There is no time. Not to say we’re in a rush, but rather the concept is void. A red Toyota hatch is parked atop the grassy mountain 400 meters up. In the distance the small town of Raglan sprouts a road which winds up past us and down the west coast of New Zealand. To our left the sun hangs still like the theater’s red curtain There are seven of us: 3 English, a German, a Kiwi and 2 Americans. Together we are perched upon a rock. Gazing. Long shadows cast eastward upon a score of milk cows that stand staring at us. Some of them lick grass and dirt that has found itself under the Toyota’s open hood. Some of them moo and nibble while some unsuccessfully attempt to procreate. But most stand staring. And we sit, staring back.
The sun’s descent turns a purple aura to the eastern sky and the show begins. A southwest wind picks up blowing in the memories of winter’s recent defeat. In the east the blue moon blooms over the horizon like a glacial coin. The coppered sun crops images in shadowed frames. Both celestial bodies declaring their full glory like two peacocks flaunting their plumage for our affection. Balancing perfectly at the center of horizon’s vast reaching circumference is us, the radius.
We don’t speak for the last twenty minutes as the poetic powers of mother nature grow undeniable. The moon lifts upon the purple sky as the sun soaks into the ocean, melting clouds on its way. The ocean between them and before us infiltrates the slack black sand shores like regiments of soldiers filing an advance. An unceasing liquid army of silver-studded knolls. The cold wind picks up fierce, blowing over the rim of Julia’s beer bottle sounding a soft, constant, ‘whoooont.’
Knees duck into sweatshirts, beach towels wraps around legs as the sun officially signs out and the moon goes on the clock. Shivering bones jangle. The pink grass turns cool blue. The ocean no longer sun gold, but moon silver.
Into the red Toyota hatchback we go, with the exception of Frano, the Kiwi. He takes his dirt bike and pioneers our return mission. Quick rubs to biceps and thighs warm our skin as we gain awareness of our eminent decent.
In the ’83 hatch, spider webs abound. Water puddles in foot wells. Rust. Dents. Cracks. We beckon its loyalty once again to scale us down the cold grass coated mountain’s edge. At the helm, Mar, a Briton and a sure descendent of Mad Ahab.
(The path was not paved and therein lies the beauty.)
The rattle of the engine sounds. Into gear and movement. Mark dodges slippery cow patties, slaloms boulders and negotiates dips as we bounce, bobble and bound down the cool dark grass. We lean back as if to keep the car from loosing grip and sliding head over tail. The slipping corkscrew is anything but methodical. The engine pitches in flats and sighs by rocks. Nervous giggling chimes intermittently from the back seat filling silent spaces looking between deft maneuvers. Darkness deepens. We hug shadowed precipices of the mountain’s once sun-jeweled crown. Around the bend and down. Fast. No knowledge of his intent, but I held a respect for his driving as Kerouac had for Cassidy in On The Road.
The distant engine of the 75cc dirt bike hums from our north star Frano. The occasional glimpse of a headlight on cutbacks flashes. Frano’s shadowed silhouette points a detour from steep drops, shrouded gullies and tire flattening rocks. The grassy mountain’s edge lets to a burn sienna path pitching steeply downward then again up like the curve of a wine glass. Up to 35 kph as we shoot toward the sea down the winding dirt ‘road’ gaining inertia to ascend its equal. With the engine screaming in second and my hands on the dash we rip back up that hill rolling to the flat sparing not a teacup of momentum. Without a moments breath to all applause, Mark hits the gas heading over the pitch we could not see past and down the side we went.
The eventual paved path materialized and our fingernails found their way out from the car’s vinyl. While the adrenaline softened, the residual serum left us stoned in our mission. And in the pinnacle of Mark’s glory he passes the entrance to our hostel thus simultaneously blowing his perfect game while ensuring its preservation.
