Have you ever wished you could mountain bike in California back in 1915? Only about three million people lived there then, you could drink water from mountain streams, and there weren't any police to chase after you for riding in forbidden areas. Well, stop wishing and book a flight to New Zealand.

New Zealand's 3.3 million friendly citizens have conveniently packed themselves into three cities so as to leave the rest of the California-sized country to mountain bikers, sea kayakers, and hikers. You'll have mountains as spectacular as the Sierras, but with an emerald lake in front of each one and waterfalls cascading down every slope. But you won't have to throw your bike across the back of a burro, sleep with vermin and communicate using smoke signals. New Zealand has smooth roads through the mountains, charming clean social hotels that cost $6/night, and the most modern telephone system in the world.

 Have you ever wished you could mountain bike in California back in 1915? Only about three million people lived there then, you could drink water from mountain streams, and there weren't any police to chase after you for riding in forbidden areas. Well, stop wishing and book a flight to New Zealand.

New Zealand's 3.3 million friendly citizens have conveniently packed themselves into three cities so as to leave the rest of the California-sized country to mountain bikers, sea kayakers, and hikers. You'll have mountains as spectacular as the Sierras, but with an emerald lake in front of each one and waterfalls cascading down every slope. But you won't have to throw your bike across the back of a burro, sleep with vermin and communicate using smoke signals. New Zealand has smooth roads through the mountains, charming clean social hotels that cost $6/night, and the most modern telephone system in the world.

 Probably the best thing about New Zealand is that people have time for each other. My first 24 hours in the country were instructive. I landed in Auckland, the nation's biggest city and transferred to the domestic terminal for a short hop to Wellington, the nation's capital. I walked to the gate feeling that something was horribly wrong. Eventually it struck me that I hadn't had to go through security-nobody has ever hijacked an airplane in New Zealand and they don't bother with metal detectors or X-rays for domestic flights.

 Wellington is a beautiful city built on mountain sides and thrust out on the southern tip of the North Island. Despite its complement of politicians, it feels and looks much more like San Francisco than Washington, D.C. I'd gotten in touch with a couple of local mountain bikers via Internet, the worldwide computer network. When I announced my arrival, these total strangers opened their guest rooms and rearranged their schedules. My new friend Allister took the day off, rented me a serviceable Diamond Back bike and drove me thirty minutes out of town to the Incline Walk, which used to carry a railroad over the rugged Rimutaka Range. While my friends in Boston were freezing to death, I spent December 21st under blue skies and wheeling through a pristine forest. With 18 hours of daylight, one need not be in a hurry and we took our time viewing streams, waterfalls, and the enormous Lake Wairarapa (the place names come from the Maori language, which is Polynesian). The most exciting part of the ride was going through a 1/2 mile unlighted tunnel. Deep puddles made walking unpalatable, but the pitch black made maintaining our balance surprisingly tricky.

I thought that Allister was just a really nice guy, but I eventually came to the realization that nearly everyone in New Zealand is equally hospitable. My last day in New Zealand was also illustrative and typical. On a beautiful 75 degree February day, I strolled into Cycle Action in the Mission Bay section of Auckland. When I asked if they had any good mountain bikes for rent, Ronald, the 20-year-old sales clerk said "no, we don't rent real mountain bikes." I expressed my disappointment and he immediately said, "well, you can borrow mine. I'm not working tomorrow, but I'll bring it here at 9am." Thus did I find myself in possession of a GT mountain bike worth one month's salary to Ronald.

I spent the evening with a German blonde in one of the city's best Italian restaurants (entrees: $10) then phoned Bruce, a local whose name I'd picked off the Internet. Without hesitation, Bruce said "I'll just take tomorrow morning off and show you around the Riverhead pine forest."

I wish I could tell you what the forest looked like, but I can't remember looking at any trees. First of all, the single tracks were bordered by Scottish gorse, a prolific weed that happens to be sharp and nasty when green and even worse when dry. Thus, any deviation from the track would likely be remembered and even staying on the track involved frequent intimacy with the gorse. Second, the track was largely raw slippery clay with huge rocks. It isn't like biking in New England where one can relax in between rocks and logs. Here, it was nonstop terror that you'd fall into a foot-deep rut. Bruce was man enough (and experienced enough with these tracks) that he went through at high speed, which is probably the only way to do it. I was never carrying enough momentum so got kicked off the bike numerous times and simple obstacles hung me up. At the end, I was covered from head to toe in mud and ready to swim in one of New Zealand's ubiquitous public pools before meeting Christine, my German friend.