Trail Fund(s) tools for trails
Words Meagan Robertson
Images Lisa Ng
Talk about the gift that keeps giving! Thanks to Trail Fund’s recent Tools for Trails funding round, 30 Weapons of Mass Creation will help ten clubs continue their hard work creating and maintaining their local masterpieces. Read more on a few clubs and their plans below!
Since it was founded in 2013, Trail Fund NZ has been helping volunteer trail building groups around the country establish themselves and their trail networks by gifting grants, ebarrows and other tools. This Christmas, ten trail building teams up and down the country will have more tools in their sheds to further develop the amazing network of mountain bike trails around New Zealand.
“Tools are truly the gift that keep on giving, so we’re super stoked to support these clubs—large and small—with trail building and maintenance support,” says Trail Fund NZ co-president, John Humphrey. “It’s really about supporting the volunteers out there choosing to spend their time trail building – they are the ones behind the incredible trail network that has been developed in New Zealand, and that so many of us enjoy.”
The Swiss army knife of trail tools To make the application process simple, Trail Fund decided the tool of choice would be the New Zealand-made ‘Weapon of Mass Creation’—touted as the Swiss army knife of hand built trail tools, made by product designer and trail builder, Gareth Hargreaves.
“I’m a big supporter of Trail Fund and was more than happy to offer the tools at a discounted rate to get them into the hands of trail builders around the country,” says Gareth, who is a longtime member of the advisory board.
It turns out the clubs were pretty excited about the idea too, with Trail Fund receiving ten applications for the Weapon of Mass Creation (WMC) tools on offer from a wide variety of groups. Keen to see all the deserving recipients get some tools, Trail Fund decided to go big and grant each trail building group between two and four tools!
Read more about the recipients below….
Mākara Peak Supporters—Wellington
Established by Wellington City Council in 1998, Mākara Peak Mountain Bike Park boasts the largest trail network in the lower North Island and has had an exciting year celebrating the 25th anniversary of the park.
“The Mākara Peak Supporters are super stoked to receive three WMC tools from Trail Fund in their latest tool round,” says Mākara Peak Supporters member, Andrew Cooper. “It caps a great year for the Mākara Peak MTB Park—with 2024 being our 25th anniversary and being announced as the best park in the country for 2024 by Recreation Aotearoa – a fantastic acknowledgement of our collaboration with Wellington City Council.
“The WMC tools have been a mainstay of our trail building and maintenance mahi over many years and some of them are starting to feel their age. With a pipeline of refurbishments and new trail builds coming up at Mākara Peak, it will be fantastic to restock the armoury with these new tools.”
Bike Methven—Canterbury
Based in Methven, and only a 10-minute drive from Mt Hutt, Bike Methven has a mixture of cross-country, enduro and downhill mountain bikers, as well as road cyclists, who are passionate about their riding.
The club’s home base, Mt Hutt Bike Park has more than 40km of XC, downhill and singletrack trails and is looking forward to hosting the 2025 and 2026 South Island Secondary MTB Champs.
“All the tracks we are racing will need some love this season,” says club chair, Stu Marr. “We have a number of young pinners keen to get involved and get their hands dirty doing some of this work, so it’s awesome to be a recipient of four of these tools!”
In addition to prepping all the trails for the champs, Bike Methven’s latest projects are extending the intermediate level tracks around the lower part of the Bike Park and a UCI spec BMX track in Central Methven.
Mountainbike Tauranga—Tauranga
A first time Trail Fund recipient and the host of the 2025 North Island Secondary MTB Champs, Mountainbike Tauranga is thrilled to receive three Weapons of Mass Creation to help make its current major projects at Oropi Grove a reality.
A mountain biker’s playground, Oropi Grove is Tauranga’s longest serving mountain bike park. Located on Tauranga City Council land, it includes cross-country, downhill and freeride terrain featuring a variety of purpose-built jumps and drops and ranging from Grade 2 to Grade 6. The projects currently underway include a skills development park and a Grade 4 downhill track.
“The skills area will be a focal point of the park—an area where riders of all abilities can practice their skills, and organised mountain bike lessons can take place,” says Mountainbike Tauranga committee member, Shannon Fisken.
“The new Grade 4 downhill track is a requirement for hosting all three disciplines (XC, Enduro and DH) at the 2025 North Island Secondary MTB Champs. It’s already been professionally designed and our team of volunteers will assist our professional trail builder to ensure the project is completed in a timely and cost-effective way.
“These awesome new tools will be useful on a weekly basis for our committed Thursday night crew, and at our regular working bees prior to events. Thanks Trail fund!”
Other recipients include:
Richmond Hill Trail Carvers – Nelson region
Raglan Mountainbiking Cub – Waikato
Queenstown Mountain Bike Club – Otago
Mountain Bikers of Alexandra – Otago
Nelson Mountain Bike Club – Nelson region
Silvan Forest – Nelson region
Kerikeri Mountain Bike Club – Northland
Samara Sheppard: Ups and downs
Words Lester Perry
Images Phillip Sage
For over ten years, Samara Sheppard has been quietly going about her business, making moves and climbing the global off-road racing ranks.
From Wellington PNP races and NZ National Series events, to U23 XCO World Cups and Marathon World Championships, her career up until 2024 had been primarily based around mountain biking. The new year brought a change in focus and renewed motivation, prompted by a maiden voyage at the ABSA Cape Epic and a run at the US-based Lifetime Grand Prix series.
Born in Clyde, Central Otago, Samara’s family moved to Wellington in her fourth year. Raised in an active family, she was destined to become an athlete of some sort. “My dad was into adventure racing and endurance events like the Coast to Coast and Ironman. My brother also took to cycling but steered more towards downhill racing, as well as rugby. We mostly all ran cross- country. Mum would taxi us around. My sister, a brilliant swimmer and very intelligent—she often found smarter ways to spend her time.”
Not one to be pigeonholed into a single sport, Samara “played every sport under the sun and particularly enjoyed gymnastics from a young age, then onto netball, soccer and cross-country running”. In years to come, this excitement for running would ultimately open the door to mountain biking for her.
“I had a lot of energy as a kid and was able to channel this into gymnastics. But, as I was getting older and other sports like netball and soccer became available, gymnastics was becoming a full-time sport. I quit gymnastics to try out new things. I remember some Saturdays when I was around 12 years old; I would have soccer first thing, then a game of netball, then a running race, and then dance practice. Hardly surprising that I developed a taste for endurance sports!”
After being sidelined by a running injury, Samara’s father steered her toward mountain biking as a way to stay sane. “Once I discovered how awesome it was to adventure through Wellington’s hills and around NZ, I was hooked. I started racing straight away in the local PNP club events and loved the buzz.”
School life provided two critical things for Samara: socialisation—she wanted to hang out with her friends all day—and the schoolwork satisfied her competitive spirit.
“I always found maths easy, and I treated the work like a race, always trying to be the first to complete the work with accuracy. I think I still have the record at Churton Park School for quickest to complete the basic facts sheets.”
By high school, when she could choose her own subjects, MTB had started to rule her existence: “I chose to do the minimum subjects needed to pass NCEA so I could spend more time riding my bike.”
“My first seasons racing XCO in Europe as U23 were pretty exciting—getting to explore the world and racing against the best there is. The people you get to spend time with, new experiences, and the racing buzz is always rewarding. This year is exciting because it’s a whole new scene (to me) racing in the US, but it’s an easy one to navigate as it’s an English-speaking country and where the industry gets behind privateer riders. It’s really exciting to work with some of the best brands in the business and challenge myself in various off-road race formats.”
Although Samara continues to compete globally, the inspiration to keep pushing herself comes from those closest to her: “I’m inspired by my dad, the ‘old boys’ in Wellington, and the riders I’ve had the pleasure of competing against and riding with over the years. Today, my biggest influence comes from my husband, Kyle. He always keeps cycling fun and designs the best routes to ride. I’ve always raced well when I’m having fun. And Kyle has been a major influence for that over the past eight years.”
Many athletes appear one-dimensional, all- consumed by their pursuit of physical excellence, but Samara’s not one of them. Over the COVID lockdowns, with borders closed and racing paused, many cyclists took the opportunity to get a solid training block, emerging from the period fit and raring to go. Samara chose to further herself over the period and emerged with a master’s in public health. “I couldn’t leave our local government area, and there were no races. I was working part-time at a health clinic but was out of work with all the restrictions. I decided I needed a challenge and was motivated to get a reliable job through times like those. I was also aware of how lifestyles were becoming more sedentary and could see in the healthcare clinic the impacts that has. After the pandemic, I ended up taking on a role with Wollongong Tourism as a UCI Bike City Coordinator to help make cycling an easy option for people in the city.”
When US-based Argentinian racer Sofia Gómez Villafane was on the hunt for a 2024 teammate to try and reclaim the overall title she and Haley Batten (USA) won in 2022, Sofia’s 2023 teammate, Katerina Nash, suggested Samara could be a good fit. Both have similar backgrounds, transitioning from the short XCO discipline to the more endurance-focused marathon XC and gravel-style races. Sharing Specialized as a sponsor ticked the first box, and Samara’s palmares spoke for themselves: 6th at the 2023 MTB Marathon Worlds Champs, Oceania Marathon Champ, and NZ Champion, amongst other strong results; Sofia knew they were in for a strong performance. The southern hemisphere pair would take the start as an unknown quantity. Although this was to be Sofia’s fourth Cape Epic, it would be Samara’s first, and the pair hadn’t raced as partners before. South Africa wasn’t completely uncharted territory for Sheppard, however, as she’d raced the World Cup in Stellenbosch back in 2018. The pair ultimately finished 3rd at the Absa Cape Epic, Samara becoming the first Oceania rider to finish on the podium at this prestigious event.
Weeks later, the pair lined up for the Lifetime Grand Prix (LTGP) opening round at Sea Otter Classic, Monterey, California, racing head-to- head rather than as a team. Carrying strong form from the Cape Epic, Samara took the podium, finishing second, just behind Sofia—a solid start to the Life Time series. “I took confidence from Cape Epic and a deep strength in my legs which set me up for a perfect start to the LTGP. Backing this up with a result at Sea Otter helped secure more industry support that has made the rest of the LTGP possible.“
Taking on a series that not only covers a long time span but also criss-crosses the US, provides some unique challenges; her first LTGP series has thrown her some serious curveballs. “As a privateer, the initial challenge was securing enough support to do it. Then there’s the logistics of traveling around the US, which is just gigantic; navigating visas so we don’t overstay; and finding a home base in the US, as travelling back and forth wasn’t realistic. Races from April to October. Extremely long endurance events. High altitude prep.”
Fortunately, Samara was lucky to become part of the Orange Seal (OS) Academy, easing the financial strain and providing top-notch coaching support, working alongside ex-world- tour pro, Dennis van Winden. “Not only do they make excellent tyre sealant, OS also get behind riders and have created a community in the US with their OS Academy. If it weren’t for John, the owner of OS, and Dennis, the Academy lead, it wouldn’t have been possible to race the LTGP this year. I owe this season to their encouragement and support.”
The LTGP has been a significant learning experience. Unfortunately, some of the learnings have been to the detriment of her performance. The Leadville Trail 100 MTB race is renowned as one of the toughest races in the world. Over its 170km, the course covers a massive 3,600 metres of elevation gain, reaching a peak altitude of 3,800 metres—roughly the same as the peak of Aoraki Mt Cook. “Everyone responds differently to altitude. With two rounds of the LTGP being at high altitude, I made the call to come over to the US three weeks ahead of the first one to acclimatise. By the time Leadville came around, I had spent seven weeks at high altitude (around 2000m). It’s hard to feel good on the bike at altitudes above 3000m, so I would consider doing multiple smaller blocks next time around.”
“Coming into this season, I thought a 100km MTB race very long. Racing Leadville this year opened my mind to what it’s like to race all day. Well, for nearly eight hours, over the 170km MTB course. The longest race in the LTGP— Unbound—is 320km long. Unbound was my drop race this year because I couldn’t fathom how to race that far. After the race, I had a bit of FOMO, so I’ll be working on getting my head and body around racing for 320kms next season!
“Then there have been other challenges like a herniated disc in my back that flared up, getting bitten by a dog whilst out training, which sent me to hospital for ten stitches in my arm and a mighty dose of antibiotics, then recovering from a concussion after hitting my head on the ground racing SBT Gravel (non-LTGP race). The most challenging part remains—to achieve what I set out to do: I took on the LTGP because I believe I have what it takes to finish on the overall podium. The challenge remains to make it happen.”
Following SBT, the circus was off to Chequamegon, where she finished 10th and scored 7th place points (three non-LTGP riders in front of her). Samara was showing signs she was on the way back from her injuries and looking strong heading into the Marathon World Championship and the final two LTGP rounds.
Next up was to be the UCI World Championships in Snowshoe, West Virginia. Once again, luck wasn’t on her side. “It was my first ride on the Marathon Worlds course, and the course markings and .gpx files didn’t match up, so I was a bit lost. I’d found some friends to try to figure out the course with. It had been raining for a few days, so the trails were slippery. I was following one of my speedy friends down a technical section, and I didn’t see a small stump that I clipped my pedal on. I went over the bars and hit my knee hard on a rock slab, slicing it open, causing swelling and aggravating my bursa. It also triggered some concussion symptoms from a crash I’d had four weeks prior.”
“It was really sad to miss out on racing Worlds. I’ve loved the buzz of World Champs ever since I watched XC Worlds in Rotorua in 2006 and competed in my first World Champs in Scotland in 2007. It’s a special opportunity to represent your country and race the best in the world, chasing a rainbow jersey—a big goal of mine, especially after finishing 6th last year and 5th in 2019.”
Unfortunately, her injuries sidelined her for LTGP round six, The Rad Dirt Fest, so her focus shifted to the final round—Big Sugar in Bentonville, Arkansas. “This season has had its fair share of highs and lows. Dealing with so many injuries and setbacks in one season has been tough, especially since I took a break from work to compete in the U.S. The smaller setbacks, like being bitten by a dog and splitting my knee open, were relatively minor and straightforward. But the concussion has been a completely different challenge. Every concussion is unique, and people can only tell you to be patient and take your time. You just can’t push through symptoms like you can with other injuries. “I remind myself that there’s more in life I want to achieve, and for that, I need a healthy brain. I try to be kind to my body, not overthink things, and focus on what I can control—like getting enough sleep, eating well, and appreciating where I am. Having a strong support system with Orange Seal Academy, led by Dennis van Winden, who checks in every day and brings a wealth of data to guide decisions, has been a big help. Making a plan based on both data and intuition helps me stay positive and keep moving forward.”
Now in its third year, the LTGP has been refined and built on each successive season, but there’s still work to be done. “I don’t like how the women’s races are influenced by men who are racing on the course at the same time. It’s great that the pro women have their own start wave this year, but if the women could race on a clear course, that would make the racing safer and more fair.”
The LTGP is the largest offroad cycling series in the world, and even though the pointy end of the competition gets most of the media attention, all seven rounds of the series attracts thousands of everyday riders keen to toe the line against the pros. “It’s also super inviting for beginners to pro riders. Combining the LTGP with mass participant events creates a fun community buzz. The LTGP are doing great things to develop fandom, like with the incredible docos they release 48 hours after the race, the pro panel discussions, autograph signings and ways they promote their series.”
“Once the season is over, my focus will be on recovery and building toward 2025. I aim to come back even stronger and wiser. My goals are still big, with plans to return for LTGP in 2025 and tackle a mix of endurance and ultra-endurance gravel and mountain bike events. I’m excited for what’s ahead.”
Southern Legends: 100 years in one trip
Words & Images Jamie Nicoll
The St James area did not pull my strings until I bumped into Johno while on a bike launch assignment, checking out the new Hanmer Springs trails. My eyes were opened to yet another hidden world of magical riding and scenery to be treasured!
Johno is a pioneer of new trails and a visionary of our sport – in other words, he’s exactly the sort of person I try to find so I can tell their story. Johno works alongside Mark Ingles… yes, the legend himself. After losing his legs to frostbite in an alpine survival situation, Mark has gone on to inspire many generations through motivational talks and projects like this one; the development of the St James. This was to turn out to be a week of Kiwi legends! Johno and Mark are working together to breathe epic style into Hamner and the surrounding remote St James ranges. These ranges are steeped in history and the romance of a rugged life of working the land on horseback—and this is not just history but a present-day reality: I met a horseman out earning a crust through trapping and track maintenance.
This is a place where you can ride for miles and stay in huts; it’s basically an Old Ghost Road or Paparoa trail, except that it has always been there and therefore hasn’t received the marketing attention. All you need to do is look at a map, follow the dotted lines between huts and you are done; you have created your own hut-to-hut adventure on good trails and singletrack with epic views. This area sports a lot of good weather days too, which is worth noting in case you were planning to ride into the mist and rain elsewhere.
Now, I live in Motueka, and I like going places via routes less trodden, so I turned the key on the tried and tested, global-expedition-equipped Land Cruiser with a bike strapped to the back, and headed for the rough roads. From Blenheim, one can access a gravel road heading south 120 km through the Molesworth Station, NZ’s largest station, and the road to Hanmer Springs. The Molesworth road is gravel and remote but can be driven in any sensible car, and allows you to drop into the back of the Hanmer Springs township.
After two days of touring, we pulled the trucks up at Johno’s house for an evening of poring over maps. The next morning the plan unfolded, with Mark Ingles shuttling us out to the start of Fowlers Pass on the Rainbow Road while my trail building mate, Sam, and his brother, drove the two Land Cruisers into a side valley to set up a welcome camp at Scotties Flat hut.
Fowlers Pass has a lot going for it. It sits at 1296m altitude with a smooth singletrack climb and loads of promising and stunning terrain. This was the start of chasing Johno on his eBike for the day. With a good portion of the climb done, we rounded a corner and there was some real-life Kiwi-as-you-get, grey-bearded, Swandri-wearing, horse-packing dude cruising along beside his mount. His name was Sean. His horse has no name but carried the most basic of set ups, using sacks as saddlebags—I thought I’d hit my head and gone back in time! Sean spends 11 months of the year in the backcountry, trapping possums for fur and repairing trails so horses – and subsequently, bikes – can pass through unhindered. Sean is actively involved with a group that focuses on establishing and re-opening historic horse trails throughout the South Island. Man, did this guy blow my mind… legend!
Descending off the pass, tight schist-y singletrack turned and a smooth, narrow thread of trails snaked down the open landscape. This had me back in France, and the trails of the infamous Trans Provence race.
From a plateau meadowland, we peered down at Lake Guyon. Johno pointed out and explained more about the future trail development and links that will expand an already stellar array of backcountry and multi-day options. Think of it as a choose-your-own-adventure location. From the plateau, it was not far to the historic Stanley Vale Hut, dating back to the 1860s with remnants of wall paper and Mother Mary still hanging on the wall. I’d been told a story about some cyclists who had been snowed in at the hut, with Sean keeping them well entertained with stories over the bleak days!
The Stanley River, running south from this mountain grassland, boasts yet more singletrack. We generally maintained a nicely efficient pace, until we eventually climbed up out of the Stanley to ‘The Race Course’, something of a wide clay flat area. Again, you are privy to some of the most impressive views out west, up the Jones River and south down the Waiau.
Some 35km and six hours later we descended to Scotties Hut, down a newly cleared singletrack to a sweet welcome party of Sam and his adventurous kids. These are impressive kids—back home in Motueka the two of them spend days out playing in the forest while Sam is digging new MTB trails for a crust.
That evening, we headed to a remote “wild” hot pool not far from Scotties Hut. Wedged into a small side valley and beautifully located on the stream edge, the starry night above created a fine finish to a big day in the saddle.
Johno had only used 45% of his battery running on Eco for the day, but my legs were definitely spent. This was day four; bikes strapped to the Land Cruiser and headed out, we turned north towards Lake Tennyson and, more precisely, the rough road up to Mailing Pass. Standing at the 1308m pass we looked once more down to the beautiful grassland of the Waiau River flats. Johno pointed out the large pockets of beech forest nestled into the western folds and enthusiastically shared his trail vision for this descent, something worthy of a trip in its own right, once it is built.
With special permission from DOC, we were able to make a quick trip to look at Lake Guyon from the opposite angle. Standing at the Lake Guyon hut, we looked over this alpine lake up to the plateau edge I had looked down from only the day before. This gave me a good picture and understanding for the singletrack trail vision that would link these two tracks with not just old 4WD trails but outstanding singletrack terrain, making even more options for MTB backcountry adventures here!
Tired but stoked, we took shelter in the Island Gully hut in the middle of the scree-clad mountains of the Rainbow Road. Another night in the hills rounded out an epic adventure, rather than the all too familiar story of getting tired and over-focused on getting out. A fresh and happy bunch rolled back into the Motueka Valley with new and exciting trails under our belts and an eagerness to return for more!
Northern Lines
Words & Images Liam Friary
The Pacific Northwest has always held a certain mystique for mountain bikers. Its loamy trails, dense forests and mountainous terrain have been home to some of the world’s best shredders, and have helped shape the culture of our sport.
I was fortunate enough to take a winter hiatus earlier this year, to trip around some of North America. This part of the journey took me from the iconic trails of Bellingham, Washington, through British Columbia’s interior, ultimately landing us in Golden. The ‘us’ is me and one other – Chris Mandell. Just one video call led me to this situation; Chris was meeting a larger crew (travelling from other regions) in Golden for the 25th Anniversary of Psychosis, so I hitched a ride.
Bellingham served as our launch point; its reputation as a mountain bike haven is well- earned. The town sits nestled between the Salish Sea and the North Cascades, where trails seem to sprout from every fold in the landscape.
There’s a ton of riding options here and even if you spent weeks, you’d only just be scratching the surface. One of the main local riding locations is Galbraith Mountain. The network offers more than 65 miles of pristine singletrack that’s been methodically crafted over decades. Before heading north, we squeezed in an afternoon session on some of Galbraith’s finest. It was dry but the dirt was tacky, and the trails were so damn fun. Pacific Northwest trail builders craft with precision—berms and jump lines are dialled, but there’s also a heap of tight hand-cut singletrack. I was itching to get more trail time in, but we needed to gap it.
The van was packed. Two trail bikes, a DH bike, spare wheels, tyres, a heap of bike paraphernalia, clothes, some food and coffee and, after a quick homecooked lunch, we were set: ready to hit the road north. The border crossing at Sumas was relatively quick, and, soon enough, we were cruising through British Columbia’s Fraser Valley. The landscape gradually transformed from coastal rainforest to the drier interior as we pushed eastward. I was just trying to take everything in whilst also attempting to find an afternoon ride and dinner location. I wasn’t just a passenger, more like a co-pilot. We found a riding location to spin our legs, but it wasn’t really the mountain biking we were after as it was actually a cross-country ski course (in the winter, of course). We pedalled anyway as it was good to get the body moving again after spending a few hours in the van. We jumped back in and, within about ten minutes or so, we saw a heap of cars parked up at a trail head. Turns out that was a better location and had ‘real’ mountain bike trails. Oh well, that’s the joy of travel—right?!
After dinner in Kamloops, we pinned our first overnight stop to Salmon Arm. It’s a modest town on the shores of Shuswap Lake that’s quietly been developing its own mountain bike identity. The South Canoe trail network here is a testament to grassroots community building—local riders have turned hillsides into playgrounds, with trails that range from flowy cross-country to technical descent lines.
The morning light in Salmon Arm painted the lake in silvers and blues as we loaded up on coffee and breakfast sandwiches from a local cafe. After an hour or so of clearing the digital backlog, we were set for another day of road tripping. The air was crisp, typical of early summer in the BC interior. We surveyed Trail Forks and spotted a good trail en route. We drove the van up a fire road and parked at the trail exit. The climb up was peaceful, switch-backing through stands of cedar and fir with occasional glimpses of the Shuswap peeking through the trees. The descent was fast, flowing tight singletrack punctuated by natural rock rolls and root gaps that seemed purposefully placed by nature itself. I clipped a tree towards the end of the trail and catapulted myself off the bike. After a dust off, I fixed my bars and gathered myself before descending the rest of the trail. Stoke levels were high back at the van.
Golden was calling. But first: a short stopover in Revelstoke for lunch and multiple coffees. The urge to ride this iconic mountain biking location was at an all time high, but the timeline just didn’t allow for it, unfortunately. Here’s hoping I’ll get back there one day. Instead, we took in the historic charm of the town before hitting the road again. The drive east took us through some of BC’s most dramatic terrain—Rogers Pass cuts through the heart of the Selkirk Mountains, where glaciers still cling to peaks and the Trans- Canada Highway fits perfectly into the splendid scenery. The chat at this point was mostly about ski lines you could hit during the winter months. That’s certainly a trip for another time!
Golden appeared below us as we descended from Rogers Pass, nestled in the confluence of the Columbia and Kicking Horse Rivers, with Mt. 7 looming above like a staunch sentinel. The energy in town was all about the return of Psychosis. This is a race that had achieved almost mythical status in the mountain bike world, running from 1999 to 2008. After some dormant times, the race had been resurrected for its 25th Anniversary, drawing riders from here, there and almost everywhere to test themselves on one of the most demanding downhill tracks ever raced. Mt. 7’s course drops 1,200 vertical metres over seven kilometres, with some super steep gradients that would make a theme park seem lame.
The atmosphere in Golden was electric. The small town was buzzing, with bikes appearing from every corner. Our homestay for the event was an iconic local legend, Mark (Rabbit) Ewan. Rabbit had energy to burn and would not only house us but host us and get us anywhere we needed to be in Golden. It felt like we were with the mayor, as wherever we went with him in this small mountain town, he knew someone. His enthusiasm was infectious. Rabbit’s house was soon taken over by a flock of mountain bikers dossing down wherever space allowed. Thankfully, his wife and kids were out of town. A quick evening shuttle run was the order – I picked up the role of driver and the hoots and hollers on the way up were only louder on pick up at the bottom of the run. Rabbit took in some elements of the racecourse but wanted to venture off piste too. Dinner was served in the backyard, with bikes being tinkered with late into the night, thanks to the endless daylight that stuck around until 11pm.
Dawn was met with pancakes and maple syrup, washed down with coffee. Before long, we were driving back up Mt. 7’s access road, a rutted forest service path that twisted its way up. The view from the top is incredible and not only does it serve as a starting point for the riding trails, but a paragliding launch site, too. Columbia Valley stretched out below, with the morning mist still clinging to the river’s curves. Several runs later, the crew become a little more confident but there was still a nervous energy amongst them.
The race itself was a spectacle of human determination. Watching riders tackle the infamous ‘Dead Dog’—a steep, exposed section that had everyone’s hearts in their throats—was both terrifying and mesmerising. The level of commitment required to race this mountain at speed is hard to fathom, even for experienced riders. Between practice runs and race heats, the stories flowed. Tales of legendary runs from the day—and from the original Psychosis days—of broken bikes and broken bones, but mostly of the strong mountain biking community. Our crew all did well and kept their bikes upright and bones intact. The finish area party was strong, with music, beers, food and an electric atmosphere. This was all grass roots, with nothing flamboyant about it; as authentic as it gets. The crew were stoked to re-live yesteryear, reminiscing about the racing scene and how it reminded them that bikes have the power to bring like-minded people together.
Our final evening in Golden was spent at the after party, held at a local bar where racers, support crew and spectators celebrated hard with a 90’s punk band doing covers. It got quite loose as the intensity of the music ramped up – think: mosh pits, no shirts and an electric atmosphere that would rival some concerts these days. The return of this iconic event represents mountain biking’s raw soul. The stories shared that night weren’t just about racing, but the lifestyle that surrounds the sport, too. Psychosis is all about preserving a piece of mountain bike history and culture that often gets overlooked in the new era.
As we loaded up for the journey to my next location, Golden’s morning light painting Mt. 7 in alpenglow—it was clear why events like Psychosis matter. In an age where mountain biking continues to evolve and modernise, there’s something special about places that maintain their raw, untamed character. From Bellingham’s pristine trails to Golden’s rugged mountains, our road trip had traced a line through the sport’s past, present and future. The shared experience has become a core memory, at the heart of which is the strong and vibrant community that keeps the sport intact.
The Longest, Longest Day
Words Tom Bradshaw
Images Peter Wojnar
The idea was simple: fly to the Yukon, arriving at 11:59pm on Friday night. Greeted by the midnight sun of the summer solstice, we’d leave the bike bags somewhere and start riding. We’d ride the stunning Whitehorse trails until the 5pm flight on Sunday night, returning to Vancouver in time for work on Monday. No accommodation, no vehicles—just a big ride with plenty of stops and the occasional nap under the midnight sun.
It was ambitious to say the least.
Landing at Whitehorse airport ahead of schedule at 11:30pm on the Friday, we feverishly built up our bikes outside the terminal, in a twilight haze of disbelief and—to be honest—tiredness.
The Yukon is known for its remoteness; the gold rush, the Arctic Circle, and beautiful, expansive terrain.
It’s five times the size of New Zealand and, more than once, we would find ourselves “Yukon’d.” If you were to look up Yukon’d in the dictionary, it would be a verb describing the moment of realisation that, three hours into a climb towards a mountain top, it appears no closer than when you started.
The Yukon is less well known for its mountain biking, however, it is outstanding. The soil is a blend of water-sapping loam and near-sandy alpine dirt. The tree line stops at 900m of elevation, providing “easy” access to the alpine. The vastness cannot be underestimated.
Immediately, our plan was derailed. Unable to simply leave our bags in the bush by the airport as we had planned, we dragged them with us to the local bike shop. I-cycle, arguably the best named bike shop in the world, fortunately has a perfect covered patio where we left the bags. We began pedalling, into the darkness—and the rain.
As it transpires, even during the actual summer solstice the sun technically sets for about one hour. At this point it was 1:30am on the summer solstice and, because of the rain, clouds and technical twilight, our mood matched the unexpected darkness of the forest around us. There was no traffic and as we left the city limits, we realised how dark, wet and dumb this idea actually was.
Three hours later, at 4:30am, we finally broke the tree line. The 1000m climb had taken it’s time, as we paced ourselves and got lost a handful of times up the ever-expanding forestry road network. The visions I’d had of a four-hour-long twilight, painting the alpine and expansive Yukon landscape shades of a Picasso art piece, couldn’t have been more than a fever dream at this point. It was lightish, however, a grey misty cloud had settled, enveloping not only the sunrise but the view of Whitehorse entirely. At least we only had another 20 hours to go, a chance for the weather to clear.
As soon as we started heading downhill, the first bonk of the day disappeared. The low angle 800-metre descent was delicious, albeit spicy with the wet slick roots ready to catch a front wheel. The dirt was perfect, though, and held the moisture well.
The final 150 vertical metres was such a treat that we pushed back up and did it again. By the time we got to the bottom, it was 7:30am, and thoughts of hot, fresh coffee were pulling myself and Jacob to town. Fortunately Peter, who was also lugging around a camera, wisely told us we were being cowards and our short-sighted goal of hot coffee would add another 25km of road to our ride.
The mountains and their bike trails completely encircle Whitehorse. We had headed out to the west, and our next trail lay northwest of town. If Jacob and I were left to listen to our caffeine addiction, we would drop 400m elevation and have to ride back up the same road; it was a dumb idea inside a dumb idea. Instead, we listened to our bodies, and all promptly fell asleep. It’s amazing what 24 hours awake can do. We found a shelter, and passed out on the gravel like it was a California King. Some 20 minutes later, refreshed, we started climbing again—this time aiming for our second 1000m climb for the day: Whitehorse’s downhill track. The climb flew by; the proper daylight, improving weather and incoming fresh singletrack had us moving.
Haeckel Hill DH did not disappoint. Dropping in at about 10am we were treated to a handful of steep chutes with beautifully placed catch berms. The trail then went to that outstanding Rotorua- esque low angle, off the brakes gradient. We were riding like we hadn’t been moving for nearly 12 hours with 2000m of climbing under our belt.
After the 700m descent of beauty we had earnt a coffee. And a beer. This turned out to be a near-fatal mistake. Rolling back into downtown Whitehorse sometime after noon, we had been moving for about 12 hours and were all completely soaked. The bottoms of our feet resembled the contours on a topo map. They did not look pretty, nor did we. We were accepted to the local pub and found a table amongst the locals enjoying a rainy Saturday lunch. Fortunately, the people of Whitehorse could not have been more welcoming. They all seemed unperturbed by our soaking wet carcasses, and we celebrated the halfway mark by toasting to being inside and warm. The consequences of that lunch beer were almost immediate. It was all we could do not fall asleep in the warm, dry pub. Knowing we couldn’t afford to totally piss off the locals, we settled up and promptly fell asleep on the park bench across the road.
This was not the alpine wildflower bed sunshine nap I had envisioned when scheming this mission. But at this point, none of us could care less. Awaking to rain falling on us again, and seeing that it was 2:30pm, we decided we should really get going to climb up Grey Mountain, a 1400m mountain to the east of town.
Over the next three hours, we learned the hard way about the term “Yukon’d”. By 5:30pm it felt like we hadn’t even made a dent on the climb, however, it was starting to make a dent on us. We needed to stop to air our now trench foot-like feet every hour or two—the downside of our plan to only wear our riding gear on the plane. This travel light strategy was really starting to backfire on us as I considered pedalling barefoot for a spell. The fire road was pleasant enough, with a gentle gradient, and the three of us kept each other cheery while reminding each other of previous indiscretions over the past 18 hours. The animals of Whitehorse were clearly taking shelter, wiser than us; our only sighting was a small black bear, jumping out a few hundred metres up the road, glancing at us then deciding he had better things to eat than three smelly, tired, wet humans.
Fortunately, the higher we climbed, the clearer the skies got. The cloud broke as we reached the summit of Grey Mountain. It was 7:30pm when we were gifted our first proper view of the Yukon. The mountain had taken five or so hours to climb from town, but paled in comparison to what lay beyond. Mountains, lakes and the mighty Yukon river stretched as far as the eye could see. It was beautiful. And so was the descent.
Money Shot was the most technically challenging trail yet; steep, rocky and exposed as it descended through the alpine. Again, the descent gave us all a shot of life. All three of us rode like we’d just jumped off a chairlift, passing each other on inside lines and cackling at the trail. This was our first of two descents off Grey Mountain. We’d lost 600 metres on this descent and started climbing to the top for a second time, knowing midnight was getting close.
We knew we had to be at the summit by around 11:30pm. The light was fading and rain clouds were forecast to roll back in. We had ambitiously decided not to pack any riding lights, believing that “of course we won’t need them; it’ll be light the whole time”.
Regardless, we pushed on knowing this would be the final descent of our longest, longest day. We started climbing the final alpine ridge at 10:30pm. The cloudy, murky twilight wasn’t the hours-long beautiful golden hour sunset I had envisioned, but it was still breathtaking. The climb was also breathtaking. By this point, we had climbed well over 3,500m and ridden over 120kms on about 50ish minutes of sleep. The bonk was hitting us all hard.
It was only fitting that this final 1000m plus descent was called “The Dream.” A beauty; blue flow trail, hand-built by volunteers from the local mountain bike club, descended through the alpine back to the Yukon River and into town.
Naturally, we didn’t make the summit quite in time. As we dropped in at 11:45pm, the fading light and cloud made ‘The Dream’ a true and proper dream. Hooting and hollering like the delirious children we were, we scared any wildlife out of the way, the descent once again bringing us all to life. Twenty-four hours in, we were riding like it was lap one; the sandy alpine dirt providing unlimited grip despite the rain. The lights from town steadily got brighter as we got closer, and our grins were ear to ear.
As we rolled back to town at 1am, some 11 hours after we had left from our lunch nap, we realised how hungry and tired we were.
It’s fair to say we had drastically underestimated the logistics. I had planned this trip thinking we’d be riding through the hot summer sunlight, taking rests in fields of alpine wildflowers, and riding all the way through to our flight back on Sunday afternoon. Due to this overly ambitious plan, we had failed to book or bring any accommodation with us. We hadn’t really thought about that until this point, however, food was our number one priority. Whether you are in Whitehorse, Wellington or Warsaw, the golden arches of McDonald’s will always provide. The crispy, salty fries and magic Big Mac sauce filled a void we didn’t know we had.
Considering our options, sitting outside, soaked and bonked, we decided going back to our bike bags under the sheltered porch of the bike shop was our best move. And by god it was. To be honest, we probably could’ve booked a hotel, but we weren’t ready to drag our soaking wet carcasses back to society just yet.
Cozying up in a bike bag might not seem like the comfiest bed to you, if you’re reading this from the couch or the coffee shop, but at 1:30am in the twilight of a rainy Whitehorse morning, it couldn’t have been better.
A successful end to the longest, longest day ride. As the sun properly rose on Sunday morning, we sought shelter in the local coffee shop, promptly falling asleep again, but caffeinated, dry and relatively warm.
We spent Sunday testing out the local BMX track and jumps close to town, then rode back up to the airport, but only after a crucial stop to buy clothes for the flight home. Our strategy of packing only our riding gear had worked out so far, however, by now we were a biohazard. We would not have been allowed to board a commercial flight in the state we were in, so Walmart provided a pair of jandals and enough clothes to let us board the flight home.
Sitting down on the flight back to Vancouver, I felt relieved that the Yukon had let us get away with this atrocious lack of planning. The vastness was real, and a place I cannot wait to revisit with the bike—and perhaps a vehicle and accommodation. Nonetheless, we left feeling successful. We did it, but it wasn’t pretty. We had spent the entire midnight to midnight exploring the outstanding trails, people and town Whitehorse has to offer.
Resilience in Ōtautahi: Christchurch’s Mountain Biking Legacy
Words Lester Perry
Images Cameron Mackenzie
In the shadow of the Southern Alps, where tectonic forces have shaped both landscape and spirit, Ōtautahi Christchurch’s mountain biking community has written its own story of resilience.
In the shadow of the Southern Alps, where tectonic forces have shaped both landscape and spirit, Ōtautahi Christchurch’s mountain biking community has written its own story of resilience.
Like the native tussock grass that bends but never breaks in Canterbury’s fierce nor ‘westers, the city’s riders have proven time and again that adversity only strengthens their resolve.
The devastation of yesteryear has hardened city dwellers who have incredible forward momentum. These individuals are armed with spades and determination and, over the past decade or more, they’ve built new lines to prove their mettle on. Not only new lines appeared but new riding communities too and, nowadays, rider’s flock to Christchurch and its stunning surrounds to get a piece of the action.
The Port Hills, those ancient volcanic remnants that stand sentinel over the city, have always been more than just terrain. They’re the beating heart of Christchurch’s mountain biking culture. From the technical challenges of Flying Nun to the flowing contours of Anaconda, each trail tells a story. Simply ask around and you’ll hear rider’s tales of dawn missions before work, lights twinkling on helmets as they chase the sun up Mt. Vernon; and weekend missions.
When the Christchurch Adventure Park (CAP) emerged from the drawing board in 2016, it wasn’t just another bike park—it was a statement of intent. Heck, there was a ton of excitement in the air at the time and rightfully so. This would be the Southern Hemisphere’s first year-round chairlift-assisted bike park. It represented everything the community stood for: ambition, innovation, and that characteristic Cantabrian courage to dream big. The 358.5 hectare park became a testament to what’s possible when passion meets perseverance.
The 2017 Port Hills fires, that swept through CAP, could have been the end of the story. Instead, it became just another chapter in Christchurch’s tale of renewal. As the smoke cleared, revealing a changed landscape of blackened pine skeletons and scorched earth, the mountain biking community rallied. Volunteer trail builders worked alongside professional teams, adapting their designs to the new terrain. Where once there were forest lines, they created raw, exposed tracks that showcased the hills’ natural beauty. The park didn’t just survive—it evolved.
Today, Christchurch’s riding scene reflects this history of adaptation and growth. The city’s unique geography offers something for every rider. Beginners find their wheels at McLeans Island, where purpose-built tracks wind through river terraces. Urban warriors connect the dots between the city’s green spaces via an extensive cycle network that makes every ride an adventure. Intermediate to advanced riders push their limits at CAP, where world-class trails like Shredzilla and B-Line challenge even the most skilled athletes.
The highly anticipated Crankworx Summer Series is set to return to New Zealand in 2025, after the cancellation of the 2024 event due to the devastating fires in the Port Hills. The series will take place from 13th to 16th February 2025, with a new line up of events that will elevate the mountain biking experience for both riders and spectators alike, and will form part of the build-up to the first mega-festival of the Crankworx World Tour, in Rotorua from 5th – 9th March 2025.
The Ōtautahi Christchurch festival will introduce a new Freeride Mountain Bike Association (FMBA) Gold Level Slopestyle event, the first of its kind in New Zealand. The new course and competition is set to attract some of the world’s top Slopestyle riders and provide a pathway for emerging New Zealand talent. Alongside Slopestyle, the series will also feature Pump Track and Downhill, ensuring a weekend packed with action for spectators and athletes alike.
Beyond the established trails, Christchurch’s riding culture continues to evolve. Secret lines appear in forgotten corners of the Port Hills, carved by passionate locals who see possibility in every contour. Over the weekend, vehicles with bikes hanging off them head out of town with riders making the short trek to Craigieburn and Mt. Hutt, extending the community’s reach into the high country. Each new trail, whether sanctioned or social, adds another thread to the rich tapestry of Christchurch’s mountain biking story.
The city’s mountain biking infrastructure has become a model for urban planning worldwide. The Major Cycleway network, born from post-earthquake reconstruction, has transformed how people move through the city. Riders can now pedal from the International Airport to the Adventure Park without leaving dedicated cycling infrastructure – a journey that captures the essence of Christchurch’s commitment to two-wheeled adventure. What’s even better, is that you can store your bike box at the airport—perfect for a weekend riding getaway with no need for a car!
As the sun sets behind the Port Hills, casting long shadows across tracks both old and new, Ōtautahi Christchurch’s mountain biking community continues to prove that it’s not the challenges that define us, but how we respond to them. In the end, it’s not just about the trails – it’s about the people who build them, ride them, and keep coming back, no matter what nature throws their way.
Foundations with Lachie Stevens-McNab
WORDS BY Lester Perry
IMAGES BY Cameron Mackenzie
For Lachie Stevens-McNab, the 2024 downhill race season was one of highs and lows, learnings and triumphs, as he set out to cement himself as a consistent podium contender.
Foundations are critical to any successful pursuit; build a house without a sound foundation, and it won’t last long; build fitness without a base, and it’s quickly lost; and build a career racing downhill without a firm foundation of skill and mental fortitude, and it’ll be over before it’s begun.
Lachie had come into his twenties with a firm foundation. Firstly, a robust and supportive family built a foundation for him to springboard into a childhood pursuit of BMX world championships. His interest in BMX was piqued after spotting the Te Ngae Road BMX track in Rotorua while driving past one day. From that day forward, BMX was his focus, and Lachie and his family were regulars at gate training nights, and toured the country racing the NZ circuit.
Lachie’s success in BMX didn’t come quickly, but once the tap was opened, race wins flowed. World titles began at age six in South Africa, followed by more at ages seven and nine, alongside three second places. His last BMX World Championship in Auckland, at the UCI BMX World Championships in July 2013, aged nine, was a special one—clinching the win from Connor Defrain (USA), who’d pipped him for the win the previous year in Birmingham (UK).
Joe Bowman, the owner/manager of Lachie’s current team, ‘The Union’, comments: “He’s got an amazing family. I think they’ve just brought him up really well, and he’s confident in his abilities, but also with BMX racing—that he obviously did a ton of when he was younger—and winning world championships, and dealing with the stress and pressures from such a young age, you can see it in him now that he’s at peace with it.”
As his competition sprouted and he grew physically stronger, Lachie lagged, becoming one of the smaller riders in his age bracket. “Everyone was growing heaps in BMX and, as you know, the starts are so important, and I just couldn’t get a good first straight. My track speed was always good, I would always be there, but those other kids were just getting way bigger than me. And so I just couldn’t really compete. I was just pretty over it. I love BMX, to be honest. It was sick. I do miss the head to head stuff.”
Frustration grew, and unsatisfied with his training not converting to wins, Lachie began spending more and more time riding the Whakarewarewa trail system, literally a stone’s throw from the Rotorua BMX track.
Lachie never “quit BMX”, but the trails were calling and, slowly, he began to spend more time on a mountain bike than a BMX.
“I was just riding mountain bikes for fun with my mates at the weekend. Originally, when I first started riding mountain bikes, I wanted to do slopestyle—I loved Brandon Semenuk— but I realised pretty quickly that it wasn’t what I wanted to do,” explains Lachie.
When Crankworx came to town in 2015, Lachie immersed himself in downhill culture, watching the best in the game race the Ngongotaha downhill. He caught the bug and knew what he wanted to do. “I met Loic Bruni and then all the Kiwi boys too, when Crankworx came to Rotorua, while watching that downhill. I got a downhill bike not long after that. Do you remember that big tabletop they had at the bottom of Skyline? I pushed up the hill, and was trying to jump that, cause I’d just been watching Georgie B (George Brannigan) and Brook (Brook MacDonald) ride it. So I was frothing. I was 14 when I was like, oh yeah, I want to race World Cups.”
Thanks to the shuttle-accessed downhill tracks in Rotorua, Lachie’s progress on the MTB was rapid compared to some, but he wasn’t a standout immediately. His first couple of years racing downhill were nothing exceptional and a steep learning curve. By 2019, Lachie was taking downhill seriously, and BMX was on the back burner. “My dad took me to the Oceania Champs in Bright, Australia. I got smoked; that was my first year Under 17. It was a good weekend if I was a top five in my first year Under 17.”
A year of racing and a growth spurt later, Lachie’s second year in Under 17 was better and he started doing well in New Zealand during that time.
Spring forward to 2021 and, like most Kiwis chasing the World Cup dream, Lachie began his European racing chapter travelling in—and living out of—a van with Alex Wayman and Finn Hawkesbury-Brown. Thanks to downhill’s tight-knit community, Lachie and “the boys” managed to get themselves out of numerous sticky situations and gain some valuable experience and some solid finishes with podiums across World Cups, Crankworx and IXS downhill events early in the season, capped with a third place at the World Championships.
In typical Kiwi “make-do” fashion, Lachie ran the gear he could make work best for him. “I went over on a Transition TR11 that I’d just got. It was a 27.5 wheeled bike. I just put a Fox 49 (fork) on it with a 29” wheel, slid the stanchions right through to get the head angle right. I took my forks to Fox and they were like, ‘what the heck are you doing? You’re bashing your seals to bits!’ I’d pulled my forks too far through, so each time I bottomed out, I’d hit the seals on the crown.”
For 2022, Lachie joined The Union under the watchful eye of owner/manager Joe Bowman: “I think he’s got that funny, menacing, just slightly loose Kiwi side, which we all kinda know and love, and I think some of the older Kiwi riders on the circuit have been known for that too. On the flip side, he’s super thoughtful, much smarter than people give him credit for; a dude who’s super caring and is very loyal as well.”
Aboard a new bike and with a new team environment, early 2022 brought Lachie an NZ Under 19 overall National Series win and another National Championship on home turf before returning to Europe for the World Cup season. Beginning strongly, Lachie opened his 2022 UCI World Cup account with a fourth place in the opening round in Lourdes, France. He backed this up at round three in a muddy Leogang (Austria), going one better to stand third on the box. On to round four in Lenzerheide (Switzerland), going one better into second place, Lachie was rapidly cementing himself as one to watch. Andorra didn’t go his way, a bit off the pace, but still a top ten finish, in eighth position. Lachie wrapped up his World Cup season with a pair of fourth places in Snowshoe (USA) and Mont-Sainte-Anne (Quebec, Canada), his consistency putting him in third overall for the 2022 World Cup series.
Joe adds, “I think Lachie is quite simple in the sense that he never asks for anything; he’s the opposite of a diva, and over the years—almost to a fault—he’s never asked for a single thing, even this year when he is challenging for the win, there’s never an ounce of, ‘I need this, I need that’, no dramas or anything. He just cracks on, and I think that’s a massive strength for him. The biggest strength he’s got over most other racers is that he’s so mentally strong, and I think that’s part of it; that’s his personality. He’s mentally strong in general, and I think that carries into his racing and is why he’s been so good this year, he’s always been there. He’s just had numerous brutal injuries because he’s been a bit loose on the bike. He’s reined that in now, and this season it’s all clicked.”
World Champs 2022 in Les Gets (Fr) was a pivotal moment for Lachie; a massive crash during qualifying left him with a snapped and displaced radius and ulna, and a broken T8 in his back. Not only did this put him out of that race, but started a run of bad luck and injuries. “That was over the bars, out of the roots; I just ejected out the front. That was huge. I broke my back, broke my wrist. Two weeks in hospital, in France. My mum had never come to a race, and then she came over for one, and that was the race!
“I was in this big back brace for a fair while, like three months, it was this big corset I was in day and night—I could only get out of it to shower. I had to be super careful of how I was sitting or how I’d stand up. I just had to be super still. So that was like day and night for two months. After two months, I could finally sleep with it off.”
Then 2023 was another season of discontent. Having recovered enough to get back on the bike just weeks prior, Lachie was easing back into things at the Christchurch round of the NZ National Series and got caught out by a rock hidden in the infamous moon dust of the Christchurch Adventure Park’s GC trail. Another over the bars incident, another broken wrist and a period off the bike before launching into the 2023 World Cup season, his first in Elite.
Lenzerheide kicked things off for Lachie’s Elite career. A 26th place after months of adversity was a small comfort, considering his pace the previous year. But 2023 didn’t get much better for him, unfortunately. He crashed in qualifying at the following round in Leogang, then crashed while training in Schladming a week later, blowing his ankle up. Bone bruising and ligament issues plagued the remainder of his season. With his The Union contract coming up for renewal at the end of the year and no guarantee they would continue into 2024, Lachie knew he needed to get back to racing asap. “I tried to come back for Snowshoe and Mount Sainte Anne. I couldn’t even ride Snowshoe. And at MSA, I crashed in qualifying.”
Regardless of the uncertainty and Lachie’s injuries, The Union committed to Lachie, and although they didn’t have all their ducks in a row for 2024 they were keen to keep him on the squad. “Joe said to me, yeah, we’ll keep you on. I’m pretty lucky with Joe—he’s the best dude I could have met. He didn’t need to keep me on—and if he didn’t, maybe I’d just be working for the old man now. So now I’m pretty lucky with Joe and that team,” says Lachie.
Joe adds; “After two years of brutal injuries, he’s basically just put his head down, worked even harder, and come out swinging this year when everyone had forgotten about him. I think people had written him off to be honest, and it’s been the sickest thing ever to watch him do his thing—and it just proves, I think, that just having the right environment and giving people time is key. It’s like not every rider just comes out swinging and wins everything in Junior, and Lachie’s the perfect example of that. It’s what The Union’s always been about, same with Antoine Pierron, Ollie Zwar, Tuhoto-ariki Pene, there’s been a few, Ollie Davis as well. Lachie’s just the next in line for that.”
As 2024 dawned, Lachie put the injuries and uncertainty of 2023 behind him. Joe had pulled together support for The Union, and it was all systems go heading into the new year. After an off-season of rehab and solid training, Lachie came in hot. At the opening round of the NZ National Series, in Whangamata, he bested second placed Sam Gale by almost eight seconds on a course with tight times. His dominance continued through the remainder of the NZ season, laying waste to the field across the remaining rounds in Rotorua, Christchurch and Cardrona.
In late February, NZ’s finest clashed with international favourites at the NZ Championships. The infamously one-lined, fast-paced track means tight times; a tiny mistake can cause a racer to tumble down the results sheet quickly. Lachie kept his winning ways rolling, heads were turning, and his name was on everyone’s lips come the end of the NZ season.
The Whoop UCI World Cup season kicked off in Fort William, Scotland, in early May. After qualifying in 18th position, stoke was high as Lachie headed into the semi-finals. An unfortunate broken chain as he headed into ‘the Motorway’, a critical section where having a chain was vital, put him back in 37th position. It was a frustrating start to the season, but the signs were there that his pace was where it needed to be.
Round two in Szczyrk, Poland, was another key moment in Lachie’s evolution towards being a top-level racer. He built on a qualifying result of seventh, finishing fifth in semis. Finals run was one to remember. Every race fan around the globe will have been sitting on the edge of their seat. Aggressive but controlled, Lachie was up by 1.4 seconds at the final split, and everything pointed towards a win… until it didn’t. A rapid washout of the front wheel put his dreams of a win on hold. I’d imagine everyone watching the race, regardless of who they were rooting for, would have had a lump in their throat after that rollercoaster of a run. It will go down with infamy as one of the “almost” runs of the season.
“It’s just a matter of time. I was gutted after Poland but, at the same time, I was seventh in qualifying and fifth in semis. I was at the top (waiting for finals), and Amaury Pierron was warming up just there, and I was a bit mind- blown. I was nervous, but I was just trying to enjoy the moment. I know now what a winning run feels like. I haven’t had another run like that this year. As much as I could have had a World Cup win. I think it was like, ‘I’ll come back and try again.’ It’s just as it is. I’m not too gutted; it was a cool experience to finally have that pace.”
Joe shares thoughts about Lachie’s Polish performance: “He was seventh in qualis, fifth in semis, and then nearly won finals and crashed, and I was kind of worried. I was like, oh man, is that going to fry his head, and is he going to try and push too hard for the rest of the season? But instead, he just came out swinging straight away at Leogang and got that first podium, and he’s kind of backed it up since then, which is the coolest part because consistency is the hardest thing about racing.”
Three seconds, that’s how close he was to a win at round three in Leogang. A solid weekend peaked in finals as, once again, Lachie had everyone on the edge of their seats. Third place and his first Elite Podium!
Val-di-sole, Italy, was the next stop for the World Cup circus. Unfortunately, after a tenth in qualifying, the “black snake” bit hard, and a bent rear brake rotor in Semis put an end to his dream of continuing his podium streak, finishing in 32nd, just missing the top thirty cut-off for finals. Easing the frustration but also stoking the fire for upcoming races was seeing team mate, Ellie Hulsebosch win her first World Cup. On to the next one! Les Gets, France, was next up. Heavy weather impacted the finals after sunshine and prime conditions through practice, making an unpredictable and sketchy course by the time Elite Men started their day. What played out was one of the toughest World Cups in recent memory, with almost everyone struggling to stay on their bike at some point during their run. The “impossible corner” claimed more than a few top-tier riders. Lachie kept things somewhat under control, going 12th in qualifying, 13th in Semis, and then rounding out the weekend with a solid 11th place after a wild weekend.
The 2024 UCI World Champs took place in Pal Arinsal, Andorra, at the end of August. A blazing fast track greeted riders and, with speeds high, times were tight. Lachie built speed over practice and qualified 19th. In his first attendance at a World Cup, Lachie had his dad up on the hill checking lines for him and, while charging down a high-speed section, Lachie’s front wheel went from under him, driving him to a dead stop, headfirst into a stump on the trail—right in front of his dad! It was a brutal impact. This easily could have been the season over for him, but he recomposed for the final and ended up 16th in his first Elite World Champs.
Wild weather played its part again, this time for round six in Loudenvielle, France, a week after World Champs. Riding a high, Lachie pinned his qualifier, taking the fastest time through the last split, ending up qualifying in the ninth spot despite harsh conditions. Into finals, Lachie was looking good, but a small off-track excursion in the slippery conditions cost him dearly, pushing him back to 29th. He ended up third at the second split after the race finished, and in he was running third in the split which he’d crashed. What could have been!
Jumping the ditch over the US to finish his season, Lachie was hungry; there was no question his speed was there, he just needed the puzzle pieces to fall into place. Come ‘The Fox US Open of MTB’ in Vermont, they finally did. A dominant performance saw him win qualifying and the final, taking the podium’s top step amongst a field of high-performers. After a ‘shoey’ on the podium, his focus quickly switched to the final round of the UCI World Cup the following week—and his last chance for a World Cup win in 2024.
Mont-Sainte-Anne, Quebec, is an infamous track known for its sketchy rock sections where one wrong move could send you over the bars and into the hospital. Qualifying was a write-off after a red flag on the course bu, fortunately, having now moved up the rankings to have a protected status, Lachie automatically made it into the semifinals. Taking a relaxed approach, and trying to stay chilled through the gnarly sections, Lachie slid into eleventh in the semifinals. He had more to give come finals. Surviving the greasy, unpredictable sections, he hooked into second place, his highest World Cup finish and proof that he was now a safe bet for a win when the time came.
“To be that close to the win was pretty unreal, I couldn’t believe it. It was a really good run. It was solid. There were some little mistakes, just a little bit offline, and there were some bits that were pretty greasy. So, for how greasy it was, it was really good. But it wasn’t like my Poland run. I felt what the winning run feels like in Poland; it was unreal how it felt there, but Mont-Sainte-Anne wasn’t that.”
Joe sums up where Lachie is currently: “I think his mentality is key as well; he still has fun and is not just a boring racer. You could call it the pub rule— you’d still go for a beer with him, wouldn’t you? You can’t say that about all the riders, especially these days, so I’m beyond proud of him. He’s a mate, and I can’t wait to see what he does going forward; now he’s going to have proper factory support (for 2025) and he’s only just getting going, you know, at 20. I honestly believe he’s going to win a World Cup next year and be a challenger for years and years to come, so I’m excited to see it.”
In the grand scheme of things, Lachie’s career has taken a hockey-stick-like trajectory, going from the sketchy grom I remember sitting in the front of the Rotorua shuttle bus, his signature dreads poking out from under his full-face helmet, to a more clean-cut pro- racer with his head screwed on—one who there is no doubt is destined for greatness.
If he’s achieved so much in such a short timeframe, what can he achieve in that same period of time over the coming years? One thing’s for sure: race fans worldwide will be watching.
It's Robin's World (we're just living in it)
Words Kerrie Morgan
Images Cameron Mackenzie, Red Bull Content Pool – Paris Gore, Robin O’Neill, Emily Tidwell, Bartosz Wolinski, Long Nguyen
If you haven’t yet experienced the thrill of watching Robin Goomes drop in down a 12.5m (41ft) rock face to win this year’s Red Bull Rampage, do yourself a favour and put this magazine down right now; pull out your phone and open YouTube.
Once you’ve watched it, you’ll be asking; “So, why weren’t women able to compete at this event until 2024??” It’s a mind-boggling question, especially after watching Robin and her badass brethren of equally-capable women flip, whip and speed their way down the red, rocky, tumble-weed-dotted surface of the Virgin, Utah desert. Despite launching riders off of cliff faces since 2001, the infamous Rampage has just included women for the first time this year. Yes, 2024. Previously, the idea had been discarded under the pretence of it being too physical, too gnarly, too unwieldy for a woman to handle.
However, in October 2024, Robin along with Casey Brown, Vinny Armstrong, Camila Noguiera, Vaea Verbeek, Vero Sandler, Georgia Astle and Chelsea Kimball proved any naysayers wrong, flipping (literally) the narrative and securing female free riding’s position, at the most extreme level, on the global stage.
But Robin’s story doesn’t begin there. Believe it or not, Rampage is just another string to the 28-year-old’s bow. Starting out life on the Chatham Islands, some 800km off the coast of Christchurch, Robin’s childhood in the isolated, tightknit community was the perfect grounding for a life of adventure, determination and success.
In the early days, Robin tore around the island on dirt bikes with a crew of guy mates who were of the opinion; “she wants to ride motorbikes—great, let’s go!” It was only natural that more serious riding later followed suit.
“I think I was really lucky in the beginning. That space was so easy to be in, it was really normalised, and it didn’t matter that I was a girl riding a dirt bike,” explains Robin.
Having left the island for high school, Robin took up mountain biking when she was in the Army, thanks to encouragement from a group of riding friends who, as Robin puts it, “were also all dudes”. She explains that finding guys to ride with, who couldn’t care less about what your gender is, is the key to a positive experience.
“When I did eventually face negativity, it didn’t matter anymore, because I’d already done so much,” says Robin. “It was just like, ‘whatever dude’. The positive felt like it was stronger than the negative, for sure.”
Since taking up mountain biking, everything has snowballed for Robin and, these days, she’s not only the inaugural women’s Red Bull Rampage winner but can also claim the title of ‘first woman to land a backflip in a Crankworx competition’; was featured in the Red Bull film Anytime; and competed in Red Bull Formation in 2022—to name just a few accolades.
Robin credits her island upbringing, and her role in the Army, for the resilience, determination and confidence she relies on today as a professional mountain biker. “It definitely has helped,” says Robin. “I don’t exactly know where it has helped, but it definitely has. I think growing up on the Chatham’s was the craziest place to be brought up. I went back recently, and it is just so far away! If you want New Zealand to feel really big, go to the Chatham’s. Growing up in a place like that gives you good drive [so that] when you do get an opportunity, you definitely want to take it. That type of upbringing can take you anywhere really, but it feels like the start line was so much further back for me than for most people. And then with the Army—so many good skills were learnt there and, without that, I’m not sure where I’d be.”
Being the first woman to drop in, from the first cohort of women to ever compete at Rampage, was not Robin’s first or only foray into paving the way for other women. During her time in the Army, she was one of the only women to be based out at Scott Base as a machine operator. It seems that leading the charge comes naturally to this humble Kiwi.
“It hasn’t been a conscious goal of mine,” confesses Robin. “But I think with the stuff I like to do, I always end up working in these male dominated spaces. What I learnt—especially from the Army—is that, as a female working in a male dominated space, you have to work (what feels like) twice as hard just to keep up. So I guess taking that into anything I’m doing is the goal.”
No doubt some of the skills Robin has gained throughout her life so far came into play when she was waiting in the start gate, anticipating her drop in at Rampage. “I kind of just treated it like any other competition, where you just try to visualise your run, step by step, one feature at time, focusing on the main points, like where you can take a moment to reset yourself and go again, what tricks you really need to dial in, braking points. All of those little details were really all I was thinking about,” explains Robin. “Then there was a moment when I was in the start gate, with the starter, Darren—he’s started every single Rampage I’m pretty sure, he’s iconic—and when you’re sat in the start hut and they call your name, and they’re like ‘rider dropping!’ and they count you in… I just kinda had a laugh to myself. I thought, I am literally watching this on TV—but I’m doing it. It was quite a surreal but cool moment.”
Robin credits some of her cool-as-a-cucumber approach to the fact that she designed and dug the lines she would be dropping into that day.
“It’s cool because you can kind of decide how big or how small you want to go,” she explains. “But when you’re looking at a completely empty hill—a full blank canvas—it’s kind of overwhelming and it can be hard to know if you’ve gone too big or too small at the time. Until you start building, you’re not really sure if you’ve gone too big or if it’s even possible… You have about a day where you’re like, ‘Oh, maybe I’ll back out of this’ and after that you’re locked in, and you just have to do it, and you have to find a way to make it work. You can choose to go bigger or smaller, but I just really wanted to try and find the limits, where the edge was of what was possible with my comfort zone. I was trying to go big.”
And big she went.
But, we all know that what goes up, must come down—and free riding is no different. Human beings weren’t designed to fly and, for the brave few who do choose to throw themselves off of cliff faces attached to a bike—for fun— there can be serious consequences. But what is less talked about is the massive comedown extreme sportspeople often feel post-event or milestone. Robin’s ride—and success—at Rampage saw her struggle to merge back into “normal life” once the event wrapped.
“Recovering from other events is pretty standard. This one was very different,” she explains. “Rampage feels like an endurance event. It’s not just like you turn up, you do a few days practise and then you compete. You build it, so mentally, physically, you’re just ruined—and then you’re competing. It was two weeks long, basically, of really high intensity stuff. Then the comedown was unbelievable. It was probably the greatest moment of my life—I don’t know how I’m ever going to top it—so I guess coming home and just doing normal stuff for a bit…. I definitely struggled with this one. It felt super extreme, and it was weird—I’d just done the coolest thing ever and then I came home and was just mowing the lawns one day, like, I don’t even know what’s going on anymore?!”
Robin explains that the feeling is the same with any other event, just on a much smaller scale. “I think that is literally part of the ride, though—when we sign up to do these things, I think that’s the full journey, it’s not just the one piece you see on a live stream… it’s all of that stuff; the before, middle and end.”
Competing against some of the world’s toughest riders, in arguably one of the toughest environments on the planet, requires a support crew who you can trust and who will have your back throughout the entire journey—no matter what gets thrown their way. Watch any clip of Robin’s ride at Rampage, and you’ll soon see the level of stoke and elation her team shared before, during and after her winning run. The experience running through Robin’s dig crew ensured she could simply tell them what she wanted her line to look like, and they’d just get on with the job. Not only that, but they’d also act as human Guinea Pigs, testing out the trails they’d dug, alongside Robin, and providing her with their suggestions for improvement.
“Just having that bit of feedback where they’re like, ‘If I was gonna do it, I’d want this to be different’ or something, so it wasn’t just my own ideas—because sometimes you can get it wrong—but to have two or three people saying the same thing, you’re like, well, if three of us are saying this, then let’s definitely do it!” explains Robin. “Everyone just added so much to the full package. I don’t think you can just turn up as a really good rider, to Rampage, and win. You have to rely so much on everyone out there. My team should be taking the credit really.”
While the dig crews are a massive part of Rampage, myriad people help bring the event together across the two weeks that riders and their crews are on site. With this year being the first year women could compete, there also seemed to be an organic increase in the number of women working behind the scenes. Filming, shooting, organising press, creating content, interviewing—wherever you look at Rampage there are women on the tools, and the event has been touted as a tremendous coup for women in mountain biking media.
“I had Martha [Gill] filming for me,” says Robin. “And she was not only there behind the camera, but she was so good for me. You know, she’s a competitive mountain biker as well so she knows what it’s like to be in pressured situations. So, just to have her there, calming my nerves—she’s really funny so it kept the mood really light.”
It goes without saying, that the biggest focus at Rampage this year—and the angle that has received the most media attention—was the fact that women were able to compete for the first time ever. I won’t go into the history behind that, as there are plenty of brilliantly written articles about it online, but the inclusion of women in this iconic event has been a long time coming. Many people will recall Red Bull Formation, which was a female only, Rampage-style competition first held in 2019. A long-time project of trailblazer, Katie Holden, Formation was the answer to women’s exclusion from Rampage at the time, and, in its own way, ensured the gates would eventually open for women to compete at the then men’s-only event. When the news broke that women were to be included in the 2024 Red Bull Rampage, riders, mountain bike media and women worldwide let out a collective—and loud—cheer. Tears were shed, fists were pumped, jumps for joy were, well, jumped—both on and off the bike. It was a momentous occasion, and a meaningful one for women in sport everywhere. For people like Katie Holden and Casey Brown, who have been relentlessly crusading for decades for women’s inclusion in the historically testosterone- fuelled event, as well as gender equity in the bike industry as a whole, the news of a women’s category at Rampage marked a turning point in their careers—and indeed, their lives. Casey has been quoted as saying the decision was, “the best news of my life!” While Katie posted on her social media with a photo of herself crying tears of happiness and relief, stating: “WE DID IT YOU ALL”. Safe to say the decision meant a huge amount to those in the industry—riders and advocates alike.
“It’s such a privilege to be among the first riders to do such a legendary event,” confirms Robin. “Everyone was in the same boat as far as learning and experiencing things for the first time, and quite supportive of each other. You might think, ‘oh they’re really stressed’ but then you’re really stressed too, so you’re like ‘I know what you’re going through!’ And it was a lot, it was really overwhelming, but everyone was super supportive.”
In a not-so-subtle nod to modern-day girl power and the generation of women blazing trails in free riding, Robin opted for a Barbie-themed bike, shirt and helmet on the day. While Robin and Barbie might not appear to have a lot in common (although how much more epic would the Barbie movie have been if the blonde icon herself dropped in off a 12.5m rock face in the opening scene?!) the move was a considered one.
“I don’t know how to say this without swearing,” laughs Robin. “But it was a ‘yeah the fuckin’ girls!’ but at the same time, ‘fuck the haters’. It was a little bit sarcastic because, everyone who knows me, knows that I’m not a ‘Barbie girl’, pink isn’t the first colour I choose, but I thought it was a really fun idea and Rampage was the most fitting event for it. As a kid, I didn’t like Barbie at all, and I remember my first bike was a hand-me-down Barbie bike and my dad painted it because I was not down to ride this pink bike! And then when the Barbie movie came out [in 2023], I watched that and it was like, ‘actually, we’re bad bitches’. So yeah, I decided to lean into that. There was a lot of positivity around that bike. People loved it. I loved it. It’s the coolest bike I’ve had.”
Robin explains that she and the other “bad bitches” of Rampage are close friends, having ridden together, competed against one another, and even worked on film projects together previously. Now that they’ve competed together as the first cohort of women at Rampage, the bond between them will no doubt be even stronger. And what better crew of ambitious, brave, highly-skilled women to be at the helm, paving the way for future generations of female free riders?
“The younger generation are on it!” says Robin. “There is so much talent out there, so I think as long as they’re doing what they love there’s no reason why they can’t go the distance. I feel like there’s nothing holding them back at this point—everything feels like it’s been normalised, and they can just fully get after it. You can see with some of the women coming through the sport, it [Rampage] is going to grow so rapidly and get so big… it’s already happening and we’re going to see it more over the next few years.”
As far as the format of Rampage goes, the men’s venue was still in a slightly different location, separated from the women’s stomping ground by a ridge. Although competing on different sites, competitors saw each other during lunch breaks, but Robin explains that in the lead up to the event, she rode with some of the competitors from the men’s category, and had their full support: “I was riding with a few of the guys and training up at Brett’s house in Canada, and they were so helpful. Obviously they’ve had years of experience, so they were just giving me tips and insights like, ‘this is what sometimes happens, and this is what you can expect’. Those little bits of advice were really helpful. They were really supportive.”
While her male counterparts were a wealth of knowledge, experience and support, the question of whether women would ever be included at Rampage has ping-ponged across the Internet for the best part of two decades with just about everyone—mountain biker or not—having an opinion on the matter. In fact, pop ‘Red Bull Rampage Women’ into your Google search bar and the results will include everything from magazine features to newspaper articles, blogs, forums—and even a thesis!—discussing the reasons for (and in some ridiculous cases, against) women’s inclusion in the iconic competition. As the years passed and a decision seemed imminent, the conversation reached fever pitch, with many in the mountain bike media expressing their frustration at the seemingly never-ending quest to get women included in the event. But the media— and in particular, social media—can often over-emphasise or over-hype a situation that in reality might not feel as present or all-encompassing. So what was it really like on the ground at Rampage?
“It was definitely a feeling,” confirms Robin. “You could feel that energy the whole time. And it was such a positive thing, feeling the sport growing and moving in such a good direction, and knowing so many people were watching and supporting and just stoked. So many women came out for it, too. Lots of people have actually messaged me saying they teared up a bit, so no one’s alone there—I’ve had a lot of people definitely feeling that which is cool. It’s a huge moment for the sport.”
There’s an old adage often thrown around in feminist circles, that goes: ‘You can’t be what you can’t see’. It refers to the fact that unless women and girls actually see other women and girls in boardrooms, around building sites, or in the chambers of parliament, how will they know they could be there too? Nowhere is this more relevant than in women’s sport. The more widely footage and content is shared, the better chance women have of being introduced to a sport, competing in a sport and—hopefully, if it’s the goal—being sponsored to become a professional in said sport. Rampage has put free riding—and women in mountain bike media—on the map for future generations of girls and women, highlighting the massive shift the sport is currently experiencing at races and events, out on the trails, and behind the scenes. It feels like the playing field is finally being levelled, but there is still a long way to go.
“I’m just working all this stuff out for myself, but I’m in a really good position now so I’m gonna say, yes, Rampage has marked a turning point for women in the sport,” explains Robin. “Rampage is huge and there are male riders who don’t compete or do anything—they just show up to Rampage once a year, that’s all they have to do and they’re fully sponsored riders. They just do one thing! We’ve had to make our way by doing multiple events or just bringing a lot more, and now that we have that stage—it won’t stop me from wanting to do all of the other stuff I do, because I love doing everything—but it’s massive for us, massive for sponsors and I think it’s hopefully going to even out the playing field for sponsorships. In terms of negativity, Martha did get some actually. The thing is, Rampage gets so many views, and I feel like when you’re getting that high number of views, you’re gonna get haters no matter what. There were comments about men being the diggers but women filming because it’s a non-physical role. I mean….”
With all the excitement and buzz around this year’s Rampage gradually starting to settle, what can we expect to see next from Robin Goomes?
“It’s kind of cool this year, because the international season is actually starting in New Zealand,” says Robin. “We’ve got Natural Selection happening in Queenstown, in February, then Crankworx in Rotorua, in March. Then I’ll probably leave after that. So until March, I get to be home, which is nice.
“Rampage was such a big goal and to have that ticked off is, for me, massive. With Rampage…. You also win a life-changing amount of money and today is actually settlement day—I’ve just bought some land and I’m about to begin building a training compound! It’s really exciting actually.”
As for the rest of us—we might just be living in Robin’s World, but it sure is exciting.
The Life and Times of Travis Brown
Words Liam Friary and Travis Brown
Images Cameron Mackenzie
Skipping our winter on a recent trip to America, I got the opportunity to not only sit down with, but ride and hang out with, the mountain bike icon, Travis Brown. The man – or, more aptly put: legend – doesn’t need much introduction, but for the new kids on the block here’s a brief history.
From the early 90’s, Travis Brown’s professional riding career left an undeniable mark on the sport. He was a regular on the World Cup circuit and claimed multiple national championships in both cross-country and marathon disciplines. At the pinnacle of his racing career, Travis represented the USA in the 2000 Sydney Olympics. After his pro career started to wind up in the mid-2000’s, his attention turned to product development with Trek. These days, he’s the field test manager, running an entire crew of riders who are working on products that we’ll see in the future.
This is the candid conversation I transcribed whilst on a weather hold between a busy riding schedule in Travis’ hometown of Durango, Colorado, in the USA.
Let’s start from the beginning: where did it all begin, for you?
“Well, I grew up in Durango. And went through, you know, student athlete life here — the local junior high school and high school. I did all the ball sports for a while, and Junior High track and cross country (running). Then started focusing on track, like, endurance sports, and did that through high school. I think, like a lot of young people with prestige or hype, whichever term you want, with the Olympic games and professional athletics, that was an aspirational thing — kind of a silly thing — but something that was stuck in my head.”
From an early age?
“Yeah. Running was the first thing where I thought, maybe I’m good enough to dream about that. And that ended early on with some chronic Achilles tendon issues. So, at that point, I changed my focus to cross country skiing. This was in high school. And that was, kind of, a new potential for me. Being in Durango, I always had friends that mountain biked. So, I would train with them in the summer as cross-country skiing training. I then went to the University of Colorado, with a ski scholarship. While I was there, I tried a mountain bike race — because we would train on mountain bikes. In the summer, I was riding as much as the people that were racing mountain bikes. I watched a lot of mountain bike races here before I started racing. It would be live in-person or on TV, as there was pretty good coverage. There were a lot of professionals here in the early days of the sport, like Ned (Overend), who was a local hero. So, that idea that it was something you could actually make a living at, was kind of early seated in my mind.’
When did you do your first mountain bike race?
“I think I did my first race, the Iron Horse Mountain Bike Race, in ‘88. I was going to school in Boulder and ski racing. It was in the year I graduated from high school. The race went great, I was super fit I think at that point; it was [all] beginning, so I think I raced sport or expert — I think after a couple races I got upgraded to expert, in ‘89.
“I actually decided I was going to race quite a bit in expert category. I remember racing the Colorado Point series — which was a big deal at the time — then went to Nationals in Mammoth and won that, and that’s when Worlds were here in Durango (‘90) and I was living in Boulder at the time. I decided I was going to do the qualifying race, so did the pro race here and made it into the elite race for Worlds. Probably just through stupidity of not knowing, not questioning anything, I had a good race and was 10th in that Worlds so then I started asking myself the question like, alright is this the path forward? You know, as a sportsman. If that’s something you want to do – is it going to be skiing or is it mountain biking? I debated internally. They’re very complementary sports but, you know, at some point you’re going to have to specialise [in one] if you want to be competitive at the top level.”
When did you go pro?
‘91 was my first full-season pro, and I raced for Manitou. And that was before the Answer licensing relationship with Manitou. So, that was Doug Bradbury actually building bikes in Colorado Springs and me coming down from Boulder and seeing his shop. The way we got the budget to go racing was through the Japanese importer for the bikes. They were selling them for ten thousand dollars in Japan back then. You know, it was really high prestige. They were like, yeah, a professional racer will help us sell, will finance the race team. Doug called me up and he said, let’s go racing. And after that World’s performance, I had a few options. But, this was one that just resonated with me and I’m really grateful for that because Doug has one of the most natural design engineer sensibilities of anyone I’ve met in the (cycling) industry, and he let me participate in that process and that was kind of the beginning of understanding, you know, the technical aspect of building bikes and geometry. So, he built me a bike and said, ride it and let me know if you want to change anything. And, at that point, I had not studied bike geometry – I didn’t know anything from anything – but I rode it with his stock geometry.
I asked for a bike that was like two inches longer and he was like alright, I’ll build it for you if you want. But, back then, it was like way outside of the box. And again, that was just me not understanding what the standards were. It worked good. That was the bike I raced. There were other people probably realising small tweaks from road geometry to mountain bike geometry were not enough, so the wheelbase started getting pretty long and it was good when you’re really tired at the end of the race and you just needed the bike to go straight with stability.
Then what happened?
“It was the second year – ’92 – as a racer with Manitou; I kind of outgrew that program and so I had a lot of options for the ‘93 season and signed with a team that was a Volkswagen Schwinn, which ended up falling apart in the spring. I told my parents I wasn’t going to graduate school — I was going to race. I had no sponsor to start the race season.”
And was it just budget constraints?
“Well, the person who was putting that program together was not transparent as far as all the deals with co-sponsors had been signed. So, it was going to be a big team, and we were all left holding their dicks in our hands. The season opener at that point was Cactus Cup in Scottsdale, Arizona. I went there as a privateer on a Dean titanium because they were a local Boulder company. I’m like, I’m kind of hosed here, I just need a bike. They were really gracious in helping me out. And I went there and was sick, didn’t race that good. At this point, I’m like, maybe this is a really dumb idea. And I’m sure my parents were thinking that; it’s a dumb idea. It’s a really dumb idea. But I stuck with it and moved back here (Durango).
“I worked in a dental lab and rode — the dental lab made me enough money to get to races. At that point, you know, all races had some prize money. Like if you’re doing well, you could actually make some money and prize money to supplement a budget for a race season. Then Trek decided at that point that it was time for them to have a professional mountain bike team. And so they called Zap Espinoza at Mountain Bike Action. They called him first and said, we’re starting a mountain bike team, and we need riders — who’s left unsigned and who’s available? And he recommended me. Late in the spring (’93), they hired me, and I was the first mountain bike racer they hired. The first professional mountain bike racer the company had. So yeah, that was the beginning of my career at Trek.”
Sheesh, tell me about your pro career from there…
“It was great! I went World Cup racing and got to see the world and got to live my life to its potential as a professional cyclist, but wanted to reach the pinnacle of the Olympics. So, pursuing the U.S. National Championship and trying to get on an Olympic team was a big driving force for me. And, you know, when I switched from skiing to mountain biking it looked like the Olympic part, and being an Olympian, was not going to be part of the picture because mountain biking was not at the Olympics. Then, in ’96, mountain biking got into the Olympics.
“The qualifications for the Atlanta (Olympic) team were held in ’96; it was six races, three in the in the ‘95 season, three in the ‘96 season. I was probably not a favourite to make the only two spots for the team, but I kind of made a level up jump that year and started getting good points in that points chase. By the sixth race, I think Tinker had already qualified. He had an automatic qualification, maybe from a World Cup win. Then, from everyone who was left, I was leading in the points — so that was amongst myself, a teammate, and a few other people that were in the mix — and I was leading going into that sixth race. Then, the day before that sixth race, I’m on really good form, practicing an A and B line, trying to do the A line as fast as possible, squeezing seconds out of the technical feature — and I crashed and broke my collarbone. So that dream was kind of crushed at that point.
“The highlight was that I took the time off and then came back. You kind of revaluate your choices at that point with the let-down, but I decided it was worth continuing to pursue racing and that lifestyle. So, I came back — I think with a new drive — and I won my first big National race in a really close battle with (John) Tomac in Park City, Utah at the end of that ‘96 season. Then in ‘97, ’98 and ‘99 I started winning a lot of races in the US. A similar Olympic qualification process was in place. During the first World Cup, in the spring of 2000, I broke my leg. So that seemed like, all right, this is just happening all over again. Another revaluation of all your choices. I concluded that if I don’t make it, that’s fine; that’s just what’s in the cards. But, if I don’t completely dedicate myself to the recovery, I’ll regret it. So, I was disciplined in my recovery and pushed the boundaries of what the doctors said I should do and came back and was able to hit the last two Canadian World Cups and get more points than the rest of the people — and just squeaked in on that Olympic team.
“So, I got to have the Olympic Games experience that year. In the same year, I’d won the National Championship after many seconds and thirds. I’d kind of checked all those boxes at that point. You know, there was a lot of satisfaction from that and from going through that process, especially being with one company (Trek) long-term and being into the product, into things and asking all the questions like, well, if we change this how would it give me an advantage? I was always asking the engineers about possible opportunities.”
So, that’s how you ended up working for Trek?
“As a racer, I would try stuff that other racers weren’t willing to try because of the risk. And I learned a lot through that process, and I developed a lot of relationships with the engineers and product managers. As my racing career was winding down, I made it clear that I wanted to move into a product development role and focus full-time on that and they (Trek) very graciously gave me the opportunity to do that.”
How did your role with them develop?
“I was focused on the development role as a rider and I was racing a lot still, so it was pretty clear that we needed more than just me out there focusing on testing — so I started building a group of field testers around me to help me figure stuff out. People with different skills, people that could ride different products. Now we have basically a West Coast (USA) group and East Coast (USA) group and the Colorado group — and a group in the Netherlands too. We’ve kind of reproduced what we built here in Colorado in a bunch of other places, globally. We’ll (Trek) continue to do that as we have the resources to do it, because it’s proven to work. You learn a lot and you’re exposed to nuance and opportunity through all those hours of pedalling that you can’t get any other way.
That same application, like training in the field, just married up for me and for my interests and curiosities – it was a complete natural dovetail. It was pretty easy to go from a professional racing lifestyle to a different occupation because I still got to ride a lot, and I still do that now, right?
You still have the passion to ride?
“Yeah, [my enthusiasm] for pedalling has never waned or lost interest, and I have always stayed hyper passionate about the sport. Of course, there are days you don’t want to ride but I have found aspects of mountain bike riding that are really medicinal for me and help make me a better, healthier person. So to continue to be able to do that as part of an occupation is really a blessing. It’s been a great lifestyle for me, and it’s been a great working relationship with a good company — you know, the people at Trek are some of my closest friends and they kind of have a no asshole policy.”
What does the future hold for the sport and yourself?
“Well, its broad. Cycling has all these different nuanced applications, especially the soft surface disciplines that are still evolving at a fast pace. The most recent example is gravel. When I first started mountain bike racing, we all did cyclocross and mountain biking on the same bike. You know, if you look at that bookend to where things are now, that evolution of the sport is pretty profound. The endurance side of things has a whole suite of disciplines. The gravity end of things has a whole suite of disciplines. And so the trajectory of evolution is really still pretty steep. I think that makes the industry really exciting. And it’s still going to continue to grow. Obviously, we have plateaus, and stuff that’s been done and is refined and [made more] sophisticated.”
Do you think that diversification and segmentation will continue within mountain bikes? And then obviously we’re not even touching on eBikes in that sense, right?
“Yeah, that’s an evolution that very few of us would have predicted — and it exploded in a very short period. If you look at that disruption to the bike industry, it’s really like the disruptions that mountain bikes provided the industry in the late 80’s and early 90’s. You know, a huge growth boost that brought lots of new ideas and concepts and technologies and profit opportunities and stability to grow the industry. I think there’s a lot of things about eBikes that are cool. Like the equaliser part — the fact I was able to do a ride with my dad, when he was like 75 years old, you know. And we would have never been able to do that together, if it wasn’t for eBikes. And rides with my daughter and rides with my wife — eBikes allow a different shared experience. [Then there’s] the utility part — where people are getting out of their cars and onto bikes, which is amazing.
It’s about attracting new people to the sport because, honestly, mountain biking is hard — like, really hard. And that was a big hurdle to entry for a lot of people. But eBikes have eliminated that to some degree. It brings new people into the sport. And that’s good for everybody. I understand what an active lifestyle does for quality of life, and I think eBikes are providing that opportunity for people that wouldn’t have seen it otherwise.’
What does the future look like for Travis?
“I ride bikes dictated by the product pipeline, so that’s not total freedom or riding as a pure part of your life… but it does mean that it’s an imperative part of your daily occupation. So, there’s two sides. At some point, I’ll retire, and will be able to ride any bike I want on any trail I want, and I’ll love that — but it’s pretty good right now, too. I can’t complain — I mean, honestly, my whole career (which is kind of avoiding what most people would consider ‘real jobs’) has provided a stability — financial stability — for myself and for my family, which is kind of perfect. It’s kind of a dream to be able to do it that way. So, nothing’s perfect. There are light and dark sides to every part of it, and I will enjoy the freedom of not having that at some point. I’m not counting days until retirement.’
What does cycling mean to you?
“I think what I said before; it’s a really medicinal component of my life in a lot of dimensions. So, it’s an occupation, provides me a livelihood. The physical activity and competition now, I have an appreciation for that component of the human experience that I probably didn’t appreciate when I was racing full-time. Bikes are magical machines which you can ride as far as you like, and it can be accomplished under just human power.”
Lastly, your take on Aotearoa?
“I did a month trip down there after that Single Speed Worlds. There’s a lot of places I’ve travelled to that I’ve enjoyed, but very few places I’ve been to where I thought, ‘I could live here’. For me, New Zealand was like that. I described it like it has everything in Colorado — plus an ocean. It’s your connection to the outdoors and to nature that is important — you get a lot of that outdoor experience. I am scheming up a way to return for a bikepacking trip. New Zealand’s pretty bitchin.”
The Maker, Sam Baker
Words Lester Perry
Images Finlay Woods & Sam Baker
How the collision of illness, art, and bikes changed the course of Sam Baker’s life.
From afternoons spent scouring roadside inorganic collections, either for parts or entire bikes, to digging jumps in the back paddock, Sam Baker’s childhood was pretty ordinary for a Kiwi kid in the late 90’s. His earliest years are but a puzzle piece of the guy known as ‘Sam’ to many, ‘Baker’ to others, and ‘Vacation Studio’ to the many brands he now works alongside. Needless to say, the journey of life from those early days in his backyard of Waimauku, to now living in Wanaka, creating graphics and art for many current ‘it’ brands, is a great yarn. Even after knowing Sam for a long while, it’s only now, after working on this feature, that I’ve filled in the blanks and can see how he has ended up doing what he does and why he does it. None of it was by accident, apart from a few pivotal years of illness — but we’ll get to that part of the story.
Raised on a ten-acre block of land in Waimauku, 45 minutes north west of Auckland, Sam’s school and friends were a car drive away, so he and younger brother Zach spent their days racing each other aboard their latest inorganic collection Frankenbikes, unwittingly laying the foundation of their riding skills. With Riverhead forest on their doorstep, the brothers’ lust for playing on their bikes drew them to the area’s notorious trails. “Good in the summer, horrendous in the wet, I kind of just grew up riding there. I was on a 16 inch BMX bike until I was probably 13. That’s all we had. We would just go into the forest on these back-brake only bikes and just bomb huge chutes. And it was pretty wild.”
Aaron Fernandez, now owner of Alta stores in Queenstown, was a key figure in downhill racing in the Auckland area, and a friend of Sam’s father. Seeing how keen he was on riding, he encouraged Sam to broaden his horizons by taking on the Auckland Downhill Series. Now on a larger, better suited bike, a Kona Scrap hardtail, Sam dipped his toe into racing across the Auckland region and so began his journey towards a full-blown bike addiction.
Competition between the brothers helped refine their strengths on the bike. “Especially when we were doing jumps, one of us was learning tricks and stuff, or maybe more style-based; Zach was always way more naturally styley, but I was probably more ballsy, doing bigger stuff. One of us would always be wanting the other person’s (attributes). I could do a bigger jump, but he would do it way nicer, and I was always really angry that he could do it way nicer than me. Then he was angry that I could go bigger or something. The jumps we were building were so sketchy because dad wasn’t building them, it was just me and Zach, a hammer and a couple of nails. And it would be a huge piece of ply with four nails at the top, it would sort of flex like crazy and just springboard you into the air! I look back now (and think) how did mum let it happen? But it was pretty good really, it kind of teaches you to ride anything.”
With access to a digger, the brothers built trails in the yard, eventually building a monstrosity of a pump track. “It was probably like an acre of a pump track. We would just go and add lines that had every possible line option. It was a pretty perfect place to grow up. And I think with it being wet 70% of the time, I look back and I’m kind of thankful for all those wet days because now I love riding in the wet. It’s the best! Whereas generally people kind of hang up the bike for winter.”
With the boys now keen on racing, their next port of call was the infamous Levin Secondary Schools MTB Champs, a three-day competition that drew riders from around the country. They pitted themselves against each other in uphill, downhill, and cross-country, usually using the same bike across the disciplines. This became an annual trip for the Baker family through the high school years. The excitement of racing his peers ramped things up a notch and, after a second place at SS Champs, Sam secured his first sponsor: Bruno at Cyclexpress who helped him to throw his leg over his first proper downhill bike, the iconic Ironhorse Sunday.
By 2007, Sam and Zach had caught the downhill fever. With parents in tow, what was previously their yearly trip to Levin was now a full national race series trip. “We just dove straight into it, really, we went and just did the full series first crack. That was our family holiday. The olds bought a tent and the whole family just camped for like six weeks or whatever it is, down around the whole South Island, just doing the races. I was maybe 16 or 17 when I first did a national series, and I did it every year until 2012, just driving around.”
Sam was selected for the NZ team during his first year in the U19 category in 2009, hoping to represent NZ in Canberra a few months later at the World Champs. Unfortunately, soon after selection, Sam crashed and broke his wrist. With theoretically enough time to recover before Canberra, he set to work making the most of a bad situation. “I was just hedging all my bets on Worlds in Canberra that year. It was a pedally track, and that certainly wasn’t my forte, and I ended up having another huge crash there. My first year under 19 wasn’t what I was hoping it would be; I missed going over to Europe and doing the full trip and everything. I kind of was just sitting at home with a cast training for Canberra, really.”
Putting his lacklustre 2009 season behind him, in 2010 Sam headed for an entire season in Europe, hoping the trip would be a step towards World Cup domination or at least some decent performances. It shaped up to be another year of discontent. “I met Josh Bryson in 2008 (Josh went on to be a high-profile pro) when he came over with his family and did a New Zealand series here. So we’d stayed in contact, and then that was our base initially. We flew into Manchester and stayed with Josh for ten days or so. We used his driveway to build out the van we’d brought, he’d given us a car to go and look at vans and stuff, and we’d go riding with him at the local woods around there, which is pretty sick. Looking back now to see where he’s come from, what he’s done and where he’s gone, is pretty sweet.”
“We were there for maybe three months, we got an apartment in Morzine, based ourselves there, and kind of just picked and chose a few races around and did all the World Cups we could. I remember the first one being Fort William, and that was just so eye-opening, dropping straight into this famous, huge, rough track. Just so stark in comparison to what we have in New Zealand.”
“It was an experience of a lifetime, and I loved it, but I was just at a bit of a crossroads. Like, do I go to Uni? Do I chase it for another year? It took me ages to decide, but in the end, I was like, I’ll go to Uni and get that out of the way, then I can always come back to bikes. It’s kind of crazy; over that time at Uni, the whole mountain bike world sort of changed. There wasn’t enduro racing; there wasn’t any of that stuff back then. Enduro was taking off, and that seemed way more appealing. The travel aspect of Enduro, going into different, more backcountry areas, is a bit more exploratory as opposed to just flat-out downhill race runs. I wanted to do that way more.”
“I wish I could go back and do it again, but I’d teach myself to actually do a job. If I were to talk to my son or something, I’d be like, ‘be something’. Be an engineer or something. I just went and studied marketing; I studied a subject that just evolves and changes so much. I’d always done art and design at school, and I kind of was thinking, oh, you’re in marketing. You’ll be like, the creator of the ads. You’ll be able to make some cool stuff. But marketing just grooms you to be a sales rep, which is not what I wanted to be. In the end, it was great for the experience and developing as a person. The biggest thing Uni did for me was shape me as a person. It narrowed down what I liked and what I didn’t because, coming out of school, I still didn’t know the world. It’s pretty hard to get out of school and choose what you want to do. For me, it was all about bikes at the time. Then I had this other side of me, which was always into making stuff. It was my first time fending for myself, and that kind of aspect of Uni was good, but actually coming out of it with a marketing degree — maybe not so much. I did marketing and economics, majored in both, but haven’t used it since.”
By 2013, and with World Cup MTB dreams behind him and degrees underway, riding was taking a back seat and, unfortunately, so was his health. A trip to the bathroom one day resulted in Sam spotting blood in his stool, the first symptom of his Crohn’s disease and a crucial turning point for everything in Sam’s life.
“At the time, all you think of is, is that cancer? What is that? You’ve got no idea. And it took them quite a while to figure out what it was. I went and saw people; whatever they initially thought it was, it wasn’t. There’s Crohn’s and ulcerative colitis, which are virtually identical symptoms but have vastly different treatments, which is a pain. So they were treating me for ulcerative colitis, which is kind of curable, I guess, whereas Crohn’s is incurable.”
For the next couple of years, Sam underwent treatment, surfing waves of feeling okay, almost normal, then having flare-ups. The disease sapped his energy to the point of being bedridden. “Your body’s fighting this internal battle. It’s like an autoimmune disease, Crohn’s, and so your body is just sending all these white blood cells and pretty much running your body down while trying to fight this imaginary disease. It’s like it’s attacking your digestive tract, basically thinking that the digestive tract is a virus, and it just eats your insides out.”
“I had maybe two years or three years of just kind of, like, blindly thinking that it was getting better, but in my head knowing I wasn’t, and ended up having a huge flare-up. I don’t know what you call it, but it’s basically your body going into shutdown because it’s on its last legs, and you just kind of collapse into nothing. And that wrote me off for a whole year. I just kind of lay in bed and never really got out. I could sort of walk to the letterbox, and that would flog me for three days. I just couldn’t do anything. Yeah, it was pretty wild.”
Unable to work, Sam figured he could expand his horizons. With his previous interest in design and art, he downloaded the Adobe Creative Suite and set to work teaching himself how to use the software. “Every day, I would just sit on YouTube. I’d think of something that I wanted to do, Google it, or watch it on YouTube. Yeah, you can just teach yourself to do design, which was cool, but it also caused a good shift in perspective.”
“The recovery process was crazy. Well, it’s incurable, but you can manage it for the rest of your life. You’re on crazy drugs. It’s all chemotherapy drugs and that sort of thing. The drugs roll you just as much as the actual disease does. I was taking these crazy high dosages, and they wouldn’t operate to take out the part that’s being attacked until you’ve been through every possible drug option. It lasted like a year and a half of trying all these drugs before they’d operate, and I was just getting worse and worse.”
“I was just bleeding out my arse all day, not getting any better. Finally, they said, all right, you can have the operation and cut the affected part out. They ended up having to take out my whole large intestine and give me a colostomy bag. Before I went in for the surgery, my whole body was riddled with scabs because I was so run down. Pimples and all sorts going on, just terrible skin. I woke up from the surgery, and all of that was gone almost instantly. Just straight up. Mum was like, holy hell, I can’t believe this.”
“The recovery process after I got that out was so quick. It had been over a whole year of having no energy, couldn’t do anything. Then, within a month, I was surfing again and out riding bikes. It was just a night and day difference, which is pretty nuts.”
He’s not one to delve too deeply into the dark times of his treatment and recovery, but coming close to death a few times had Sam reevaluating how he looked at most aspects of life, questioning what he wanted to do and how and where he’d like to live. “It was a whole outlook shift, focussing on making every day really good, which I hadn’t done before.”
“You can just get swept up in this whole rat race; get a good job, get a house, follow the normal path, but it’s not necessarily the happiest or most rewarding. So it was kind of a cool shift to make every day feel like a holiday, which is how the name Vacation Studio came about. It’s about just enjoying yourself, I guess.”
Back to feeling himself, and with a new lens on life, Sam moved to Mount Maunganui in 2015, primarily to chase the surf, but having Rotorua’s trails just over the hill was a huge bonus. He began working for George & Willy, a homewares brand started by a couple of his school friends. “I was doing all their woodworking stuff, building all their desks and their wooden stuff, and looking after the warehouse. Just living a really easy, simple life and doing my design stuff in the evening. Then, in 2018, I became intrigued by Wanaka. I’d always kind of skied a little bit, and had done some riding in summer down in Queenstown. I thought it would be good to come down to Wanaka for six months and see what it’s like. I’ve been here for six years. Never left.”
Like everyone who’s moved to Wanaka, Sam has embraced the outdoor lifestyle, and every moment he’s not creating something or working on a project, he’s out in the mountains. Bikes, skis or feet, Sam’s out there getting amongst it. Regardless of what time of year it is, bikes are still at the top of the list, and although his roots lie in the gravity side of cycling, these days, he’s exploring new horizons on the gravel and backcountry tracks surrounding his new home, keen to push his physical and mental limits.
In 2022, as the South Island’s COVID lockdowns were lifting, Sam took on his first multiday bikepacking event: the Sounds 2 Sounds, from Marlborough Sounds to Milford Sound. “The ability to slow things down and simplify life is underestimated in this fast-paced world. There is so much to see, and the humble bike allows you to see it in such a unique manner. This was my first multiday bikepacking adventure and, as I rolled into Milford Sound and marvelled that I got there with my own two very worn legs, I realised I’d be back. I quite like my bike.”
Riding 1450km in six days was one way to break new ground and discover what he was really capable of. Riding the road from Te Anau to Milford and not being passed by a single car is an experience he’ll remember forever — and likely no one will ever be able to repeat!
On December 22nd 2023, Sam continued a yearly tradition of breaking personal boundaries and digging deeper to find his limits and took on an Everesting. He was intrigued by the idea and keen to see if it was as brutal as people make out but, more than that, he just wanted to know if he could do it.
Completing seven laps from the Cardrona Valley floor and climbing to the top of the McDougall chairlift at the top of the ski field brought his total ascent to over the 8,848m threshold. Keen to avoid the monotony of descending down the gravel road, he opted to ride down the Peak to Pub trail with a small bomb down the gravel road to finish each lap.
Sam didn’t have a support team or even a plan for how the day should go; he just loaded some food and his bike into the car, drove out to the hill, and got it done — most of it solo. Twenty-two hours and 30 minutes later, he’d knocked it off. Going deeper than he’d imagined, he’d proved to himself that there was another level of suffering he could reach and discovered that even when in immense discomfort, the body kept giving and kept going.
Sam’s riding style lies between two distinct ends of the spectrum. At one end is his gravity side, where he goes fast, rides new lines, and interprets the trail in his own unique way, 100% focused. And, at the other end of the scale is a more thoughtful, subdued, and relaxed style, almost contemplative. This is where he exists when riding gravel or simply exploring an area by bike.
“I love the gravel side of things. For me, it’s like just riding a bike purely for the sake of riding a bike. Because mountain biking isn’t that. You get a gravel bike out to simply just go for a ride. You’re so much more present, and for me, it’s so meditative. You’re not thinking about what you’re doing. You’re literally just turning the pedals and looking around. It’s a time when I can really process things. It’s a time when I’m doing my thinking, I guess. People always ask me, oh, what do you think about when you go on these 100km rides? And I don’t actually even know. I don’t even know if I am thinking at all.”
“It’s just so meditative that anything and everything that’s coming at you, you’re taking in, and whether it’s subconsciously or not, it comes back out. I’ll reflect back on that when I’m drawing or looking at something down the track. The way that stream ran, or the way those trees were, or how the light hit that rock or something, it’ll come back at some point. If you’re mountain biking, you probably would just fly past it. You wouldn’t know at all.”
“Even if I’m riding at the same place every week, I can still find a new thing to look at and a new angle on something. I just like looking at things from a different perspective, I guess. And that’s what I like about art, photography, design, and all that sort of stuff. I’m just taking my unique view on things and making stuff, I guess. It’s basically just pure enjoyment out of both (riding and art).”
“I’m just really addicted to making things in a bad way! Every possible thing that I need. I think that’s why I’m so into design, it’s the process of taking an idea and making something that someone then puts on a t-shirt or whatever. “Or whether it’s building stuff out of wood or sewing or painting, or anything that requires patience and an idea turning into a form. That’s what intrigues me the most; taking raw materials and then coming up with something new at the end of it is cool.”
A glance at any of Sam’s bikes confirms his addiction to making things. Each of his bikes has unique and subtle twists that make each his own. Some of his fleet has echoes back to his childhood and the inorganic collection Frankenbikes – hunting out obscure framesets from back in the days when he was a kid, cobbling them together with unique, often used, parts. From a twenty-six inch single speed dirt jump bike, to high-performing all-mountain trail bikes and retro-commuters, Sams’s bike rack spans the spectrum of cycling genres and a vast timespan.
Sam’s friendly, relaxed, unstructured, and colourful hand-drawn style catches the eye of many an art director. After getting exposure from well-known and large brands, like Pals drinks, among others, his phone has been running hot with enquiries from people who like his style and want something similar to tie their brand to.
“It’s quite hard to replicate yourself over and over. Like for Pals, for example, they’re a big one I’ve done (work for). So many people message me asking, can I get something that’s similar to Pals? I don’t want just to keep repeating myself; it just becomes boring. Whereas, with Good Lids (a Hemp headwear brand), I get the chance to develop myself and try new techniques and styles that I’ve thought about or want to express. I don’t always want to stay in the same rut and become a repetition guy. My Good Lids work is probably the most rewarding. But every client has their own merits. (Good Lids) just trusts me. He’s just like, right, it’s time for another round of designs. You know what to do. I’ll just send back, like three pages of concepts. Probably 50 drawings, and he’ll just pick and choose. But he just gives me complete creative freedom with it, which is pretty cool.”
“I’m pretty lucky to take it from where it was, just working at home, pumping out my own stuff, to now full-time for the last few years. It’s pretty cool.”
Sam’s a pretty low-key guy. He’s happy to go about his business, and although his work is seen all over the country and abroad, he’s still the same old, down-to-earth, chilled guy. All he wants is to live like he’s on vacation, chill and ride his bike while creating some fun projects, whatever they may be. Sounds like some solid life goals to me!
This abbreviated piece written by Sam summarises his thoughts on his condition and gives a window into his quiet intellect.
I have Crohn’s. I have no large intestine, and my small intestine comes out of my stomach and into a Colostomy bag. I’ve had this since 2015 and will have it for the rest of my life. I accept that. It saved my life, but that doesn’t make it my friend. I get tired of it. Some days are good, and other days I cry. Lots of days I’m embarrassed, if my bag leaks in my wetsuit or into my sleeping bag. It’s not fun, and I hide. And I don’t want to.
It has taught me so much about myself, and for that, I’m thankful. Life is short. Try things, be brave, be uncomfortable, be happy, be kind. It’s hard, and I struggle, and I hide, I’m not brave and not comfortable. But I want to try to be better and show others who battle with themselves that they can try too, they can talk, and they can grow. If you want to talk, ask me.
I’ve been to most places in my head, and I know them all very well. This isn’t a sob story. I don’t want sympathy, but I just want to be braver and more comfortable with who I am. I just want to be Sam — me.