Haven’t ridden it. Already emotionally invested.

There are some trails you’ve ridden so many times you can smell them in your sleep. And then there are trails you haven’t ridden—but they haunt you anyway.

For me, it’s the Old Ghost Road in New Zealand.
I’ve never touched tires to it.
Never stood at the trailhead pretending I’m cooler than I am.
Never sat in one of its backcountry huts with socks drying over a camp stove and that quiet, post-ride hum in my chest.

But I’ve seen the photos. Watched the videos. Read the trip reports.

And I’m telling you: I’m spiritually jet-lagged just thinking about it.

What’s the Big Deal?

It’s an 85km singletrack ride stitched together from an abandoned gold rush route through the West Coast wilderness. That means:

• Ridgelines that flirt with the sky
• Beech forests that look like they whisper ancient secrets
• Swing bridges you definitely lie to your mom about
• Backcountry huts spaced out like breadcrumb dreams

It’s remote, wild, and just structured enough that you won’t accidentally go full “Into the Wild.”

Is It Type 1 or Type 2 Fun?

From what I can gather, yes.

It’s the kind of ride where you carry your food, your gear, your questionable decisions—and you earn every single downhill. It looks like one part soul-cleansing escape and one part “my thighs might file for emancipation.”

Options for full-day push, or an overnight.

And honestly? It all sounds perfect.

Why I Can’t Stop Thinking About It

Because it’s not just a trail. It’s a place and a history.

And just look at that trail!

Written into the mountains. Buried under old mining relics. Poured into swing bridges, carved into cliffside benches, and tucked into the huts that dot the trail like plot points.

It looks like a ride that makes the journey the destination.

And as someone who rides mostly to make sense of things—to think, or stop thinking entirely—the Old Ghost Road feels like a pilgrimage I haven’t earned yet.

But I want to.

Diary Entry: Ghost Dreams

So no, I haven’t ridden it.
But I will.
Eventually.

And when I do, I won’t be chasing speed or PRs. I’ll be chasing that feeling—

The one where your legs are toast, your mind is clear, and everything smells like dirt and something bigger than yourself.

Until then, I’ll be here, writing ghost stories about a trail I haven’t met yet.

Catch you on the ridgeline (someday).

P.S. If you’ve ridden it, I want to hear about it. Unless it was terrible—then lie to me.