Words and illustration by Gaz Sullivan

“I got hooked up somehow, spat over the bars and into the thicket of manuka that was trailside…”

I worked out recently that 2023 is something of a milestone: I have been riding mountain bikes for 40 years. If practice makes perfect, I should be very good by now. That premise doesn’t necessarily prove to be correct, though. In approximately half a dozen outings so far this year, I have crashed during almost every one.

The first — the one that will require physio — was performed on a short, flat section of a very steep climb. Even with electrical assistance the climb rendered me briefly cross-eyed, and I misjudged a corner. Slight back sprain, but nothing serious. I did knock the control button doofer off its little mounting bracket, but I wrapped it neatly around the brake and dropper cabling and made for the nearest set of Allen keys, down at the car park.

The next bail was executed at a standstill, and involved more pain but less long-lasting consequences. Exiting a favourite trail requires crossing a steep little gully which contains another trail. The procedure is: slow down, check nobody is coming, drop down a bank to get enough momentum to clear the other side. I have done it many times but, for no valid reason, I stalled at the top of the far side. I couldn’t get my foot out of my pedal and toppled over an ancient piece of gnarled wood that is a feature of that section, thus jamming my leg between the wondrous-but-hefty e-bike I am supposed to be reviewing, and the gnarled old log, leaving most of my carcass occupying the trail I was trying to cross, almost upside down. The gigantic battery I like emptying was now making itself felt and, as my foot was still securely clipped-in under the thing, I was sort of stuck. I had to make my biggest effort in living memory to get free before a train of groms ran me over. Lower leg looks worse for wear. Dignity shattered. No other damage.

The best ride of the new year, so far, was out in a jungle I had never entered before, in the company of a gang of very good riders. Here is where the modest skillset I have accumulated after four decades of trying to ride mountain bikes, really jumped into focus. It was a tricky set of trails, most of which I loved. There were a few sections that were well outside my comfort zone. I don’t actually recall any particular crash, but I am sure there was at least one. To demonstrate that falling over from a standing start is my new reality, I made sure nobody missed the next episode. A group ride in Auckland on the roadie was a complete success except for my hard landing. We rode over 50 kilometres in brilliant sunshine, most of it on cycleways or gravel paths on the edge of the Manukau Harbour. Part of that section was a muddy but entertaining bit of singletrack that let us get around a fallen tree, and also filled my roadie shoes and pedals with dirt. We opted for an excellent lunchtime burger in Mangere Village, and I coasted to a halt on the sidewalk in full view of my colleagues and the assembled citizens, and toppled onto the tarmac, feet securely trapped in the pedals. To add to my humiliation I needed assistance to get detached. The consistency of the Ambury Park mud was the perfect roadie pedal glue.

We got back to base a few minutes before Auckland turned on a tropical-style deluge. Rain is never as nice as when it is dodged by a tight margin.

The next day was a bottler, with bright sunshine and high fluffy clouds, making the Rotorua caldera look like the introduction of The Simpsons. There haven’t been two days in a row like that since last year, so bike riding was on the menu again. That jungle I visited needed another look, so I went there again. It was a great excursion, at least as good as the first time. I didn’t crash in any of the difficult bits, but I was steaming along an innocuous stretch on the homeward leg when I made a spilt-second (delusional) decision to get myself out of a rut that had developed in the centre of the trail. I got hooked up somehow, spat over the bars and into the thicket of manuka that was trailside. It bent to accommodate most of me and some of the bike, and I was wedged securely into the landscape, the flexible young manuka trunks were spring loaded and popped in between legs, feet, cranks, frame and wheels, pinning me in position. The prickly foliage was a nice extra feature of that incident, magically distributing itself between my outfit and my skin.

I was tempted to give up and maybe have a nap. I wasn’t uncomfortable really and it seemed like an easier option than trying to extricate myself. But the remains of the trail beckoned, and nothing felt broken, so I wriggled out of the scrub and brushed off the evidence.

Today is Friday 13th. The sun is out, and I am going to push my luck.