MTB Queenstown: Watching Bikes

It’s dusty here, and the sun – strong - is beating down hot. I scuff at the floor, eyes darting to a shaded spot just a few long paces away. Gaze up, I pull my cap down and take a short sip of rationed water.

Movement ahead on the hill draws my eyes skyward, a sting of blue against green and gone again. Moments pass and then the rider pops out of the undergrowth, flying round banked berms and, in a cloud of dust, at my feet: “is this the end?!”

Frenzied, breathless, blue-faced - “yes”. I gave him the last of my water.

As more riders emerged from the hill they collected in the shadow of that nearby tree, giddy at the end of their ride. It was my job as marshal to move them on so the shuttle could ferry them back to the top of the hill. It took two or three times, but they moved in the end.

I’d emerged three days before from the fog of British mid-winter, seen that Queenstown Bike Festival was on and headed straight to volunteer - my body was still playing catch up.

The Coro1200 is a winding trail with rocky outcrops (catching many riders off guard at marshal point 7, “rude rock”) and steady descent. Juniors and elite men came down intermingled, a combination of skill level and age not really seen at British mountain biking events – except that the boys were shooting down the hill faster and more effortlessly than many of the men, their bikes mere translators between the dusty ground and their flying bodies.

One older man with curling grey hair said that this is the best lesson those boys could ever have, riding and learning from men twice, three times their age.

The last burst of riders collected again near the red flag next to me. The more experienced of them coolly sat back on their bikes, fist-pumping each emerging rider. Some took their helmets off, beads of sweat running into long plaits or buns bunched at necks. Everyone there was thrilled with each other’s riding, that each one of them had set off through the tapes, down the hill and across the finish line. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so many female riders all together like that. It made me want my bike more than at any other point that day.

Queenstown, to my tourist’s eye, is busy and bustling and bike-crazy. At home a few passionate riders take to our local woods, never really bumping into each other except maybe over a post-ride pint. In the town centre here, every other person rolled a sparkling full-sus by their side, and the FOMO itched inside of me.

In a place where bikes are so central and the riding so famous, there is the possibility that the bike frenzy here could switch people off. For every person who inspired me to ride that day was another that reminded me of my inexperience and fear: I wasn’t “gnarly enough”, skilled enough, daring enough to ride where these guys were riding.

But Queenstown Bike Festival provided a balm to my experience in the town. A grassroots event, it is organised, marshalled and timed by riders, for their community. The atmosphere there was celebratory and encouraging, with riders from a range of ages and skill levels: “whether you’re an intermediate rider, hard-core downhiller, e-biker or anything in between, you’re all welcome” its website says.

The message was clear: stop complaining and just ride.