A flick through the Chainslap archives over a flat white is the perfect reminder of two things. Number One: we are spoiled for photographers with mad skillz in Wellington, who have an incredible ability to capture a blend of toil and ardour in a single monochrome frame. Number Two: ‘cross has grown up a lot. And that has not been without some pain through adolescence.

Back in 2013, I was asked to throw down some words about why a sanctioned National ‘Cross Champs was important. Six years of unwaveringly repeating the same mantra like some sort of Chinese water torture has probably earned me the title of Most Stubborn Bitch. It would be a huge understatement to say that I’m stoked to see the official battle for the fern finally land in its rightful place on the UCI Calendar. It’s about bloody time!

Quite frankly, nobody wants some fella who they don’t know from Adam rocking up on race day wearing a Cycling New Zealand branded jacket and waving a clipboard around ruining our party with their tyre gauge. Totally not cool for skool.

And that’s before we’ve even addressed the supersized elephant in the room. L.I.C.E.N.S.E.S. Shut the fuck up. Mention the “L” word and it’s met with a response akin to living in 1999 with the dreaded Y2K on the horizon, bracing ourselves for the fateful bug that is poised to strike at midnight and destroy everything we know and love and spin the world into utter chaos. It’s more controversial than a Kardashian’s Poosh, an American President’s tweet or Version #1,258 of the latest Brexit deal on the table. Sacre bleu!

Cyclocross is a special meld of skills, fitness and a raw desire to triumph over adversity in a close contact situation. It attracts a certain sort of character and that fabric threads together to form a special community. The vibe is relaxed and fun. I ain’t ever seen a dollar note beneath a cupcake balanced on a rock in the middle of the track at an XCO race, but I’ve seen it at a Cyclocross World Cup. And I ain’t ever been to a Team Manager’s briefing of any other cycling discipline, where the Chief Commissaire reminds the international audience that, “handups of any sort are not permitted in a World Cup and that includes money or bacon”. And that’s why I love it so much.

Fundamentally, cyclocross is a perfect fit here. It echoes the Ol’ Kiwi Way at every 90 degree hairpin. Number 8 Wire ingenuity is alive and well in the heart and soul of every ‘cross racer and race organiser there ever was. Not to mention, the Land of the Long White Cloud does mud of epic proportions. Way better mud than Straya.

Last winter, having become more involved with the race organisation gig, I took a long walk down memory lane and wondered where the community vibe from the early days had gone. After crossing the finish line, we used to share a pot of homemade soup, swept the Scout Hall out together, then rode home after having a bloody fun rip around the park with mates. And the Council didn’t seem to mind where we went either.

Now we have a manual timing system stretched way beyond capacity, landowners enforcing strict instructions about where we can and can’t go, kids eager for more than just a ten minute untimed bash about, racers warming up properly before hitting the red line, some chick on the mic telling you that you can’t practice the course while a race is on, and a Club Committee wondering if they need to add a “no e-bikes” clause to their Run What You Brung rule before someone tries their luck and rocks up with an extra 250 non-human powered watts.

It’s a departure from the race I recall nearly missing back in 2011 because I was still sat at home in my onesie before realising it was getting a bit close to game o’clock and knocked out my warmup smacking along Fergusson Drive before sliding to the startline without even needing to rego. There was no rego because there were no results.

Then I realised, there were 30 of us racing back then. Last year, Huttcross boasted nearly 230 participants and kids at the opening round. Things have changed because they’ve had to and the end result is more people having a great time on bikes in the mud all together inside of stuck in the garage on their lonesome Zwifting their way through the winter – surely, that’s a win.

The precocious rebel operating well on the fringe has grown into an awkward adolescent. During those growing pains, some still yearned for the grunge vibe of ripping around in cut-off denims grabbing DB handups. Some purists wanted to see development more akin to the progress those damn Aussies were managing to achieve on the other side of the Tasman. And, while Mum and Dad were busy arguing about which square peg could be fitted into a round hole, the kids were all busy voting for wider adoption of skinsuits regardless of body shape and buying up drop handlebar bikes to add to their n+1 collections.

Amongst the furore, one stubborn bitch kept spouting on and on about a sanctioned Championship race in EnZed. Her pipedream was for an event that was both inclusive and welcoming as well as fostering wider appeal across codes, enticing those license wielding roadies across from the Dark Side to do battle against the die-hard singlespeeders, as well as satiating those harbouring for a “proper” race. Most importantly, it would be a big party with all the CX communities across the Land of the Long White Cloud converging once a year.

Out of this melting pot was born the crucible of Aotearoa Crossfest. This ain’t no World Cup*. But it is a huge leap forward and I solidly believe that this is the best next step for CX in New Zealand for us ever to move beyond the current status quo while still supporting our grassroots racing. Its significance should not be underestimated and the work that is going on behind the scenes is a shedload. I hope y’all support it.

Don your skinsuits. Pack your best heckle and a cowbell. Throw some 33mm wide tyres on your rims because less traction really does equal more fun. And head to Christchurch on 11^th August. Cos it’s happening.