Anders measures the gaps between doubts, dreams and delivery.
Words & Illustrations Anders Engberg
When I was five years old my dad built a 25ft sailing catamaran in the living room of our apartment. Other kids’ parents were dodging Jurassic Park figures and pieces of Lego, while mine were navigating two hulls coming to life somewhere between the TV and the coffee table. This was part of everyday life for our family of five back in 1991.
Thirty years from the living room I grew up in, a harsh sound carries through the leafless grove. It’s early May and my shovel complains loudly when it strikes the ground. This being northern Sweden, the ground is still frozen solid even though most of the snow has dissipated. Ground frost.
My hibernated stoke to build and ride has awakened long before Mother Nature has. I’m working on a set of dirt jumps close to my house so I can get some sessions in during the summer evenings. I look up towards the imagined jump line and let out a sigh. For this set-up to work, I need to build a trench 6ft wide, 2ft deep and 25ft long, straight through the forest. This material will then be used to create one single landing. I can just barely make out the imagined starting point for the run-in through the trees that block that same way. Twenty-five feet of ground frost, stumps and trees. This is definitely stretching it. I give it a couple of minutes more before I give up.
Our old living room wasn’t ideal for the use of power tools, so my dad carried massive sheets of plywood down a staircase to the basement where he would cut the pieces for the hulls only to have to haul them back upstairs every time he needed to check the fit. Back and forth until the shape became true to his vision. When I ask him about this he simply states that there was no alternative. As a kid, I paid no mind to this at all and I don’t remember this project being out of the ordinary.
Days later the idea of that jump still lingers. I’m hunched up on our living room sofa weighing work versus reward, finding no sense in the equation no matter how I approach it. I fix my stare at the far side of the living room. How far could it be, just about 20 feet? The image of my dad carrying those huge sheets of plywood between the basement and our living room appears in my mind. I throw the memory of that living room catamaran towards my doubts and I manage to scare them off.
After the kids are sleeping I grab the shovel and go at it again. The spring sun has done its best to release a few more centimetres of depth to dig at. Soon striking ice again, I focus on clearing trees and start to work on the remaining stumps. It’s hard work, but it is so satisfying when the line opens up and I can envision the jump. I see it there, just a few feet away… A bit of moss on the side of the landing lit up by an evening sun. Pointing the front wheel back down towards the landing after whipping it out. Excitement gets me and I forget time and space.
As someone who is now at least pretending to be an adult, I marvel at how my mom also supported the living room catamaran. It is very much like trying to explain to someone who isn’t a bike nut why it is crucial to spend a billion hours basically being a 12-year-old building jumps in the backyard. But with these projects there are often hidden gains to be found. My mom wasn’t exactly someone who grew up on the seas, but she backed up the project. As kids, we just thought my dad wanted a boat, but, in reality, this was a project bigger than that. The previous year my granddad had passed away much too young and my father was using his hands in this project to aid in his grief. My mother knew this and also knew how important this dream had become to my dad.
Coming back half an hour later than promised, I realise that I have left a trail of soil through our kitchen. It strikes me that I have been out for a good while, coming back happy and I haven’t even touched my bike. Trail building does this. Not only does it profoundly contribute to the mountain bike community, but it also adds another dimension of mindfulness and creativity to what we do. After clearing those trees, I know that this build will work.
My dad once brought me and my siblings on a trip that left a lasting impression. We were northbound, sailing on the High Coast and the catamaran was hauling, coming to life with a brisk side wind. We spotted a motorboat ahead – the people on board that vessel could probably hear us three kids howling and jumping up and down as the catamaran overtook them, powered by sails alone. In the evening we tied up on a beach too shallow for any other craft and set up our tent directly between the hulls of the catamaran. I wonder if it’s something like this my dad imagined when he went to bed after a late night working on those hulls. A vision of adventure.
It’s three months later and the short arctic summer is starting to raise its flag of surrender. It’s still warm though and my T-shirt clings to my back as I’m dragging a ramp through nettles and fallen debris. Once I manage to coax it onto the actual run the going is not so hard. It’s almost like it spots the newly shaped landing and wants to join with its twin. There is a dappled light from the trees above that shines on my handlebars. Feet on the pedals, pump the 3ft deep run-in, look towards the landing and there it is. Three months of work aligning at this moment. The speed works really well, and I can even get the back end of the bike out with some confidence. Giddy as a kid, I run back up and go again. After a few overshoots I go back and push the ramp backwards to make the gap just a little bit bigger.
The jump is small and doesn’t provide huge amounts of hang time, but I really want to work on some moves anyway. Getting a better tuck when doing simple tyre grabs is high on that list and I’m suddenly closer to getting there than I have been for some time. It’s insanely fun and before long I have to sit down on the start ramp to catch my breath having forgotten to rest before scrambling back up to go again. One of many advantages of building your own set-ups is that the process of building raises confidence. The level of investment also makes you go for it a little harder.
I once asked my dad if he ever second-guessed his project, thinking that he must have had some serious doubts before embarking on the build. “We couldn’t afford to rent a workshop or garage that was big enough to fit the hulls so the living room was the only viable option to make this happen”, he responded thoughtfully. The huge impact of having an attitude like this internalised as a child is something that I continue to unravel. It doesn’t take long to realise that I need to bring my kids to my trail project. In 30 years, if someone gives them 25ft to start from who knows where they will go?
The next evening I leave the tools at home, allowing myself a session with the bike alone. A rare treat for the builder. I drop in and speed through those countless hours of work and spend the rest of the evening in the company of childhood memories and an airborne view of the forest.
