Dickhead Revelry in the 2017 NZ CX Season

What is Scrot?

Anatomically, a reasonably easy question.

Who is Scrot?

More difficult.

Why Scrot?


Scrottage is finding the greasy fringe and miring yourself in it- and scrotteurs are the slippery, addled champions of it all.

In a world of high gloss adventure media that seems everyday to swing its ratchets toward some impossible zenith, scrottage is the frank admission of one’s tendency to be underwhelming. It is the art of breathing stale air into contemporary cycling’s thin, pallid carcass.

If it had a slogan, it might be: sometimes the yolk rips when I poach my eggy weggs.

Not for us the Instacurrency and perpetual stoke of white middle class mountain biking. While workers-by-day in goofy outfits trade clumsy high fives (buoyed by online edits, sanctified by craft beer and insistent that This Is Epic!) Scrots huff on blueberry vape and drink Victoria Bitter and remark that riding, just generally, kind of sucks a lot of the time.

It’s riding dumb bikes. It’s dropping into a slippery bunghole of a descent in the full knowledge that a crash awaits. It’s cantilevering off the back of the bike and torquing 42c tyres through chewed out corners. It’s squatting atop a bunker and berating planes as they twist in on the northerly to land.

Shit, apparently it’s a 17hr round trip to Hamilton to ride a bone dry CX race where they believe in neither putting people in the tape NOR heckling.

I mean, really.

It’s hiding bikes in your shitty hostel dorm and WASHDISHESNOALCOHOL. It’s midnight wheelies and throwing water bottles at tradies’ vans. It’s being heckled by locals on provincial main streets: poo, that ain’t even a Specialized. It’s inside jokes and short-lived slogans. It’s sleeping bags filled with farts in forgotten corners of New Zealand that people seldom visit for pretty good reason.

But there’s a softer side too, for within dickhead lies love. It’s a Kodak funsaver and doing wees on the HDR Scape. It’s snack sharing and road trips, playing in the snow and getting in the fucking lake. It’s Springsteen’s Highway Patrolman through the Desert Rd as the sun pulls against the horizon and bleeds the mountains.

But fundamentally – and herein lies the charm – it’s a pack of dickheads doing fun shit just for the sake of it and without asking too many questions.

Scrots on Tour 2017: coming (like it or not) to a place near you.