Antony de Heveningham charts the rise and fall of that secret riding spot in the woods near you.
The following is based on a true story, and is a tragedy, told in 11 chapters.
Illustrations Amanda
Discovery. A new location is scouted and ridden. Potential is spotted – a line though the brambles, carpeted with crispy leaves. Often this is actually rediscovery, with riders finding a trail that was scratched out a few years ago and forgotten. Or it might be still used, but only by a handful of riders. The new location starts being incorporated into regular loops, which eventually leads to the next stage.
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Lines are extended, linked, and new sections raked out. The trail gets a name (usually one linked to a comical injury suffered by someone riding it, like ‘Terry’s Plums‘). Riders start looking around for fun natural features to incorporate into the trail. Rocky outcrops, bombholes, and natural lips get worked into lines and the hill starts becoming a playground.
Someone brings a spade up and, in a sign that things are about to get serious, stashes it in the bushes. Jumps and berms begin to appear on the trails. More lines appear, but this time they’re cut in rather than raked out. Almost overnight an indistinct path winding through the undergrowth becomes a purposeful channel, chiselled into the landscape with hard effort.
The lines are bedded in, word of the new spot gets around and it starts becoming a draw for the local riding community. Someone makes it into a Strava segment, briefly revelling in their glory before a decent rider comes along and takes away their KOM. Action camera footage of people riding there does the rounds on the usual forums, and any commenter asking where the video was taken is immediately told the location by its proud creator. Shiny VW T5s with energy drink stickers on their bumpers appear in the nearest car park.
All the activity on the trail has attracted the attention of the landowner, who puts up a few notices asking riders to stop building there. No one takes any notice and, as a result, some of the more obvious jumps are knocked down, only to be rebuilt bigger and burlier. The increasing size of the jumps means that most of the new ones are gaps not tabletops, made with a ragbag assortment of materials, from rotten wood to rocks taken from an old drystone wall.
Finally the landowners and riders meet, after the riders are spotted packing down a massive new jump. There’s a bit of tension, but cool heads prevail and a meeting is set up. After a few of these meetings, the riders manage to persuade the landowner that they should keep digging there as long as they don’t build anything too daft.
The trails are now semi-sanctioned and everyone feels great. Jam sessions and mates races are organised and in summer the track hums to the sound of soft compound tyres, punctuated by cheers as a feature is sent particularly stylishly.
A national magazine does a feature on the local scene, giving the new spot centre stage. Well-meaning riders add it to a couple of online trail guides, proudly gushing about how many tracks there are and how big the features have grown.
Loads of riders are now using the spot and it’s starting to look a bit shabby. The original builders have moved on to work as trail guides in Whistler and the jumps are beginning to crumble. Some newbies find the trails and, reasoning that it’s OK to dig there because other people have been doing it, immediately construct a massive new line. This happens a few more times, often with the builders aborting half way through construction as motivation runs out.
So many new lines have been built that the hill appears to have varicose veins. The profusion of litter around the jumps makes them resemble a miniature, extremely unhygienic Mount Fuji poking up through a layer of clouds. It’s not riders dropping the litter, just local oiks who come up on mopeds, but it’s enough to seriously upset the landowner and draw complaints from local residents. Riders are also hurting themselves with alarming regularity, but the ambulance access is clogged with foot-deep mud.
Finally, the landowner has had enough. The jumps are quickly euthanised by a bulldozer, and a load of trees are felled across the main lines. Loads of local riders come out of the woodwork to complain, but most of them are actually riding elsewhere now – or booking that flight to Whistler.
Of course, many people in mountain biking accept this life cycle as a given, and some even embrace it. If you’re a properly handy rider, chances are you’ll get bored of riding the same stuff week in, week out, and start looking for new challenges. For these people, all riding spots have a finite lifespan.
But not everyone is skilled and confident enough to complete a trail like it was a computer game. And a lot of hard work always gets wasted along the way. If there’s room for a bit of diplomacy, a pinch of responsibility, and a written agreement, jump at the chance. The next place could be around for a lot longer.
