Epic odyssey: A traveller’s harrowing 30-minute journey on the Chch Southern Motorway

Saturday, 14 September 2024

SATIRE: Andrew Gunn is a Christchurch-based writer for films, TV and books and has a Substack column.

The Press, September 14, 2044: In another instalment of our popular Yesteryear Memories series, we return to September 2024 and one hardy traveller’s gruelling account of traversing the Christchurch Southern Motorway before the speed limit was raised above 100kph.

I roused the men. We had hunkered down in a cafe near the wind-swept Middleton rail yards. The place was grim: the provenance of the artisanal coffee grind was questionable, and the date scone made no pretence of not having been reheated in a microwave.

Before us lay the final, daunting culmination of our overland expedition – from the Curletts Rd interchange to Rolleston, non-stop. The magnitude of the task had weighed heavily on me and, I am ashamed to say, caused all of us to dawdle. But rush-hour was almost upon us and night would soon draw in. We had no choice but to press on.

I put this to Carruthers and Jobling, and they agreed without demur. They were good solid chaps, useful in a tight spot. Our faithful guide Siri reckoned a total travel time of 19 minutes, but privately I knew this to be a best-case scenario. There were stories – possibly apocryphal but chilling nonetheless - of travellers come before us who had spent upwards of half an hour on this godforsaken stretch. Some had even failed to make it home in time for the lightning buzzer round at the end of The Chase.

I owed it to Carruthers and Jobling’s families not to let the same fate befall them. If only the speed limit had been 110 then I could vouchsafe their safe return before Bradley Walsh asked ‘Have you chosen set A or set B?’. But a man of honour does not make promises he cannot keep, and we were forced to play the cards we had been dealt.

I had prepared for this leg of our journey as best I could. The Ford Ranger Raptor had been valeted the day before. We climbed aboard – me behind the wheel, Carruthers as my co-driver and Jobling in his usual position in the back seat, one eye looking out for damnable cyclists and the other on our cache of energy-rich nut bars.

As I pushed the ignition button Carruthers let out an involuntary gasp. With ashen face he pointed to a blinking orange light on the dashboard. The dual zone climate control was inoperable. We all knew what this meant: at some point we may well have to resort to opening a window. Fate was taunting us that day.

“As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, lads,” I remarked. And with that, we set off.

After circumnavigating the Curletts Rd roundabout we ascended the steep gradient of the on-ramp. We were under no illusions as to what lay before us – smooth, unceasing tar seal, stretching further than the eye could see. Once we merged into the steady stream of traffic there would be no turning back.

I accelerated to the legal limit and selected cruise control. We had crossed the Rubicon.

Soon the kilometres were beating a hypnotic rhythm. One way-point blurred into another – Springs Rd, Shands Rd, Waterholes Rd - as the interminable minutes ticked slowly by.

How I longed to give the 240 horses under the Ranger’s hood free rein.

Great men had plans to transform this journey. I had heard tell that pushing out the speed limit to 110 would reduce the average duration by an incredible 51 seconds. Think of the possibilities! Oh, how this hinterland would be opened up for commerce and progress. It would be change by an order of magnitude - comparable perhaps to the jet engine ushering in an era of long-distance travel. What wonders awaited my children and my children’s children.

As it was, we fetched up in Rolleston, our final destination, in just under one-third of an hour. Siri had been right all along. But fate had one final dice-throw in store for us. I saw ahead a green light turn to orange, then red. There was nothing to do but to sit helplessly and wait for the phase to change. Another minute wasted.

I was home in time to watch the Sinnerman dispatch Neroli, Steve and Dot with 17 seconds to spare (two pushbacks, none executed). The Sinnerman understood that every second counted and now more than ever, so did I.

That evening as I lay down my weary body for a much-overdue slumber, still my mind was alive with visions of a better, brighter future. I felt the need, the need for speed.

Read more from Andrew Gunn at andrewgunn.substack.com