[Queue Mako Iwamatsu] Sit at the fire youngling and let me tell you of a time long past. These were the days before Penny and Martin changed the Seymour trail network forever. When no able-bodied mountain biker, regardless of their accumulated treasure, fitness, stoicism, or even the number of winters they had seen, would ever consider attaching a motor to their mountain bicycle. 

First on a bed of rocks and roots, and then on gravel crushed, riders ground up the mountain in long lines of misery. Suffering supplicants seeking the relief of the janky North Shore trails that could only assuage their souls. Passing only to be passed in turn. Fighting for traction, gasping for air, eyes burning as a salted torrent of sweat cascaded down their faces. 

They would amass at the top of the Old Buck climb to fight for breath and calm the drumming of their hearts. Then stand to variously mock or support their comrades as they persecuted themselves against the same crushed stone. Here, united, they would reassemble and then carry on up the Baden Powell Trail, harassing those without the power, momentum, and traction to defeat the first rock-armoured challenge. 

You must go and seek these trails. Only in experiencing the antecedent can you truly appreciate the hundreds-upon-hundreds of hours gifted to your experience by those who dug before you. As their backs soften you will be destined to undertake their toil with your shovel, pick, rake, bucket, saw, and hammer. Dig to ride, child. [/Mako Iwamatsu]