Words: Kim Hurst   Images: Lisa NG 

“I am still surprised at the amount of mud a chamois can hold. About the same as a nappy, I suppose.” – Kirk, father and cyclocross connoisseur 

Pitter patter. Squelch squerch. Drip drop. Clink clunk. Slip. Grind.

Soil sampling for the twenty-twenty-one season is well underway.

Moonshine provided a smattering of grease during early proceedings which evolved to a thicker custard for the final events of the day.

Ngati Tama took up the baton with an inviting carpet of grass at dawn break. Fog lifted to an overcast day with fifty shades of grey. Even with an auger, it was clear that the substance below resembled Type 6 on the Bristol Chart. Fluffy pieces.

Off camber. Run ups. Slide downs. Dirty dismounts. Unplanned lie downs. Parents relieved that the load going through the laundry was not poop. For a change.

Tracklocrossers. Singlespeeders. And El Presidente’s geared rig that she turned into a fixie after a brush with the tape.

Balance bike senders. First timers on brand new bikes. Newbies on borrowed steeds. Converts aplenty.

Hurried calls for urgent deliveries of toe spikes to Upper Hutt. On a Sunday.

Traction control was tested by all bar one. A young gent who pulled off a backflip in Vegas at the Triple Crown Enduro the week before, ventured South for some time on the drops and his first ‘cross race. Watch this space, Aotearoa Crossfest.