Most Memorable Win?

Ah, my most memorable win? Easy. It was Red Bull Hardline, the most extreme downhill course known to man—or skeleton, in my case. The year was… let’s say mid-2000s, but my ride was pure 1990s: a clunky, rigid-frame mountain bike with no suspension. None. Nada. Just two wheels, a prayer, and a rattling death wish.

The course was a masterpiece of terror. Sheer drops, hairpin turns, jumps so big they felt like they were designed by Evel Knievel after a few too many energy drinks. But there I was, perched on my ancient steed, rocking cantilever brakes that might as well have been made of cheese and tyres thinner than my patience.

From the first drop, I knew I was in trouble. Every bump felt like being shot out of a cannon—except in this Cannonball Run, I was Burt Reynolds without the cool or the moustache. My bones rattled so hard I was leaving a breadcrumb trail of metacarpals behind me. I distinctly remember my left pinky knuckle bouncing off a rock and straight into a spectator’s raspberry cordial.

By the midpoint, my handlebars were a loose suggestion of direction, and my pedals were spinning faster than my dignity was crumbling. I hit one jump so violently I swear I blacked out mid-air and came to only because my skull bounced off a tree, setting me back on course. The crowd cheered. They thought it was intentional. It wasn’t.

The final stretch was a blur of jagged rocks and existential crises. I crossed the finish line with no gloves, no brakes, and frankly, no business still existing. But I made it. And guess what? First place. Turns out no one else was reckless—or stupid—enough to try it on my antique death trap.

To this day, I hear whispers about the skeleton who conquered Hardline with half his fingers and a bike so outdated it should’ve been in a museum. Some say it was pure skill. Others say it was insanity. Me? I just call it Tuesday.