So… Much… Material… In fact, I’m drowning in so much material at the moment that its an insight into what it must currently feel like to be a writer at a late night comedy show, or a reporter for the New York Times. But, instead of it being an avalanche of wholesale fuckwittery, I face a tsunami of radness to try and surf my way through with jet lagged eyes and arms that have been well, pumped.
It would make sense for this post to be about EWS Madeira #racereportfroth, but to understand how that all unfolded, or even unravelled, first we need to blast to the past and appreciate the role it had to play… In particular the last day of the mega Wairoa action. Plus, like you and the box of tissues have been waiting for, its Dirty Video time!
Finally on the third day we got dished up the one thing we all craved… No, not a Rodfather foot massage (allegedly he has his technique down and everything), but fucking blue skies and a semblance of dryness in the Gorge, there was much fizzing and engorgement. As we peered into the blueness with child like wonderment and fatigued lower backs, the Creator gave us a run down of how shit rolled:
However for part 3 I’m not going to unleash another onslaught of words and superlatives, I feel the need to shut up and just cast an eye of judgement across anyone who isn’t compelled to ride there ASAP in 2017.
Instead, I’m going to hand over to the Dirty video to do its thing from 3 days of Nelson radness. Mostly Wairoa Gorge of course, with some Browning Hut action thrown in to keep the mix fresh:
I had a shit load of compromised footage (something quite different from compromising footage, sorry, no Pee tape here, much to the Rodfather’s disappointment), thanks to pissing rain/mud and some classic dappled light action.
I could just leave it there and summarise it in the appropriate manner: A fucking epic 3 days with a seriously rad crew of dudes in an amazing place. A trip that stands out for being a banger in an already packed year of radness.
But its not that simple…
Fuck you authenticity for making me confess to my cuntery… Bearing in mind this was supposed to double as a mini training camp for EWS MADeira, it became alarmingly obvious early on Day 3 that everything wasn’t quite right. On the upside, dropping the bars down on the Hightower had rewarded me with some refreshing steering crispness and precision, but whilst I enjoyed feeling more like a guided missile than before, the body wasn’t dishing any fucking high fives.
I think it was on the second run of the day when it really registered there was a problem… By problem I mean I felt utterly fucked. Holy shit, keep your mouth shut cunt, being one of the younger models there I could hardly complain about feeling like I’d just been on the receiving end of a double shift gang bang. There was also the simple concept washing through my overly active mind:
“Fuck cunt, you’ve got 4 days of EWS Madeira in 2 weeks time, so take your anti-pussy meds and get on with it”
Easier said than done… And now we’re about to arrive at the point that has on-going ramifications for the Madeira story to come.
Usually patented DN Melt downs are reserved for a particular EWS Race Stage, but it seems I needed some practice on those as well. However, even this was more extreme than usual… What ensued next can only be described as an orgy of fuckwittery. Components of said orgy? No one culprit can be to blame, but many dark forces congregated to declare a jihad on my riding confidence and it seemed, basic bike riding skillsets:
Not wanting to crash again… Being a week away from a very expensive & non-refundable mega trip… End of mission conservatism creeping in… Enough drizzle to make things nice and slick… Some of the hardest trails in the park… Feeling seriously flogged & fatigued… Potentially regretting having the bars lower… Annoyed at being dropped faster than Jim Comey after some vodka shots…
Holy fuck, it was like a mojo artery had burst and I had bled out a quarter of the way down Devolution. I’ve mentally capitulated before, with style, but this shit was Nek Level. Every time I came across a challenging section, which happened to be 80% of that particular trail, my brain just sent the command: “Fuck this shit, no chance“, even if normally I would have charged it without hesitation.
Just in case you think I’m embellishing, I had to do the thing I hate doing the most, no, not letting someone off a plane before me and no, not using SRAM products… But I actually had to fucking walk. As I fell apart quicker than a newly serviced Reverb, I even made Andy surrender the radio and his tail end charlie detail so I could avoid the embarrassment of human witnesses as I went full cunt on it:
When I finally saw the Rodfather he assumed I had broken my bike, which at that stage I actually wish had been the case to cover up for my absolute implosion. I had impersonated the Kursk with extreme precision and in a very odd feeling when you’re in Wairoa Gorge, I just wanted to get the fuuuuck out of there ASAP. I think I even had a 1,000 yard stare going down.
For someone who spends too much time thinking about avoiding crashes (that in itself a recognised and inherent weakness), hitting the deck 3 times in relatively big stacks over the weekend and a whole bunch of undocumented near misses was probably more than I had the capacity to absorb and still ride full gas on trails that have no time for fucking about. Diagnosis: Full nerve loss of the highest order.
So whilst this was undeniably an awesome mission, the Hightower was being rammed back into the Evoc with DEFCON 1 furrowed brow. Instead of building froth to Ironman levels (The Marvel one FFS, not cut off sleeves), I was now impersonating a boneless chicken, a week before departure to the biggest EWS round ever – A little known fact I didn’t appreciate until I arrived in MADeira.
Mountain Biking was gearing up to appoint a special prosecutor on my ass… Would I beat the charges, or would a Portuguese Prison shower scene ensue? Stay tuned to find out…