Feel the Kow
Feel the Kow
By Awesome Sock Guy
Hello, and welcome to the Mont 24 – we hope to get the presentation done before the end of the world.
I am the event’s muse. I muse on stuff, and take up valuable column inches in the newsletter that the organisers would otherwise have to fill with oversize logos and whatnot. It is my secondary mission to feed your insatiable hunger for all things Mont and enduro – because, of course, the event is far more than the bit you spend on track, coughing up your lungs. It’s more even than the bit when you’re at the venue. The Mont is the whole enchilada.
Your Mont 24 starts the moment you say, ‘yep, I’m in…’ and will be with you right through to the moment, on your death bed, when you call up the photos online to show your great-grandkids (if you can keep their attention) – and ultimately as you end your days, your Mont 24 experience dies with you, as you shuffle off this mortal coil losing finally those of great memories on magnificent bits of singletrack, as your body in turn returns back to the soil we so love and venerate.
Bet ya didn’t think you were signing up for that, didja?
But it’s true. As I’ve said in these columns before, you do yourself a disservice if you don’t lick at all the good bits till your left with no more than a soggy stick.
From the anticipation – maybe training, perhaps the excuse you need for that new bike, or even just fresh rubber – all things must be considered in order to optimize your Mont – what ever that means to you. As the event draws near you need to finesse your camp. Will this be the year you get your act together to hire a personal porta-loo and find a pizza delivery guy who’ll make the journey to the bush?
The actual trip to the campsite is an exercise in logistics, to either be adopted, caressed and perfected, or perhaps to be foisted onto someone else who likes making lists. Some take pleasure in making it work perfectly – some are happy to be merely the cog in another’s wheel (you can tell who’s who by the quality of their tools).
But when it all comes together and you’re kicking back on Friday night with your number plate zip-tied in place, your side cutters back in the tool box having effected the perfect, burr-free snip to finalise THE perfectly prepared bike… sorry. I do go on.
Then the gun fires, the race starts, the dust rises, you sweat and strain and ride and lap all to the soundtrack of an echoed commentary, a questioning team mate, a rhythm of breathing, a clicking (or crunching) of gears. These are the bits you won’t remember, but that make up the tapestry of senses that ensure the event will be memorable.
Open your mind to the Kow.