Adventureskope

Hey loyal Adventureskope readers – I thought I’d share a piece that I wrote for New Zealand Mountain Biker Magazine on the New Zealand Singlespeed Championships. I was stoked with how it turned out and wanted to share it with you guys seeing as many of you are outside of NZ and would have struggled to find it at your local newsstand. Enjoy and many thanks for tuning in ~ Scott.

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No Gears, No Problem – When You Have Beer and Silly Costumes.

Struggling up a hill in the only gear I had I looked to my right to see that I was being passed once again. A rather buxom man clad in coconut bra and grass skirt said little as he moved past me. I didn’t say anything either, after all, there’s nothing to be said when you get dropped by a guy who looks like a drag-queen five appletinis into a Saturday night bender. Welcome to the New Zealand Singlespeed Nationals.

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This all started six months ago. I’d just finished a 2000km bike tour in Canada and I was bored. I was bored of biking, tired of the same trails and sick of hours on the bike day after day. I needed something new, something that would relight my riding furnace. Somebody suggested singlespeeding and I was intrigued. Not truly intrigued by the actual act of riding a bike with one gear, but interested why people were drawn to a sport that by all accounts was a step backwards. A de-evolution, a conscious choice to do something the hard way.

Late one night I was playing New Zealand’s national sport and trawling TradeMe for deals. Scanning the bikes I saw a ride that was set to change my summer. The mid-2000’s Kona had been lovingly been converted to a singlespeed and re-painted Anzac blue and affixed with a stylized southern cross of red stars. I knew it was the bike – a mini-bidding war ensued and as I went to bed that night I was officially a singlespeeder.

Once the bike arrived and I took it for a spin everything suddenly made perfect sense. It was harder and that’s the point. But it was also simpler and that’s also the point. The efficiency was staggering – the raw transfer of power between the pedals and the wheels was awesome. Suddenly geared bikes with their zillions of complex parts, wasted energy and extra weight looked like the archaic ones.

At first there was the instinctual reach for the shift lever when the incline increased. That sensation soon passed, before long I got into the groove and the simple, pure, elegance of just riding became a form of active meditation. Without the clutter of shifting, the slap of chain and the squash of full suspension to get in the way all that was left was silence. I’d glide through the forest with stealthy speed – when the hills got steep I’d get out of the saddle and power through. The downhills were faster; you had to hold that momentum.

Before long my old friend, my twenty-eight speed full squish, was spending more and more time in the shed. The singlespeed was becoming my weapon of choice. The idea of racing on my SS came innocently enough, a query from my wife asking what bike I was planning to ride in the Motatapu. I wasn’t planning to ride my new toy, but in a moment of wine assisted bravado I announced to a group of friends I was going to race on my singlespeed.

Great – now I was stuck. It turns out the race went well and in another moment of vino fueled ambition I let slip that I was planning to ride in the NZ Singlespeed Champs being held in Queenstown in late April.

Fast-forward six weeks and I’m standing at the start line next to a girl in a vinyl nurses uniform, two guys dressed as Asterix characters and more dudes in drag then K-Road on a Saturday night. It’s fair to say singlespeed racing is a bit different to normal mountain bike racing.

The course was an unknown – even though I was a Queenstown local and the 7-Mile trails are in my backyard I had no idea where the course might be headed. There were a few things I knew – the race was 42km long and had a frightening amount of height gain, somewhere in the 2000m range. There would also be a beer shortcut at some point during the race.

Unique to Singlespeed racing is the addition of beer. Racers have the option of skulling a brew to allow them to take a shortcut and knock a bit of distance of the race. The DOC concession would only allow racers to take the beer shortcut on two of the five laps. Most grumbled over the lack of liquid courage available on course, apparently the DOC doesn’t share the same view that serious racing on one-gear bikes, in costume on full-on single track is a good mix with alcohol.

I wasn’t sure what to expect – would there be the best racers in the country in sponsor decal covered unitards warming up on wind trainers and tinkering with their bikes worth more then my car. Or would it be a pseudo keg party with bikes thrown in the mix like some sort of test of courage before the ambulance was called. The truth was it was a bit of both. The top dogs were there with their shit-hot rides. There were also the aforementioned hooligans looking like the after shot in anti-drinking advert.

The start was another unique one. Without bikes we were all standing there ready to run to our rides Le Mans style. One small difference – we were all holding the front wheels of our bikes. At the go we had to run a 1km lap through the forest, return to the starting area, re-attach the front wheel and start racing.

The race brief was short and simple – more time was spent discussing beer and the formality of the fact that the winner (in both open men and women) would be getting a tattoo as a symbol of their victory. As the Singlespeed saying goes, “If you don’t want the tattoo, don’t win.”

Amid wisecracks and the spitting rain somebody shouted go and we were off. Like some sort of steeplechase meets a cross-country run in fancy dress we pushed and shoved our way around the run and returned to our bikes. It was bedlam, sweet, glorious bedlam. The girl beside me lost her skewer somewhere on the run – never found out if she managed to track a new one down – I had bigger fish to fry.

It was great to finally get on the bike and start riding. The whole summer had lead to this; all the (beer) training, (costume) planning and (emergency chunder) preparation had come down to the next couple of hours.

At first everything felt great; I was moving along with the pack and feeling good. I was among a mix of costumed and serious riders, the best I could tell I was mid pack. The reality of the day came crashing down when we hit the first major up-hill of the course. As the hill steepened I got out of the saddle and started to power my way up it. Looking around I could see that most of my fellow racers had chosen a gear that was a bit spinnier. As I cranked up the first obstacle and felt the lactic acid build in my legs and the reality hit me like a bucket of ice water.

I’d picked the wrong gear. It was going to be a very long day. It’s amazing the difference two teeth make. What I would have done for two more teeth on the back. There was nothing to do but get down to work and push through. Snaking through one trail after another the course gained altitude with startling efficiency. Halfway through the first lap the course hit the summit of the 7-Mile system. The welcome relief of downhill brightened my spirits and brought a smile to my face.

Ripping through the first half of the course I was nearly at lake level when it started to climb again. One more time, back to the top of the world. Out of the seat, well lets be honest, I wasn’t really ever in the seat, I churned up the hill and more then once wondered just what the hell was I doing here? I could be eating a nice lunch at a cafe right now; I could have slept in and left all this carry-on to the strange zealots of a bizarre cult. But the truth is – I was in the cult. Much against my planning this strange sub-culture of masochistic meditation, beer, buffoonery and bikes had become a ramshackle family of sorts.

Cresting the summit again it was all down to finish up this lap and start it all over again. The first lap felt terrible, and not even in a self-deprecating funny-ha-ha sort of way. It felt bad, real bad. I figured the second lap was bound to feel better, at least I was hoping it would.

To my sweet relief the second time round did feel better. Perhaps my body had reached some sort of state of acceptance. Midway through one of the tougher climbs a large sign beside the trail summed it up rather well, “Pain is just weakness leaving the body”. There was a certain sense of comradeship in the knowing that everyone out there was living under the ethic that it doesn’t have to be fun to be fun.

I was getting into the groove and the laps were beginning to blur into a mash of hills I could ride, hills that nearly killed me to ride and hills that I had to hike. The downhill’s only got better; I found the lines and some sneaky airs to keep it entertaining.

By the fourth lap I was ready to take the beer shortcut. My thinking was to take my maximum two shortcuts in my final two laps – a sort of reward for making it that far. Pulling into the tent that atmosphere was beyond festive – the crew was well into it. The music was blaring and a frothy cold one was shoved into my hand. I’ve never been much of a chugger, but this was the moment I’d trained for. Down in one and I was off – my head spinning from the sudden addition of alcohol, energy and something cold to drink. As I crested the top and started down towards the end of my second to last lap my mind started to think that I was nearly done – I’d nearly knocked the bastard off.

sneaky author photo bottom right.

The final lap sucked. No sugarcoating required. I wheeled into the beer shortcut again for last call. I tipped my head back and poured the ale in like Barney from The Simpsons. It went everywhere and I even managed to drink some of it. As I started up the next hill I had a moment of clarity – I was in fancy dress, covered in beer, my head was spinning and I was in need of a lie-down. I hadn’t felt like this since my buck’s night – but that’s a whole other story.

Soon enough I hit the highpoint and it was all downhill to the finish. I seemed to gain strength as I lost altitude. The end was in sight and all I could do was smile. I was elated, not because it was over, but because of what I’d done. As I crossed the line I knew I wasn’t in the running to get a victory tattoo, in fact the men’s winner Garth Weinberg already had his tattoo by the time I finished and the Ladies champ Anja McDonald was next up in the chair.

Handshakes all around and stories of the day spread like wildfire. Though it was a race, like the culture of Singlespeeding, it was a race like no other. There was a kinship and a community amongst us all. Well maybe there was – it might just be the beer talking.

Come October the World Singlespeed Championships are in Rota-Vegas. I’ve got my place booked; it’s going to be a hell of a race. I just have to sort out a costume and work on my skulling – the rest is easy.

Here are a few photos of the day from the last little while that haven’t made it onto the site as of yet – enjoy!

S.

In the 1990’s Pearl Jam actively shunned the super-saturating spotlight of music videos. They feared overexposure and for 15 years or so opted to abstain from making videos. My how things have changed, in last month they’ve released two videos from their recent album Backspacer. First up was the beautifully shot Amongst The Waves interspersing sparkling HD footage of the band playing live with beautiful ocean imagery and finally the sobering images of the oil spill in the Gulf. From an artistic standpoint, their latest video for Unthought Known is far more groundbreaking – not in how it looks, but for how it was shot.

The world of the music video has changed into something almost unrecognisable from where it was a few decades ago. In the past record companies would spend millions on videos in hopes that the exposure and popularity would buoy album sales. Then the internet turned up and two things happened – people stopped buying albums and YouTube became the defacto music channel. All of a sudden the old equation of spending heaps on a video to prop up album sales didn’t fit this modern world. The world of videos was changed forever and the old rules were thrown onto the fire. What emerged is much like the initial advent of videos all those years ago – creative freedom. Take one look at the videos of Ok Go and you’ll know what I mean. Artists are taking ownership of their videos and using them as a creative outlet, not as a sales tool.

Perhaps that’s why Pearl Jam has returned to videos – the fact that they don’t have to fits with the culture of the band. What makes Unthought Known interesting is how it was shot. HD cameras are getting cheaper by the moment and most modern DSLR’s will shoot in this uber-high-res format. Its easy to shoot in the panicle of modern technology with off the shelf gear purchased at Best Buy. You’d think that if PJ was going to shoot a video off the cuff they’d use one of these high end cameras. In fact they already shoot all of their gigs in HD – so why not just release a live video with some of that footage?

Unthought Known was shot with a laptop webcam. Check out this fan shot video where you can clearly see how the clip was filmed.

To the band there is meaning to this – there must be. You could say it was a spur of the moment idea to shoot the song and they grabbed what was at hand, but would hazard a guess that this is more of a statement to the accessibility we all have to technology, communication and ultimately creativity. It’s an exciting time in the world of the arts – with the advent of the internet the opportunities for creative people to share their work with the world are greater then ever. It feels like we are on the brink of a golden age of modern arts – the question is; what’s next?

This piece originally appeared in May 2010 issue of Wilderness Magazine

The Reality

By: Scott Kennedy

The snow is silent. Like an unreflective ocean it’s everywhere – in my dream I can taste the cold air and the vacuum of sound covers everything. My skin tingles as ice crystals blow in the wind and sting my cheek. I look up and see a torrent of snow rumbling towards me like a breaking wave – still all is silent when the wall of winter crashes on me and everything goes black. The dream always ends there, but this nightmare can come true.

It was a brisk August evening; the lifts at Coronet Peak had just closed for the day. The sun was sinking low on the horizon and three friends geared up at the base of the mountain. Experienced backcountry skiers all of them, the plan was to skin up and ski the groomed front side run back to the base. This was a trip to stretch the legs, keep the fitness up and get some fresh air before heading to the pub for a pint. The high avalanche risk meant skiing off piste was out of the question.

The three skiers inched their way upwards to the sounds of creaking gear and the squeak of cold winter snow on its way towards the overnight freeze. Amidst the huffing and puffing there was the familiar banter between three friends who’ve spent a lifetime together in the hills. One of them stopped – she could hear something.

“What is that? Can you guys hear that?” she asked as her two companions stopping skinning. “I think I hear somebody – can you hear that?”

Off in the distance far to the left, over the boundary fence and into the growing shadows of evening, the faint outline of a man emerged. It was too far to hear the words that he was yelling, but the tone, the intonation of his voice came through loud and clear.

Something was wrong, something was very wrong.

They ripped the skins of their skis and moved left towards the frantic solo figure. As they approached the panic filled stranger sputtered words in a near incoherent babble of shock and panic. Like deciphering an unknown tongue – four words tumbled out that brought it all home. “Avalanche – my brother’s buried.”

The reality of the situation hit them like a bucket of cold water. This was the moment that they’d imagined so many times as that worst case scenario. This wasn’t a practice run, this wasn’t a training simulation, this was the real thing. There was someone buried under the avalanche debris stretching in front of them for the length of five rugby fields.

“Where was he last seen?”

“He went first, turned the corner and the whole slope avalanched, I lost sight of him.”

“Is he wearing an avalanche transceiver?”

“No.”

By this time he’d been buried for at least ten minutes, there we no surface signs and he wasn’t wearing a transceiver. Nightmares are made of these. The needle in the haystack with the guillotine at the ready.

A call to 111 was made in an effort to get the ski patrol up the hill and to the scene as soon as possible. The Wellington based operator struggled to understand the situation, the location and the urgency. Time was running out and the clock had just started to run.

A hasty search for any signs of the victim produced nothing and rescue equipment they had was cobbled together. Without a transceiver avalanche probes were the only option for search. The ocean of snow was holding the dying deep in its depths. With no other option a probe line was formed as the ski patrol arrived on scene. By this time he’d been buried for twenty minutes.

Including the ski patrol the rescue party was now six strong as they started to systematically probe the massive area. Pushing the probe to the snow – the bottom of the debris was beyond the length of the device. 3m down and no touching bottom.

The rumble of helicopters signaled that more help had arrived. Within minutes thirty rescuers were searching the slope. Ski patrollers from around the Southern Lakes were pouring onto the scene attempting to avert tragedy with sheer will and numbers as their only weapon.

For another hour they probed and then the avalanche dog arrived. Smelling the snow he picked two possible locations – probing frantically there was nothing to be found. Soon a Recco device arrived and they used it to scan the surface of the snow. With the ability to pick up the electronics of a cell phone it was a last option in a situation that was running out of time. Ninety minutes buried.

The Recco beeps at the second place the dog indicated – he was down there, he must be. Probing again it was too deep to get a probe strike. With nothing to lose, in teams of three, the patrollers dug for all they were worth. They dug with the frantic strength of a mother lifting a car off a child. They dug like it was their friend, their brother, buried somewhere under the snow.

A yell came from the pit – they’d found him. Buried upside down they struck his snowboard first. So dense the snow, so hard the compaction it took thirty minutes to extract him. Frantic first-aid, calls of no pulse, no respiration. Buried for two hours there was nothing to be done.

“The whole time there was this sense of urgency – it was like a weight crushing my chest. If only he’d been wearing a transceiver, if only he’s heeded the high avalanche warning, if only he’d made better choices things could have been different.”

On cold nights as the snow floats down silhouetted by the moon my thoughts drift to what could have been. Friends long gone, friends I’ll never know and friends changed forever. Innocence lost, no second chances, no tradebacks.

The soccer or football (for those who care for the game) World Cup is in full swing. Obviously you know that, if you can figure out how to use the internet, feed yourself and switch the TV on from time to time you’ll know this. I’ll admit, I’m not a huge soccer fan. I was born in Canada where we are far more into our national game of ice hockey. Now in my adopted home of New Zealand, rugby rules supreme. The two countries have much in common; beyond the single sporting focus is the notion that our second favourite sport is whatever we are doing well this week.

As a sporting fan I’m drawn to the spectacle and athleticism of the World Cup. Much in the same way the Olympics captives me every four years – I’ve found myself suddenly caring about what the goal differential is between the North Koreans and Uruguayans. New Zealand has a team in this years’ tournament for the first time in 28 years – the fact they are even there is a huge accomplishment. As a nation NZ was totally content to make up the numbers. Simply to be there was enough, with our 87^th world ranking there was no illusions that the trophy would be heading this direction.

Then disaster struck. They drew their first game against Slovakia. All of a sudden the country started to believe and I started getting a hell of allot less sleep. With the time change, the games kick off at a rather painful 2am, mid week to boot. The New Zealand contestant in the Miss World pageant was quoted as saying that she thought NZ could win the whole show (she was also pretty confident on world peace, bless her). But she wasn’t alone, people started to think that the impossible could actually happen. And then the Kiwi’s played Italy. This was where the dream was supposed to end, the thumping to turn the skyrocketing dream earthward.

Then the unimaginable happened. New Zealand and Italy tied 1-1. How was that even possible? In Italy there are 3000 professional football players, NZ has 21. There isn’t a professional league, one of the Kiwi starters hadn’t played a game of club football in two years and the goaltender broke his leg six weeks ago. This set up the game last night to be the game of games. If NZ could manage a win against Paraguay they would be through into the next round, the top sixteen.

So last night I had dinner, watched the late news, tucked my wife into bed and sat on the couch. For the next three hours I was subjected to some of the worst television imaginable – so punch-drunk with fatigue I nearly ordered that Zumba DVD as I waited for the game to start. Drifting into my sporting coma I remembered why I’ve never been a soccer fan. Half way through the first half the game was deadlocked at zero. The ball had rarely moved beyond the central portion of the field. There hadn’t been a shot in the entire game and both teams seemed content to play a style of game that would put the hyperactive into hypnosis.

Then the unimaginable, after all the effort, after all the build-up, with the potential for sporting immortality at the doorstep – the bubble burst. I fell asleep. Out like a light I woke on the couch at 5am as they were doing the final wrap-up reiterating that the final score was a deadlocked nil all draw. I’m all for the overall excitement of the tournament, the Cinderella stories and the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. I just wish they could pot a few more goals along the way – is that too much to ask?

I should of flicked over to Wimbledon, those guys know how to wrap up a game quickly…