Bundled up inside our frantically friendly fuzzy ragdoll-esque trailbuilder’s buxom Hilux, we bounded onwards into the central North Island night, lulled by the raucous and jarring sounds that are the preferred listenings of the independent gravelsmith. A full complement of beer and bicycles, brandished in his blunderbuss of a boot, told of the degenerative activities planned. A ride a day, up and down some massive terrain in more than less the middle of nowhere, five days of climbs and declines sure to expunge the stale city climes we encounter on a daily basis.

Somewhere between Turangi and Taharua, we found ourselves. On a damp and squishy bed of vibrant green and brown mosses, greasy tree root steps and the dirt-rich dirt of the region. Uphills quickly became a giddy game of how much of the borderline rideable sections we could keep pedalling through. Cresting a slippery rooty ledge rewarded with a second or two to prepare before negotiating another and another of the same. Each individually manageable but once strung together, the trickle-down economics of the requisite physicality quickly caught up with your strained breathing and heart rate. A drop here or there early on in the day, chased by more at lunchtime. As things started to get tight it only got worse. The soft, moist, earthy earth soon gave way to flowing, soppy, dirt-flinging descents interspersed with rocky creek beds lovingly smothered in layers of verdant slime. The lush bush was alive with colours and smells, as nature’s DJs played their sets in an immersive art installation of the senses. The weather may have weighed us down, but our shorts and materials certainly stood us up.

Evening by the fire, all black with sooty rugby fever. Hazy gales of laughter bluster through lips of regaling mirth, smoking like paprika and chilli over a bouquet of burritos. Curried by the quality and quantity of such substantive accompaniments, those same lips also relish the gourmandise of burgers, salads and funghi al fresco, mulling the intricate hues of scintillating flavour late into the night. Individually wrapped sardines, some swaddled in privilege on throned plinths, others merely bagged in splays about the floor, line up for slumber on the eve of the next day.