Wellington is a port city surrounded by hills. I say “hills,” but these are HILLS. Actually, they are at the end of the Remutaka and Tararua mountain ranges. To the people of Wellington they are just some hills. We live in those hills, in a village called Khandallah. The hills are full of steep, winding, narrow roads. Everything seems like it is uphill. Think backroads of West Virginia.
What is amazing is the number of cyclist and runners who make their way up those hills every day. Just yesterday I saw a woman around my age powering her bicycle up Ngaio Gorge Road. Yes, it is a gorge. This road had what the Kiwis euphemistically call “a slip” after an earthquake. We would call it a rock slide. It will take years to fix and it has reduced part of the road to one lane. Today we saw two other older folks, heavy set but obviously with better leg muscles and lungs than I have, pumping along in the rain. I just cannot imagine taking that on. Setting aside the power needed to get up the hills, the bike lane is narrow and not very well protected from cars. It is about a half a shoulder. There is no room for error. No matter to the bicyclists. They manage it.
Wellington is also known for its wild winter weather—rain and strong winds. Despite the weather, people are out running or walking. They just get wet. Sometimes a person might be wearing a rain jacket, but more often than not, they are in shorts and soaking wet tees, hair sticking to their heads. I suppose you learn that you have to live with the weather. There is no calling the game because it is raining. We saw kids outside in the rain playing soccer and rugby. I saw a young man on the waterfront at what appeared to be the end of his run. He was wearing shorts but no shirt in a driving rain. (Okay, that seemed like a bit much.). The lesson is that you can’t let the weather stop you because you would be locked inside all winter. I guess I am destined to do the same. If I don’t, I will have wimped out. I just can’t do that.
A Yank Among the Kiwis 