Heli Biking article in the MOS [Archive]

jimjam

November 05-2008, 04:13 PM

A few minutes later, we set off down the fall line over granite rock. One rider with another group breaks his wrist within five seconds of starting the ten-mile run downhill and returns to the summit to await rescue. Within 20 seconds I collide with a knee-high boulder at full force and vault over the handlebars. The mountain and sky become one, then a blur, and the ground rushes up to meet me. I land awkwardly on my collarbone, then lie on my back, bruised and bloody. The helicopter roars overhead, depositing more heli-bikers.

Whistler, a luxurious resort for Armani-clad skiers in the winter months, has become a magnet for rugged mountain bikers in the summer. The results can be frightening.

My visit to Whistler is during Kokanee Crankworx, an annual mountain-bike festival that attracts 40,000 bikers from all over the globe for a week of downhill, slalom and stunt riding. Women with washboard stomachs drip from the arms of guys who remind me of Ninja Turtles in full body armour and helmets. With their shins and forearms covered in cuts and bruises, they look like gladiators who’ve just got out of the Colosseum after a gruelling round with the lions. But dicing with danger on the trails is something of an obsession around here.

I swapped my Raleigh Chopper for a Kawasaki GPX750R as soon as I was able and have ridden at speeds of 140mph. A bicycle? Pah. It hasn’t even got an engine in it.

Nevertheless, I dutifully take the chairlift to the Bike Park. My guide, an Australian called Tim, gives me a few rudimentary tips – put my weight behind the seat when heading downhill and over the forks uphill; work the bike with my arms – and we shoot down a couple of easy runs.

We then hurtle down the B-Line trail, flying over tree stumps and massive boulders. It’s absurdly dangerous, with jagged rocks, massive trees and loose shale everywhere.

A lone biker shoots past, stops and parks his bike. ‘We have an accident,’ he shouts in panic. A few
minutes later, cradling her arm and wincing in pain, 28-year-old Sarah Chorney arrives. Forced to walk down, she stops to explain to us that she broke her wrist high up near the helicopter drop site. A bone in her hand sticks up against the glove’s fabric. Chorney is an experienced biker working for a mountain-
biking shop in the area. Now she can’t hold the handlebars and will have to endure a five- or six-hour walk off the mountain.

Mark rides in front, warning me of anything nasty.
‘Watch out!’ I hear him bellow. ‘Wheel grabber!’
‘A what?’ I shout back, before suddenly being thrown over the handlebars onto my face again.

The crashes are now so common that it’s like some sort of speeded-up slapstick routine. Just when I think I’m mastering the trail and making it through the 18in clearance between the trees, I hit a tree root and I’m thrown off. Then, suddenly, the gradient steepens. In between dense pine and spruce trees, the trail is a dun-coloured mélange of loose shale and tumbling rocks. I can just see the glint of Mark’s white top in among the trees as he races ahead.
‘Drop off!’ he shouts, but his helmet muffles his voice and I can’t hear. Next minute I’m flying through the air, at half the height of the trees, launched off a five-foot drop-off. I bounce twice, painfully, then go straight over the handlebars again.
This time the bike cartwheels over me and the rear wheel lands squarely on my helmet with a crack. Soon after, the handlebars land on my backside and I yelp in pain

There’s no doubt about it – Choppers are for wimps. n

I dont know why but that was painful to read. And I dont mean painful as in "I feel his pain".