Author: Mischa

Full Nelson

It’s gotta be said again, people who rides bikes are pretty damn good people. You might have read some stuff on here from a bloke called Ben. He’s prone to posting pictures of fish, small children and stories about bushwalks. Ben’s a good mate of mine, who happens to have a good mate called Matt. You’ve probably seen Matt’s posts on here as well. A little less frequent, but often filled with quality music and wistful prose. I’m saddened to say that I haven’t actually met Matt in person, but if you can judge a guy by his facebook page (you can), then he’s a bloody top bloke as well. Now Matt happens to live in New Zealand, although a little further North of my current location. He also happens to have a friend whose name is also Matt. Matt has a mate called Julien, and also a friend called Mike (who’s friends with the other Matt too). So as you can see, there are lots of friends around here and all of them are bloody top notch people. It’s kinda like a big pot of friend-spaghetti, where everyone’s connected in various ways, be it pasta or tomato sauce. What does that mean? I have no idea, but I’m tired and I’m gonna stick with it.

The fact of the matter is that I spent just over a week in the beautiful town of Nelson, riding amazing trails with a rad bunch of guys and girls who I’d never met before, and with whom my only initial connection was another guy I’ve never met, who happens to know one bloke I have met. But that’s the beauty of bike riding isn’t it? The thing we harp on about all the time, that sense of community and the networks that open up in the blink of an eye and the turn of a pedal. I rolled into Nelson last Friday with no connections, and then first thing the next morning I was out riding the amazing Coppermine loop with a bunch of locals in the MTB-Buddies group (and some Australia navy ring-ins). An amazing ride that climbs gently along an old rail line before kicking down the side of a mountain in a series of endless rocky switchbacks and dippers that had me laughing like a madman (until I got two punctures five metres apart and spent a a good few minutes cursing, before continuing with the laughing). That drops down into a bigring smash down an amazing piece of flowing singletrack that runs alongside a beautiful river and leaves you feeling like your tyres barely touch the ground.

Beers and burgers at the Sprig & Fern (and Three Berry Cider…oh yes!) followed, and resulted in that amazing post-ride glow that you just never quite get when you ride solo. Entertained by Matt and Julien who’re two of the most hospitable and entertaining riders I’ve had the pleasure to meet, the pub became a permanent fixture in the daily schedule. The week progressed with more riding, including the lung-busting climb and vicious root-infested descent of the Black Diamond/Sunshine/Peaking Ridge trail which quite easily claims the title of least-relaxing and most mentally intense MTB ride I’ve ever done (but also a shitload of fun). A loop around Codgers MTB Park in the rain left me covered head to toe in mud and pine needles, and a trip out to the park at Kaiteriteri saw plenty of two-wheel slides and an insane number of switchbacks climbed and then descended, each one of them a joy. Things were wrapped up on Supplejack with Mike and his mates, with my lungs hanging out on the approach climb as I trailed behind guys riding Nomads with flat pedals and DH tyres as they chatted away, oblivious to the endless ascent. The ride to the bottom was wet, slippery, steep and technical switchbacks, one after the other that left me scratching my head and wondering how the guys in front even picked a line down. I slipped and tripped my way to the bottom, on foot more often than rubber, but thankfully surviving with my body in tact (if not my dignity).

Unfortunately the final ciders had to be drunk, the last burgers eaten and Nelson left to disappear through the back window of a bus. Behind were a fistful of amazing trail memories, a long list of rides for the next visit, and a bunch of new friends who turned a heap of good rides into great times.

Thanks guys!

Rotorvegas

Everyone talks about good natured Kiwi hospitality and there’s definitely no shortage of it on the Whakarewarewa trails. I rolled into MTB Rotorua last week with a Manky in my hand and a confused look on my face. Brad and Tu were quick to drop what they were doing (living the dream, by all appearances) and direct me gently towards their big map board. In the space of five minutes I’d been hooked up with a ride plan and a list of trails, highlighted for convenience and been given a run down on the best was to tackle the forest.  Slightly better than the confused wanderings that had started the day. Rotorua has got what’s probably the best condensed trail network in the world (judging by the responses from those who’ve ridden further afield than me), and that map is covered in a shitload of little squiggly lines, tiny arrows and weird trail names. A few days in the forest though, and it all starts making a little more sense.

I’ve  been here ten days, been riding seven of those, and already I’m starting to find my favourite loops. The joy of this place is that in comparison to Tasmania, even the hardest climbs are fairly mellow, and usually quite short. That, and all the amazing trails of course. Anyway, with the whole debate about whether or not marriage is between a man and a woman, I’m going to throw my hat in the ring and say I’d like to marry Split Enz. Not the band, but the ridiculously good, swooping, whooping, rolling, bermed piece of heaven that descends the back of the forest and leaves you with that feeling of pure bliss and euphoria. I think we might adopt Billy T and Pondy DH/New as our children, and invite Be Rude Not 2 and Mad If U Don’t to come live in the spare room. We can invite Dragon’s Tail and Rollercoaster over for dinner every night, and Huckleberry Hound, Little Red Riding Huck and Corners can spend sunny afternoons playing the the backyard. So long as we’re all together, everything will be alright.

But anyway, back to the friendly locals (no Tongan bride yet sorry Ben). The next day I rocked up back at MTB Rotorua and got hailed by name. Those guys spend all day talking to (temporary) strangers and still remembered the guy with the funny name and stupid face. That kinda stuff goes a hell of a long way towards turning a place from a network of great trails into a great trail community. It’s a good reminder of why this “sport” is so awesome.

That arvo I trusted my bike to a spidery looking trailer latched to the back of an old bus and promptly felt my rider’s guilt jump through the roof. I’ve become a fast convert to the joy of shuttles and repeated runs down awesome trails, but it still feels a little wrong. Luckily the best trails start a bit beyond the drop-off point, so at least the legs get a tender workout. It’s still not quite the same as grinding half way up Mt Wellington, but it’ll just have to do.

More talkative locals meant the evening ended with a twilight run, following (another) Brad and his dog Maxxis down trails in the gloaming, squinting into shadowed corners trying to figure out whether that dark patch was a rut, a stick or a pile of bloody pine cones (trail grenades). Chasing a local on a Santa Cruz V10 Carbon DH bike down trails in the dark is probably not the safest way to finish a day, but a few moments of “oh shit!’ and a couple of minutes to extract my balls from my throat and things worked out pretty damn fine.  I even got a lift back to the hostel, which swept away any doubts I had about the decency of the human race (well, the ones who ride bikes at least).

So Rotorua’s undoubtedly been living up to the high expectations that were heaped upon it, given the mad ravings of many a BnC member (and pretty much anyone else who’s been within sniffing distance of the place).

Life on a MTB ain’t nothin’ but good times and tired legs.

Check out more photos and random travel stuff here: http://rollsouth.tumblr.com

Outsiders

You’ve gotta love the way cycling crosses borders as if they don’t exist.  You wouldn’t really imagine Bali would have much of a DH scene, but this little video an old friend recently posted on the Good ‘Book definitely proves otherwise. Regardless of where you are in the world, you can usually find a decent hill and a bunch of mates to ride down it with.

Bobby plays in an awesome Balinese punk rock band Superman Is Dead. They’re some of the most amazing, friendly and psyched-on-life guys I’ve ever met and they definitely know how to have a good time.

What Goes on Tour…

The Tour of Tasmania came South to Hobart today, for the first time in a bloody long time. The shin-dig kicked off with a team time trial up Mt Wellington this arvo, which would have been lovely for about 300m of vertical gain before entering the thick cloud that covered the mountain. BnC was well represented by Hunners, whose mid-morning quest for a working megaphone was seemingly fruitless. I didn’t make it up the hill due to work, but here’s a snap that’s surfaced. Dunno who the poor bastard is on the bike, but I’m sure you can use your imagination when it comes to the audio. At least he’s got his pants on…

Parenting Advice

While Ben’s been rolling on gravel and wallowing in the wet stuff, I’ve been doing a fair amount of sitting around whinging about the season. There’s a week of shredding the gnar coming up at Perisher, but my current bike fix generally comes in the form of pixels or video frames. Still, it’s cold and wet out htere, so bugger it.

There are a few BnC members with offspring, so I think it’s only fitting to post up a short video from Mark Weir, showing the true and proper way to train up your future bicycle champion.

Motown Soul

Check out this trick video of Sean Walling from Soulcraft building a custom frame. Beautifully filmed and edited, with a very nice result at the end.

FROM STEEL: The Making of a Soulcraft from michael evans on Vimeo.

I dunno about wherever the rest of you are, but down here in Hobart it’s absolutely shitting down. With the Spring Classics happening (or happened) and the paths and roads swiftly filling with mud it only seems fitting to throw the knobby tyres back on the ‘cross bike after its summer romance with the slicks. While the high-stacked excuses of grocery shopping, a blocked nose, absolute driving rain and darkness are doing a fair job of keeping me off the bike tonight, I’m swearing that the rest of Autumn and Winter won’t see it continue. Mud’s for riding in, and if it ain’t muddy for the next few weeks I’ll be a surprised (and dry) man. So throw on some merino, grit your teeth and get amongst it. And if you spot a slow moving brown mess somewhere out there, be sure to offer me a cup of hot chocolate or a pint of something delicious.

And is anyone organising a cyclocross series in Southern Tasmania yet?