Without a cloud in the sky and the resulting azure blue, it would have seemed a day of perfection as you peeped through the gap in the curtains of your quiet weekend rental. But venture along Ruakokoputuna Road on Sunday 7 June and your tranquillity would have been well and truly shattered.
Round the corner, and suddenly you come across a patch of the Wairarapa which is roary, noisy, testosterone-filled, fume-filled Ruakokoputuna. Mud-covered men and boys who today are MEN, on their motorbikes.
The briefing was given, sponsors thanked, and all disclaimers read out – which amounted to: “if you might complain, don’t ride.” The riders were thanked simply because a portion of their entrance fee goes towards Ruakokoputuna Hall funds, so it’s very good of them to ride for our benefit. The hazard of wayward sheep was removed to new grazing. Mind you, the roar of a 250cc Suzuki would scare them more than any Huntaway.
Mud flew, decibels went up, front wheels lifted and WOOooosh – they were gone, the next rider already lining up.
Ruakokoputuna usually drifts peacefully around 30dBs, like a “quiet rural area,” AI tells me, the silence broken by the occasional tui. Today we were nudging 120dBs – “a live rock concert, near the human threshold of pain,” says AI. Remember AC/DC? This was that kind of day.
Amazingly, once the riders disappeared over the horizon, about an hour later they started returning – very little mud left on the trail, a great deal of it on them. As if that wasn’t enough, they refuelled and disappeared over the same horizon for a second loop.
All the while they were away, the real industry of the day was happening at the Ruakokoputuna Hall. Enthusiastic volunteers shed buckets of tears as onions were chopped. White bread was smeared with what looked like white axle grease and probably had similar nutritional value. Sausages were barbequed by the only vegetarian man left behind, alongside Natalie’s ginger slice, chocolate cake, rice crispy balls and shortbread squares. But the highlight of the rural banquet was Pip’s toasted cheese, onion and evaporated milk rolls – a delicacy that hasn’t yet reached Logan Browns.
For some, it was nothing more than a peaceful day in the cab of a ute, knitting the last sleeve of a grandy’s winter woolly.
Post-race, the cleaned-up riders stood around enjoying the rural feast as they shared tales of unbelievable truth. The river crossing had covered the whole bike – it was horizontal, the rider swimming. The mud was deeper than the rear sprocket. Jimmy fell off only four times, each at a speed greater than a Cook Strait ferry. The resident doctor didn’t need to see the dislocated shoulder because the rider had relocated it himself and completed the ride.
“What do you do for broken ribs?” asked one rider. The doctor replied, “Don’t laugh or cough, tell no jokes, take paracetamol.” It appeared the injury had occurred at work some time ago and he was trying to avoid a doctor’s fee. “How do you know they’re broken?” He looked back with a sardonic air. “Because I fell off, whacked my chest on the bars, heard a mighty crack and it hurts.” We tried not to laugh. There is nothing like a good history.
Then there was the non-weight-bearing limper who’d twisted his knee and couldn’t walk – so rode on to his ute. Last we saw of him, he was still on his bike, someone else driving, heading towards Ekatahuna shouting “She’ll be right.” Who needs a doctor?
Ruakokoputuna hosted the 27th annual Enduro in near-perfect conditions with a very big turnout of, to the untrained eye, death-defying, thrill-seeking, happy riders.
Come next year and give it a go. It’s all good fun. As we say in the field – RIDE OR HIDE.
