Words: Kim Hurst Photos: Lisa Ng, Kirk Hodgson

As an event organizer, hitting virgin cyclocross soil is filled with the same jitters as a first date. It’s a combination of nervous excitement blended with the uncertainty of whether you’re really going to get along. They say love gets you into bed and passion gets you out of it. Well, fully armed with water cooler humour and compatibility questionnaires, Huttcross swiped right on Hikoikoi Reserve and found a match before dawn one Sunday morning.

A lesser known nugget of Hutt Valley greenspace, this harbourside oasis has been a spot frequented not only by disc golf fanatics but also a certain Hutt-based General Practitioner, in a bid to crush souls across the Tasman on past international campaigns. She bestowed that knowledge on Huttcross regular and owner of the fat-tyred Masters rainbow stripes, Mr Moller, in his training for a big cyclocross party in Mol in a year gone by. But beyond that, nobody has really trodden that path on two wheels except for some weary-legged Tour Aotearoa bikepackers.

Then, Huttcross arrived and the masses got to experience Hikoikoi’s seaside attractions first hand.

Fresh off a Zwift podium and following a week of binging on Netflix’s Ultimate Beast Warrior, the course mastermind was well prepared to build a banger. Round 3 delivered a 2-kilometer rollercoaster ride including the Hikoikoi Steps, a flight of 22 stairs (twinned with Valmont, Belgium), that lead straight into a shoreline drop before a pinch climb back up to the reserve. It was 100% authentic Dutch cyclocross transplanted straight to the capital of New Zillund.

The coffers were emptied by Moonshine’s Money Pit so the only cash on course was the Johnny Cash “I Walk the Line”, which provided a B-line alternative to the beach that was popular with early revelers.

Lisa Ng’s Gallery below

Skeleton skinsuits littered C and B Grades with some racers taking their peak season lean down strategies a bit far this season. One bony fella hollered, “Die Racing”, while cutting laps. One A Grade weight-weenie had an entirely different performance enhancing strategy in mind, unleashing his ankle from the tethers of a 2-gram timing chip after his opening lap bid.

Metservice obliged with the Huttcross logged request for rain at midday and cloudy skies made way to mud. An unusual gridding system was implemented for the 60-minute race, calling on those with Welsh heritage to take the front row. Who knew we had so many Huttcrossers with Celtic roots? Holeshot, diolch yn fawr.  

The course provided multiple opportunities to unleash games of psychological warfare on your opponents as you passed each other in opposite directions. Some gaps stuck like glue, while others were shut down faster than an Israel Folau crowdfunding page.

Enforcement Officers patrolled the C Grade pit, with Mumma and Pappa Bears being pinged by their offspring with speeding fines for travelling too slowly. The flat bar brigade were nabbed for inappropriate equipment choices that caught the eye of The Law. And flannel shirts won the day.

Kirk Hodgson’s Gallery below

Umbrella-equipped spectators became an amphibious force excited by the battle of attrition they were witnessing on the shoreline drop-in by the early arvo. Traction control was tested, air traffic control got a call in for the air some were grabbing over the flyover, and in a fairytale ending one Cinderella left her muddy shoes on the step of the Scout Hut.

After a banger of a season opener, Huttcross participation numbers are holding firmer than terra firma. It would appear that everybody has caught the CX fever. Cross. Is. Boss.

A genuine bobby on the beat who had popped in to witness the parkland furor said, “What’s great about Huttcross is it makes people of all grades so happy”. Long may that live on.