BY RIDERS FOR RIDERS
On an overcast, windy day just after Christmas 2007, a small crew of Kiwi mates spanning different riding disciplines came together on a 2600-acre sheep and beef farm near Winton, Southland for a day of riding dirt jumps.
It was about as low-key as you could get; a smattering of local farmers who’d tuned into The Bush Telegraph rolled up in their Hiluxes to watch the action. The jumps—while perfectly sculpted—were a small set of tabletops, a sketchy wooden ramp into a half-filled foam pit, and a smallish “big line”. The prize money was sourced solely from the minimal entry fee, and practically everyone walked away with a spot prize of some description.
It was a no-pressure comp where the 30 riders sessioned for an hour, then judged each other on best whip and best trick, before the votes were tallied in a crude democratic fashion. The format nullified the opportunity for riders to whinge about the bias of a faceless panel of judges, and instead provided a platform that encouraged progression without the pressure-cooker environment. The crazy thing is, it worked.
Little did the farm-owners know, but their little gathering of mates and like-minded
