Go Gerro

On Saturday, May 23rd, late last week Simon Gerrans won Stage 14 of the Giro d'Italia, a 172km stage from Campi Bisenzio to Bologna. He rode in a twelve man breakaway the whole way and then stomped away from his breakaway companions on the steep pitch to the finish line. Big congrats to the boy from Mansfield and fellow member of the Mansfield Mt Buller Cycling Club.

Ten Days in a Maroon Enema, Nine Days in the Saddle

The following story was written in 2007, after a mountain biking trip to New Zealand, which I might add is an extremely ace place if you have an interest in adventure sports like mountain biking, surfing, snowboarding etc. I really like that stuff and I really like NZ. Anyway, without further ado, here tis...

Ten Days in a Maroon Enema, Nine Days in the Saddle

The idea was simple – pack the bikes into boxes and jet across the Tasman to New Zealand for an action packed ten days of mountain biking. Despite lots of early interest, in the end there were just three of us. My two partners in crime were El Toro and El Camino (note – not their real names), while I went by the moniker of Al Jezeera (also clearly not my real name).

 

Day 1 – Thursday March 22

We land in sunny Auckland about midday. Clear customs. Quarantine officers inspect our bikes and gear, but we’d been prepared for this and the immaculately clean gear passes muster without any problems. As El Toro had brought his fly fishing gear we get a lecture about rock snot.

 

We pick up the rental car, a maroon Toyota Emina, later to be renamed the Enema. It’s really just a Tarago, but for some reason all the car models they have here have different names.

 

We study the road maps for a few minutes, before hitting the road, heading for Woodhill Mountain Bike Park, on the other side of Auckland. Our introduction to NZ roads is kind of scary and surreal. The roads and rules in NZ are much the same, but the drivers really suck. The crapness of NZ drivers remains a constant source of fascination and danger the entire trip. In an effort to educate them, the Government has put up lots of ridiculous road signs like ‘merge like a zipper’.

 

We’re momentarily distracted by Khyber Pass Rd and shit car names (eg. Cefiro, Emina, Lucino) and we miss the turn off. After half an hour of backtracking we get back on the right road and finally make it to Woodhill about 4.00pm. Unpack bikes and tools. Reassemble bikes in a frenzy of allen key twirling and swearing. I discover a huge gouge caused by some mysterious bike part in the carbon downtube of my Scott Scale. Swear more.

 

We finally hit the trails about 4.30pm, following the ‘R & R Sport’ route recommended by the bike park dudes. Kilometre after kilometre of sweet, soft, pine-needle carpeted, buttery smooth trails unroll in front of our tyres, like a 3kg wheel of cheddar cheese rolling down a grassy hillside in Gloucestershire.

 

Woodhill charges $5 per rider, which all goes into maintenance of the trails and facilities. The entire trail network is in pine plantation. The soil is very soft and sandy, which no doubt makes trail building really easy, but it can be prone to erosion and softening and it can be a bit slow to ride on. There’s no rock to be seen anywhere, but there is heaps of timber, and it’s been put to good use building some hellish stunts. We ride some of the more innocuous wooden stunts and bypass lots of crazy wooden structures, some of them a good six, ten foot up in the air, with gaps a-plenty and some seriously skinny beams. Crazy stuff – it’d be hard to walk on, let alone ride.

 

We get back to the car right on dark. Our laughs, smiles and high fives confirm that this trip was a good idea. We head south to Raglan, where my old mate Bruno lives.

 

Day 2 – Friday March 23

Raglan is the undisputed surfing capital of NZ, and it’s against my religion to go there and not surf. Accordingly I’m dragged out of bed at 5.50am by Bruno, the most energetic person without ADHD I’ve ever met. The waves are pretty bloody small, but there’s no-one out so we have a crack anyway. It’s also a king low tide, so the rock shelf is never-ending, and my office feet are raw and red before they even taste the salty kiss of the sea. We surf for an hour or two, but catch very little, then stumble back across the rocks to the car.

 

About 10am we make a beeline for Te Aroha, about an hour’s drive to the north east. Tucked up beneath a steep craggy peak with forest clinging precariously to its flanks, Te Aroha is as pretty as a picture. The weather on this, our first full day, is dressed to kill in a tailor-made-for-mountain-biking suit of twenty five degrees. We find the car park signposted ‘for mountain bikers’. While getting ready we strike up a chat about the trails with an old bloke walking past. The well-oiled and worn pair of secatuers in the custom leather pouch strapped to his belt tells us he’s the unofficial caretaker for the trails. We get a bit confused when he tells us the easy loops are about 30 seconds, but it all becomes clear once we get up there.

 

There’s actually only one mountain bike trail, but it has advanced and easy options in certain locations, that just split off and then rejoin. The trail is pretty easy but fast and fun. Built by prisoners from the nearby penitentiary, it is constructed beautifully with a broad bench slabbed into the hillside and reinforced with a variety of materials including rubber, concrete, timber and gravel. It is super smooth and fast, but has a few surprise sharp corners thrown in to keep things interesting and the odd waterfall to keep things scenic. The trail only takes about half an hour so we ride it a couple of times then sit down on the grassy slope overlooking town to reflect on our privileged lives.

 

At sunset we go for a bodysurf down at the local beach and then head back to the house for dinner – barbecued tahr, a large goat-like animal that lives in the high country of the south island that Bruno shot a few days earlier. Topped off with a home grown salad and washed down with a few ales, wines and grappas, the meal is the perfect ending to our first full day of the trip.

 

Day 3 – Saturday March 24

A strange sense of déjà vu overwhelms me as I drag my arse out of bed at 5.30am. It turns out that 5.50am wasn’t early enough yesterday (it was already light and we could actually see the waves coming) so this time we’re in the water before light. Unfortunately so are half a dozen other surf nuts, hooting and hollering at the beautiful four foot walls rolling down the line at Indicators. The waves were good, the type of waves you normally only see in pictures in surf mags, pictures destined to adorn the walls of sheds and dunnies. Unfortunately every other surfer in Raglan thought the same thing, and by 6.30am there must have been twenty of us out there. I got a couple of goodies, but damn I hate surfing in crowds. That’s one thing I love about mountain biking…I’m always happy to share the trails with other riders.

Whale Bay, Raglan, immaculate.

By 10am we’re fed, watered, packed and on the road again, heading for that mystical mountain biking Mecca known as Rotorua, or Roto-vegas to the Kiwis. In Rotorua El Toro and I are roped into some touristy stuff for a travel video that El Camino is shooting, but we manage to sneak off by about 3pm for our introduction to Whakarewarewa (pronounced fuck-a-re-wa-re-wa…truly!).

 

Whakarewarewa Forest is amazing. It’s a working timber harvesting forest, filled with all kinds of plantation species, but it must also have around 100kms of mountain bike trails, with enough variety to suit all flavours of mountain bikers. The trailhead carpark alone impresses. It must be big enough for a hundred cars and has toilets, water, maps and picnic tables. Not to mention heaps of people, including plenty of families out for a spot mountain biking.

 

The trails are a delight. We start with Rosebank, a nice intermediate blast through giant Redwood trees that fill the air with the calming scent of pine-needle pot pourri. I’m awestruck by the trees, and the trail is far from disappointing. Next we hit Diamondback (or maybe Challenge – some trails have one name on the map and another on the actual sign posts, making navigation a little confusing for rookies like us) which ups the ante from Rosebank. It’s rated easy, but it’s one of those great trails that is fun for riders of all abilities – those with skills just go faster, railing from one sweet earthy berm to the next.  We come out grinning and Bruno leads us up the access road to sample some more delights. Again the forest ups the ante, throwing at us some of the best damn trails I’ve ever ridden – A Line, Tickler, Be Rude Not To and the Lion. We ride in a blur, smiling and hooting like grommets as we whip through fern gullies, pine forests, Redwoods, over small bridges across streams and through the familiar surrounds of a Eucalypt plantation.

 

Over dinner that night Bruno convinces us we should head out of town to a natural thermal spring. Rotorua is full of thermal hot springs, geysers and mud pools, but there are very few natural pools that are promoted to tourists. Most of them are man made pools with hot water piped in, and they charge like wounded bulls for a dip. After some anxious moments in the car driving up and down narrow backcountry roads, Bruno eventually finds it.

 

The pool is actually a junction between two streams, one hot and one cold, so you can fine tune the exact temperature just by moving further up the hot or cold stream. The locals have dug little alcoves into the banks to put tea candles into, providing some nice ambient light. We soak for a few hours, daring each other to go further up the hot stream, knocking back some ales, staring up at the clearest night stars I’d seen in years and chatting with some of the locals that had come down for a soak. The perfect end to another day in NZ.

 

Day 4 – Sunday March 25

The next morning El Camino ropes me into an early morning trip to the mudbaths for the travel video.  Although I try my hardest to be a top gun actor (‘Now act Gary, act!’), I’m not fooling anyone and my modeling/acting skills are pushed to their meager limits as I rub mud on my face, chest, neck and arms while trying to look cool for the camera and keep the gut firmly sucked in. After that it’s off to the geyser park where we witness a traditional Maori welcome. Much to El Camino’s delight I get pulled up on stage to learn the haka, which I discover, is basically a battle song a Maori warrior sang in defiance of the invading Europeans. I suck badly as a Maori warrior, but give it my best for the camera, stamping my foot, slapping my thighs and doing the demented crazy eyes and sticking my tongue out. My humiliation is worth it though when I get to rub noses with a cute Maori girl in traditional dress, which of course is captured on film as well.

 

Finally our filming duties are done and it is back to the serious business of riding bikes. We head back to Whakarewarewa and get straight into it. We spend the next four hours rediscovering some of the trails from yesterday and checking out some newies. I decide that Be Rude Not To is my favorite trail of all time. It’s mostly downhill and not exceptionally difficult, but it just rolls and flows smooth as silk, with hardly a pedal stroke required, and the forest scenery is drop dead.

 

El Camino speed blur

Day 5 – Monday March 26

El Toro decides to cook hot cross buns for brekky. Lacking a griller, he manages to wedge the cut buns into the toaster. Bad idea. Amidst the smoke I see El Toro trying to jimmy the offending buns out of the toaster with a metal knife. The mental image of him being fried on the spot turns out to be just my imagination – he was smart enough to unplug it first – but still, not a good look. The concerned and disapproving glances from the other backpackers suggests it’s a good thing we’re checking out today.

 

After brekky we head out to Whakarewarewa again. As Bruno had gone home the day before, we are completely reliant on maps and signposts. We decide to do one of the ‘outback’ loops. It’s about a half hour climb to the top of the hill, but it sets you up for some serious descending. The first trail, Billy T’s, is one of the newest trails in the park and is all the buzz amongst the local riders. It’s pretty sweet. Unfortunately, being pussies and riding cross-country bikes, we don’t really do the drops, hips and tabletop jumps the justice they deserve. This is a theme that is pretty constant throughout the trip. We try to justify it by saying ‘I’m too old to get air’ and ‘I can’t afford to get hurt’ and ‘I’m riding a carbon fibre hardtail’, but really we’re just scared.

 

Despite this, we have fun. Lots of it. Billy T’s flows into Chestnut, Rollercoaster, Chop Suey, Sweet and Sour and Spring Rolls, before spitting us out at the top of Be Rude Not To. We agree that it would indeed be rude not to and whip into our last blast down this killer trail before finishing with Mad If You Don’t and heading back to the car park.

 

We pack up the Enema and head south towards Taupo. On the way we stop off at the natural hot spring again for a soak and to see what it looks like in daylight. This time we have it to ourselves, but given it’s a pretty warm day, we only stay in for about half an hour.

 

Finding accommodation in Taupo turns out to be slightly trickier than expected, but we end up in a newish backpackers, close to town. The hospitality of the owner is fantastic, and we get a personal tour of the place, a massive dorm room to ourselves and an introduction to his lovely wife Heather.

 

El Camino’s got a hankering for some Indian, so we venture into town looking for an Indian restaurant. On the way down we go past a tee-off point where you can hit golf balls out into Lake Taupo, aiming for a tiny pontoon with a hole and a flag.

 

After a couple of beers at the pub overlooking the lake we find an Indian restaurant. The food is pretty good, but El Toro, being a connoisseur of fermented grape juice, is less than impressed by his Beaujolais and sends it back, claiming the bottle has been opened too long. The owner comes out, but instead of apologizing and serving up a freshie, refuses to do anything about it. The sheepish look on El Toro’s face as he downs the last of the offending red, is enough to make El Camino and I crack up as we knock back our beers, which are absolutely fine, having only just been opened.

 

Day 6 – Tuesday March 27

The morning is clear and warm. So far the weather has been more than generous – every day has been clear and sunny with temps in the mid to low twenties. Ideal mountain biking conditions.

 

We pick up a map of ‘Craters of the Moon’ from the info centre. Craters of the Moon is a thermal area with walking tracks to mud pools, geysers and thermal vents, but its surrounded by forest plantations littered with purpose built mountain bike singletrack. Heading out of town we follow a nice rolling singletrack along the Waikato River. About twenty to thirty minutes along the trail we reach Huka Falls, one of the most impressive waterfalls I’ve ever seen. Although the actual drop of the falls isn’t that great, the sheer force and power of the water can be felt rumbling through the rocks beneath our feet.

 

We continue up the trail and reach the trailhead for Craters of the Moon. A cool little two-way trail takes us through a tunnel under the freeway and into the park proper. Bruno had given us a few tips on which trails to hit first so we head straight up towards Tank Stand, GE Grinder, Son of a Buzzard, the Dipper, Young Pines and Slaylom and a nice big long outback loop.

As usual, the riding is spectacular, trail construction and design first rate and adequate signage makes it easy to find our way around. After a couple of hours of riding and a quick trailside lunch we find ourselves climbing to the high point of the park on GE Grinder, a grinding switchback climb that seems to go forever. It leads us into a long downhill sequence on Buzzard, Son of Buzzard and the bottom of Tank Stand. As we near the bottom I round a corner and duck under a Eucalypt tree that has fallen across the trail, leaving a good five-six foot of clearance underneath it. Unfortunately El Camino sits a little higher in the saddle than me, and he fails to clear it. The impact shatters his helmet and knocks him off his bike. Hearing him yell, I drop my bike and run back up to find him lying on the ground holding his head. The seriousness of the situation is apparent – possible spinal injury. Luckily this isn’t the case – nasty case of whiplash the physio tells us later. Eventually he gets up and manages to remount his bike. We ride straight out along the dirt road and back into town the quickest way possible.

 

Later that night a few beers and a couple of serious painkillers manage to ease the pain somewhat, but it’s fairly clear that El Camino won’t be riding for a couple of days.

 

Day 7 – Wednesday March 28

As if in sympathy with El Camino’s pain and disappointment, the weather gods decide to rain down upon the land of the long white cloud. Surprising it took so long really. In Auckland and further north, the rain comes down in record breaking volumes, causing widespread floods. Luckily we just get drizzle, which doesn’t stress us too much as we’ve got a bit of a drive ahead of us today anyway. We’re heading south east to the Hawkes Bay region.

 

The drive takes about two hours. When we can see it through the drizzle and clouds, the scenery goes from pretty to spectacular, as we wind our way up through a craggy mountain range and then down towards the coastal plains. Eventually we hit Napier.

 

Napier is hyped up in the travel books as the ‘art deco city’. Apparently it was knocked down by an earthquake in the 1920’s and then completely rebuilt in the art deco style popular in the day. Certainly it does have some interesting architecture, but otherwise the town doesn’t really excite us. We’re not here for architecture.

 

We are here for good times though, and so we decide to go and sample some of the fruits of the vine that the region is famed for, after we find somewhere to sleep for the evening. Once again this proves trickier than expected. Although there are plenty of backpackers, they are either full, crap, expensive or have no parking and/or nowhere to store the bikes. In the end we opt for the old Napier Prison, now a backpackers. We dump our gear and head for the wineries.

 

At 4.30pm in the afternoon, on a drizzly Wednesday afternoon, said wineries aren’t exactly jumping and we’re the only customers. It’s fairly clear we’re not here to buy, we’re here to drink, but they give us their undivided attention anyway. I watch our resident wine expert El Toro go about his business, talking it up with the winery folk, swirling his glass in a fluid motion and swishing the wine around in his mouth vigorously enough to make a kind of bubbling noise. I’m suitably impressed and follow suit, but leave the talking to the expert. Of course I am slyly impressed when he is stumped by one of the reds they give him – turns out it doesn’t even contain grapes, but raspberries. Fruity indeed.

 

Next stop on our mini tour is a microbrewery. Again we’re the only customers. The beers are good, but the real attraction is the owner, a fit looking bloke whose grey hair suggests he must be well into his 50’s. He ambled over, introduced himself and propped an elbow on the table we were seated at. We could tell straight away that he was a bit of a loose cannon – something about the rapid speed with which he spoke, or the way his eyes darted about energetically. Of course it may just be that he’d been sampling his own wares. When he discovered our nationalities he regaled us with tales of his duck hunting prowess, secretly admitting that he’d been feeding the ducks grain to fatten them up before duck season started in a week’s time. Not sure why he figured this would impress us, but it didn’t. We tried to convince him to lock us in for the night so that we could keep an eye on the place for him, but he wasn’t going for it.

 

The rest of the stay in Napier was fairly standard. We ate out at a surf themed, California burger style eatery. El Camino had the Fisherman’s Basket and afterwards made us promise to stop him from ever ordering another Fisherman’s Basket. Then on to the Irish Pub next door for some pool and half dozen rounds before staggering home to bed. This turns out to be our one and only day off the bikes.

 

Day 8 – Thursday March 29

Despite rumours that the prison is haunted by the ghosts of hung murderers, the night passed almost without incident. Around the crack of dawn a bunch of dickhead backpackers get up for a day of fruitpicking, making more noise than a barn full of monkeys. El Camino and I consider giving a few of them a good ol prison style beat down with phone books and baseball bats, but can’t find either and soon they’re gone.

 

El Toro mug shot

We check out of the big house shortly thereafter. El Camino’s neck has loosened up so he decides to get back in the saddle. We pick up a new helmet from the local bike shop and head for the Eskdale Mountain Bike Park, about ten k’s up the road. This park isn’t quite the fancy affair that Roto-vegas, Taupo and Woodhill were, with only a small car park and fairly uninspiring ride up a gravel road to get to the actual trails. Once we get under the canopy of the pine plantation the trails look more inviting. The weather is much the same as yesterday, wet and drizzly, but still warm. The exposed roots of trees prove insanely slippery, and the polished clay trails only slightly less so. Riding these trails I’m reminded of a song by David Byrne, ‘Dancin On Vaseline’. Despite this we all manage to stay upright the whole ride and find some nice flowing trails. We had trouble following the map and the signage was pretty poor, so we did a fair bit of backtracking and exploring. This led us into two less than perfect situations. The first was when we ended up at the far eastern end of the park which borders on to the rifle club. We had been able to hear gunshots all morning, but all of a sudden they felt way too close, so we turned and hightailed back the way we’d come. The second was when we followed the sign to Blaster. Turns out Blaster was a climb of about 1-2kms, but it went straight up the fall line so steeply that we had trouble getting our shoes to grip in the slippery clay, let alone ride it. Eventually we hit the ridgetop which lead us into a sweet descent back down to the car.

 

Eskdale Mountain Bike Park

After a quick wash in the adjacent river, we loaded up and trucked out. Turns out the Enema was a good nickname for the car…by this stage it smelt similar to how I imagine an enema might smell. The subtle combination of wet clothes, sulfurous boardies, rotten socks, bike shoes, dirty knicks, unwashed, sweaty blokes and way too many farts, courtesy of the beers last night …or was it that Indian the night before?

 

We drove back to Taupo and then south towards Ruapehu, the large active volcanic mountain that dominates the centre of the north island. El Toro literally became sexually aroused as we crossed the Tongariro, one of the best fly fishing rivers in the world. On a tight schedule though, we kept on trucking, heading for the town of National Park, on the south west of the mountain.

 

We checked into what appeared to be the most salubrious of the town’s backpackers. Having handed over our dough, we then inquired about the hot-tub only to be told that it was out of action. Not happy.

Day 9 – Friday March 30

The day dawns grey, windy, wet and miserable, but still warm. We’d come to National Park, a thriving ski village in winter, as the staging town for the 42^nd Traverse. The 42^nd Traverse is a well known forty km point to point ride through NZ wilderness in the shadow of Mt Ruapehu. It’s only ridden in one direction (with the large majority being downhill), so you really need to organize a drop-off and pick up.

 

Our less than impressive hostel operator had told us the night before that he could provide transport for $25 per rider. Initially we’d baulked at this sum, deciding we’d be able to figure out a way ourselves. In the cold (wet, drizzly) light of day though, we decided to cough up the rupees. With dollars in hand we fronted up to the reception desk only to be told curtly that he could no longer do it, as we’d left it too late and he’d already made appointments. Not happy, again. It’s situations like this that always make me feel I could do a much better job at hospitality. How hard can it be?

 

We drove around to the other backpackers but no one would take us. Some thought the river crossings would be too dangerous. Eventually we gave up and switched to plan B.

 

Plan B involved foregoing the 42^nd Traverse altogether and heading back up to Taupo. By the time we got there the cloud had lifted a bit and the rain was just a fine mist. We decided to do a ride along the banks of the lake, through native forest to the secluded Kawakawa Bay.

 

Turns out to be a good decision. Its only about 3km each way, but the steep, narrow, slippery singletrack provides plenty of technical challenge. Every so often the trail pops out from the dense forest canopy onto exposed ledges high up above the lake, providing amazing views down into the crystal clear waters. The slightly wet, greasy trail requires full concentration and occasional rock gardens provide a good test of nerves and skills. Kawakawa Bay itself is idyllic, peaceful and an altogether good spot for lunch.

Me and El Toro

The clear waters of Kawakawa Bay

It’s a nice change to do a non-park ride. The mountain bike parks are great, but there is also something kind of ubiquitous about them, a vibe they all share. Maybe it’s the visual aesthetics of plantation forests that bothers me, and perhaps that’s why I enjoy this ride so much.

 

Once back at the Enema we clean up bikes and bodies in the lake. The water is cold, but so clear and fresh that I have no choice but to go for a swim. Cleaned, refreshed and with our now sparkling clean bikes packed away, we hit the road heading once more for Raglan.

 

Day 10 – Saturday March 31

Saturday starts with the obligatory early morning surf. There’s bugger all swell on the points, so we surf at the beach, catching a few nice mellow, crumbly waves as the sun rises. The weather has come good again, although there are still lots of threatening looking clouds around.

After brekky we say farewell to Bruno and head off. Bruno recommends a ride in the Hunua Ranges, on our way back to Auckland. Hunua Ranges is managed by the Department of Conservation and they’ve built a small trail network for mountain bikers, walkers and horse riders. The trails are nestled in a beautiful little valley with a dam at one end and a stream running the length of it. There are a couple of trails to ride but we opt for the Moumoukai Farm Track. We ride for nearly two hours before ending up back at the trailhead. The trail is tight, twisty, technical and slightly damp, but an absolute hoot. Creek crossings, fern gullies and dense temperate rainforest provide an awesome backdrop to the trails.

 

We repack the Enema and hightail it to the north, heading for Woodhill again. We pass through Auckland and arrive at Woodhill by about 4pm. This time we hit the ‘Specialised’ route. There are so many trails at Woodhill, each with their own name and most only 1km long, that they have signposted routes to follow, which incorporate some of the best trails in the park. At this end of the trip I’m feeling a bit more confident and cocky, so I attempt a few of the Hollywood stunts – see-saws and narrow elevated ramps and bridges. I nearly come unstuck on one stunt, which ends up being a lot higher and narrower than I’m comfortable on. The standout trail for me is Afterglow, stages 1, 2 and 3, an absolute rip snorter of a descent that totally defines the concept of flow.

 

We find accommodation about 10km up the road at Black Pete’s Saloon and Cabins. The wild west theme of the saloon is spot on. The clientele all seem like convicts and fugitives. We stick out like dogs balls with our shaved legs and the ability to pronounce words like six, fish and chips correctly, but we survive unscathed and sleep like babies on our last night in NZ.

 

Day 11 – Sunday April 1

We’re back at Woodhill by about 8am for our final ride. We mix and match trails this time, largely following the ‘R and R Sport’ route again. It’s a little damp this morning so the wooden structures are slick and slippery and we all give them a miss. Our final ride in NZ is a pearler, the dampness making the sandy trails grippier and slightly quicker than normal. We rip along the trails in a blur and soon end up back at the trailhead. By now its 10am and the car park is full and I’m reminded just how mainstream our sport is in NZ.

 Me, railing cautiously on wet wood

El Camino decides that Woodhill is his pick of the trip. For me, I still can’t go past Whakarewarewa at Rotorua, and in particular Be Rude Not To.

 

We find the nearest car wash and give the bikes a thorough clean before we pack them snugly into bags, cases and boxes for the trip home. The rest of the day wraps up predictably – arguments with the airline attendants about luggage weight limits, celebratory farewell beers at the airport, followed by more celebratory farewell beers on the plane before arriving home in Melbourne slightly inebriated, but thoroughly buzzing at the awesome trip we’ve just shared.

Just Who Exactly is Gezzamatic? Part 2

So yeah, Forrest. Y'all know about it by now. I think I can modestly claim it has been successful, at least in gaining the attention and interest of the mtb community. Whether it has been successful in transforming the economic fortunes of Forrest is not a question I can answer. Indeed it is a question that would receive widely differing answers from the good people of that town.

I was the project manager for two years. Based in Melbourne, I had a DSE colleague based in Forrest who was the arms and legs and local face of the project. I also had a steering committee of Parks Victoria and other DSE people who also had to be satisfied with the decision that were being made (by me, mostly). There were also some local mountain bikers engaged on the project that were fairly critical in shaping the overall project.

Early on in the project we realised that we needed to bring in someone external to help with the design process, someone who was known in the mountain bike community and would lend some much needed street cred to the project (let's face it, government agencies are not always known for being in touch with the 'people' especially youngish, outdoorsy types like mtb'ers). We chose Glen Jacobs and his business partner Dylan Jeffries. 

At the time they were still using the Mudcow Visions moniker, the legacy from their days as mountain bike film makers. They made the trip from Cairns down to Forrest, rugged up against the antarctic cold and got on with the job. They met with all the stakeholders and tried to distill from each person what their hopes and ideas for the project were. Eventually they delivered the final concept plan to me which outlined the Mudcow Vision vision for Forrest.

It was the start of a fortuitous business relationship - I now work for Glen and Dylan as their only full-time employee. I guess at some point during our relationship as client (me) and contractor (them) we became friends, and I think both parties had a realization that we could benefit each other. For me, going to work at World Trail (the new name of the company) represented an opportunity that I would never be offered again and I knew I would never forgive myself if I didn't roll the dice and grab with both hands. For them, I bought two things - knowledge of how their clients (mostly government agencies) operate and the environmental credentials that their clients were always asking for. That was about two years ago - I think I left DSE in April 2007.

So that's the short version on how I came to be a full time trail builder. 

Just Who Exactly is Gezzamatic? Part 1

In my last post I started to outline my credentials as they relate to mountain biking, starting with my first race and the first legal mountain bike trail that I built. 

After that first trail at the Pines near Gough's Bay in NE Vicco, I had the opportunity to attend a two day mountain bike trail building workshop in Tumbarumba, NSW, with world famous IMBA guru Joey Klein. Mountain Bike Australia had bought Joey out to teach us antipodeans a few of the essentials in mountain bike trail building. I went along with an overflowing cup of enthusiasm, which was more than matched by the other participants and the sickeningly positive Joey. I can only speak highly of that experience and would recommend any budding trail builders attend next time Joey comes back down under - he is a knowledgeable, fun and amazing teacher.

Shortly after that I got the chance to put many of those new skills into practice in my job as the Environmental Officer at Mt Buller Alpine Resort, building a new walking trail. Walking trails and mountain bike trails are really two different beasts, yet they are also exceedingly similar - many of the same design and construction principles apply, its just that the mode of travel is different. You also need to account for differing behaviours between the two groups. Anyway, the trail was a great sophomore effort in trail building. We must have got it pretty well right too, because (not withstanding a few minor repairs) it has stood the test of time. If you are up there and ever want to check it out, its called the Summit Nature Walk. I should point out that I was only responsible for the section of trail on the south side of the hill - the part on the north side was already in place. We had to jump through more hoops than a lion in the circus to get it built - state planning approvals, flora and fauna assessments and we even had to get federal approval under the Environment Protection and Biodiversity Conservation Act because the trail was proposed to pass close to habitat of the endangered Mountain Pygmy-possum. I was also responsible for the content and design of the interpretive signs. Anyway, here's a picture of it:

Eventually the time came to leave Mt Buller and I took up a new job with the Department of Sustainability and Environment in their Tourism and Recreation team, back in Melbourne. At this point you may be starting to realise I am a little bit of a greenie. You're damn straight I am. I'm not rabid about it. I just happen to think that this huge grocery store we call earth is a finite resource, and that if we continue to consume at the rate we are, one day there'll be nothing left on the shelves. 

Anyway, I moved back to Melbourne and into a full-on policy project at DSE that I soon began to dislike. Fortunately,  around the time I started there, an interesting project reared its head. I remember being asked on my first day there "You're a mountain biker eh? Do you know anything about building mountain bike tracks?" You see the government had made an election promise to phase out timber harvesting on public land in the Otway Ranges and then they'd hired some consultants who told them they should invest in tourism as a way of reinvigorating the local economy and thus make up for the jobs lost from timber harvesting. Nice in theory...but it worked out well for me and the mountain biking community of Vicco, because one of the potential tourism opportunities these consultants recommended was mountain biking. 

And thus was born the Forrest Mountain Bike Trails Project...

Back with a Vengeance

I've been a terribly poor blogger. Completely crap really. But I intend to change all that. I intend to actually pay attention to this blog and get people to read it and maybe even comment on the ramblings etched herein. 

So I'm back, with a vengeance according to the title of this piece. Not that I'm particularly angry, but that just seemed a snappy title.

I figure that I should probably run you through my credentials. That way, when I write something controversial you can actually look at all the stuff I've done in my thirty four and a half years and make your own decision as to whether I actually know what I'm talking about. I intend to only write stuff that is:

1. Not controversial; 
2. Controversial, but well within my sphere of knowledge; or
3. Controversial, but clearly just my opinion (in which case I'll try to make that clear).

Anyway, I do believe I'm digressing.

My credentials are as follows. Regarding bikes, I had my first race in 1992, at the tender age of 18. Prior to that I'd ridden mountain bikes a little, but mostly just as a means of escaping into the bush and getting away from the angst of teenage life. I actually remember seeing a mountain bike magazine in a newsagent and being amazed that mountain biking was a sport. I'd never imagined anything so cool, although it took me a while to come around to the tight lycra outfits (not to mention the bright flouro colours that were in vogue at the time). 

That first race was at Gembrook, in the Dandenong Ranges, near Melbourne. I came second in the novice category. Little did I know at the time that it would be possibly the best result of my mountain biking life...

It hooked me. From that point on I became a mountain biker. Since then I've raced over a hundred races (I know this because I used to keep a journal with all my race results, but when it became too painful to look at, I burned it) - mostly Olympic distance cross-country, some dirt crits, lots of enduro/marathon type events, a handful of downhill races and even some road races (yes, I know I'm supposed to be a mtb'er and we're supposed to hate roadies, but then again, I'm not a narrow minded idiot and to me, bikes are bikes are bikes).

As a young mtb'er living in the Dandenongs I prided myself on knowing every trail in them there hills. At the time I would have challenged anyone to show me a trail I didn't know. Back then we were a new thing in parks and there were very few restrictions on where we could ride. As I got older I actively sought out and explored new trails. I've now ridden all over this country and even in a handful of spots overseas (US, NZ, Switzerland, France, Wales).

Around 2000 I got a new job (I'll detail my work experience in another post, cause it's definitely relevant too) that required me to move to the Mt Buller/Mansfield region. Around that time a group of local Mansfield mtb'ers were discussing starting a club. I attended the inaugural meeting of the (then) Mansfield Mountain Cyclists. I ended up on the committee right from the start and became president a couple of years later. 

While I was president we obtained permission from three separate land managers to build a 7km race loop from scratch near Lake Eildon (the Pines at Gough's Bay to be precise), on which we ran a couple of state mtb rounds. I was the main architect of that course and I spilt plenty of my own blood and sweat to make it happen. I was really proud of it. In the dry it was an amazing course and we received high praise from the competitors. In the wet it was horrid - the soil turned to a sticky brown slurry axle deep in places. It taught me a few things about how to drain a trail.

That was probably the real turning point that led me to this career. Certainly my work history and university education helped bring me to this point, but I'll go into those next time.