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Guards
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WIN! Leatt 3DF
September 2013, Vol 6
MOUNTAIN BIKE MONTHLY
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EXCLUSIVE Cherise Stander Column pg8
PYGA Review
pg24
Coaching Column pg23
Gear
pg27
Conservation Column pg12
Any Colour, So Long As It’s Green Our loose-cannon correspondent David Bristow lays down some tracks about trail ethics, the power of water and the immorality of energy sachets. Photography by Oakpics
WWW.OAKPICS.COM
I
’m a bit old school, you’ve probably worked out. And a bit hard-core… really, it’s true. I learned my outdoor manners from the best of the best, mountaineers. Once when we were young rock jocks, the Wits mountain club was stuffing around in the Berg when a bunch of fuddy-duddy MCSA members came past, saw disheveled us and made a comment to the effect of: “we hope you bury the stuff,” in reply to someone’s comment about shitting in the woods. One bright Witsie piped up: “Bury the stuff, we pack it up and carry it out!” which shut up those old farts. The oke thought they were talking about litter, but it became a kind of joke mantra to us. We fully embraced the “take only memories,
bury your sh*t” philosophy of the great outdoors and a general antiestablishment love of nature. In those days it was pretty easy to differentiate the good guys from the bad ones. As we aged we turned from climbing to hiking to paragliding to mountain biking, and took our memories and our sh*t with us. So it does irk a bit when I see people riding the trail with sh*t for brains. There are ethics out there, brothers and sisters, and if we don’t embrace the green way we stand to lose our green places. I kid you not; the difference between singletrack and tarmac is always only a flick of a pen away. Your colours can be seen in the big and the small things and as you ride your aura flashes for everyone to see. Like the young punk who
rides my singletrack downhill most Sunday mornings and expects everyone to clear out of his way, with nothing but insolence on his face. His colour is green, for the close-up lesson in fybos ecology that’s long overdue. Or the manne who ride four abreast towards you and push out the way - man, woman or child. Theirs is brown, for their poo-for-brains. Mountain biking is like democracy: there is one very simple rule that is supposed to underpin the entire system and which ensures, if it’s adhered to, everything runs like a SRAM X0 derailleur. It’s really short and easy to remember: be nice. Mess with that and you stuff up the entire system. It’s like you end up kaking on your own singletrack.
It’s why I stopped riding what we used to call “fun rides” (remember that!), like the old Knysna Oyster fest rides which everyone now seems to think is the frigging World Champs by the general agro and the trail of goo sachets left behind. Of the sachets I say, just put them in your jersey pocket you neandethal, or slip them under your shorts. “Oooh, but they’re sticky.” Yes, and so are you dipstick, and you’re sweaty and you stink as well. And it all comes off with water. If you litter you are a miscreant on three levels: first you are a twit for thinking you’re some friggin racing phenomenon; second you are a disappointment to the fraternity of people who prefer their
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