Black Birch | A Quick Blast

Pull up a chair. The fire's warm, and you're in good company.

There is something wonderfully romantic about the title On Any Sunday.

Bruce Brown's 1971 masterpiece wasn't really about motorcycles. It was about why otherwise sensible people throw a leg over a machine and disappear for no better reason than it makes them feel alive. More than fifty years later, not much has changed.

On any Sunday - or any other day of the week for that matter - Black Birch is exactly that sort of ride.

If you're based in Blenheim, or simply passing through Marlborough with half a day to spare, it is one of those adventures that asks very little of you. A tank of fuel, a few spare hours and a willingness to see what lies beyond the next bend.

Sometimes that's enough.

Life has a habit of getting in the way of the grand adventures. There are bills to pay, lawns to mow, dogs to walk and emails that somehow multiply overnight. Before long another month has slipped past and the motorcycle hasn't left the garage.

The answer isn't always planning something bigger.

Sometimes it's simply saying yes to something smaller.

Robin's message arrived the evening before.

"Quick ride tomorrow? - before the wife gets home!"

"Where?"

"Black Birch."

"Coffee first?"

"Obviously."

---

The Himalayan settled into its familiar heartbeat as I rode across Blenheim in the half-light. Frost still clung to the paddocks and the Richmond Ranges glowed softly in the first light of morning.

Robin was already waiting outside the café, leaning against his bike with a coffee in hand.

"You're late."

"I've still got five minutes."

"You've used four of them."

We finished our coffees, exchanged the usual abuse and climbed aboard.

That ritual is as much a part of the ride as turning the key.

Robin has been riding dirt bikes and adventure bikes for years. He has that irritating habit of making difficult things look completely ordinary. Loose gravel, rocky climbs and muddy tracks seem to disappear beneath his wheels without drama.

I still have to think about them.

That's one of the reasons I enjoy riding with him.

Every ride home I'm a slightly better rider than when I left.

He'd never admit to teaching me anything.

He simply rides.

The rest somehow rubs off.

---

South of Blenheim the seal gave way to gravel as Taylor Pass climbed between the Wairau and Awatere Valleys.

I've driven this road countless times in the Discovery, but it feels entirely different from the saddle of a motorcycle.

The front wheel wanders gently through the loose shingle.

The bars move in your hands.

The engine settles into that reassuring rhythm unique to a big single-cylinder motorcycle.

Robin disappeared around the first sweeping gravel corner with the sort of effortless smoothness that only comes from experience.

I followed.

Not quite as elegantly.

He waited around the next bend.

"Everything still attached?"

"I think so."

"You looked busy."

"I was."

"I could tell."

---

Taylor Pass eventually drops into the Awatere Valley where the road follows the river west beneath the towering bulk of Tapuae-o-Uenuku.

Winter had stripped the landscape back to its essentials.

Golden hills.

Grey scree.

Snow lingering high above the valley.

Even after years of living here I still find myself slowing down just to look.

We are ridiculously fortunate.

Places people fly halfway around the world to experience sit quietly in our own backyard.

---

Our Cardos crackled into life.

"We should do the Leatham next."

"I was thinking exactly that."

The Leatham Valley had been on both our lists for months.

Load the bikes with camping gear.

Ride through Molesworth.

Spend a night at the hut.

Cross the river again...

...and again...

...and again.

"There must be twenty crossings."

"Enough."

"I'll probably drown."

Robin laughed.

"You'll probably get your boots wet."

That was easy for him to say.

He wasn't the one still learning that rivers always look shallower from the bank.

---

The turnoff to Black Birch doesn't announce itself.

If you weren't looking for it, you'd almost certainly ride straight past.

Robin pointed.

"Here."

"That's it?"

"Yep."

"It looks harmless."

"It isn't."

That was all he said.

The climb began almost immediately.

Loose rock replaced gravel.

The corners tightened.

The road narrowed.

Nothing especially difficult.

Just enough to remind you to stay awake.

The two bikes settled into an easy pace.

Neither motorcycle seemed remotely concerned.

---

Every now and then Robin stopped to admire the view.

Or so he claimed.

Personally I think he was making sure I hadn't disappeared down the side of the mountain.

As I rolled alongside he'd lift his visor.

"You coming?"

"I am now."

"Took your time."

"I was appreciating the scenery."

"You've appreciated that same corner for nearly three minutes."

---

The views became larger with every hundred metres of climbing.

The Awatere River was now little more than a silver thread weaving through the valley floor while distant farms looked as though someone had scattered green postage stamps across the hills.

Neither of us was in any hurry.

The best rides rarely have a timetable.

---

About halfway up Robin slowed unexpectedly.

He looked right.

Then back at me.

I recognised that look immediately.

"No."

"I haven't said anything."

"You don't have to."

"What?"

"You're thinking."

"I've found..."

Here we go.

"...a little side track."

There it was.

Those three innocent words.

A little side track.

I've learned over the years that Robin's definition of little bears absolutely no resemblance to the dictionary's.

"How little?"

He shrugged.

"Oh... little."

I looked down the narrow track disappearing over the ridge.

It looked rough.

It looked steep.

It looked like exactly the sort of place sensible people avoid.

Robin smiled.

"You'll be fine."

That wasn't the reassuring statement he thought it was.

I sighed.

"Lead on."

He disappeared around the first corner.

I followed.

Because that's what mates do.

Even when they know they're probably being led into trouble.

The main Black Birch track is excellent.

It's rough enough to make you pay attention, but never so difficult that it stops being enjoyable. Loose rock, the occasional washout and enough gradient to remind you you're climbing into the high country. On decent adventure tyres it is well within the capabilities of a Himalayan.

Robin stopped where the side track branched away.

He switched off the engine and looked down it for a moment.

I pulled alongside.

"This one?"

"This one."

"It doesn't look very little."

"No."

"So we've already established you lied."

"I never said it was easy."

"You implied it."

"I definitely implied it."

He grinned.

That should have been enough warning.

---

Within fifty metres the mountain road disappeared.

The first few rocks weren't too bad.

Then came bigger rocks.

Then bigger ones again.

The sort that make you wonder whether you're still on a track or simply riding up the remains of an ancient landslide.

Robin was already weaving effortlessly between them.

I was introducing myself to each one individually.

The Himalayan bucked and bounced beneath me while I tried to remain somewhere vaguely above the seat.

Every time I thought I'd found a rhythm another rock appeared exactly where I intended to put the front wheel.

Robin's voice came through the Cardo.

"Still smiling?"

"Ask me in five minutes."

The track twisted between outcrops before dropping into a series of rocky whoops carved out by years of four-wheel drives.

Each one seemed deeper than the last.

The front wheel disappeared.

Then reappeared.

Then disappeared again.

My arms were working far harder than they had any right to on a Sunday morning.

Meanwhile Robin was already waiting at the end.

"You alright?"

"I think so."

"You look like you've wrestled a sheep."

"I feel like I've wrestled several."

---

The further we went, the rougher it became.

Basketball-sized rocks gave way to deep wheel ruts polished smooth by winter mud.

I stopped for a moment.

Robin looked back.

"What?"

"I'm considering my options."

"You've got one."

"Which is?"

"Follow me."

Easy for him to say.

He'd already ridden through.

---

The first muddy section wasn't nearly as bad as it looked.

Robin picked the outside line and rolled through without drama.

I copied him.

To my great surprise, it worked.

The Himalayan climbed out the far side as though she'd done it a hundred times before.

A dangerous thing happened.

I gained confidence.

Motorcycles have a remarkable way of punishing confidence the moment it becomes overconfidence.

---

We reached the end of the track overlooking the valley beyond.

The views were magnificent.

The conversation wasn't.

"Well?"

"You enjoyed that."

"I did."

"You knew I would."

"I did."

"I still don't like you."

"That'll pass."

---

After a few photographs we turned around.

Everything looked different heading back.

Lines that had appeared obvious on the climb suddenly seemed less convincing.

The mud had somehow become muddier.

The rocks appeared larger.

Gravity had changed sides.

I dropped into what I thought was the same rut I'd ridden a few minutes earlier.

It wasn't.

The front wheel disappeared into a hole hidden beneath muddy water before bouncing sideways into the next rut.

The rear wheel chose to remain where it was.

One wheel in each rut, perpendicular to the direction of travel.

The skid plate perched neatly on the ridge between them.

The Himalayan stopped with all the grace of a cow sitting in a fence.

I tried moving forward.

Nothing.

Backward.

Nothing.

The rear wheel spun enthusiastically, firing a rooster tail of mud into the hillside.

Robin switched off his engine.

He looked at the bike.

Then at me.

"Well..."

"Don't."

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"You absolutely were."

"I absolutely was."

---

He wandered over at approximately the speed you'd expect from someone who wasn't the least bit concerned.

Not because he didn't care.

Because he was enjoying the show.

"Need a hand?"

"I've got it."

"I know."

He leaned casually against his bike.

"I've got all day."

"You're no help."

"I'm excellent moral support."

---

I rocked the bike backwards.

Forward.

Back again.

Nothing.

The Himalayan was firmly grounded.

One wheel in one world.

The other somewhere entirely different.

It occurred to me that this would make an excellent photograph.

I was very pleased Robin didn't think of it.

"Try second gear." Robin said encouragingly.

I did and eventually the rear tyre found the smallest hint of grip.

The bike moved.

Barely.

Then another few centimetres.

The front wheel climbed onto firmer ground before the rear followed with a satisfying lurch.

Free.

"I meant to do that."

"I know."

"You don't believe me."

"Not for a second."

---

The bike looked considerably muddier than when we'd started.

I, somehow, remained clean.

A successful outcome by any reasonable measure.

I climbed back aboard.

Robin smiled.

"Ready?"

"For what?"

"The rest of my little side track."

I looked ahead.

There was more.

Of course there was.

"You neglected to mention there was a rest."

"I thought surprises were good for you."

---

The return climb proved even more entertaining.

Without gravity lending a hand every rocky step demanded commitment.

The Himalayan dug in and simply kept going.

She has a habit of making her rider look better than he really is.

Time after time I found myself thinking there's no way she'll get through this.

She ignored me every single time.

It's one of the reasons I've become so fond of the old girl.

People love to compare horsepower figures and suspension travel.

The Himalayan doesn't care.

She simply lowers her shoulder and gets on with the job.

Eventually the rocks became smaller.

The mud disappeared behind us.

The main Black Birch track appeared once again.

Robin pulled alongside.

"So..."

"So?"

"Still coming riding next weekend?"

I looked back at the side track disappearing into the hills.

"I'll come."

"I knew you would."

"But next time..."

"What?"

"...you can keep your little side tracks to yourself."

He laughed.

"No chance."

Somehow I already knew that.

Back on the main Black Birch track the mountain almost felt apologetic.

The rocks were smaller, the corners wider and the surface suddenly seemed remarkably civilised. After Robin's "little side track", the main route felt like a country lane.

He glanced across.

"Bit easier?"

"Compared to your little side track?"

He grinned.

"I thought you enjoyed it."

"I did."

"Good."

"I'm still not thanking you."

---

Above the tree line the landscape changed completely.

The last of the scrub disappeared, replaced by shattered grey rock, hardy alpine plants and the endless line of snow poles marking the route across the exposed tops. Winter has a way of stripping the country back to its essentials. Nothing survives up here unless it truly belongs.

A week earlier this place had been buried beneath snow.

Today it belonged entirely to us.

The DR-Z and the Himalayan climbed the final few metres before rolling quietly onto the summit.

Robin's little Suzuki looked as though it wanted to keep exploring.

My Himalayan looked perfectly happy to stop for a cup of tea.

They suited their owners rather well.

---

The engines ticked quietly as they cooled.

I used the engine block as a radiator - my thin leather gloves had been beaten by the cold and my finger tips were white and numb. Robin smiled - warm hands on heated grips!

Then...

Silence.

The Awatere Valley stretched away beneath us, the river now little more than a silver thread winding between the winter paddocks. Beyond it stood Tapuae-o-Uenuku, her upper slopes still carrying snow. To the west lay the Waihopai Valley, while the Wairau opened to the north and, beyond the eastern hills, the Pacific shimmered beneath broken cloud.

Neither of us spoke for a while.

Some places don't ask for conversation.

They simply ask you to stand there for a few minutes and appreciate how small you really are.

---

Eventually Robin wandered over to the Himalayan and gave it a slow inspection.

"You've added more bits."

"They're all essential."

"So you keep telling me."

He pointed at the crash bars.

"Essential?"

"Obviously."

"The spotlights?"

"Definitely."

"Leather seat looks good"

"Feels better!"

He laughed.

The running joke amongst my riding mates is that I've spent enough money accessorising the Himalayan that I could have bought a "proper" adventure bike.

Perhaps they're right.

I still wouldn't change it.

The DR-Z is unquestionably the better motorcycle on terrain like this. It's lighter, more agile and purpose-built for rough tracks. Robin dances over obstacles that I simply ride through.

The Himalayan, on the other hand, is a faithful old packhorse. She'll never be the fastest across the mountain, but she has a habit of getting there all the same. There's something honest about that. She asks for a little patience and rewards it with a surprising amount of capability.

She has certainly surprised me.

More than once.

The biggest improvement I've made has been fitting the Motoz Tractionator tyres. Half of my riding is now off-road and they have transformed the bike on loose gravel, mud and rock. Without them I'd have approached today's little detour with considerably less confidence.

Then again...

Confidence was probably what got me stuck in the first place.

---

Eventually helmets went back on.

Robin fired the DR-Z into life.

"So..."

"So?"

"Fancy another little side track on the way down?"

I didn't even answer.

I simply shook my head.

His laughter crackled through the Cardo long before he pulled away.

---

Descending Black Birch demands just as much attention as climbing it.

Gravity now wants to help rather more than is sometimes welcome. Loose rock rolls beneath the tyres, corners tighten unexpectedly and every now and then the front wheel reminds you that it has ideas of its own.

Robin flowed effortlessly from corner to corner.

The little Suzuki looked perfectly at home.

I followed on the Himalayan, concentrating on being smooth rather than quick.

It struck me somewhere on the way down that Robin never waits because he has to.

He waits because that's simply what mates do.

No speeches.

No lessons.

Just a raised visor, a grin and, once I rolled alongside, we'd carry on.

---

By the time we reached the Awatere Valley the temperature had climbed several degrees.

The alpine world quickly gave way to farmland once more. Sheep replaced snow poles. Gravel became smoother. The mountains slowly retreated into the mirrors.

We stopped briefly before turning back towards Taylor Pass.

Robin lifted his visor.

"Coffee?"

"We've earned one."

"I thought you'd say that."

---

The ride home was quieter.

Not because we'd run out of things to say.

Quite the opposite.

Good mates don't need to fill every kilometre with conversation. Sometimes it's enough simply knowing the other bloke is somewhere ahead, disappearing around the next gravel corner before waiting patiently at the one after that.

Taylor Pass felt different on the return journey.

Not easier exactly.

Just... more familiar.

Corners that had demanded complete concentration that morning now flowed naturally beneath the wheels. Loose gravel no longer seemed quite so intimidating.

Nothing dramatic had changed.

I'd simply become a slightly better rider than I was a few hours earlier.

That's how these things work.

Not through one great leap, but through dozens of small ones.

---

People often think adventure begins hundreds of kilometres from home.

It doesn't.

Adventure begins the moment you decide not to spend another Sunday sitting on the sofa.

Black Birch isn't New Zealand's hardest adventure ride.

It isn't the most remote.

It isn't the highest.

That's exactly why it's so good.

It's close enough to be ridden on a Sunday morning, yet wild enough to remind you that genuine adventure doesn't have to be measured in weeks or thousands of kilometres.

Sometimes all you need is a motorcycle, a good mate and a few spare hours.

The mountain will take care of the rest.

Just don't be too quick to believe your riding buddy when he smiles and says,

"I've found a little side track..."

Somehow, you'll follow him anyway. And if you're anything like me, you'll be quietly pleased you did.