Spokeの No 64 の目次

The heli drop. No matter how many you’ve done, it’ll always remain a novelty. The thrill of loading up, heads down, securing loose items, donning some headphones and hearing the scratchy voice of the pilot while being treated to some sweet ridge flying over vast New Zealand native bush. Dropped off, huddling down while the rotor wash flattens you as the chopper goes off to collect the bikes. The thrill never gets old and this is before the biking has even started. When word gets out of a heli drop to some normally out-of-the-way trail or backcountry track off a high peak, the anticipation grows and riders come out of the woodwork. My first ever heli drop was also the same as my most recent one, pictured here up Mt…

This is partly about comebacks, but mostly it’s an ode to Missy Giove. Know her? She was in the headlines earlier this year after she turned up at the UCI World Cup downhill in Windham, New York, the only American female in the field. Racing in jeans and riding an almost-stock YT Tues, the 43-year-old qualified for the finals and placed 16th overall. It was her first appearance at a World Cup in more than a decade; her last race at the top level was at Grouse Mountain, Canada in 2003. That’s a long time between drinks. Comebacks are a tricky thing. Like film sequels, there’s always the risk that the second time around isn’t going to live up to the original. The question always is: are you going to…

I’ve been shredding the Bosomworth road bike for about six weeks now, and it’s given me time to think. I may have been a little too harsh on road cycling in last issue’s story. Of course, I could apologise for saying roadies are like “flabby ducks waddling around my favourite cafes”, but in my defence, most of them are. Generally they look like they just put on all the expensive gear and rode straight to the café to drink lattés with a slice of cake (small, because they’re watching their figure) and then ride home again. Okay, harsh. Fact is, I can’t believe how much fitter I’ve become in such a short time. If the café riders actually rode, their waddling duck-like appearance would disappear very quickly. Within those six…

For quite a while now I’ve been extolling the benefits of riding with a utility belt. I’ve been copping a whole lot of flak for it too, people pointing and giggling and mates arguing over what I might be carrying in my ‘bumbag’. “You look like a twat” is the most common feedback I get, but luckily none of this fazes me as I have a dry back, plenty of spare parts and hair grooming products, and I just know it looks great with my ankle socks and SPD sandals. While it’s easy for me to pull it off and get my pic in the magazine, you guys are left carrying a huge backpack full of gear that never gets used. Well, the Rodfather is going to sort your shit…

Most of us have been there… fast asleep and in the midst of being chased… often you don’t even know how it started. Panicked, out of breath and on the edge of your ability to keep distance between you and your aggressor, the agenda seems simple: escape and live, be caught and don’t. It seems as real as if it actually was, yet somehow you know it’s a dream. You fight for consciousness believing it will save you, but what if it couldn’t? What if you were to wake and find the chase was real? Deep Summer happens every year at Crankworx, with six photographers selected to compete in building a slideshow over three days of shooting in the Whistler valley and half a day editing (which normally turns into…

The door, unenthused with its duties, rests on the jam. Long gone are the days of it proudly standing square in its frame. It doesn’t care to swing open for me anymore, instead longing for the inanimate life of a wall. Begrudgingly it allows me passage; we are both tired. I turn on the shower. The hot water takes a few minutes to come through. In that time I think of the previous 48 hours, scattered moments dancing piecemeal through my head, taking their designated place as fodder for idle time. Even with the scent of sweat in the nostrils and dirt under my fingertips, scarcely do I remember the weekend as it was. Truth, reality, in my memory have a half-life measured barely in hours. Already a fluffed up…

There’s no greater privilege and no more amazing spectacle than watching the best in the world go head to head. Rampage takes everything one step further; the cream of the crop also build everything themselves, and no one knows how big they can push it; not even they do. This year Tyler McCaul and his team crafted what became known as ‘the Great Wall of Sandbags’, a landing so huge it was visible, if not from space, then suburban Las Vegas at least. It would form his escape route down to reunite him with terra firma after arguably the biggest air of Rampage 2015, a mighty step-down into the finish arena. McCaul took it seriously as his dig team, media, and crowds of other riders—including his brother Cam—looked on while…

JULIANA FURTADO When a bike carries the name of a legend, you know it’s gotta stack up. You may not ride as fast as its namesake but you’ll have everything you need to try. Like the Roubion, the Furtado has undergone a heap of refinements to. – julianabicycles.com MAVIC CROSSMAX HYDROPACK 8.5 If you’re all-day trail riding or max enduroing and need to carry the essentials but don’t want to be weighed down by your backpack, the compact and stylish Crossmax pack is just the ticket. 8.5 litres of storage and room for your favourite bladder. – bikesinternational.co.nz LEZYNE MINI GPS You don’t have to be on Strava to benefit from a GPS, and the Lezyne Mini won’t take up as much real estate as some of the handlebar-laptops out…

Fashion and style aren’t mutually exclusive, but one does not necessarily rely on the other. Fashion thrives on popularity rather than any sense of taste. Style doesn’t need acceptance and cannot be foisted upon those that take their cues from the lowest common denominator. Style is inherent, cultivated through a journey of discovery of what works and what doesn’t, and learning from the process. Style doesn’t need to try, and seldom does. There is a typical familiarity about an entity whose end goal is the same as the entity across the street and the one around the corner. To differentiate within the spectrum of essentially doing the same thing, another thing must be tried. If the idea has to be coaxed, the results will reflect it. If it comes naturally,…

It’s been years since I raced. I’ve been a bit of an outcast, having retired with little more than a wave; I jumped ship and watched it sail off without me. But something amazing happened in that time. With that space, and without a tunnel-visioned focus on racing, I wandered aimlessly and grew wings. And with those wings, I soared to places where the masses tend not to bother wandering, and discovered true adventure. I’m not sure I ever really loved the process of training and racing. I remember arriving at work some days so knackered I could barely function. And one day, I got bored of it and stopped. It was as simple as that. Should I have explained myself to my followers and peers? Should I have announced…

We should have left our bikes at home––or more specifically, shouldn’t have come here in the first place. I’ve been optimistic for the past five days of our expedition through Ethiopia’s Simien Mountains, certain that we would soon discover a mountain bike paradise. But my attitude is at an all-time low point. Our group of twelve has somehow split up and four of us––including Czech pro rider Kamil Tartarkovic, British lensman Dan Milner and American writer Aaron Gulley––have been pushing past thick thorn bushes and climbing down a series of smooth rocks the size of subway cars, only to reach a three-way split in the overgrown singletrack. “What the fuck happened to Zamon?” Gulley asks. “It’s like he’s too focused on proving how fast he is than guiding us.” We…

If you’re reading this, there’s a good chance you’re just like me (hear me out ladies; sometimes I like to wear eyeliner). You might be an average male, with an above average age, below average hair, and fair to middling riding skills which are becoming as conservative as your neckties. And you might think you can still ride like you did back in the day (just saying ‘back in the day’ is a sure sign you can’t). The older I get, the better I was is probably more of a motto than a T-shirt slogan. When I look at a photo like the one of Kieran Bennett boosting a Mt Vic table, it not only inspires me, it tinges me with a hint of nostalgia for times when I too…

It’s evening time in Wellington; one of those beautiful long days that heralds the approach of summer. Days like these grab those latent plans and ideas and shake them free of their dust, force them into reckoning. The dead skins of winter fall away and suddenly it all feels possible again. Re-energised, motivated, on-board. Whichever, you get the gist. It brings the future into sharper focus, and the mental stone I’ve been kicking around the past few hours is racing. What, if any, is worth doing this summer? The question might be narrower. XC cemented my interest in riding, but the outlook for the 15/16 summer months is bleak on that front. Have I been swept up by the tide moving away from the code? Has it fallen into disrepair?…

Eight years ago, when bikes had 26” wheels, steel was real, and bar-ends were the future to climbing faster, Anton Cooper––then a shorter, pocket-rocket version of his current self––shot onto the national mountain bike scene, matching the speed of New Zealand’s best elite racers. Since then, Anton has grown into a size small 29er and become a household name on the international mountain bike scene for his consistently high performance. He is now a face of the Cannondale Factory Racing team, winning a Junior World Championship, Commonwealth Games Gold and, most recently, the U23 World Championship. Anton’s CV is so glowing you could read it in the dark. How did this metamorphosis happen, and what has gone into the development of Anton Cooper? It’s not just about the legs I’m…

The Langur monkey was right in the middle of the narrow road as I emerged from Woodville Palace. All white with a dark face, he nonchalantly scratched himself, gaze fixed upon me as I fiddled with my phone to attempt a photo as I rode by. I sensed he was quite menacing and not a bit afraid of me, and I was a little scared of what he might do. He checked over his shoulder then leapt onto the railing and perched there as I rode past for a second photo opportunity. I then noticed three more large Langurs starting to move together as one small troupe. Little did I know that these monkeys were taking over Shimla, the old RAJ capital of India, which resembles a village in the…

Imagine a worst case scenario. Okay, wait. Before you go hurtling down that horrifying dystopian wormhole where flying cybernetic lampreys wear Donald Trump masks while hunting emaciated humans in a post-apocalyptic nuclear winter, let me give you some context. You’ll need to conjure up a very specific kind of worst case mountain biking scenario, one that doesn’t involve suffering any bodily harm, i.e. broken bones, contusions, puncture wounds, bleeding from the eyes/nose/ears, or any kind of rapid uncontrollable fluid evacuation from known and heretofore unknown bodily orifices. Additionally, you won’t be asked to create a crisis of food or temperature; in this scenario, the weather is bucolic and the food plentiful and delicious. Specifically, you need to imagine that your bike has suffered a mechanical and you’re without the right…