WORDS: KIM HURST IMAGES: LISA NG & ANDREW TURNER / ATPHOTO

While Le Tour was going virtual with a sprint on the Champs-Elysees, Huttcross returned to its dirty roots in Upper Hutt.

El Presidente had spent time on the tools unearthing real estate for new lines to be carved upon.

A damp week cleared to sunny skies with a light wind taking some moistness out of the turf. A delicious light sponge worthy of Annabel Langbein approval was created.

Lo and behold, hefty traction opportunities arose. Think double sided tape then add bikes and riders and corners and barriers and a rad as fuck trailer flyover and a start whistle then bake.

Huttcross hit record numbers as entire households signing up for their slice of Ngati Tama. Entries went like hot cakes with 265 entering the throng.

Fifty kids crushed Mighty CX. Wheels sized 12 inches and upwards spun in frenzy while the biggest crowd of the day cheered from the sidelines. More kids on bikes. Winning.

Newbies joined cyclocross aficionados.

The fixie returned for another tracklocross excursion.

The Lion of Flanders flew in the breeze.

Between barista responsibilities, a policeman crushed his teenage son in a late sprint for the line. Again. Dad is two from two, lad.

A resplendent fern knocked out laps faster than a gold chain gets swiped at a Puff Daddy concert.

An unrideable run-up was indeed ridden by not just one but two A Graders tearing the cranks off it. Thankfully, not every lap. Mere mortals after all.

And the sausage sizzle sold out.

Flags were furled, tape was reeled, and the staircase was temporarily abandoned before being relocated to the next Huttcross venue.

Long live ‘cross.