The Rise of the Orgasmatron - A Learning Process

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THE RISE OF ORGASMATRONStory and Photographs by Dan Milner

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I look at my watch; it’s only 5.30 pm, but low slanting rays of October sunlight are hinting that darkness is just around the corner. Nightfall comes as a mixed blessing though: Okay, darkness will mean an end to the day’s trail building activities, but in all honesty I’m not sure how much more trail building activity my body can take for one day. I’m twenty-four hours in to my mission and I have twenty-four more hours to go to finish it. As I look at the impressive mound of rocks I’ve moved from A to B to C today I begin to think that, yes, maybe I am half way through. Then I see the mound that still needs to be moved. I reach for a beer.


No one said trail building was easy work, just ask any Rampage veteran. Of course when you’re railing berms or pinning it down a super-fluid, uber-fun section it’s easy to forget how much time and energy has gone into creating this organic fast-track-to-fun. I never really gave it much thought either, until I’d arrived at my mate’s house on a Tahoe hillside with the idea of building our own trail. Suddenly, as we began pacing around the plot of land, picking our way between scrubby bushes and clambering over fallen trees and tying coloured tapes to trees to plot our trail, the challenge of what had started as a mere simple idea struck home.

The idea had come to me a year earlier when I was staying with the same friend and riding the Hole In the Ground Trail. One evening we paced around his land – a reasonable chunk of rocky hillside - and instantly could see a hundred lines to be ridden. Lines were everywhere: weaving S-like between tree trunks, climbing tacky bedrock outcrops and plummeting down the other side. There were wallrides and natural berms, pump bumps and rocks and logs. The foundations were already there. The only thing missing from the scene was an actual trail linking it all together.


“Two days,” I say, “three on the outside,” to Mike, the guy whose land I’m about to hack to bits with assorted hand tools. Mike is never one to let hard work get in the way of fun. “Okay. Go for it,” he says as if the undertaking is a mere walk to the local pub for a Sunday pint. “Do it in two and I’ll dig with you,” he adds, hurling the gauntlet to the ground.

Of course we’re not the first to build a trail, and I’m thankful for that. In the last few years I’ve ridden a selection of man-made offerings, from Scottish flow to New Zealand jungle to Swiss ladders, and I’ve absorbed an inkling of what makes the best: flow. With this in mind we start to spot natural features that can be used to pump for speed. As all-mountain style riders, we’re neither looking to construct a North Shore masterpiece, nor the kind of sprint lap of an XC racer's dreams, but something that’s going to give us maximum fun for minimum build. Keeping clear of chainsaws and other manly power tools will safeguard our limbs long enough to ride the thing once its finished and means we need to read the lie of the land. No sawing wood and hammering nails, instead we’ll use rakes, shovels and hoes to clear a path to connect a scattering of whale-backed outcrops of sticky granite. As the focus for the loop, these up-and-overs will give us the pump to roll through the next section pedal free. And we all like pedal-free, don’t we?


Northern California might as well be a million miles from my UK origins, at least when you start to design a trail. Clearing land here is quick and in only an hour of shovel-wielding our fist section of singletrack starts to take shape. Isolated clumps of vegetation are easily cleared away to forge a line across the dirt, while the ups and downs are all on bedrock alleviating the need for rain bars and the other erosion control you’d need in rainy UK.


We follow a natural line through the forest, using hoes to clip away bits of vegetation and clear a succession of flowing S-bends. When we come across three fallen trees in a row, each about 30 centimetres high with perhaps 5 metres gap between them, we first think about grabbing the bow saw. Cutting through them will make for a better flow, but instead we in-fill with rocks each side and suddenly we have three successive obstacles to add some technical challenge. Nice. I begin hauling rocks to the tree trunks, while Mike collects more rocks to build up the narrow, off camber section of trail that follows. We’re learning fast. We retire for the evening, satisfied at our progress and sit balancing enormous plates of food on blistered hands before falling into deep sleep.


When day two comes around, I’m already awake, eager to get our masterpiece finished, blisters or no blisters. Only when its finished can we reap the fruit of our labour. As we break out of the trees, the choice of line is almost bewildering. With tools in hand it would be easy to start raking without following an overall direction. Instead we look to a nearby lone tree to which we’ve tied marker tape. “Go with the flow,” says Mike, in perhaps the worst Yoda voice I’ve ever heard.

Out in the open, our progress picks up speed. We’re now at the best stage, working out how to incorporate the massive chunks of rock that dot this bit of mountain. We grab a bike to see how it all feels, realising that even with the most astute 3-D vision in the world sometimes only having a pair of grips in your hands can give you the feel for the flow. Pumping off the backside of one granite lump swings us effortlessly up another. Pump again and we’re heading straight out across a sandy flat and into a natural wallride. This is getting better, and our progress picks up pace. We stuff down sarnies and Clif bars to maintain energy and press on, hoeing the last scrubby bushes away, hands oozing beneath elastoplasts, until we reach the start point is in our sights.


As the sun starts its dip towards the horizon we tug the last thorn bush from our freshly constructed trail. The relief is almost overwhelming and I almost want to hug my mate in a real Brokeback Mountain moment. I slump back against a rock and beam like a proud new parent. The clinking of beers is all that sits between the build and the ride now. We may be tired but even two day’s of shovel-swinging and rock hauling won’t get in the way of hammering that trail until darkness drives us from its flowing curves once more. The proof of the pudding is indeed in the eating and after one bite we realize it’s almost perfect: a 500–metre loop of flowing turns, of handlebar tilting and short sharp lung crushing climbs. We’ve created a glorified pump track on steroids. California’s newest trail has been born and only one lap is enough to give it its name: The Orgasmatron.


Get involved.

Don’t just spare a thought for the shovel-handlers that keep your trails flowing effortlessly, go and join them. By getting involved in trail maintenance you can not only put something back into what you ride (labour is the most expensive part of trail construction), but also develop a better understanding of what trail riding is all about. When you shape a berm you get to see first hand why those angles work so well and that can only help make you understand your own riding skills better too. You don’t need any specific construction skills to volunteer, just a willingness to muck in and make a difference. You might even find a new skill or new riding mates. Ask at your local trail centre or go online to bike forums or www.imba.org.uk to find trail building groups in your area.

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Story and Photographs by Dan Milner

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