Here's a story written by Mark Keith about the event. Taken from the HK MTB Club forum.
Derailleurs in the mist - Mark K's TMS dh classic!For Hong Kong’s mountain bikers this Chinese New Year the usual ritual of fireworks and celebration was overshadowed by the inaugural Tai Mo Shan Classic a downhill event of 6+ kilometers.
Tai Mo Shan’s mountain bike trail has a rich history. It was formed from an ancient village trail stretching across the fertile southern slopes of Tai Mo Shan, it was the first trail to be officially condoned by the ever cautious administers of the Agricultural and Fisheries Conservation Department, the authority for the country parks of Hong Kong. The trail and it’s various extensions are some of the best mountain bike trails in the world and as we all know also some of the most challenging. Starting on Route Twisk at around 600 meters above sea level, the single track trail snakes through the sub tropical forest jungle of Hong Kong tallest mountain. It passes abandoned terraced farmlands and defensive tunnel fox holes dug for the futile defense of Hong Kong in world war two.
This mountain bike trail has a reputation for claiming an early victim with the brutal wake call of the first few meters. Starting off, one moment you are riding along the metalled surface of Route Twisk, then with a quick bunny hop up you are over the make shift curb ramp and thrown into one of the most technical sections of the course. Loose rocks, rutted tracks, slick rocks, off camber curves, and wet roots, all clamour for your attention on the first 20 meters the trail. We’ve probably all experienced warning the unwary first time rider, but without experience no explanation is ever adequate to prepare for the first 200 meters of Tai Mo Shan. Too often the inexperienced rider finds out very quickly why we recommend knee and elbow pads for this trail.
Last Saturday’s “exhibition” event was to be no exception, except to compound the difficulty we had the added element of a wet drizzling mist with visibility of less than 10 meters. Despite this, as the 48 contestants and their support crews gathered at the Route Twisk starting point, spirits were high. The usual Hong Kong cycling and mountain bike races are marked by pompous demonstrations of authority, with loud hailers and an complex administration equal to that of the Paris Dakar Rally; in contrast this event had the pleasant air of organized simplicity, with the essentials such as first aid, communications, mountain rescue and timekeeping all covered by Julien’s eager handful of volunteers.
The finish was to be the Ho Poi Bridge on the catchment road at the end of the downhill extension, a great choice as it provided a final 50 meter sprint for the line. The timekeeping involved a simple inked number on the right arm representing the number of minutes past the start time of 1000h of the rider. At the finish this number was then simply subtracted from the time after ten o’clock that the rider crossed the line.
Back at the start as the seconds ticked by the pre race tension grew, riders were warming up and numbers were being allocated. The cordial spirit of the event was reinforced by the indefatigable Julien who delivered a well crafted pre-race announcement, covering the essential safety items, the rules and the route. When he explained what to do “. . . . . .should you meet an “eye-ker” on the trail,” the tension was broken with a good natured shout requesting “en Anglais, s’il vous plait.”
And so those tropical butterflies, that would normally not venture out on such a cold and misty morning, started fluttering in the stomach of the contestants. Some riders went for a warm up, others sheltered at the bus stop shelter. Roger Wardall had the honour of being ranked “zero” and he was wearing his race face, and you know I don’t refer here to his brand of gloves or his bottom bracket. Behind Roger were four riders, who were allegedly Hong Kong’s Asian Games team, and were thus ranked in the first few starters; they sported full face helmets, the absence of camel backs and bizarrely were decked out in an assortment of jeans and cargo pants more akin to an east LA gang on an urban assault ride than a Saturday morning downhill event. Ping Chan was rider number five and I had the honour of following Ping at number six.
Thus my race began as I left the bus stop at 10:06h with shouts of encouragement ringing in my ears. In no time I was off road and careering through the trees, hazards and choices of the first section of the trail; I thankfully spotted the photographer in the gloom and managed a suitable pose of determination and grit.
This bravado masked the anxiety of this ride in complete isolation. On a timed event such as this, you are forever imagining the humiliation of the following rider, - starting a minute behind you, catching you and passing in triumph. From time to your paranoia increases at a sound behind you. You glance round anxiously, fully expecting to see a gleeful face leering at you over the bars of the pursuing bike; thankfully for me, the only sounds were the occasional rock or branch that I had disturbed which then clattered off down a slope.
By the Kaplung turnoff I was dialed in and knowing this section helped as I threw the bike into the berm of the hairpin and my Fox Vanilla 36 forks soaked up the slick rocks and roots of this infamous technical descent. I later learned some riders dismounted here and would thus lose valuable time as walking this section is slow and tricky, actually far more difficult than rolling over on two wheels.
Within another hundred meters I caught the glimpse of a rider ahead of me, hardly believing my good fortune, I lined up behind him like a fighter pilot in an aerial dogfight. Waiting my opportunity to pass him, he graciously moved aside as we approached an off camber gully crossing and I was elated as I overtook and realized I had gained some time on at least one contestant. Julien had thoughtfully provided signs and arrows and as I approached the three rivers section I think I glimpsed the occasional marshal in the trees by the trail. This part of the trail climbs slightly and the legs were beginning to burn. Usually on a Saturday ride we stop and chat, recovering at the river crossing which is the final in the series of three gullies. Alas, today there would be no light hearted banter, no Mark Bebb to throw in a piercingly accurate and amusing observation on life or the outfit of another rider. No Ming Lee to counter with an equally humorous riposte. So it was through the three rivers and with lactic acid legs craving an oxygen hit, I gasped a breath and hurtled through my favourite piece of descending trail.
With only a few hundred meters to the start of the downhill proper, I hurtled through the North Shore landslide shelf. I’ve ridden this little challenge maybe a hundred times or more, never suffering even the hint of a slide into the right hand abyss of the fifty feet drop. Today though with the Ali G shades misting up, I misjudged the space and planted my left bar end hard into the clay wall of the shelf section. With an Aikido throw my Santa Cruz Nomad flipped me over the now angled bars, I pitched forward with my only thought being how much time I would lose climbing back up the 50 foot slope to the right. Thankfully I managed to stay on the trail and jumping up threw a leg over the bike; but wait, as usual in such a spill the forks had managed to perform a 360 degree pirouette. Jumping off I restored them to their previous comfort and I was off again. Anger grew to rage as the frustration of losing time at such a familiar section seeped into my mind, with these emotions I propelled towards the downhill section. I recall having to force myself to concentrate on the trail ahead rather than perform a post mortem of the spill. In no time I was turning right onto the downhill section foregoing another familiar resting spot. Within a few meters I was hurtling towards a dismounted rider, I assumed to be a Marshall, standing on the one of the lines of the trail. Together with his bike he was effectively blocking the line gesturing me to swerve around him, not easy on a wet trail, with mud clogged tires.
Now the trees and bushes flashed by as the speed increased on the fast descent of the Tai Mo Shan downhill section. Wheels left the ground on the drop offs, elbows brushed the undergrowth. This was home; this was as familiar as a night time stumble from the bed to the toilet. But this was also where disaster lurked concealed in the familiar, like some illegal immigrant waiting to mug an unsuspecting “Eyeker.” Then I was through the last rutted technicals. I turned right and raced into the downhill extension. We have Rick Barton-Smith the founder of the Hong Kong Mountain Bike Association to thank for this marvelous piece of trail. Rick cajoled, lobbied and inspired the AFCD to open this trail and then laboured with other volunteers to literally hack the trail out of the jungle. Apart from creating a magnificent extension to the Tai Mo Shan downhill, the success of this collaboration, contributed to the opening of other trails in the country park.
I had no time for such thoughts as I bounced through a couple of the rocky sections, it was here I heard Neil, acting as Marshall and yelling encouragement. I could hardly hear him though, instead I heard the voice of my grandmother; not much of a mountain biker my granny, but a competitive swimming coach and her whispered words of “Almost there, take it easy,” helped steady my hands as I picked a line through the bamboo and rocks.
Over the rocky drop off, avoid the pylon and swing left for the final three drops, through the trees and then there’s the finish, careful don’t dab or spill on the curbstone, on to the bridge, find some adrenaline and sprint for the line. That was the finish for all the riders.
It was over, I had made it, and achieved my immediate goal of not being passed by the following rider. There was Ping at the finish, we congratulated each other and he asked whether I had seen Roger. Roger had still not arrived, despite leaving the start in pole position, although the Asian Games team who followed him out was safely there gathered together in their now sodden gangster rap outfits. We alerted the marshals who conjectured that he may have had a fall into a ravine and might be needing assistance. Other riders started coming in, but still no Roger. Then he turned up, apparently he had completed the downhill section and continued on to the deserted Ho Pui d@mn, there he waited, presumably concluding that at a admirable 17 minutes he’d even beaten the marshals to the finish. By the time he realized his mistake and came down to the actual finish too much time was lost and regretfully we’ll never know if he would have won this event. Next time will be most interesting, if there’s a tote I doubt Roger’s odds will be very long..
Riders were continuing to arrive, some even racing to the line with a competitor hot on their heels, some were dabbing and one even falling on the curbstone at the bridge.
The times were coming in and it was gratifying to see so many of our regular Saturday crowd coming in the top ten.
As a reader may discern from the various sartorial references in this report, the Saturday morning Tai Mo Shan crowd do not suffer any over blown egos or expressions of vanity within their midst. Turn up on a new bike or with a new pair of forks and you will have a crowd gathering to admire your new acquisition. But turn up with a new pair of shorts, or shoes and you will have witty ridicule poured over scorn as you model your new piece of wardrobe.
Along with the times were mountain bike badges of courage. Skinned knees, bloodied shins and muddied elbows, were displayed with the nonchalant stoicism of Monty Python’s Holy Grail knight. “Oh, really is it bleeding?” Queried one rider, who’s legs looked like he been the victim of a Baghdad roadside bomb. Fortunately it turned out to be only a scrape and the medicos applied their trade. With good planning and a succinct and appropriate briefing Julien had achieved the goal of an injury free event.
It was soon all over and the weary competitors saddled up and pedaled up for a final run up to the landslide and on to the Tai Lam Chung reservoir exit to the Gold Coast Marina. There at the restaurant, with the drizzle and the damp finally seeping into weary bones, the contestants gathered to hear the official results. Julien and his team took the top accolades for a wholesome event, thoroughly enjoyed and thoroughly free of the usual obfuscation and confusion of the normal cycling event in Hong Kong. Julien who undoubtedly would have finished high in the rankings, unselfishly opted to forgo his ride and provide much appreciated logistics. Accolades also for Mark Stopforth who competed and who despite only arriving in Hong Kong a few months ago thought up the idea of this Chinese New Year event on Tai Mo Shan. Over lunch, a lap top was produced and by the afternoon the results were posted on the website. Incredibly that same day photos were posted on the website and I’m sure all the contestants join me in thanking the photographers who ventured into the mist to capture such immortal images.
Also mentioned in dispatches was Jenn King who kicked some guy butt and took a very credible time, winning and dominating the women’s section. Julien produced a beauty pageant crown and awarded Jenn her rightful place on top of her equals. With competitors like Jenn there really is no need for the patronizing separation of the sexes in competition, of course we all know that such demarcation is really there to protect the delicate sensitivities of certain fragile male egos
The final words and thanks go to all the contestants who braved the wintry conditions and turned out in such strength and good humour and made the event such a success.
Well done Julien and your excellent team. We eagerly anticipate the next “event.”
And so from this tired old dog, for the year of the Dog, Kung Hei Fat Choy !
Mark Keith.
January 30, 2006.