Target

​Palmerston North, New Zealand
November 2024

I'm like a target always on the run
A moving target while the day is long
No need to shoot me down my time will come
It won't be long, it won't be long

On occasion, I develop a deep urge to ride out somewhere. It's not really a predictable thing. But, I listen to it, for it helps me find clarity. I had a couple of days free, so I moved.

Firing up Falcon, I rode north and east, towards the Coromandel Peninsula of New Zealand. The weather was poor. Upon reaching Te Aroha, a cold rain washed down, and I paused beneath a large tree to ponder the true nature of summer. It kept pouring, but I pushed on, knowing that patience and indefatigability win the day. As I did, for reasons unknown to me, the lyrics of an 80s classic, Moving Target, reverberated throughout my brain (please play the song as you read, link to the right). This melody sustained my course. I kept moving, and the weather cleared up, in glorious fashion, as I approached Thames, gateway to the Coromandel.

A classic song, Moving Target, by a classic band (1).

Not much to do in Thames except have a coffee. The Coromandel awaited, and my short journey now began in earnest. I felt a palpable switch from routine to adventure, even if just a little bit. It was like coming up for air, and it enveloped my senses and perceptions. I was a moving target, in search of a moving target. My time will come.

Coromandel To Port Jackson

The Coromandel Peninsula was named after the HMS Coromandel, a British Navy ship that stopped there in 1820, and which itself was named after the Coromandel Coast of India (2). The peninsula was sculpted by earth and fire, by volcanism. I drifted up the coast, which is comprised of a conglomerate of rocky shores and sandy beaches, to Coromandel Town. I always enjoy lingering in this little town, which boasts a population of about 1,900 people. I stayed the night. The stars came out, and it was only then that I realized, I'd not seen them in many months.
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The morning came swiftly, and after a quick meal I rode further north, along the west coast of the Coromandel Peninsula. Despite living in the Waikato for nearly a decade, I had never been north of Coromandel Town. So this was new territory for me. The road was twisty in parts, adding to the joy of it. Numerous turquoise islands accompanied my vision, which provided a scenic vista that could be enjoyed from time to time, but not too much. I stopped briefly at The Hereford "n" a Pickle Cafe in Colville, which is the northernmost cafe of the Coromandel Peninsula, though there was not much there for me, for the moment. I kept moving.

Keeping to the twisty coastal roads, which soon transformed from paved to gravel, I eventually arrived at a dusty roadworks. One other rider sat atop his bike, patiently waiting for the machinery to clear. I saluted the fellow, but we didn't talk, as I was still a bit stuck in my own headspace. After receiving the green light, I bolted onwards. Thick lines of sand crossed the road, which made the bike skid this way and that every once in a while, adding to the jubilation of the ride. 

The skidding gave way to a lookout, where I glimpsed a beach in the distance and, beyond the water, a scattering of hills and clouds. As I peered out, the other rider rocked up as well. We spoke briefly, and I found out that his name was Christian, from Switzerland. I did wonder why he was riding up a lonely coast of New Zealand on his own, but I was still a bit too fixated on my own journey, and the conversation ended there. He obliged me for a photo, and I moved on.

What a triumph it is to step out of one's life, even if for a day or two, and put aside the oppression of the necessary routine that surrounds the mundanity of the countless diminutive battles that culminate in one's greater victories and failures, for it must be said, a moving target is difficult for any routine to pin down. 

The day was long. Only a handful of cars greeted me during my venture north along dirty roads. Aside from Christian, who was somewhere behind, there were no other riders. The road twisted inland at times. Many cows, often arranged in straight lines as they grazed upon slightly terraced, veld-like grasslands, paused in their own daily routine to stare at me. A strange sight for them. They were not moving, yet targets they were.

Coastal laneways arrived again, and the ocean opened up in front of me, spread out, like an endless azure carpet, underneath the heavens. The more apparent, conscious oppression ended and a deeper, subcortical level of processing commenced. Most brain processing is subconscious, not conscious, which is more suitable for a moving target anyhow. As I lingered at one of the beaches, Christian passed by on his motorcycle.

After meandering across Port Jackson, I stopped at the most northern point of the peninsula, which afforded a spectacular, dream-like panorama of the sea, with a smattering of tiny islands peppering its surface. Christian was already there. We engaged in further discussion, and I discovered a bit more about his life and travels. Being older, he had lived in many places, including a decade in Shanghai, China, which I found to be intriguing. I got the sense that his entire life was that of a moving target, one that refused to be pinned down.

After some time, Christian carried on. I stayed to enjoy the view a bit longer, which was one of the main reasons I had ridden north after all...to seek something beautiful and inspiring, something worth moving towards, and once you find this rare thing, it's good to stop moving, to take it in, at least for a while. 

Nearly an hour later, I heard the rumble of a motorcycle engine, and saw that Christian was returning. He dismounted and flatly stated that the way ahead ended at a hiking trail, making it impossible to ride down the east coast of the Coromandel Peninsula. Following a brief pause, he kept moving, returning back the way we had arrived. I did not see him again that day.

I went on anyhow, to see the termination of the road with my own eyes. Even though I knew I could not pass, I wanted to see it for myself, and I am glad that I did, for there were yet a couple of more serene views to be experienced. After scouting out the dead end, I returned to that northernmost point for a moment longer, a most tranquil place. I did not arrive back in Coromandel Town until dark.

Welcome to the Coromandel Peninsula.

Accompanied by turquoise islands.

Keeping to twisty coastal roads.

A beach in the distance, with hills and clouds beyond.

Many cows, arranged in straight lines upon the grasslands.

A spectacular panorama of the sea.

When you find something inspiring, it's good to take it in.

One more serene view.

Coromandel to Port Charles

Following a peaceful night, I kept moving, returning to Colville, which I planned to bypass as I had limited time to make it to Port Charles in the north-east part of the peninsula. However, as I rode past The Hereford "n" a Pickle Cafe, I spotted Christian parked on the side of the road. I stopped and greeted him, and we both agreed to pause our respective journeys for a discourse in the cafe. Despite my urge to push on, a moving target has to stop at certain points, particularly when practical wisdom may be obtained.

Christian had a fascinating life. He departed Switzerland at a reasonably early age, opting to travel internationally and live in many other countries. Generally, he had only good things to say about his experiences, although it was clear that there had been some difficult chapters. I learned what it is really like to live in China as a foreigner, about the role of sailing as a therapeutic measure, and about his decisions to constantly stay on the move, never to stay still for too long. I listened intently. At the end, as I was leaving to continue my own ride, he gave me some final advice and stated, "Everything's good in life."

The weather was pristine, so the day would be long, but I was aware that I had to leave the Coromandel Peninsula that evening for work reasons, so I moved on, this time to Port Charles. The road was poor, gravelly and skittish, so I could not go fast. At one point, a truck careening down the road in the opposite direction sped around the same corner I was taking. It was clear that the driver did not see me until he or she was nearly on top of me, and we missed by an inch. I was prepared, and had slowed right down to drift along the extreme edge of the road, but it was too close. Still, a moving target must anticipate these sorts of things.

Port Charles consisted of a few houses sitting behind a vigilant beach that peered across the water. I moved past the beach and up a small dirt road, which had sign designating it as a tsunami evacuation route. As it ascended, I gained greater clarity, and could see more of what lay ahead. It struck me that much of what I had learned in life, particularly during my earlier years, was comprised of elements of truth, but these had generally been overshadowed by many lessons of untruth. My early impressions about health, freedom, relationships, and, most of all, the point of life...all largely incorrect. Like the fervent belief of a child in Santa Claus, I had clung to some of these false notions for a very, very long time. I saw now, with a higher level of awareness, that they had been false all along. I wondered what other notions I held that, one day, would be revealed as false.

The road ended, giving way to a shaded trail. There was a map, which indicated the trail could be hiked for several hours, but looking at the time, I knew that if I wanted to get back during daylight, I could afford no such time exploring it. After debating this, I decided it made no sense to trek the trail. I clutched this thought even as I parked Falcon, grabbed my water, helmet, computer, and motorcycle jacket, and started tramping. Clearly, subconscious elements held sway over the conscious brain.

The path ascended, traversing the side of a ridge, with pristine views of the ocean, an enticing, vast salvation to a moving target, a representation of the freedom of limitless possibilities, and nothing to want, nothing to hold me down.

Eventually, I arrived at a large slip in the trail, bearing a sign stating "no access." Given that I was carrying so many items, and was not prepared at all, I decided it was prudent to return...and yet, listening to that subconscious voice once more, I proceeded, paying careful attention to my footing. Shortly thereafter, a second, even larger slip emerged. I paused, this time realizing that, even if I left now, I would not return to civilization until well after dark, even close to midnight. Did I wish to make it the wee hours of the morning? A clash ensued between subconscious and conscious, but this time, the latter won the day. I departed.

I kept moving, back along the trail, back along the dirt road, and down the east coast of the Coromandel Peninsula. Upon reaching a high point, I sojourned at a solitary Māori statue, which pointed out the way back. Yet I was unsure how far I was meant to go. To the road ahead, to the islands beyond, or even further, maybe past the horizon? I was on the right road, but as to how far it would take me, I did not know.

​On the way, I rode into a transcendent sunset, and as I did so, Christian's departing words echoed in my mind once again, except this time, it slowly dawned on me, I think, that rather than simply stating everything was good in life in a general sense, he had been referring to the good life that was his own...the life of a moving target.

​I rode onwards, through the moonlight, guided by the stars once again, a moving target once again.

​It won't be long.

​Solace.

Hanging out with Christian, a pause in the journey.

The road ahead, gravelly and skittish​.

Port Charles, where a vigilant beach peers across the water.

The road ends, and a shaded trail begins.

Ascending along a ridge, with pristine views of the ocean.

A large slip in the trail.

A solitary Māori statue points out the way.

Riding into a transcendent sunset.

References
(1) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YMI3_AUd0kc.
(2) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coromandel_Peninsula.