New Zealand: Otago – Rail Trail Cycle

🚴 Day One – Ambition, Anxiety and Questionable Decisions

Neither of us slept especially well the night before we started. It wasn’t the bed. It wasn’t the weather. It was that low-level, middle-aged anxiety that creeps in when you’ve signed up for something energetic and faintly out of character. We both lay there pretending to be asleep while mentally rehearsing worst-case scenarios. I hadn’t done any serious cycling in years. The last time I’d shown real enthusiasm on a bike I had promptly parted company with it during the pandemic and ended up in hospital with a head injury. It’s remarkable how the brain remembers that sort of thing in vivid detail when you’re trying to drift off peacefully. Karen, meanwhile, was worrying about distance, hills, and whether her ribs — still not entirely convinced they were structurally sound — would object violently to several hours in a saddle. By breakfast we were both mildly tetchy, under-caffeinated and pretending this had been our idea all along.

Because we were staying out on the trail for two nights, there followed the traditional British ritual of overpacking while loudly insisting we were travelling light. There was, I should point out, a perfectly sensible option whereby our main luggage could have been transported ahead to each night’s accommodation. This is, objectively, the correct approach. Naturally, we rejected it. Instead, we left our large cases in Clyde and crammed what we considered “essentials” into panniers. By essentials, I mean at least three layers each, spare socks, snacks for a minor expedition, and various objects we never once used. We attached these bulging panniers to our electric bikes and admired our handiwork like explorers about to cross the Andes rather than a couple about to trundle along a well-maintained gravel path with cafés at regular intervals.

We arrived at the ShebikesHebikes office in Clyde in the late morning. The business operates out of the old railway station, which pleased me enormously. I have always had a soft spot for redundant railway buildings. There’s something reassuring about their solid brick confidence, even when the trains have long since vanished. The Otago Central Railway once ran through here, constructed during the gold rush era when Central Otago was heaving with prospectors convinced that fortune lay just beyond the next shovel of dirt. The railway connected inland settlements to Dunedin, transporting gold, wool and supplies across terrain that is, to put it mildly, not entirely cooperative. Eventually, economics intervened and the line closed. Instead of letting it decay into obscurity, locals transformed much of the route into the Otago Central Rail Trail, one of the earliest major rail trails in the world. It has since become something of a blueprint for similar projects internationally. All of which is admirable and inspiring — until you realise you are about to pedal the entire thing.

The operation at ShebikesHebikes was impressively efficient. Forms were signed. Helmets were adjusted. Saddles were tweaked. We were shown how the electric assist worked, which felt faintly like being handed the keys to a cheat code. Around us milled groups of cyclists who looked fit, hydrated and suspiciously prepared. We tried to appear the same. After a final briefing and a bit more faffing — because no British departure is complete without faffing — we wheeled the bikes out to the start point directly in front of the old station building.

The trail began with sections of original railway track still visible in the ground, their tops peeping through the gravel like archaeological artefacts. Karen decided this was the ideal moment to change surface from gravel to grass while crossing the rails. What followed was a slow, inevitable loss of balance and a gentle but definite topple. She landed in a heap beside the bike, more shocked than hurt but deeply, profoundly embarrassed. It was not a dramatic crash. There were no sirens. But it did provide an early reminder that we were not, in fact, twenty-five. After a quick systems check and some brisk brushing down, we mounted up again and set off properly.

Roughly half an hour later we rolled into Alexandra, the largest town we would encounter that day. Founded during the gold rush and later sustained by orchards and vineyards, Alexandra sits near the Clutha River and enjoys a reputation for being one of the sunniest towns in New Zealand. There was a café directly on the trail. We had barely broken a sweat, but the presence of coffee and cake proved irresistible. We told ourselves it was tactical fuelling. In truth, it was habit. Sitting there with flat whites and something generously iced, we began to suspect that this entire adventure might simply be a long, scenic link between bakeries.

Leaving Alexandra, the trail began a steady climb into open countryside. The surface was wide and well-graded, the kind of gravel that crunches reassuringly without threatening mutiny. The electric assist made the uphill sections feel almost suspiciously manageable. Around us stretched rocky outcrops, rolling hills and broad paddocks dotted with sheep who regarded us with the usual mild disdain reserved for passing cyclists. The sky remained overcast, but crucially dry. In cycling terms, that counts as excellent. We pedalled along chatting, occasionally falling silent to take in the space and the scale of the landscape, which is vast in a way that makes you feel pleasantly insignificant.

We passed through Chatto Creek, once a lively gold mining settlement and now a small rural stop with a very tempting café directly beside the trail. It featured a magnificent children’s garden filled with elaborate contraptions clearly designed to exhaust small people. In an unusual display of restraint, we did not stop. This decision will go down in history as one of our more puzzling acts of discipline. Instead, we pressed on towards Omakau, a small settlement that grew around farming and railway services.

Omakau’s main street is brief and to the point. We found Muddy Creek Café without difficulty. Run by two French ladies, it had an air of understated competence. We ordered cheese toasties and sat watching life unfold. A group of mud-splattered off-road bikers arrived, looking as though they had fought their way through a swamp. Compared to them, we felt positively pristine. Our toasties arrived, crisp and reassuring, and morale improved immediately.

The final stretch to Lauder was short and pleasantly uneventful. Lauder once functioned as a significant railway servicing town, where steam locomotives paused for water and coal before tackling the next stretch of line. Today it is quiet, tidy and faintly bemused by the steady trickle of cyclists. We checked into Muddy Creek Cutting, an old mud-brick farmhouse converted into guest accommodation. Our host, Kevin, welcomed us warmly and showed us around.

There were four guest rooms sharing a single bathroom indoors, with another outside requiring a brisk walk. I made straight for the shower with the urgency of a man who has convinced himself he has cycled across a continent. While I dealt with my ablutions, Karen discovered beer in the fridge operating on an honesty system. Few things restore faith in humanity like an honesty fridge. After my shower I lay on the bed with a cold beer, feeling absurdly accomplished. We had not cycled enormous distances, but it felt like a proper day’s work. Within minutes, exhaustion claimed us both and we were asleep, hopeful that tomorrow our legs and our dignity would remain largely intact.