Ignition

Hamilton, New Zealand
Palmerston North
Blenheim
Takaka
Westport
​Greymouth
Franz Josef Glacier
Haast
Wanaka
​Glenorchy

December 4-5, 2020
December 5-6
December 6-7
​December 7-8
December 8-9
December 9-10
December 10-12
December 12-13
December 13-14
December 14-15

Backdrop

Finally...time to revive.

It had been 5 years since the conclusion of Vigil, a journey during which I had assiduously searched for a way to dedicate my life towards something good. The omen I received involved applying natural and self-empowering metabolic therapies to people suffering from degenerative disorders, such as Parkinson's and Alzheimer's, as well as cancer, and to discover whether these metabolic therapies could not only ease the symptoms of these troublesome diseases, but actually mitigate the underlying processes associated with them. I believed then, as I still do now, that this would be good for humanity.

Bolstered by this augury, I had been relentlessly striving towards this goal for 5 years, and with the vital aid provided by my colleagues and patients had experienced a degree of success, publishing studies that showed encouraging results in the application of metabolic therapies to people with degenerative disorders and cancer. However, one particular clinical trial had continued to evade me, one that involved the application of a more intense form of metabolic therapy to people stricken with glioblastoma multiforme, a very aggressive type of brain cancer. The rapacious nature of this cancer could only be countered by an equally fervent metabolic therapy, or so I reasoned. To this end, I had been meticulously designing a powerful metabolic therapy program, testing it on myself, and I believed that I was "ready enough" to implement such a program in people with glioblastoma multiforme. Yet to obtain collegial support, funding, and ethical approval, and then to actually implement the program in a formal study, well, that was another matter entirely.

Still, life's true intent is patience, and by the of this year I had combined forces with several of my neurology and oncology colleagues, and we were now on track to apply a powerful metabolic therapy program to people with glioblastoma multiforme in a formal clinical trial next year. Yet lately, now that I had finally arrived at the precipice of the study, I found that my mind was not at all in the right place to embark on such an undertaking, assailed on multiple fronts by a plethora of routines and distractions, minutiae necessary to keeping the dream alive, but minutiae that threatened to stifle and smother the dream at the same time. And beyond this, the way ahead suddenly appeared more treacherous, full of potential difficulties and disasters, and I found myself vexed by innumerable questions and concerns rearing up within my head, questions and "what-ifs" that had insidiously morphed themselves into a nebulous menace that woke me nightly, nightmare-like, and derided the vision, with one haunting phantasm rising above all others - could this really work? Would a metabolic therapy program actually prolong high-quality life in people with a terminal cancer, such as glioblastoma multiforme? 

So, time to shatter the minutiae, to revive the dream, and to slay the phantasm...this is Ricochet.

Up North

I woke up. It was yet another day...no, not just another day.

After rising from bed, I performed my standard morning routine, which involved reaffirming my goals, executing a 10-minute high-intensity workout, a shower, and a coffee. And then, the routine changed. I gathered several things together, ambled downstairs, and ignited Hawk.

I flew south. The North Island went by in a blur of shire-like hills, manicured forests, and cerulean skies. A pretty picture, but a tidy one. Not at all wild. I'd had enough of order; it was suffocating me, and I needed some chaos. I stayed the night in Palmerston North, then carried on to Wellington and boarded a ferry to the South Island.

​While boarding the ferry, I caught up with a group of other riders, and the confab naturally steered itself towards riding. The group generally agreed that all motorcycle riders shared a kind of camaraderie, with one older fellow flatly stating, "All riders are brothers."

I conversed with one particular rider, Khan from New Zealand, during the 3-hour crossing. Khan had a cool disposition and I felt a sort of kinship with him. He radiated the combination of openness and confidence that results from many years of travelling and living in foreign countries. After relaying our mutual experiences in distant lands, the discussion shifted towards metabolic therapies, during which he remained quite absorbed as I rambled on about fasting and ketogenic diets. I prefer to be the listener rather than the speaker, for in the past I have exercised my mouth more than my ears and one learns more with the latter, but Khan seemed captivated, so I spoke. 

As we departed the ferry in Picton, Khan bid me a cheery farewell and rode west to his hometown, Nelson. I cruised south, towards Blenheim. The skies had turned cloudier and seemed less organized, a little bit messier. Or maybe the novel environment had simply started to break down the routine-entrenched perceptions in my brain.

A bright and sunny morning greeted me in Blenheim, and I heard my mind reciting part of Edgar Allan Poe's poem, Eldorado, which begins as "Gaily bedight, a gallant knight, in sunshine and in shadow." Most journeys in life start out shining, filled with hopes and dreams, yet ultimately some form of shadow appears that threatens to destroy it all. However, we must realize that the shadows are inevitable and actually necessary for success; they exist to test our resolve and provide us with the indispensable lessons we need to achieve our hopes and dreams in the long haul.

After leaving Blenheim, the shadows on this journey rose swiftly in the form of a dense, smothering fog. Yet despite barely being able to see 50 meters, I was not concerned, for this fog was nothing compared to the effluvium that was burdening my mind. It felt good to be "lost" in the midst of actual fog. I paused in Nelson and enjoyed a brief conversation with an old-timer rider, who regaled me with tales of his motorcycle adventures from decades past.
​
I journeyed north, towards Takaka. The road was good for riding, filled with hills and switchbacks aplenty, forcing me to devote my full attention to the moment. People often exclaim surprise when they hear that I ride, but it makes perfect sense to me. Proper motorcycle riding is mentally demanding. The consequences of one's actions are more palpable, which requires a deeper level of attention to each and every second of the moment. And as the mind's focus sharpens, a person becomes attuned to the fact that they are the captain in the apologue that is their life, rather than an aimless extra trapped within a metal box. George Bernard Shaw said, "To be in hell is to drift; to be in heaven is to steer." If I am to be on the road for hours and hours of my life, I would prefer to steer, not drift, just as I would in life itself. This is the salient point about riding that many people simply do not understand.

I spent the night in Takaka, which was wise as a deluge of rain hammered down on the town all night. I rose with the morning and ventured north to Collingwood, the most northerly town on the South Island, where I ordered a ketogenic breakfast, my one meal for the day; I eat only one once a day and fast for the remaining 23 hours. The reason I do this is that through a combination of ketogenic meals and fasting, the brain fuels itself with both glucose and ketones, becoming a hybrid engine that is theoretically capable of achieving higher levels of performance. Thus, although eating is often seen as a way to attain pleasure, it might also provide a way to enhance brain performance. Based on the data I have so far, the theory holds merit.
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After a morning in Collingwood, I travelled west. The roads became empty and the forests less orderly. Goats would occasionally leap across the road, compelling me to pay even closer attention to the now. The fog dissipated, the clouds receded, and I sensed the shackles of routine gently crumbling. Eventually, I arrived in Westport.

Arrival onto the South Island.

Blenheim, in sunshine.

Towards Nelson, now in shadow.

Roadside forest enshrouded in mist.

The way ahead is obscured by fog.

Switchback heading north to Takaka.

Bacon, eggs, and Hollandaise galore in Collingwood.

The clouds temporarily retreat, providing a nice view.

Riding alongside the Buller River to Westport.

The West Coast

I stayed the night in Westport, a small town bolstered by coastal mountains located on the north-west coast of the South Island. After spending the night, I sauntered into a seemingly out-of-place German cafe owned by Frank and Kathrin, both originally from Germany. Frank greeted me amiably; he had an effusive personality. We spoke at length, focusing on the differences between Germany and New Zealand, and although he was clearly proud of his home country, he was also adamant that life was much better in his adopted one. Frank made a mean bratwurst.

I rode north, to the tiny settlement of Karamea. The fog returned, and brought a chill along with it; several minutes into the ride, I was unable to feel many of my fingers. The road was desolate and there were virtually no cars to be seen. Given the wet conditions, I took the opportunity to try and improve my cornering, attempting to execute a perfect turn, never truly succeeding, but getting better with each and every ride. No matter how good you are at something, you can always get better. Upon arriving in Karamea, it appeared that only two cafes were open, so I picked one, ordered a coffee, and hit the road.
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The flight south from Karamea provided yet another opportunity to augment my riding skills, but the afternoon ride towards the city of Greymouth turned out to be considerably more gratifying. The fog withdrew as my path merged with the coastline, which flaunted a spectacular seaboard of precipitous cliffs plunging into the water as well as innumerable tight corners. The combination made for a truly enjoyable ride, such that I was a bit disappointed when it ended in Greymouth. I stayed in a bungalow-style oasis outside of the city owned by Andrew and Jolene from New Zealand, both of whom had recently left their government jobs to seek something more rewarding. Their oasis catered not only to humans, but also to a handful of roaming weka, a type of flightless bird native to New Zealand. Weka are rather mischievious.

Upon leaving Greymouth, the weather finally committed itself to clearing up entirely and offered me a beautiful sunny morning replete with charming coastal vistas, uncivilized forests, and snow-capped mountains. I noticed that my mind was calmer, less distractable. I reckon that riding, or anything else that forces one's mind to stay 100% focused on some aspect of the present, provides a compelling method for enhancing one's cognizance of reality. Mihály Csíkszentmihályi referred to this as a flow state, a mental state in which a person performing an activity is so absorbed in what they are doing that they feel utterly energized and joyful as they perform that activity. When one is immersed in a flow state, concepts such as time lose meaning, as do thoughts that revolve around constructs such as "me" or "I," and when a person achieves the ability to purposely abandon notions such as time, me, and I, then the metronomic obsession over past regrets and future concerns is broken, burning away in the balefire of light that is the flow state, and in such a light one may glean a deeper awareness of the celestial contours and melodies underlying our world and universe.

I pulled into the town of Franz Josef, which survives on the tourist draw provided by its main attraction, the nearby Franz Josef glacier. The town was essentially deserted, with virtually no visitors to be seen, and so I stayed an extra day to take advantage of the nearly-empty hot pools, which were invigorating. I also enjoyed some steak and eggs at one of the local restaurants on my off-day. According to Ted Naiman's P:E Diet, which emphasizes (1) high protein intake accompanied by (2) either fat or carbohydrate, but never both together, steak and eggs is the healthiest meal out there. I ate four steaks that day, so it must have been a healthy day.

A crisp morning spurred my departure from Franz Josef, bound for the town of Haast, but I hardly noticed the nippy temperature given the brilliance of the ride. Spangles of sunlight frolicked along the mountaintops, prompting me to repeatedly halt just so I could take it all in; it was the kind of ride that makes a person not merely glad, but overwhelmingly indebted, to be alive. At one point, I pulled over and juxtaposed Hawk by the edge of the tarmac, switched off the ignition, and stared at a distant snow-capped peak. I considered how long and tiring it would be to trek over to its vertex and stand atop it, but provided that I dedicated my efforts towards doing so, it could be done. And yet there would be a cost - in time, resources, and lost opportunities elsewhere. The willingness to pay the cost through to the completion of a goal is the line that separates the dreamer that simply dreams from the dreamer that actualizes the dream, and the difference means everything. However enticing that nameless peak was at that moment, I had committed to a different goal that had to be seen through. Strengthened with resolve, I rekindled the ignition and resumed my glide.

The glide was interrupted when I chanced upon a sign pointing the way towards South Westland Salmon, a salmon farm and cafe. The interruption was fortuitous, for the cafe offered a variety of salmon-only meals and I had not yet eaten that day. The combination plates of salmon sashimi, smoked salmon, and grilled salmon were divine.

Just down the road I found the wee town of ​Haast, where I crashed for the night. As the sun rose, I took a chance on a detour to the secluded community of Jackson Bay. The ride began as a straight shot down a highway bordered by patches of beachfront, which gradually capitulated to a cortege of lush forest, while stretched out alongside me a peaceful sierra provided constant company. There were some great turns in the last stretch of road before Jackson Bay, which itself was rather diminutive, consisting of a smattering of homes, a single dock, a beached boat, and a rustic-looking restaurant which had yet to open. As I lingered by the shoreline, an impish collie named Spook cajoled me into a game of catch, to which I obliged; it quickly became apparent that I was the more novice player. Spook turned out to be cared for by one of the cooks at the restaurant, who grilled me up some very tasty blue cod in butter, after which I returned to Haast before carrying on to Wanaka.

A cold and wet ride on the lonely road to Karamea.

Sweeping views of the coast near Greymouth.

A brisk morning in Franz Josef.

And the weather holds.

Peaks guard the pass to Fox Glacier.

Taking a break on a brilliant ride.

Reverence on the highway to Haast.

Salmon sashimi, smoked salmon, and grilled salmon with mucho tartar sauce at the salmon farm.

Ride down the coast to Jackson Bay.

A peaceful sierra provides constant company.

Beached boat in Jackson Bay.

Down South

Midway to Wanaka, I took a brief hiatus at a cafe outside the village of Makarora. The Argentine couple working there delineated the similarities and differences between Argentina and New Zealand, reaffirming that although the two countries shared a similar landscape, the government's extreme attempts to regulate the Argentine economy had destabilized the country to the extent that it made long-term planning next to impossible, which was the opposite problem to which I was currently facing. Having spent 3 months in Argentina, I could understand their point of view; I still think, as I did then, that a good way to live in Argentina would be as a non-citizen, holding the majority of one's resources outside of the country. Recapitulating my flight south, I passed by two stunningly gorgeous lakes, Lake Wanaka and Lake Hawea. For the first time in my voyage, the weather was hot, and the terrain itself metamorphosed into a dry, semi-cauterized mural of jagged ridgelines, halcyon lakes, and undomesticated scrub, all of which was watched over by the vigilance and indefatigable suzerainty of the sun.

At face value, Wanaka was a fine-looking town, and I stayed there for a night. On awakening, I noticed that, after just over a week of riding, the plethora of routines and distractions that had plagued me now appeared to be thoroughly extinguished. I sat outside and eavesdropped as the wind conversed with a cluster of nearby poplar trees, after which I attended a morning buffet. I am sure the hosting restaurant lost money on me. As I was preparing to depart Wanaka, an old fellow approached me, looked me over, and we had the following conversation:

He said, "Good day to have the wind in your hair."

To which I softly replied, "Yes...it is."

The most concise conversation can relay much, and on many levels. Our brain does not work as a computer, it creates an inner model of the world, which it uses to anticipate or "predict" what will happen next in the world. The prediction-based brain performs well in situations of semi-stability and change, which are the same situations under which it evolved, but its performance seems to degrade under situations of chronic stability and constancy, which are the situations many people now experience in our excessively-regulated world, although exceptions exist. The brain develops routines to optimize its outcomes with respect to the regulations, but if the routines become excessive, the prediction-based brain will become bored and create its own distractions, which range from relatively harmless to overtly detrimental. Thus, it is excess routine followed by boredom that makes us prone to distractions, and the combination weakens our brain.

I believe this can be reconciled by allowing ourselves to "have the wind in our hair." To keep the brain focused on positively interacting with reality, we must periodically dismantle our routines by seeking situations characterized by semi-stability and change, situations that dragoon the brain into reworking and refining its model of the world, the pinnacle of which is the flow state. If we do not do this, we will get bored and waste our valuable time texting on iphones, reading sensationalistic news articles, watching inconsequential television shows, and surfing on social media. It is a personal obligation to sporadically allow the wind in our hair, to vindicate ourselves from monotony and allow the real world to mess up our routine-based lives, if only for a little while. The alternative is to progressively lose awareness and become out-of-touch with reality, which is ultimately calamitous for both ourselves and those around us.

I travelled from Wanaka to Queenstown. The ride started out slowly until I arrived at the top of a panoramic lookout, which proffered far-reaching views over a spacious valley. I began my swoop down the mountainside, a procession of extreme switchbacks. I thought of nothing as I navigated each twist and turn, for my concentration and focus were now optimized, no longer fettered by the minutiae of routines and distractions. I cruised into Queenstown, a city with a somewhat authentic feel to it despite the large numbers of visitors, but only stayed long enough to have a couple of coffees before carrying onwards.

Nearing the end of my ride, I made my final run down a remote road to the town of Glenorchy. I was escorted by a line of rugged peaks and scattered populations of grazing sheep. At last, I pulled into Glenorchy, parked Hawk, and switched off the ignition.

​All told, the descent south culminated in 2,255 kilometers of road travelled. Freed from routines and distractions, my mind was now open to new ideas, like a nebula awaiting to form new stars. Yet I had to admit, that one question, that haunting phantasm, still remained, and to expunge it would require a different sort of journey.

One that I looked forward to making.

Headin' south.

Standard South Island one-lane bridge.

Lake Hawea on the approach to Wanaka.

It's hot and dry now.

Swooping down into Queenstown.

Layover at Lake Wakatipu.

Now it's just a straight shot to Glenorchy.

Escorted by rugged peaks and grazing sheep.

General Store in Glenorchy.