Le Pista Resistance

I’ve always been the competitive type when it comes to sports; the kid at little athletics who would enter every event, no matter how much I sucked. I had a few wins, sure, but I was never a super star. I just liked the process of it all; whether it was polishing my Jordan 5s in preparation for a basketball match or that butterfly feeling the morning of an athletics carnival, the real thrill for me was in the journey. The final result never really interested me that much; not because I’m a particularly altruistic sportswoman, just because I’m a sucker for a good time.

I carried this ‘love of the game’ with me to the Mario Kart alley cat last night. Sure the context was different – an urban, Saturday night jungle instead of the local athletics field, post race drinks at the Cricketers instead of all-you-can-eat Pizza Hut with the under 12 girls basketball team – but the spirit of friendly competition and unbridled enthusiasm was the same. And I loved every minute of it; negotiating the bends down to Harry’s Cafe in a princess tutu, dodging drunk party goers over the footbridge to Darling Harbor, failing to find the brakes on a kids bike that flung my knees up around my ears, the journey was awesome to say the least.

At the finish line, it became obvious the race was more about the adventure than it was about the end result; competitors were more interested in re-telling stories of near misses and three car pile ups than there were fixated on comparing race times or point scores. The Mario Kart alley cat embodied all the exciting and electrifying elements of a school swimming carnival – the dressing up, the friendly competition, the pre-race diet of red frogs and gatorade – without all the formality and bullshit – the pushy parents, the playground hierarchy, the focus on the finish line.

Unfortunately, most people loose touch with the ‘love of the game’ when they graduate high school – that out-of-nowhere sprint that won them gold in the year 6 backstroke becomes a distant memory – and they end up living vicariously through their favorite footy player or tour de france competitor. Not necessarily because they are boring and lazy, but because there is no longer a PnC or dedicated PE teacher to make it happen. Thankfully we have Lewis. Sure, everyone deserves their fair share of credit for last night – us competitors for rocking up, dressing up, and occasionally messing up (where is wharf 10 again?), the checkpoint folk for keeping us all honest and providing a welcomed pit stop for tired punters, and the sponsors for coughing up some seriously awesome product – but it was Lewis who spent hours creating the route, who scoured the city for days on end sourcing checkpoints (did anyone not bump into him last week canvassing the city?), and who knocked on doors to rally up support. (insert round of applause here).

Sure I’ve had my fair share of good times at running races and basketball finals, but neither compare to the thrill of last night. So thank you Le Pista, and everyone who came, for re-invigorating my love of the game.

Greeting me on my doorstep this afternoon, among the leaves and surry hills dust, was a copy of Central, ‘the news magazine for metro life’. As I flicked through resident rants about proposed developments and council ads alerting me to the drilling that is due to take place just outside my bedroom window over the coming months, I saw a dude with a cheeky grin and a fixie in his hand. Curiosity lured my attention away from a Contours ad, promising to help me loose years off my ‘bioage’, and directed me to the article opposite, “Bike Riders in a Spin”. For the most part the article was pretty neutral, boring even. But there were pockets of anti-fixie sentiment that pricked my attention. As I read on, I soon learnt that I wasn’t just being paranoid when I interpreted the occasional furrowed brows of other riders on the road as a symbol disapproval at my choice of bicycle. Some people really don’t like fixies. Take Edward for example, he seems to think fixies are impractical “because you just can’t coast and it is pretty hilly around here”. I don’t know what routes Ed chooses, but most directions I travel in have both “hilly” and non hilly options. So here’s a tip: If you do find yourself at the bottom of Foveaux St., staring up into a sea of black tar, pedal the extra couple of minutes it takes to get to Devonshire St. and you will find yourself a much mellower climb.  As for not being able to coast – I see that as an asset, not an impracticality. It’s the rhythm of a fixie, the whir of the pedals and smoothness of the rotations, that makes it such an enjoyable ride; meditative even. But not according to Nick, who seems to think “people spin a lot of s… about it (fixie riding) like it is a Zen-like sensation”. I myself am partial to a bit of meditation – usually traditional style; feet firmly stationed on the ground, breath slow and even – so I am familiar with what it’s like to be transported from the everyday to a state of peace. Other than laying belly up in the ocean on a calm day, fixie riding is the closest thing I have experienced to “a Zen-like sensation”.

The general sentiment of the article is that fixies are just too impractical and too dangerous. Since when was bike riding simply about being practical and staying safe? Sure, bikes make for good transport, but since when was getting from A to B, with as little effort as possible, the be all and end all of cycling? Maybe I’m just a product of the ‘me generation’, but I demand more from my collection of two wheeled machines than just transport. I want adventure, community, and yes, even a little ‘Zen-like’ experience.

Anyways, I think I’m done; opinions expressed, thoughts vented. But before I depart, please take heed: This little piece isn’t meant to incite conflict or divide the bike scene, it’s just a chance for this fixie rider to exercise her right of reply.

I’m an eclectic kind of girl, with more interests than my schedule and living room have the capacity to hold. As much as I love canvassing the city on my fixie, I am also partial to a bit off road action – give this tomboy a pair of sneakers and some dirt any day. Contrary to what some bitchy bike blogs might have you believe, fixies and mountain bikes aren’t all that different. They are bound by the common thread of adventure. Adventure is what drags me off the couch for Wednesday and Sunday rides, and is what motivated Jay and I to give up a holiday by the beach for a road trip around some of southern NSW most beautiful mountain bike trails.

Armed with a ute, two bikes, camping gear and a glove box full of trail maps we headed south. I will now break the trip down – dot point style – to avoid clogging this blog with fluffy prose.

Stop 1: Wingello

In true “Jay and Em’ style, we arrived at Wingello incredibly late, with only 1 hour of light remaining. Nonetheless, we set out along the trail, following a rhythm of flat fire road, steep as shit rocky downhill, absolute killer up hill, and tight, tree root covered single track. This was fun for about 20 Ks, but then, after staring into a horizon of fire road, increasing rain and impending darkness, we decided to take the ‘escape route’ back to the car. ‘Pussys’, I hear you say. But I’m no hardcore fitness focused XC rider with a pack full of Gu and something to prove. Instead, we spent the rest of the night cruising the highway, cooking on the side of the road (in the company of a friendly fox) and crashing out at a rest stop a few ks from the Sparrow Hill trail head.

Stop 2: Sparrow Hill

We pulled up at the Sparrow Hill car park, ute sideways, dust flying behind us, and immediately made enemies with two professional, clean cut cross country punters who had already finished their early morning ride, and were ready to retire to a cup of coffee and some Saturday afternoon gardening.

After upholding the stereotype of irresponsible, reckless mountain bikers, we weaved up hill along single track that was so hard packed you could defy gravity and barely pedal. The smell of pine, a couple of nice little drops, and a fake plastic crocodile in a creek added a little spice to the ride. However it was the final ‘roller coaster’ section, which sent you through the woods like a pinball, that was by far the highlight.

Stop 3: Mount Stromlo

I’m just going to put it out there, Canberra is boring. Once you’ve gawked a few museums and picnicked by the lake, there isn’t that much to do. Unless, of course, you are into mountain bikes, in which case it’s actually pretty cool. In addition to pine forest trails like Sparrow Hill, there is also Mount Stromlo; a mountain bike playground diverse enough to satisfy punters of the cross country, downhill, free ride and four cross varieties. But let it be known, Mount Stromlo is just as challenging as it is fun. For every twisting, turning, weaving downhill section, there is a bloody hard slog up hill. The most full on of which is known as ‘cardiac arrest’. This trail is hella steep, and littered with rocks and boulders that seem to be placed in such a way that only the most fit, agile, rock-hopper types among us are capable of making it up with out putting their foot down. I, personally, was lucky to make five metres consecutively without getting off the bike. But once I did make it to the top, and the likes of the ‘luge’ and ‘roller coaster’ open up before me, all pain was forgotten. These trails were adorned with so many smooth, fast burms and fun little drop offs that you hardly felt like you were on a cross country track – at least a Sydney one. To me, the experience was just like snowboarding – fast and free – only no lifts or overpriced food.

Hot tip: Mount Stromlo also has free hot showers; which, after a couple of days of camping and riding in the summer heat, was a blessing for me and those within a five metre radius of me.

Stop 4: Majura Pines

I don’t know if it was the residual thigh burn from the previous day’s riding or the fresh memories of Mount Stromlo, but Majura Pines didn’t seem all that great. Sure, there were some fun downhill sections and the lovely smell of pine, but after a while it seemed kinda boring. So we bailed.

After re-acquainting ourselves with our I-phones, we realised we had an extra day until we were due to meet Rod for our ride up to Mount Kosciusko. With a day to spare we swung the ute toward the coast and headed for some trails we heard about in Tathra.

Note: Finding a campsite far enough away from Aussie Bogans and the glaring eye of National Park rangers anywhere on the NSW coast is a challenge; one that Jay and I seem to take on every time we go road tripping. Sometimes it all goes to shit and you end up sleeping in a parking lot on the side of the road; other times you hit the jackpot and find a secluded pose by the beach. As luck would have it, we managed to procure the latter.

Stop 5: Tathra

After a morning dip in the lagoon and visit to the local bike shop, we followed a hand drawn map up to two connecting trails just near the beach. The trails were pretty sweet, although the hand drawn map didn’t always seem to match up with our surroundings – but I found the orienteering challenge added to the mountain bike experience. The trail was mostly single track, with super tight corners lined with a dense row of trees – one of which almost coat-hangered Jay by the strap of his backpack. A dip in the ocean was an awesome epilogue to the morning’s ride, and offered us some good summer holiday people watching: A chicks red V8 ute with a truck bull bar and a buper sticker declaring ‘this bitch bites’ was particularly amusing. And yes, the sticker across the windscreen does say ‘redneck woman’.

Stop 6: Mount Kosciusko

Mount Kosi and I are good mates – I’ve walked up her at Easter, hiked over her in summer and snowboarded down her in winter. One last frontier in our relationship remained: To ride up her. And what better way to make this pilgrimage than with good company. Jay and I picked up Rod from Snowline and piled his single speed mountain bike on the ute; yes folks, you should be impressed, riding no gears up Kosi is no mean feat.

We parked at the foot of the fire road over to Smiggins, right near Island Bend. This would make the ride a little more interesting, and allow Jay and I to gawk and gasp at the sight of Perisher in the raw; no snow, no slush, no frost. It was just like seeing a good mate in the nud, that shit was seriously weird.

Following Park Ranger/Gestapo rules, we completed the last kilometer of the ride on foot. As we reached the top, we saw another rider walking down, dressed head to foot in black body armour and a full face helmet. I looked at Jay, Jay looked at Rod, and Rod looked at me; neither one of us could really get our head around it. Sure there were a few loose pebbles on the way up, but nothing an open face helmet and some basic riding skills couldn’t manage. It wasn’t long before Jay cracked, “Thredbo’s that way buddy” he sneered. I tried not to laugh.

The ride down Kosi was the highlight – long enough to pick up speed, bumpy enough to keep you on your toes, but mellow enough to ensure you didn’t take out a group of day hikers. The whole experience was awesome – no crazy terrain, tight corners or rock drops, just beautiful fresh air, a gorgeous view of the snowy mountains and some seriously good company.

Stop 7: Thredbo

I have always considered downhill mountain biking to be ‘beyond me’; something that my biological make-up and tendency to err on the ‘woosy’ side of the bravery spectrum simply wouldn’t allow for. But after sampling a super cushiony kona stinky at the hire shop in Thredbo, I agreed to take on the challenge.

Adorned in ill-fitting, smelly, boys size body armed, I lined up like an ancient knight for my ‘initiation’. After negotiating a set of stairs and a rock garden on my armchair of a bike, I earned my stripes and was set loose on the hill. Well, kind of. First I had to complete a guided run down the mountain, which was probably a good thing – without the encouragement, confidence and advice of the friendly tour guide, I might very well have taken the first chairlift back down the mountain.

The ride down was incredible, kind of like ’slip and slide’ for adults: fast, fun and infused with the prospect of completely wiping out. Despite my fears and insecurities I wasn’t the bumbling, bruised and defeated mess I thought I would be when I reached the bottom. I was unscathed, triumphant, and ready to do it all over again – and again, and again. In fact, if it wasn’t for the sweeper ushering us of the hill at the end of the day, we would have kept doing runs.

Emily                                                                                                                                        Jay

Stop 8: Home

A pair of shins full of bruises and a bag full of dirty riding clothes wasn’t the only thing I lugged through my front door at the end of our trip; I also hauled in new found confidence, an even greater love of riding, and plans to upgrade to a bike with a bit more travel. Good times.

P.S. Props to Lewis for getting me to write this shit down, even if it was way too long and detailed. Encouragement like that is what keeps bike scenes, be they fixie or mountain, alive and kicking.

There’s a really awesome comment on the last post about the roller race finals that raises some totally valid points. I have to totally agree with the comment.

It was really great to see more girls at this swap meet than previous ones but participation in the rollers was still kinda low – so a HUGE congrats to the two girls who got amongst the fun and did race! Its hard to tell where the line between encouragement and being pushy is, so its hard to push people to participate in these things.
Please, don’t be scared off by the competitiveness of these kind of events. At the end of the day we are all just doing it for fun and because we love riding bikes! I totally hope to see more girls getting into these events in the future and showing up the boys!