lucky for me you did."
"I found you here unconscious, I actually thought you were dead at first. You must have just missed hitting that tree headfirst. You did however hit the ground hard. Your helmet…" He held my helmet up in front of my face, it was split in two. "Or what is left of it, took the brunt of the crash, mind you you're banged up pretty bad, your shirt is almost ripped off and your shorts are torn."
That's all I needed. I raised my head slightly and saw that he had covered me with one of his shirts. "Thanks."
"I thought about trying to flag down a ride, but I didn't want to leave you, you were in a pretty bad way."
"How can I thank you …?"
"Paul"
