Zack Porter, Moose Knuckle, Christchurch. Photo: Ryan Foley

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts.

Somehow these lines are still swirling around my head; penned by Shakespeare centuries ago, they have managed to outwit my stunted short term memory and defunct attention span to provide a welcome reprieve from the climb up to Moose Knuckle. They sit on my mind flickering in and out like a TV with bad reception.

Intended to reverberate around theaters for all posterity, I came upon them on the scratched screen of my smartphone. There I was mindlessly scrolling through facebook when below a photo of a burrito and above somebody’s cry for attention those lingering lines appeared. Embroiled in someone’s bubblegum philosophy; a truly unjust act of providence.

I don’t know what it was that caught my eye. Even though the lines were downtrodden and weary, sexed up and packaged for a modern audience as some gauche clickbait. Because in spite of the tired, forgettable photo it hovered over, and the awkward font it was plastered in, the lines shone through crystal clear. Waiting there to be liked and forgotten by an unsophisticated schmuck; just like me.

The monologue carries on to express how life is performed in seven ages, that form a sort of bell curve making up a lifetime. And in my oxygen deprived state halfway up Death Climb two, I feel the fate of most things––especially our beloved trails––ride a similar trajectory.

The first age is that of an infant. The trail builders shall understand this, through much sweat and tears their trails are reared from the earth. Grubber swings, and spade fulls. Toiling against the roots, rocks and trees the forest slowly lets up the land, allowing the builders to shape it into their own.

And once the trail is rideable then the next age does cometh; the whining, prepubescent schoolboy. At this point the track just doesn’t quite hit the right notes, it flows along like a song but then a corner is too sharp or jump not quite right and any rhythm dutifully earnt is cut abruptly short. It has all the requisite parts except for a little experience.

So with a bit more time and the placement of a few pirate lines and now in the third age it really sings. It’s so good you can’t stop thinking about it, it’s all you want to ride. It’s got  rhythm and a cadence that just won’t quit. It starts to feel natural but still the youthful loam that covers the trail adds a touch of awkwardness. So you hold on tight and don’t let go, just like young love.

By this point the fourth age it is running so well that it ain’t no longer a secret, everyone is riding it and the loam is well and truly gone. But it’s hard-packed now and everything rolls true. It’s like that red sweater you have that just fits so snug. With confidence you rail and attack it at every point.

Into its fifth age and things are unfortunately heading downwards, but not in a good way. It is the autumn of its life and a regression has begun. Hopefully you’ve made the most of it and had a good time. If you’re lucky it lasted a few years. But if only a couple of months at least rejoice that it wasn’t a gravely twelve hundy wide bureaucratic wet dream crawling on for all eternity. It was alive, it was vibrant and it stood for something.

The last two ages see the trail return to whence it did come, the rocks become more isolated and pronounced and the roots protrude as if clawing for your wheels. Berms get blown apart, jumps rolled over. A few hardy souls still ride it but the reality of what is left is a connection of chicken lines that mock what it used to be.

Like in its second age it is now stuttering and hesitant, just without that energetic spark of youth. On the other side of the forest new trails have been opened up, new bikes have been designed and new heroes minted. And quietly into the night it slips from the rider’s consciousness, to complete its final transient stage; second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.