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Off For a Breath of Fresh Air

Jenny Visser.

The library clock presided over the tables of bent heads and stacks of reference books. On[unclear: l] occasionally did the obvious covert wispering of the young men across the desk intrude apon [unclear: m] concentration. I wish they would be quiet, I must get the finishing touches done on this assignment. [unclear: wh] do I always get stuck on the conclusion? Unfortunately I'm not the sort of person who can see what [unclear: I'] aiming for at the start of the experiment, sadly I lack that sort of insight. What is it about Friday afternoons that always bring out the streak of desperation in me? Why when I have the entire week [unclear: t] complete this am I left with the most time consuming section just before it's due.

"No matter what else girls, impress them with a good introduction and conclusion" - The wise word of my college teachers haunt me as the pressure is on me to actually complete that conclusion. Golden words, mediocre actions.

The bitter southerly wind wraps itself around my legs as I step out of the building. As I pass that [unclear: n] man's land to the Science Faculty the first rain drops force their way out of the grey sky. I quietly [unclear: cur] the weather while I run through my mental list of what still has to be packed before I head off for the weekend. With a marvelous sense of accomplishment I post the assignment into the box. Probably only worth a C, but sometimes that is as high as I can aim. I turn down the corridor and promise myself that next weeks assignment will not only be better, but perfect.

The spray from the front wheel of the bike splashes up onto my jeans; just as the weather office predicted... rain and southerlies. Still, it should be a great weekend, that irresistable lure of the hills. The red Honda eased out of it's park and swung into the stream of traffic ahead of me. As so often happens in a winter's dusk the driver has failed to see the cyclist travelling down the hill.

Idiot! I pull the brake lever full on. Damn dirivers, wish they would look behind before pulling out. One day I won't stop in time. The new energy following the scare makes the trip up yhe hill seem easier. As I padlock the bike to the drain-pipe I notice a moderate shortness of breath; I'm far from my fittest. Lucky I've opted for a medium trip, no epics this time.

Right now... I must organise myself, only half an hour before I have to head off to pick up the truck. Another five hour stint driving. Not that I really mind, but for once I wouldn't mind spending the trip relaxing and fooling about in the back. Well at least I get a comfortable seat...

Sleeping bag, snow-foam, ground-sheet, parka. Where is that parka? I had it yesterday morning, then it spent the day rolled up in my bag. It must be somewhere here. I spot a corner of yellow under the bed... there it is, another minor victory in the struggle to get packed.

"Hi Pete, just about ready. Pity you couldn't make it this weekend. Anyway I appreciate the ride across town". Pete as always mutters some incomprehensable reply. No concern, his face looks happy enough.

Our attempt to get across town to liberate the rental truck from the car yard slows to a crawl. Friday evening. "Did you get your assignment done in time?" Pete's question draws me back to the windy city. "Yeah. Don't like the look of that rain". The Friday night figures hunch forwards as they negotiate the pedestrian crossing; hurrying on... hurrying on... home to warmth I suppose. And I'm heading off to two days with only wool, nylon and PVC between me and the elements.

"Thanks Pete". The boot slams shut, I shrug my pack on for the first time... not too heavy luckily. "Hi Luke!" "Yes off again. Is the truck ready to go?"

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"All yours", he indicates with false generosity. "Bring it back in one piece", words of advice with a knowing smile.

The truck rumbles into the busy streets, time to pick up the others. Those brakes are a bit rough. Still, cheap transport. I've surprised myself, only fifteen minutes late... not bad... for a Friday.

The scene outside the Union Building is as disorganised as usual. Packs, bags of food, tents and battered billies spill out onto the footpath. With a speed which always surprises me the ensemble is transported within minutes from the lawn to the truck.

"Mind if we sit up front?", Mary beams from behind her mop of unkempt hair. "Sure, room for two more up front. Who else is keen?" The answer comes in the form of a pair of bare legs supported by the faithful old pair of Buller Boots and red puttees. "Hi George... all set for the weekend? Everybody here?"

Too late now anyway as the doors close from the inside and the chain clanks above the latch. Finally all set... now off to the hills it is. The trip onto the motorway goes smoothly enough, this is more like it. Open road, friends and two days of pleasure ahead.

"Where do you think they'll want to stop for dinner? Otaki as usual?"

"Sure, why not? Why break with tradition?"

The meal stop goes much as usual, the passengers satisfied, and the truck on it's way again. I feel my endurance lessening as the rain pelts against the windscreen and the shining road. The headlights of an oncoming car catch the faces of the passengers. "Hope there's room at the hut for all of us, don't much want to sleep out tonight". Wishfull thinking George. Still every club needs it's optimists.

As we approach Bulls I toy with the idea of stopping. "Anyone hungry?" Tempted to stop for a pie... no, lets give it a miss. The sooner we get to road-end the sooner we will all get into pit. "Hang on, there's the turn off.

The change to gravel comes abruptly as we swing onto the side-road. Only 10km. to go. They must be pretty tired back there, unusually quiet. Usually we hear something. Not to worry, they will be all the more rested for tomorrow.

"Watch out!" The warning comes too late as the truck knocks the possum to the ground with a dull thud. To bad... noxious anyway. As we round the last few bends I become eager to see the hut. It should be here somewhere, although it does look different in the rain. Mary, always practical, pulls out a map. "Just around the corner I reckon".

"There it is!" The truck dives into one more pot-hole before coming to rest. The stillness is enveloping, the light drizzle falls and settles gently on the bush. Strange... so quiet. The lazy buggers must all be asleep.

"Come on, wake-up you lot". George bangs on the side of the truck. Still no noise.

"Hey, open up in there". I glance at Mary. Things are not right here. I take a look through the window. What... no movement? Try smashing it open. Panic grabs me as I search for something to smash the window. What the hell is happening back there. The glass gives way on the third blow and falls to the ground.

The reek of exhaust fumes meets us at the warm smokey air escapet through the window. My God ... the door. And as we pound, pull and tear at the doors my mind flashes back to a distant physiology lecture and a much more recent assignment... the oxygen dissociation curve; carbon monoxide has a much greater affinity for haemoglobin than does oxygen. The result... suffocation.

Johnny Mulheron