Ten years ago I had no drivers license and lived in a seething cauldron of a city with vast distances between things, clearly designed to suit the modern motor car. I worked at a small family-run bike shop as a mechanic and commuted daily on my full Dura Ace, 1996, 25th anniversary edition, steel Serotta CSI roadie, which funnily enough had been given to me; but that’s another tale. I rode with furious elation through the melee of morning rush-hour traffic, throwing everything into each crankstroke, racing to beat the traffic lights and offer up an entertaining challenge to the suits in Beemers and Mercs. I would trackstand at each intersection I was forced to stop at­­­­––save being run over––and explode away when the cross signal turned amber. I rode without a helmet and would arrive at the shop coursing with adrenaline which buried any remnants of coffee buzz and lasted as long as a good acid trip. I was in the best shape of my life back then, and commuting was one of the only redeeming elements of living in such a vicious place.

It feels like a lifetime ago. After moving out of the Bay Area my fervour for commuting died off. Mostly due to the diabolically appalling, hatefully awful weather of rainy Oregon (it’s as bad, if not worse than Welly, I promise you) but also the nature of job and reasons I was living there. Soon though, the reasons ended and after a few trans-Pacific back and forths and a few years on, I now find myself with a commute that is the polar opposite to what I once knew. What I know now is a 30km, hour long pootle along the Otago Central Rail Trail into pokey little Omakau where I manage the Shebikeshebikes workshop.

There’s no melee, no traffic signals and little adrenaline involved. The buzz I get is from the dry, frigid air on my exposed cheeks and the stunning, stark landscape of where I live. The vast suburban jungle has been replaced by sheep bounding around the rocky outcroppings, affording me only a passing glance before resuming their bounding. Escaped venison steaks pronk along in front me before lazily clearing an uphill fence making the sheep jealous of their athleticism. I see the same Blue Heron perched above the Manuherikia River eying up breakfast and later on, afternoon tea. It is, quite possibly, the commute-most commute.

Keen readers that noticed might be wondering what sort of whip I straddle to be able to knock out 30km an hour, uphillish on a rough gravel track. I’m older now, not that fit, and drink. A lot. Well, what does a vibrator, mobile phone and digital camera all have in common? They’re electric and so is my bike. I know, I’ve heard it all––and even said much of what some of you may be thinking––before, but bear with me because this is not just any off the shelf, production e-bike.

Behold, Tigermoth! An American cruiser bike chassis made by a company called Zephyr from the 1920s. The frame, truss-rod fork, quill stem and modestly dented and fucked-looking handlebar are all genuine vintage items. The 40mm wide, single-wall, chrome drop-centre rims are laced to a Sturmey Archer 5-speed wide-range hub in the back and a Sturmey dynamo hub up front, with drum brakes doing the stopping via Weinman alloy levers I pulled from a ’70s Schwinn I stole/rescued (again, another tale). Power to the back wheel comes from a mid-drive Lekkie Summit kit juiced by a 36 volt, 17.5 amp/hour battery running at 18 amps. Peak power is 648 watts with a nominal power rating of 300. It. Is. Rad.

Funny how one’s opinions, life choices, buying decisions, attitudes and even politics can evolve over time. I look back at the way I used to ride and the way I used to set my bikes up, chuckle a bit and tut-tut at a naive youth born in the wrong country and definitely in the wrong century. But now I find myself content with the present, where I’ve landed and most of all what I choose to ride and share my journey on.